The Four Fold Transformation of Yellowstone National Park
By Ravi Mangla

PHYSICAL

Carter Beaumont has been a tour guide for twenty-three years and has never seen anything like this. On schedule – as it always is - Old Faithful erupts in a tall, columned fountain. Only this upsurge is black and thick, like the missing plague. It continues for several minutes before one of the tourists, a young girl wearing a pink plastic visor, asks if this is normal. Carter isn’t sure what to say. He tells her it has to do with alluvial build-up. After the tour has finished, he goes to notify Mr. Kubus.

IDEOLOGICAL

Mr. Kubus, the park director, has a face like an inverted pyramid. He is rolling a marble by his ear as if listening for some long-held secret. His feet are up on the desk and he nods like he understands. Carter leaves, and Mr. Kubus makes some calls.

FINANCIAL

A silver fleet of Pri-i come racing across the Wyoming landscape. Carter stands outside of Mr. Kubus’s cabin. He hears the squealing hinges of briefcases and jargon-filled back-and-forth. They talk about senators and departments and Mr. Kubus’s annual report to the USFS. Carter doesn’t know what it all means. Then he hears the scrambling of paper and Mr. Kubus’ marble hit the ground with a hard, metallic bump.

CONCEPTUAL

Mr. Kubus buys a villa in Tuscany. He’s been talking about Italy for years, even keeping a map of the old boot behind his desk. From his house, Carter watches the derricks teeter up and down like one long, hulking chain gang. His application at Yosemite is processing. Until then he watches the derricks silhouetted against the dark skyline. According to the commercials, they’re powered by wind  energy – they’re “a new generation in derrick”. If he squints, he thinks he can see the small pinwheels, like bows in their steel gray hair.

* * * 

Runaway Train 
By Brandon Meyers

Sunlight danced sharply through the trees and into the cabin of the train as it coasted along the tracks. It was high summer and soon the leaves would be falling, but for now, they held the contented attention of Jake Rickshaw through the square pane of glass that accompanied his seat.

Jake loved to take the train. Whenever the schedule allowed, he did all of his business traveling by rail, by far preferring the various bumps and jostles of transport at ground level rather than thirty-thousand feet above it. In fact, it was the place where he got his best thinking done.

The train was scheduled to reach Bangor in another hour, and was thus far running very much on time. The six hour trip south was one that Jake was very familiar with and, as always, he found himself feeling a little disappointed on this final leg of it.

When the train began to slow, however, Jake was pulled from his thoughts as he watched the passing trees come to a still.

Raising his head, Jake peered quickly around the train, seeing that none of the other passengers seemed to have taken any notice, or if they had, did not care. He did note that the car was unusually full. Jake leaned curiously toward the boarding side of the train, hoping to see any signs of a station that he had previously ignored. But as soon as it had completely halted, the train had again begun to accelerate.

Jake slid back into his seat and fumbled in his bag for the mystery novel he had been reading. When he sat back up, with book in hand, he let out a shriek of surprise. A tall, gaunt gentleman was sitting in the previously empty seat beside him. The man turned to regard Jake with an apologetic smile.

“Forgive me,” he said in a kind but gravel-filled voice. “Is this seat taken?”

“No, no,” Jake said with embarrassment. “It’s not. I’m sorry, I just looked down and…you startled me.”

“Please do not apologize,” the man said in a diplomatic eloquence that had the faintest hint of a foreign drawl behind it. “It was my fault for…sneaking up on you so.”

“Forget about it,” Jake said with a smile, turning his attention to the book in his lap. It wasn’t that Jake did not like making small-talk with strangers, it was simply that he did not like making small-talk with strangers on a train ride. Or anyone, for that matter.  Train time was Jake’s time, silly as it may sound. So when the stranger continued to chat after a moment, it put Jake on the irritated offensive.


“A pleasant day, is it not?”

“Very nice, yes,” Jake agreed with a flat nod at his book.

“I do not get around to these parts of the world near often enough,” the man continued. “The scenery is beautiful.”

Indeed Jake agreed with this, and it was one of the main arguments he made when trying to excuse his small fear of flying to anyone inquiring. He did not, however, voice any of his thoughts to the gentleman, but merely nodded again.

“It is always astonishing to me to think that people will consciously choose aviation over a locomotive as a means of travel, or better yet, the automobile. Is that not the beauty of traveling? To watch the world change before your eyes as you are moving.”

“You’d hardly believe it, wouldn’t you,” Jake said, hoping that a more syllabically-endowed response would satisfy him.


“Indeed,” the man said. “I sometimes forget how fulfilling a train ride can be.”

“I’m sorry,” Jake said, looking up from his book, “but I’m trying to get a little reading…”

When he looked into the man’s face, silence gripped his words. Having not looked at him fully before, Jake now wiggled in his seat uncomfortably. The man was of an indeterminable age. Not because he looked well-preserved, but because he seemed to actually shift up and down the scale of time as Jake looked at him. He had completely forgotten what he had been in the middle of saying as he peered into the gentleman’s eyes, which were of a color that Jake had never seen before, and would probably have trouble ever having to describe again: a shade like all the colors of an artist’s palette who was painting a forest scene that have been swirled together but not quite blended. The most unnerving part was that the eyes seemed to look directly at Jake, but right through him at the same time.


Jake dropped his gaze immediately.  He felt the stare of the gaunt man beside him and continued, “I’m sorry, I have to get by you. Restroom,” he mumbled.

