10432 Xavier HS pages

LEXICON

XAVIER HIGH SCHOOL
NEW YORK CITY
SPRING 2021

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LEXICON

XAVIER HIGH SCHOOL
SPRING 2021

CONTENTS

FICTION THE WELDER
Kori Dezena-Andrade 3

Tarik Parker 15 HOW TO GET MONEY
FROM NEW YORKERS

William Smith 19 WELCOME TO RUINS

Anh Sciscent 31 LIVE

Eamonn Duffy 37 HOW TO BE BIRACIAL

James Banks 41 ROUND THEM UP

Sebastian Bettigole 63 EVERYONE

John Gaynor 73 AS BELOW, SO ABOVE

Colin O’Shea 89 HOW TO BE A RUNNER

Matt Schmelzer 93 HOW TO WRITE A HOW-TO GUIDE

Reid Donovan 97 THE TREE

ARTWORKS

Andrew LaBarbara, p. 2; Kori Dezena-Andrade, p. 13; Marcel Dunat, p. 14;
Reese Harding, p. 18; James Banks, pgs. 27 & 40;
James Murray, pgs. 21 & 72; Alfonso Garcia, pgs. 35 & 36;
Edward Beck, p. 62; Keanu Lau, p. 87; Christoper Elijah Laporte, p. 88;
Aidan O’Connor, pgs. 92 & 96; Robert Pruno, p. 104

Front and back cover: Christopher Elijah Laporte, “Winter Wonderland 2”

EDITORS
James Banks, Sebastian Bettigole, Kori Dezena-Andrade,
Reid Donovan, Eamonn Duffy, John Gaynor, Andrew LaBarbara,
Christopher Laporte, Colin O’Shea, Tarik Parker, Matt Schmelzer,
Anh Sciscent, William Smith
Faculty Moderator: Mr. Matthew Thomas

1

2

THE WELDER

___________________

Kori Dezena-Andrade

Granules of sand swung through the orange air in swift, wispy curls.
The Welder creaked back and forth in his rocking chair. The floor-
boards of his grey porch groaned with every sway. He watched as a
little wisp of sand lifted a few inches from the ground and plopped
back down into a course pile. He remembered his early nights in
the desert, back when he thought his stay would only be temporary.
He would come home from a day of welding with sand filling more
nooks and crannies in his face than he even knew he had. Tiny, ir-
ritating grains scratched the corners of his eyes. Weeks were spent
getting out all the little bits that collected between his gums. Sitting
on the porch, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch.

He creaked in his rocking chair and looked out into the dusty
horizon. The heavy sandstorm made it look like a dimly lit bulb.
Tiny pellets pelted the thick glass of his goggles, and more glided
their way around the third layer of bandanas that covered his mouth.
He adjusted his stetson.

Bad night, he thought.
Things were calmer by the morning. The Welder creaked out
of his bed and looked out his window. The blues of the sky and the
yellows of the ground were picturesque. He felt like making a pain-
ting but quickly remembered that he had nothing to paint with. He
strapped on his goggles, fastened the various clinking buckles and
belts on his boots and jacket, and wrapped three layers of bandanas
around his face. He paused. Something was amiss. He tapped the
top of his head and felt the startling lack of a hat as his fingers ran

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through his curly hair. He reached over to the corner of his bed,
grabbed his worn-out stetson, and proceeded to take one hefty step
after another down the dilapidated staircase to his kitchen. He ope-
ned his dirtied refrigerator and waited for the little lightbulb inside
of it to flicker on. The Welder wasn’t very keen on superstition, but
he always felt that the food tasted a bit better on the days the bulb
decided to work. After a few dim flickers, the bulb stayed dead. He
figured a good flick at it might do the trick. It broke. He scratched
his head.

There are spares in the basement, he thought. He picked the
shards of glass and placed them on his kitchen table. I could weld
it, he kidded. Wouldn’t take much juice. But he knew that was out
of the question. Wasting the energy of his welding machine to fix a
lightbulb wasn’t the most irresponsible thing he’d considered using
it for. Months prior, he’d used it to repair a lizard that he’d acciden-
tally squashed with his boot. He watched as every cell of the little
creature’s body swerved in the air like sand as he pointed the wel-
ding machine’s light-emanating nozzle at it until it reformed into its
previous living shape. The Welder hadn’t the faintest idea of how
the welding machine worked, and as far as he was concerned, he
didn’t need to. The job of a welder was to weld and do nothing more.
That is, every welder except for him.

Under exile, a welder was not allowed to make use of his
welding machine for any purpose other than putting together the
seemingly infinite valley of broken metal cubes placed twelve miles
away from the welder’s house as a form of punishment. The Welder
never complained. The punishment felt suitable.

It was solar-rechargeable, sure, but to get the machine’s bat-
tery from fully depleted to fully charged would take at least three
weeks. The three representatives of the High Welder Council that

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visited his house weekly would be able to tell he’d overstepped his
permitted weekly amount of usage.

It was a Sunday, and the Welder stepped out into the dry
desert sun. He was hours early, but he preferred to wait for the re-
presentatives. His boots crunched in the sand that had collected on
his porch the night before. He stepped over to his rocking chair and
plopped down onto it. The floorboards creaked so loudly that he
was sure they would break. He made a mental note to never do that
again. The last thing the Welder needed was a broken bone of any
sort. One of the three High Council representatives had a thing about
broken bones. Every week, the three of them would ask the Welder
the same set of questions, two per representative.

“Has your food and water supply been depleted?”
“When do you think you will need to restock?”
“How many boxes were welded this week?”
“How many left to go?”
“How has your time in exile allowed you to reflect on your
transgressions?”
And, after an odd pause: “Any injuries? Broken bones?”
Something about the way the third representative’s voice
would noticeably relax whenever he asked it to the Welder made it
seem very off-the-books. He didn’t know what to make of it.
As he rocked back and forth in his chair, waiting for the re-
presentatives to arrive, he looked out into the horizon. He knew that
as soon as he saw three blurred black dots in the far distance, they’d
be arriving shortly. But today he only saw one. The Welder squinted
harder, unsure if his vision was merely playing tricks on him. He
walked indoors, grabbed a spare set of binoculars on his kitchen
table, and headed back out. As he twirled the lenses left and right,
trying to find the right adjustment, the cloudy image appeared clear

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and suddenly the misshapen black dot from afar grew into a tiny
brown-cloaked figure dragging a large sack about the same height
as them. He didn’t quite know what he was looking at. The figure’s
sand-stained cloak seemed to poorly conceal a jumpsuit that was as
blue as the sky.

Welders were often warned of potential dangers in exile.
Unusually large scorpions, etc. But the blue-jumpsuited-desert-
wandering-assassin was a danger not often spoken of, most likely
because of the mouthful of a name. Growing up, the Welder would
hear urban legends and myths regarding exiled welders being swiftly
executed by these lone desert assassins, but nothing more. The hairs
on the back of the Welder’s neck stood on end as a lump grew in his
throat.
He rushed indoors.

As he ran up the staircase to his bedroom, the Welder sif-
ted through the contents of his brain in an attempt to recall where
he’d placed all of the hefty door locks he’d brought with him to use
in the event something like this happened. They were some of the
only possessions he’d thought to bring with him on his trip, apart
from an old portable DVD-player he’d erroneously packed without
having brought a DVD to play. He’d looked under his bed at le-
ast twenty times over when he finally spotted a little cardboard box
cloaked in darkness. He reached for it, ripped off the single line of
tape that kept it sealed, but uncovered nothing more than his mi-
splaced DVD-player. Downstairs, the stranger’s tip-toes produced
small noises that were immediately followed by whatever it was that
was in their sack banging against the wooden frame of his door. If
they kept going at it, the house would surely fall to the ground. The
Welder had to think quickly. He looked to the edge of his bed and
spotted the glimmer of his welding machine.

6

As he stepped gingerly down to the kitchen, the combined
weight of the machine and the Welder made the steps creak even
louder. He spotted the figure from afar and could tell that it was a
woman about two feet shorter than him. She’d left the raggedy sack
outside the door of his house since it was far too big to fit it through.
As the stranger seemed to reach into her pocket to grab what the
Welder assumed was a weapon, he jumped down from the top of the
steps with the intent of surprising, then cornering her. Instead, he
tumbled down to the floor of the kitchen, knocking over several pots
and pans in the process. As the metal items clanged on the floor, the
woman jumped.

“For God’s sake,” she half-yelled in the way that a mother
might yell at her son for almost demolishing her favorite vase. She
seemed almost annoyed by the Welder’s attempt at a deft landing.
“What is wrong with you?” Her disappointment felt immeasurable.
The Welder slowly rose up from the heaping pile of kitchenware and
locked eyes with the woman.

“You’re a welder?” she asked.
“... Hm?”
“I’m looking for a welder.”
“Well,” the Welder replied as he leaned one hand against the
kitchen counter. “You’ve come to the right place.” Immediately, he
lost his grip and crashed into the kitchenware once more.
The woman winced. “It’s my brother,” she said. She walked
to the large sack blocking the door frame. The Welder’s head perked
up, and he could now see that the tearing sack was being used to
transport a large crate. The woman tapped her hand on the crate’s
wooden front. “He’s dying.”
The Welder squinted. The dryness of his skin made him feel
as though his now-furrowed brow was about to snap clean off. A

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hundred thoughts raced through his mind, but he managed to con-
dense them into a select few. He sat up.

“What’s wrong with him?” he asked her nonchalantly.
The woman gave him a blank stare. To her, the answer see-
med obvious. “He’s dying,” she repeated. “I just told you. My bro-
ther is dying-”
“Mmh,” the Welder interrupted, the metal buckles on his ja-
cket clinking as he got to his feet. “Right right right.” A quick stretch
of his back was followed by a few bony pops and crackles. He plop-
ped down into a chair by the dinner table. The floorboards below felt
like they’d cave in, which startled him just a tad. “Dying of what?”
“Can’t you help him?”
“I need to know what’s wrong with him.”
“He’s dying, what else do I need to say.”
The Welder sighed. She brought a dying man to his house, he
thought, in a crate. A crate. He took off his stetson and combed
his hair with one hand. What does she take me for? A fool? He su-
spected the woman was about to ask for him to do something that
went against everything he stood for. But before he jumped to con-
clusions, he needed to know for sure. So he played along with her
charade for a bit longer.
“Look,” he said. “I’m not a doctor.”
“I know,” the woman replied.
“If there’s something wrong with him, you need to find him
a doctor.”
“He doesn’t need a doctor.”
“You said he’s dying.”
The woman went silent again.
“He needs a welder,” she continued.
“He needs a welder,” the Welder parroted, almost wistfully.

8

The woman squinted at him. “A welder’s the only one that can fix
him.”
“Fix him?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what you want me to do. You want me to fix him.”
Beads of sweat grew on the woman’s forehead as the Welder’s
words attacked her ears with the gritty texture of his voice. A feeling
of hopelessness grew in her stomach and lifted up into her throat.
She couldn’t fail now. Not after having pulled a crate weighing a
grand total of one-hundred-and-eighty pounds across half of a desert
in the blistering sun.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” the Welder finally asked. The question
caught the woman off guard. The fact that she didn’t reply made
his accusation all the more incriminating. The Welder had gotten
her right where he wanted her, and more than anything else, he was
upset. He got up slowly from his chair, the wood squeaking as he
pushed it back into the dinner table. He gave the woman one good
look. She was a youngster, twenty-something at the very most. The
Welder almost felt sorry for her.
“You want me to bring him back”
The woman nodded her head slowly.
“With that?” the Welder pointed to his welding machine. It
lay on the floor, having survived the impact of his far from earlier
with nothing less than a scratch. The woman almost lept out and
grabbed it from the floor, but she was certain that a man of Welder’s
stature could easily break any five-foot-seven individual in two.
Then again, she thought, looking over to the pile of pots and pans
that still scattered the floor, he’s a bit of a klutz. Her hand moved a
bit towards the machine as if it were right in her clasp. The Welder
quickly snagged it up from the ground.

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“Not a chance,” he grumbled.
He walked up the stairs to his bedroom with the intention of
taking a very, very long nap. It occurred to him no less than a second
after he’d concocted this plan that he’d have to prepare for the co-
ming of the council representatives. He let out a light groan. They’ll
have to wait, he thought. I’ve had enough interaction for the day. All
the while, he knew that the woman was following him up the stairs.
He could hear the creak of her shoes follow the much heftier stomps
of his boots. For a moment, he considered giving her a quick scare
by putting some extra force into his next step, but he was sure such a
stunt might not only have killed her if she fell from the stairs at that
height, it might have killed them both if the stairs collapsed. So he
refrained from doing any extra stomping. He reached the top of the
stairs, headed for the door to his bedroom, opened it gingerly, ente-
red the room, then closed the door behind him with the same level of
gingerliness. It didn’t take long for the Welder to hear a quick knock
on the door. He tried to ignore it. The woman proceeded to knock
louder. The Welder swiftly opened the door.
“Go away,” he said in a half-yelling voice. He slammed the
door shut.
“I won’t,” the woman replied.
“Well you ought to,” the Welder replied, his voice muffled
by the door.
“Well, I won’t.”
“Look, kid-”
“Kid?”
“You aren’t getting any help from me any time soon.”
“I’m thirty.”
“What?”
“I’m thirty years old.”

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“Alright.”
“How long have you been here.”
“Not telling you.”
The Welder felt the unusual exchange between the two of them grow
more and more redundant by the minute. He opened the door and
stared down at the woman.
“Listen,” he started. “What you want me to do is out of the
question.”
The woman stared right back at him and didn’t say a word.
“Your brother is dead. Trust me. There is nothing I can do
about that.”
“He’s not dead,” the woman retorted. “He’s not dead and
you know it. You can bring him back. With that thing. That machi-
ne.”
She pointed at the welding machine in the Welder’s room
through a crack in the door. The Welder closed it.
“Do you want to know what’ll happen if I do what you want
me to do to your brother?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to know what it’ll turn him into?”
“Yes.”
“What he’ll become?”
The woman was on the verge of tears. She felt like she was
about to break down into a blubbering mess as that very moment, but
she kept her composure. She wanted to believe more than anything
that the Welder was only bluffing.
“Tell me,” she said. “What will he become?”
The Welder grunted.
“A husk,” he said. “Nothing more than a walking husk. He’ll
be able to eat, sure. He’ll be able to walk around the place. He’ll

11

even be able to talk, but trust me, you’ll never be able to speak ano-
ther word to him for the rest of your days. He’ll know that you’re his
sister and that he’d your brother, but he’ll never feel it. He’ll know
he’s supposed to love you because you’re family but he’ll never be
able to because he can’t love. Don’t you get it? That won’t be him
walking around. That’ll just be an echo. A shadow of your brother.
Something else walking around in his corpse. Do you want that?”

The woman was crying. Tears were streaming down her face
and were wetting the collar of her jumpsuit.

“Is that what you want?”
“No,” she said.
Suddenly the two of them were caught in a frenzy that star-
ted with the woman pushing her way through the burly figure before
her. She ran towards the welding machine. She hadn’t the faintest
idea of how to turn the thing on, but with a few good whacks of the
switch, she got it working. As she carried the machine in her arms,
the Welder pinned her down to the floor. She managed to fire the de-
vice a few times. It hit a couple of objects in the Welder’s room, va-
porizing a spare stetson and restoring an apple core on the Welder’s
night table back to it’s uneaten form. In the blink of an eye, a beam
of light shot right at the woman herself, and in quick puff, she was
gone. The Welder landed on all that remained of her, and he heard a
loud crunch echo beneath him. Shards of whatever he’d landed on
pricked his skin. As he rolled over to his side, he saw before him a
pile of the woman’s broken bones. She’d gotten a few good whacks
at his head with the machine before she disappeared. He took a few
quick breaths, then saw everything around him fade to black.

12

13

14

HOW TO GET MONEY FROM NEW YORKERS

___________________

Tarik Parker

Given that there’s a nationwide stereotype of the busy, hostile, un-
sympathetic New Yorker, most would probably assume that being a
beggar in the Big Apple is nearly impossible. Ironically, I’ve found
that there are a plethora of ways to convince the people of this city
to spare change, and possibly even a couple dollars. By following
one of my various tips, you’ll be able to afford the high costs of
NYC just on tips! I don’t claim to be a beggar, but I’ve witnes-
sed the successful and failed strategies of fellow New Yorkers that
make me worthy of creating such a guide. From unconvincing street
scammers to drug-addicted Subway dwellers, I’ve seen how one’s
approach, social interaction skills, and reasons given for asking for
money can greatly influence success rates.

A huge mistake countless beggars make is evidently lacking con-
fidence. A New Yorker has developed the quickness to profile pe-
ople who may waste their time, therefore sounding monotone as
if you’re not expecting the given person to give you money will
almost fail. The old man standing passively by my high school’s
street corner who depressingly mumbles “Does anybody got chan-
ge” rarely gets any attention. As he shakes his cup, I can hear the
few coins - typically two or three - rattling repeatedly, as if he’s
attempting to remind us that he’s an unsuccessful beggar who doe-
sn’t deserve to be taken seriously. His voice embodies a lack of go-
als and hope for the future, probably fueled by his frequent failure.
On the contrary, a savvier man, Mark, who I often spotted on the

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Q train in the late 2000s always projected his voice and articulated
his words clearly. There is a distinction between projecting one’s
voice and yelling, as the latter will reinforce a negative stereotype
of an angry, uncivilized poor person. Mark addressed the typical
concerns by explaining that he never does drugs, has been looking
for a job, and has a family he wants to take care of. Maybe he’s a
secret alcoholic. Maybe Mark’s been lying about having children
to feed. I was aware of all these possibilities when I gave him the
two last bucks in my pocket one afternoon after school, but well-
off New Yorkers lack the energy to investigate the validity of a sad
story, even when considering sparing some change. What matters
is giving a convincing presentation of a good person in need so
they won’t feel like kicking themselves later for falling for an
obvious fib or throwing money at a wall. This is why people are
far more likely to give money to someone who sounds optimistic
about their future and is ready to put money to its best use. Even if
the person is a liar and truly no better than a more passive looking
beggar, people can feel sure they fell for a good show.

When many get into the art of begging, they figure to simply show
up in any crowded urban area and expect pockets to fill. Unfortu-
nately, effectively deciding where to beg takes more thought than
this, especially in New York City. Many of the best locations are
those that people tend to remain in or nearby for extended periods
of time, such as train stations, fronts of restaurants, and tourist at-
tractions. If you beg in a place that is occupied by people who are
hurrying to other destinations, giving you money becomes both a
financial and time inconvenience. Fast food restaurants are great
places to beg by because most people maintain at least a shred
of guilt before and/or after eating unhealthy food, and that slight

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sense of shame can be alleviated by an act of charity. Figuratively,
nobody can enjoy a meal next to a starving person. Take advantage
of this opportunity!

This tip may sound somewhat condescending to a struggling beg-
gar, but it’s effective to find a skill to attract people. The exchan-
ge of goods and services is what makes the world go around,
regardless if it’s justified by the government or not. Typically, to
get something, you must offer something. Demonstrating a talent
increases the likelihood of New Yorkers giving tips because you’ve
provided them with entertainment, and it reassures them that they
are assisting someone with ambition who has goals beyond street
money, regardless of whether or not you fall into that category.
The fact that websites such as Patreon have allowed for online
content creators demonstrates how people are willing to financially
support people who are providing the world with talent that they
deem valuable. The dancing teens on the Q train receive a much
more hospitable response from commuters compared to the apathe-
tic sounding old man who mumbles, “Has anybody got change?”
Many would argue that this tip only appeals to a small sector of
the population that has been blessed with impressive talents, but I
would contrarily say that almost everybody I’ve met has a unique
ability, they often simply don’t realize it or lack confidence in it to
further develop the skill. I’ve seen everything from painteres, hip
hop dancers, preachers, gospel choirs to even balloon artists see
success making money on the streets and trains, the latter of which
many wouldn’t expect to be a skill worth valuing. After following
these tips and putting them into practice, you’ll soon see that this
fast-paced city is willing to make space for those that attempt to
understand its complexity.

17

18

WELCOME TO RUINS

___________________

William Smith

I start to wake up on my bus to my new job. As my eyes begin to
open, I see a sign. It reads “WELCOME TO RUINS!! KNOWN
FOR ITS THEME PARKS, ESTABLISHED IN 2684!” I’m here. I
needed a job to pay the bills after the war ended, so I decided to
work in a theme park in the middle of nowhere. For reference, it’s
20 hours from the nearest Walmart (or what’s left of it). The bus fi-
nally stopped, which drew my attention away from how royally
screwed I am, at this run-down theme park full of teenagers. I
hopped off and the area reeked of marijana and oil. There’s a group
of teenagers smoking weed to my left and I made eye contact with
one of them. He taps the shoulder of a guy in a vest that has the
name of the theme park in bold, black lettering on the back. He
passes the joint to one of the teenagers and runs towards me.

“Yo! You’re the new guy, right?”
Based on his scent and appearance, I assume he works here
and is smoking on his break. He’s very tiny, about 5’3” and can’t be
any more than 110 pounds. A small stoner, I guess.
“Yeah, that’s me! First day!” I yell back.
“Sick, dude! Welcome to the park! I’m Ronnie. I’ll take
you in and introduce you to Luke.”
He takes me through the brown, rusty gates. I peek at the
gates as I walk through, and I see spiders and centipedes emerge
from the cracks and crevices in each bar. Most of the rides are run-
down and unused. I thought to myself that there has to be someone

19

to take care of it who isn’t doing their job. I began to see more and
more groups of teenagers in small clumps, the smell of marijuana
getting stronger as we got closer to each group and deeper into the
park. Ronnie seems to know every kid in every group. We get to
this shiny, red ride. It is elevated about 100 feet off the ground, and
I notice that the ride spans around the whole park in a clear tube.
There’s a huge line to get in. All different kinds of people are on
the line, waiting to get a go on the ride.

“Sorry I forgot to tell you, dude! This ride is, like, our sel-
ling point or whatever. It takes you through like, history and when
it gets bad it gets fast and scary.”

Whatever that means.
“Ronnie! The carousel needs to be fixed!” a booming voice
yells from inside an office under the ride.
“That’s Luke. Give me a second,” Ronnie says to me “Luke
I’m on break right now I’ll fix the damn carousel when I want to!
Here’s the new guy, now hop off you prick!!”
Luke emerges from his office and walks up to me. He looks
about 6’9” and looks like he’s about 325 pounds of raw muscle. He
makes his XXL work vest look like a bib. Ronnie must have some
kind of balls talking to this guy like that.
“Hey. I’m Luke. I’m the manager of the park. Let me get
you a vest and we can get you started.”
He’s surprisingly calm when he talks to me. He grabbed
me a work vest, a medium, and handed it to me. I put it on and we
went to the carousel.
“Even though Ronnie’s supposed to do this, we can do it
together so you know what to do when something else breaks. The
way everything operates is pretty much the same around here, so
once you get it once you’ll get it all the other times.”

20

I oblige and we get the job done in about an hour. The ca-
rousel begins to run and light up and play music.

“I’ll tell you what. I like you. You stay in your lane, not like
Ronnie. Don’t let him contaminate you, you really do seem like a
good and hard worker.” He explained.

“Thank you. I’m planning on putting my head down and
working.” I replied.

“I like the attitude. Let’s go to my office.”
We arrived at his office. It’s clean and organized. I sit down
and he hands me a box.
“Organize these in numerical, alphabetical and color order.”
He instructed. I began to do so and then Ronnie ran in. He came
towards me and put his hand on my shoulder. The smell of weed is
so bad it makes me cough a little. I smoked when I was a kid here
and there, but quit for the Army and have been sober since.
“The carousel’s working, guys.”
“That’s because Luke and I did it.”
“You stealing my job?”
“Ronnie! We did your job for you! Go fix the teacups!”
“Fine!” Ronnie yelled as he flipped us off and slammed the
door.
After a few routine days, something shook me and the rest
of the staff. Luke had to leave for the day. According to the guy
who was there the longest, he hadn’t left in his 15-year tenure.
Luke had been working as manager long before that. He told me he
was going to a meeting with Lou Seaver, the Owner of the Theme
Park. Only Lou can fire and hire people, meaning that he approved
me to work himself. Luke went to the meeting to discuss Ronnie
and his bad habits. Not long after Luke left, Ronnie came up to me.
“Hey, man. Sorry for the outburst a few hours back. It wa-

21

sn’t at you, I swear, Luke just pisses me off when he does stuff like
that.”

“Why are you always yelling at him, anyway?” I replied.
He is your boss and he’s a pretty scary dude.”

“I’m not scared of him. If he attacks me he’ll lose his job
and get put away. He knows it. He can’t fire me because then the
company wouldn’t meet government requirements on the amount
of people companies gotta employ, man. Between you and me, you
the only one who applied for this job.”

“Yeah, well, I’m getting out soon anyway.”
“I said that once, too. I was saving money to buy a house
and go to school. But it traps you in, man. Once you’re in you can’t
get out. You want me to show you the ropes of how things work
around here besides machines?”
“Sure.”
We walked around the park for the rest of the day. Ronnie
introduced me to some of the teenagers I saw on my first day and
showed me some ways to do the job faster.
“You see, if you connect the red wire to the yellow wire
and put some heat on it,” he explains as he pulls out a lighter “you
get the job done faster.”
“Why don’t Luke and all the other workers do it this way?
It’s so much faster.”
“Well, it’ll break after one or two uses, but no one really
uses the rides around here anyway. Except for the history one.
Can’t mess around with that one.”
“I prefer to do my job well, thanks.”
“Eh, whatever.”
The day went by, but the few hours Luke was gone felt like
an eternity with Ronnie. His stupidity made the day drag. Luke fi-

22

nally came back the next morning, white as a ghost.
“Can we please talk in my office?”
I nodded and followed him into his office. He sat down in

his chair and took his hard hat and vest off. He rubs his eyes and
sighs.

“You hung out with Ronnie yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“He showed you how to fix other machines?”
“Yes.” I knew what just came out of my mouth was
bullshit. I was getting nervous. My eyes darted around the room
and I started to look at the movie posters he had on his walls. There
were titles I have never heard of before such as TITANIC and Su-
perman.
“He smoked?”
My attention returned to him.
Now, I didn’t want to sell Ronnie out. However, Luke knew
he smoked.
“Yes,” I said flatly
“You smoked?” He got up from his creaky chair.
“No.”
“Okay, good. Ronnie will be terminated effective next
tuesday. I’m not telling him until then. Lou is going to be coming
to the park next monday to interview people for my position; I’m
getting promoted. I put in a good word for you, so you should get
the job. Even though it’s been a few days, I like how you are dedi-
cated to your job. You remind me of my past self.”
“Oh, okay.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, it’s just-”
I get cut off by one of the employees barging in. Tears are

23

streaming down her face.
“A kid… he was on the roller coaster… the one that takes

you through history… he got torn apart… he skipped his shift, he
killed him... ” she mumbled before she passed out. Luke and I ran
out of his office and onto the line for the roller coaster. There was
a kid on the floor, about 19. His arm was torn off his torso. Luke
rushes over to him and checks his pulse. Nothing. He tries to stop
the bleeding and perform CPR. Nothing. He was dead.

Luke called the paramedics and they took his body to the
hospital and notified his relatives. The police showed up a little
after the paramedics took the body away. They asked to see camera
footage of the ride, and Luke agreed to show them. They saw that
whoever was supposed to be on shift wasn’t there. From the foo-
tage, it looks like the ride was speeding up with every lap because
no one was monitoring it. The kid realized what was going on and
tried to jump off at the exit before it made its next lap. He almost
made the jump, but just missed, resulting in his arm getting caught
in the track and chopped off by the roller coaster cars. Everyone on
the line was in shock and couldn’t help him.

“There’s really nothing we can do about the guy who was
skipping his shift. You can fire him, that’s about it, he never really
committed a crime. Clean up the ride as best as you can and shut it
down for a few days.”

“Okay, thanks,” Luke replied.
Once the police left, Luke pulled out his calendar. It told
him where and when staff are supposed to be working their shifts.
It was Ronnie’s shift. I said I have to use the bathroom and go look
for Ronnie. I found him napping in a closet. I woke him up and
told him everything. His face dropped and he began to cry.
“Just say your mom died and you had to go and you forgot

24

to sign out because she died,” I said. “They can’t do anything.”
“You’re right. I’ll do that. Thanks.”
I go back to Luke’s office. He is dialing a number in on the

phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“Lou,” he says. “I’m going to get him to come out here.”

He talks on the phone for a while before he says “Great, see you
tomorrow!”

“Listen to me closely. DO NOT call Lou by his name. Call
him Sir. Do not lie to him, he will know. If you are lying, he will
kill you and get away with it. Always show respect and give him
straight-forward answers. You hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” I replied.
The next morning at the crack of dawn a black Rolls Royce
pulled up to the entrance of the theme park. I was looking at the
cameras to get a glimpse of him. The teenagers saw him and ran
away; those who didn’t run away fell unconscious. He was wearing
an all black suit with a blood red tie, with jet black hair slicked
back that falls over his left eye when he moves his head. His foot-
steps are as loud as gunshots, each step hitting the floor exactly a
second apart. He got to Luke’s office and opens the door. He sat in
Luke’s chair while Luke, Ronnie and I sat across from him.
“Gentlemen,” he said in a deep, raspy voice. His voice re-
minded me of smoke and fire.
“Good morning, sir,” Luke said. Ronnie went pale. With
each breath he took, the room seemed to get hotter. His eyes had a
small red tint to them that matches his tie.
“What happened, Ronnie? Why’d you miss your shift?”
“You see, Sir, my mom died and I rushed out of the theme
park to the hos-” he began to explain before he got cut off.

25

He put his feet up and said, “You’re lying. Your mother
died 3 years, 3 months and 6 days ago in a car accident in Califor-
nia. Please step out of the room.”

Ronnie starts to mumble some incomprehensible words as
he exits the room. Lou stared at him and that red tint in his eyes
consumed his eyes.

“I’ve heard plenty of good things about you from Luke.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m doing my best.”
“Good to hear. Why wasn’t Ronnie at his shift?”
I don’t want to sell Ronnie out, but I also don’t want to die.
“Let me ask you again. Why wasn’t Ronnie at his shift?”
He said as his eyes got redder, his voice became more of a growl. I
felt myself begin to break a sweat
“One last time.” He growled.
I gulped. I was visibly sweating and stressed out. I knew he
had the leverage, but I desperately didn’t want to crack.
“Where. WAS. “RONNIE!?!” he exclaimed as he crum-
bled the desk like a ball of paper. Because of his yelling his mouth
was agape for a second. His teeth resembled fangs, something you
would see on a werewolf or a vampire.
“He was taking a nap in a closet,” I mumbled back with
tears streaming down my face. I immediately felt a cool breeze go
through the room. My sweat went away
“That was painless, wasn’t it? Call in Ronnie.”
I got up and signaled him in. He came into the room, feet
dragging on the floor. He knew what I did. He wasn’t mad. He un-
derstood.
“Luke and Ronnie, stay with me.” He said “You leave.”
I scurried out of the room as fast as I could. I heard Ron-
nie’s screams gradually become quieter, then evolve into silence.

26

27

28

LIVE

___________________

Anh Sciscent

“It’s time for the annual checkup. A government official, or at least
someone I consider to be a government official. They’re always
dressed up like they’re in one of those spy movies.” Her expression
shifted to one of disdain. My attention was drawn to the direction
she was pointing. Sam explained, “They come to search the water
supply or something.” “It’s a tightly guarded secret. For this week,
whole parts of the water park are closed.”

“Maybe it’s just a safety regulation, or a mandated security
check,” I said. Sam shrugged.

“Who cares.”
I was shocked. “Wouldn’t you want to make sure the park
was safe and clean?”
“The water that is utilized in this park is most likely from
filtered waste. Between you and me, the water in this park is the
same water in your faucet, in your bathtub, in your sink; it’s ine-
scapable.” Her voice got ghostly. “Consistently, every year, there is
an outbreak of an infection. I speculate that it’s from the water. No-
body kicks the bucket, yet your body doesn’t completely recover.
When you’re not here, the water is killing you from the inside out.”
She murmured, “I want to believe that these checkups are to fix
these issues, however not a lot appears to have been done. You’ve
practically been drinking rotten wastewater since birth.” I thought
she was kidding, yet her tone was serious.
“People have tried to speak up but they’re paid off. They
know how to cover their tracks. They control everything. We are at

29

the mercy of these people.”
“Why do people still work here then?” I asked.
“It’s not their fault. Business has been booming. Nobody

seems to know about the company’s past so they just get away with
it. This park just came in and took over everything. They control
the media, press, newspaper. Everything! In a small town like this,
the only place for relaxation is here. By the end of the year, this
water park is going to make up half of the town. Trust me, I know
what’s going on. Meet me in the parking lot. I wanna share so-
mething with you after work. ”

Her words raced through my mind as I returned to my life-
guard station. I bumped into my boss Michael before I could make
anything of it. All I could muster was an uncomfortable laugh
when he asked how I’d been and how nice working here would be.
I managed to redirect focus away from the issue.

“I love the atmosphere,” I said. “Sam has been incredibly
accommodating and has taken me around.”

“Good to know,” he said tightly, grabbing onto my shoul-
der.

“Can you walk with me?” he asked, and I started to trail
right beside him. “I’m so happy that you’ve gotten really accu-
stomed to everything. We’re happy to have you. But the thing is,
about Sam. I see that you’ve gotten really used to her, but she has
been causing a lot of trouble lately,” he said. “Couple of months
ago she took time off work. She is usually very composed but la-
tely, she’s been out of it. We don’t know why. I would be careful of
her. I’ve heard some complaints from customers. Something about
her foul mouth and inability to stop talking about inappropriate
workplace matters. If you could do me a favor,” as he looked in-
tensely into my eyes, trying to sound sympathetic, and crouching

30

to my height level, “report any problems about her directly to me.
She has been creating a ruckus around work and we just need the
best approach to handling the situation.”

“What exactly is the ruckus about?” I asked.
“You’ve heard what she has been saying. All of it is non-
sense.”
“I believe her,” I said.
“You really believe her,” he said scoffingly. “Have you
even heard what she’s been saying? All these things about outbre-
aks and environmental impact are just some fabricated lies she has
made. Her argument has no sound evidence. She likes to compare
what we are doing to problems in other parts of the world. To sur-
vive in this line of work, we must make sacrifices.” His voice had
gotten louder, his arms flailing around his head, and his composed
demeanor now in a searing red rage. The spit and steam that exu-
ded out of his mouth hit my face like a truck. “Please just be care-
ful what you hear and report back to us if anything comes up. She
trusts you but we believe you’ll make the right choices,” he said
reassuringly, once again grabbing onto my shoulder.
After the meeting, I headed back to work. What Michael
said had thrown me for a loop. I wasn’t sure who I should trust.
Sam was a wonderful friend and the first person at work with
whom I felt at ease. She was the one who gave me a tour of the
park when I first started working there. Why shouldn’t I have
faith in her, I reasoned. She’d never given me a justification why I
shouldn’t. But why shouldn’t I have faith in Michael? After all, he
is my superior. Sitting on my post, I stared into the crowded pool.
I was so distracted by my conflicting ideas that I didn’t even notice
when it was time to leave. Knowing that I was meeting up with
Sam after work reassured me. I could sort things out with her and

31

maybe find some answers.
The seismic pool stopped working exactly at 5 each day. I

headed back to the locker room in a rush knowing that Sam was
waiting for me.

Took a shower. Check.
Changed my clothes. Check.
They tossed me the key and told me I had to close up be-
cause I was the last one to leave. I gathered my belongings and
walked out the entrance. I switched off all the lights and double-
checked that it was locked. I heard a faint creak out of the corner
of my ear as I was walking towards the exit. I tracked the noise to
a small shed next to the locker room. It wasn’t mentioned on the
tour, and my colleagues never mentioned it. The shed was small
and run-down, with blacked-out windows and a large open door
as the wind blew towards it. With a hasty move, I approached the
entrance. I decided to rush because it was late at night and I wan-
ted to meet up with Sam. I tried to lock the door with my keys, but
none of them worked. The doorknob seemed to be jammed. I deci-
ded to enter the abyss. The shed was pretty empty. There was a sin-
gle box in the middle of the room, wooden and damaged. As I ap-
proached the box, I heard strange noises coming out from it. I took
a leap of faith and opened Pandora’s Box. In the crate was a ladder
leading down into another hole. It reminded me of a safe room be-
cause it was well concealed, confidential, and secure. As I climbed
down the ladder, I entered a large room packed with pipes leading
everywhere. It was like a sewer system: disgusting, stinky, chaotic,
and with pipes that extended for miles. I went as far as I could with
my exploration. Usually the maintenance pipes can be accessed by
all workers, but these seemed rather odd and mysterious. Not only
were they hidden but the pipes were made of extremely shiny me-

32

tal with the word “Live” imprinted on it. Before running out, I took
pictures as a sort of memento or evidence to show that there was
something strange going on in this park.

I ran to the parking lot to meet up with Sam. She was wai-
ting by her car, tapping her foot violently against the pavement. I
called to her; by the time I reached her, I was out of breath. From
the looks of it, she was not very happy with me.

“Where the hell were you,” she asked furiously. Her sharp,
loud voice berating my eardrum.

“Sorry! I had to lock up and then I found something weird.”
“Weird,” she said.
“Yeah, I found some weird maintenance room underground
in the shed,” as I pulled out my phone.
“What do you mean?” she asked, grabbing my phone from
my hand. I showed her the photos.
“See! It’s some weird room with pipes spanning across the
entire park. And the entire room is hidden underground in that tiny
shed.”
“Are you sure this is real?” she asked with skepticism in
her voice.
“I could’ve hallucinated from smelling all those disgusting
toxic chemicals down there, but why don’t I just show you.”
“No one I know who works here has access to that shed. I
mean no one really wants to but we all assumed that the shed was
run down and forgotten about. The only person I know of who
could have access to that room is Michael.”
“I thought you didn’t like him, since he was in cahoots with
the government agent.”
“I have no faith in him, or in this business for that matter.
These large companies just care about one thing: making money

33

off of us. To be frank, we are just as much to blame for our obses-
sion with consumerism and the waste of valuable resources. We
may blame the government and companies for exploiting us, but
we must eventually accept responsibility for being enablers,” she
rambled on. “This is what I wanted to talk to you about.” She whi-
spered into my ear, “I’m working with some people inside and out-
side the park to take this place down. If this room is real, it could
be a shoe in for us.”

“I’ll show you tomorrow after work; meet me in the locker
room, stay hidden, and don’t make any noises.”

“We need to be safe and take precautions. These people are
dangerous. Bring something like a weapon. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She got into her car and pulled out of the driveway. I waved
goodbye to her as she drove away, her blinking lights fading into
the darkness.

34

35

36

HOW TO BE BIRACIAL

___________________

Eamonn Duffy

Before you even start getting into the instructions and guidelines of
being biracial in New York City, you need to gain or develop one
trait. This trait is being aware, and it is the key to your survival. If
you are biracial and not aware, the consequences could be harsh,
and depending on where you’re from, fatal.

When walking around the city you need always be ready
for confrontation or conversation. This mostly applies if you have
longer hair, because if you’re biracial with short hair people will
think your latino or white and go about their business. Get ready
for constant comments like “how’d you get your hair like that”, or
“I love your hair’”. These are the easy ones to handle and fortuna-
tely the most common ones. From time to time you may get dirty
looks or people saying slick comments like “is it even real”. This
is where being aware is important because you need to know how
to differentiate the slick comments from the nice comments. So-
mething else that you will encounter while roaming New York City
as a biracial person will be old Latino men or women speaking
Spanish to you. This situation may be difficult to understand at first
but you will get used to it. The best response is “o hablo espanol”.
They will give you a confused look and eventually walk away. If
you are biracial but as dark as your black parent, you will probably
never have to worry about this.

When dealing with the NYPD you need to play your cards
right because you have an advantage over most of your friends
(unless you hang out with white kids). If you can put a hoodie or

37

hat on when you know there will be police somewhere do it, but
not in front of them because that’s basically showing that you have
something to hide. With a hoodie or hat on your head you will look
more caucasian and become less of a target. If they do stop you, try
to speak as formally as possible and be confident in your innocen-
ce, even if you’re not. If you are with a group of people, you need
to be the voice of reason when talking to the cops because they
will probably feel more comfortable with you versus the rest of
your friends. Once again, if you are biracial but as dark your black
parent you will not be able to be the voice of reason, and a hat or
hoodie won’t save you.
When it comes to making friends and socializing with your
peers as a biracial person in New York City, you will need to have
a thick skin and not let things get to you easily. You’ll hear jokes
every day about how you look or about you being biracial, but
eventually you’ll get used to it. You’re gonna have to become cold-
hearted somehow, because no one has ever survived these insults
without forming some sort of ice in their heart. The biggest advan-
tage of having friends when you’re biracial is that you will have
your real friends who ride with you through everything, and you’ll
know they really care about you because you’re so different from
most people. You will realize that they actually love you for you.
Being biracial in New York and playing sports is much less
harsh than the other aspects of life. You will surprisingly hear a lot
of good comments like people calling you “Steph” or “Lamelo”,
who are both top tier athletes, who you 100% look up to, especial-
ly as a fellow lightskin. Every once in a while people will think
you’re soft because you are lighter and try to bully you in whate-
ver sport it may be, but that’s not a problem since you’re already
tough, or at least you should be. When you are biracial in sports in

38

general, not just in New York City, you are blessed with attributes
from two ethnic backgrounds with different characteristics for each
side. You need to take advantage because it is a blessing that not
many have. You should pursue at least 2 or 3 sports up until high
school and decide if you want to continue them. If you don’t, I
don’t know what to tell you. If you do, you have to be the hardest
worker possible. Late nights, early mornings, all of that because
obviously you want to be great, but everyone else observing you
already thinks you’re a star just because you are biracial/light skin.
When dealing with girls, being biracial in New York City
is easy. All you have to do is tell them you’re mixed and they are
already interested. You could lie and say you’re from some sort
of white country mixed with any place in the carribean to make
yourself seem more exotic. They won’t know the difference and
won’t care anyways, they just like titles. Try to meet up with more
girls when it’s warmer out because that is when you’re in your pri-
me: tan, freckles popping, and a little burnt in the face. If you don’t
have freckles that’s okay, but it is a huge advantage. Every time
you see a girl she’ll say “oooh I like your freckles,” and blush or
look at you like a Greek god. That said, the whole lightskin act and
biracial boy hysteria that girls have isn’t all good. It can make you
feel like you don’t really have a personality and people just want
you for your looks. It is almost as if you’re a rare object that they
want to explore and don’t even realize that you have feelings too.
Overall, surviving in New York City as a biracial person
has its ups and downs, but it’s definitely an adventure that most pe-
ople will never encounter. You will learn things that stick with you
for the rest of your life. Like I said before, you have to be aware
and if you want to enjoy your time in the city while being biracial,
you have to be tough, more mentally than physically.

39

40

ROUND THEM UP

___________________

James Banks

1.
“Have mercy on my soul! Don’t let my heart turn cold!”

They were streaming like maniacs. It was starting to get really an-
noying. “Yo Aaron! How do you not know this song bro?” I kept
telling them “I don’t listen to Pop Smoke like that.” Which is sort
of true, but not completely. The real truth is, I broke my phone a
few days ago and I’m not trying to have them dog me the whole
time. Not like they really care anyways. Seems like their main goal
today is to get on my nerves.

“Whatever, y’all. When we finna get there?”
“I think in a few minutes. I can see the sign from here.”
“Hopefully this park is as good as y’all say it is. I don’t
know how much longer I can last in this car with y’all.”
“I heard this park was wild!” Shontea said with a smile.
Tyrese turned back to look at us with excitement. “Yeah
bro! Didn’t some kids go missin’ or sum?”
“Deadass?” I wasn’t sure if they were still playing with me.
I turned away from them and looked out the window. I said under
my breath “Cap.”
“Nah. No cap!” I looked back at Shontea. “How are you
telling me? I saw it on the news!” He turned over to his brother.
“Remember David?”
He nodded with a serious face. “Yeah, but they found
them.”
“Oh, for real?”

41

“Yeah.” His eyes looked away from us. “Dead.”
“Damn… How?”
“Said some crazy old white dude drugged them and then
hanged them.”
“Damn.”
“Uh-huh.”
“They was black?” Tyres asked. No one answered. The-
re was some more silence after that. I continued to look out the
window and watch for broken hubcaps. Sam decided to break the
silence. “Well, I heard they was racist there.” Everybody stared at
him.
“Then why are we going?”
He looked back at us with a goofy smile. “Because I heard
they was racist there.” We all started laughing.
“You know they’re just actors right?” I said. Sam looked at
me in the mirror. “It’s a slavery theme park. They’re not actually
racist.” I could tell I killed the joke. “They’re not actually KKK
members and shit.”
“How do you know that?” he said.
Now I really couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not.
“Man, whatever.” I pulled out my phone to check the time. It’s
been two hours since we left Newark, and the place is in New Jer-
sey. The trip was only supposed to take an hour and a half. “How
is this taking so long?” you may ask. I’ll tell you how. Samuel, this
dummy I call a friend is driving us. We had to stop at Citgo along
the way because this dude forgot to fill up his car. I decided to be
productive and be the one to fill up the car. Meanwhile, Samuel
decided to make a scene with the cashier. I couldn’t make out what
was going on inside, but when he came back he was fuming.
“Yo bro. You good?” I asked.

42

“Get this bro.” He walked around the pumps over to where
I was standing. “I was looking for some snacks, right.”

“Okay.”
“So we could eat on the way and out of the corner of my
eye I can see this dude” - he stopped and turned around to point at
the cashier- “following me around the store.”
“So?”
“So… Bro, he was following me because he thought I was
going to steal something. He wasn’t even being lowkey about it.”
Shontea and Dave, the twins, stopped their conversation
and turned their attention to us. “Nah, we saw it too. Everywhere
Sam went, he was just standing there.”
“Right! Dude was breathing down my neck the whole time
I was in there.”
I couldn’t understand why they were getting so worked up
about it. I mean, they do it to black people all the time. It’s just
something that you have to deal with. Whenever they do it to me, I
ask them to grab something on the highest shelf and make them put
it back.
Anyway, we were starting to pull up to the main gate. I
could see that the park was packed today. There were barely any
parking spots so we had to park really far away.
Tyrese leaned up to the front seat. “Yo Samuel.”
“Hold up.” He drove forward a little so that we could open
the passenger doors on the right side. “What?”
“You couldn’t have parked any closer? We’re like a mile
away. I can’t even see the ticket booths from here.”
“Bro, are you blind? Did you not just see me circle the par-
king lot for 5 minutes? You always have something to say.”
“Chill, chill, chill. I ain’t mean it like that.”

43

“Whatever bro. At least we made it.”
I leaned up against the car and jolted. The car was really
scorching hot. I tried to play it off so the others wouldn’t notice.
“Why are we just standing here? Come on.” We started to head our
way to the ticketing kiosk but didn’t make it far until David had a
question.
“Yo Sam. You got the tickets?”
“Right. Hold up. They’re in the bag.” He dug around in his
bag and made a face of surprise.
“Bro. Don’t say-”
“Nah nah nah. It’s in here somewhere.” At this point he was
dumping the contents of the bag on the pavement. A few snacks
and water bottles fell out.
Shontea looked over his shoulder to see what else was in
the bag. “Eww… What is that?”
Samuel’s eyes widened. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.”
“What?” I asked. Judging by his face I could tell it couldn’t
be good.
He looked back up at us while he pulled out a soggy clump
of paper. “Damn bro.”
David looked in disbelief. “Please don’t tell me those are
the tickets.”
“One of the water bottles I bought back at the gas station
must have been open. Do you think they’ll let us in anyways?”
“Hell no! Not with those tickets.”
“Look y’all, it’s fine.” Tyrese opened up his backpack and
pulled out his wallet. “We can buy new ones. How much were tho-
se tickets?”
“Look you’re not gonna be able to buy them. Well, not for
the price I got them at.”

44

“So you destroyed our tickets and now you’re flexing on
us?”

“No. Shontea, relax bro. I ordered these tickets a while
back and as a bundle so it was cheaper than buying them up front.
They were like 15 bucks each. They’re probably about 60 now.”

“So…” Shontea said squinting.
“So?”
He turned away and held his hands up. “What do we do
now? I didn’t come all the way out here for nothin’.”
“We could always sneak in.”
“Says the person who was just complaining about getting
accused of stealing.” I said laughing.
“Look…” He paused to wait for us to finish laughing. “It’s
not like, ideal or anything. But we could just find a way in.” He pi-
cked his bag up off the floor. “Come on. Let’s go!”
“But-” He was already walking away so I just surrendered
my opinion. We walked into an open patch of grass next to the park
fence. This whole operation couldn’t have looked any more suspi-
cious.
“Bro why are you crouching like that? Tyrese, you’re ma-
king it too hot.”
“What do you want me to do? Just stand there
Samuel was right. Tyrese was making this look really su-
spicious. I didn’t intervene because their intense whispering match
was actually pretty entertaining. The whispering was so idiotic it
was comedic. Back-n-forth they went like “Dumb and Dumber.”
“Psst… look… over here. I think this little tunnel goes into
the park.” He pointed to a little service tunnel that I’m pretty sure
is used for maintenance.
“I don’t know, Samuel.”

45

“What? Are you scared? Ooooooh, spooky tunnel.” They
started laughing like one of the most annoying packs of hyenas.

Tyrese said sarcastically in the squarest voice possible,
“Sam, don’t joke like that. We might go missing in there.” This
fueled the laughter more. Just a minute ago they were arguing and
now they’re tag teaming? How do they always find a way to clown
me?

“Shut up. I’m not scared. It’s just that… What if we get
caught? You know, by someone working here.”

“Hold up, hold up. So you are scared then, huh?” Their
laughter quickly resumed and at this point Shontea was in tears.

“Okay, okay. First of all, it’s not that funny. And second of
all, shhhh… y’all are being too loud anyways.”

“Come on Aaron, it’s wide open. We’ll sneak right in. No
one is gonna see us.”

“Whatever man.”
We walked into the tunnel. It’s rusty door frame creak when
I pushed it open a little more. The tunnel smelled damp and reeked
of wet paint. But not in a “We just painted our house’’ type of way.
It was more of a toxic type of smell. As we started walking further
into the tunnel the fumes were making my nose burn more and
more. The smell was clearly affecting the rest of them, because
they already had their shirts covering their nose. Everyone except
Samuel, of course, who always had to prove a point. He picked the
way, so he “isn’t affected” by the smell. As how our shoes slapped
against the wet flooring I decided to join the rest in covering our
noses.

“Sam. You don’t smell that?”
“I do. But it’s not even that-“ he fell down face first into a
puddle with a loud echoing thud.

46

“Sam. Sam, you good? Sam, wake up.”
“Yo, we gotta get outta here.” I started to run back towards
the entrance but my legs started getting heavy. It was like I was
trudging through water. I started waving my arms around for mo-
mentum and I fell. I closed my eyes so the water wouldn’t get in.
As I submerged, I could hear their muffled voices telling me to get
up. I couldn’t. “Aaron, get up man. Aaron, get up!” Suddenly, so-
meone pulled me up out of the water by my shirt, almost ripping it.
“Aaron! We gotta get outta here bro. This is not it.”
It was Samuel. I never seen him look so panicked before.
“Where is everyone else? Where’s the water? Did you just
go through the same thing I-“
“Ahh! Help! Someone!”
“Tyrese?”
He was on the ground flailing his arms around near my legs
with his face reading pure panic. “Please. Someone!” He must be
going through what I just went through. But, where’s the water?
He was breathing as if he were drowning but there was no water.
Maybe the water was all in my-
“Aaron. Hello? What are you waiting for? Go help him
up!”
I grabbed him by the arm to help him off the floor. He
stumbled a little and when he finally got his footing he opened his
eyes. They dotted back and forth in shock. “Aaron? Samuel? Whe-
re are we?
“We’re still in the tunnel. I told y’all this was a bad idea.
But y’all don’t listen to me.” Just at that moment the two twins ap-
peared behind us flailing their arms on the floor too.
“Come on, let’s help them up.”

47

2.
After we helped them up, we made a group decision that it

was time to leave. We started heading back to the way we entered.
It was a relief because there was no longer the smell of toxicity.
But as we kept walking it started to smell like the beach. Only, ma-
sked with the smell of throw up and feces.

“Yo, you smell that?”
“It smells like—”
“Nasty, bro”
We started getting closer to the doors. Sun light shined
through the cracks.
“Bro. Who closed the doors?”
“Someone must have shut them while we were in there.”
We opened the doors back up. The same loud creaking sound
could be heard echoing again. As we took our first steps up out
of the tunnel the light blinded us. And the noise. Water, seagulls,
shouting, chains. Chains? There was so much confusion. The flo-
or changed from the damp concrete to damp wooden planks. The
ground was sticky. Really sticky. I didn’t want to guess what it was
so I just looked up at the sky. The sun was beating down hard and a
feeling of dizziness started to take over. My eyes felt like they were
sinking into my head. I was about to pass out. I looked around and
could see the rest of the guys. They were talking to some tall sha-
dowy figures. I couldn’t really make out who. Behind them was
all ocean. All of it was ocean. Miles and miles of ocean. I tried to
walk ov-
I was on the floor now with only my hands and knees hol-
ding me up. There were so many people yelling and screaming. I
started to throw up. It was all clear water. I tilted my head to the
right and wiped my mouth with my wrist. Shontae was on the floor

48