Moments later, Jake was splashing cold water on his face in the lavatory. After giving himself a good long stare, he had decided to forego the reading and try to get in an obviously necessary nap before they reached the depot in Bangor. Perhaps the convention had been a little more stressful than he’d realized.

When he returned to his seat, though, he found a little surprise waiting for him. The man had taken the seat next to the window, and had placed Jake’s bag and book on the aisle seat. He stood there for a moment, a little confused, before taking his new seat. The man, who paid him no notice, was busy looking out the window with great interest.

Jake tilted back his seat quietly and began to take a series of deep, calming breaths, hopefully inching his way towards a nap. A minute or so went by before the man again began to speak.

“I apologize if I have made you uncomfortable,” the man offered. “Sometimes when I find myself a little ahead of schedule, I tend to prattle.”

“It’s nothing,” Jake insisted, keeping his eyes closed. “No worries.” Jake’s heart had begun to pulse faster, though, and something within him seemed to be insisting that something was amiss in his situation. What exactly, he was not sure, but it was unsettling.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you again, but may I ask you a question?”

Jake thought momentarily about trying to act as though he had already nodded off, but knew that since it had only been a few seconds that the option was blown. “Sure,” he said, half lifting his eyelids, but not moving his head.

“It is just that. . .have you ever wondered about the emotion of fear in mortals?”

At this, Jake’s heartbeat again quickened.

“Particularly the fear of death,” he said in dark monotone. “It is most unreasonable, is it not?” After a slight pause during which the man had probably expected a reply, he continued. “As it stands, all living things eventually reach the point of transition in which they must leave their bodily vessels behind as so many dried husks. It is a known fact. Why do so many fear such a fact intrinsically? It makes even less sense yet when these same people find themselves taken by surprise, or angered when it finally happens? It does make my job ever so much more involved.” The man sighed.

Jake dared to look at him again, going against every wish of the pounding organ in his chest. The train was approaching a short tunnel, and as it submerged, the cabin was washed in darkness. Jake backed away from his fellow passenger with a shrill scream. In the window seat sat a visage of inky shadow. Its darkness swirled and flickered about it in wisps of ebony that seemed to have their own luminescence, giving a dark glow that revealed a face leaning against the window. It was the face of the traveler, that was sure, but his gaunt features had been magnified, appearing to Jake as a pale ghoul cloaked in the living night.

The train emerged from the tunnel, and the figure in the window seat changed immediately back to normal, as Jake sat horrified on the aisle floor. He was vaguely aware that his fellow passengers had taken notice of him, and a few looked rather uncomfortable.

The ghastly man looked down at Jake and beckoned him to return to his seat. “Please, Jacob. You are causing an unnecessary scene. Fear is a contagion.” All the while, the man seemed to speak without moving his lips, offering instead a rictus that bore far too many teeth.

If it occurred to Jake exactly how this figure had known his name, it was a thought overlooked very quickly by his lingering fright. He crawled in the style of crabs a few rows down the aisle before stopping out of sight of his seat.

A little girl with pigtails was seated beside him and she pointed. “Don’t be a-scared mister. My momma sez that when I get scared on the train just to hold my Binky.” She squeezed the tatty doll in her arms affectionately. “Do you have a Binky, mister?”

“Sweetie, leave the nice man alone,” said her mother, pulling her daughter carefully out of her aisle seat and into her lap. She glowered threateningly at the questionable looking man sitting in the aisle, undoubtedly ready to plant a spiked heel in his face should he happen not to be such a nice man.

Jake kept moving, eventually finding that his legs would permit him to stand, and found himself again in the restroom. Sweat beaded down his chest and underarms. He had never felt so afraid in all his thirty-eight years. The billowing specter was imprinted on his vision like a sunspot. He knew without a doubt what the man had really been when he had glimpsed him in the darkness.

“Death,” he whispered. Jake curled his knees up to his chest while sitting on the toilet seat. The monster had come to claim them. In a flash of mental clarity, Jake saw the entire train being derailed at a near point down the tracks. In a blaze of smoke and twisted metal, none of the passenger cars would hold any survivors, all of them swallowed by unforgiving wreckage and flame. Jake gulped. That thing out there was present to claim the souls of the countless departed. He tried to remember what he had ever heard about the spectral usher to the dead, but in his panicked state, Jake’s mind remained numbly blank.

He began to despair, knowing that the end was coming for all of the passengers of the train, who were all happily enjoying the ride and thinking nothing of their immediate death. Most of all, however, he was thinking of himself. Of how he would never again be able to take one of his beloved railway journeys. A stupid thing to preemptively miss when one’s life is flashing before his eyes, but he missed it anyhow. Jake began to cry, rocking back and forth on the toilet.

After a few minutes had passed, there was knocking on the restroom door.

“Excuse me, sir?” came a soft voice from the other side. “Are you alright? Some of the other passengers said there was a kind of disturbance. Sir, will you please respond. If you don’t respond, we’ll have to force the door for your safety.”

Jake eyed the door warily. “Yes.” His safety. If they only knew; they were doomed. All of them.

From somewhere within him, Jake felt a calling of self-preservation, one which will often occur to an individual who is certain that their mortality is in peril and have decided to do something about it. No matter how futile.

Jake rubbed the wetness away from his eyes and stood to straighten out his appearance. When he opened the door, the plump steward backed away from him, perhaps certain she was going to have to barrel down the door and pull some drunk or junkie from the small lavatory closet by force.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”  


“Are you absolutely sure everything’s in order?”

“Yes, thank you,” he said somewhat urgently. “Stomach flu or something.” He brushed her stare off and looked sharply down the aisle, toward the connecting car. Somewhere up the line—it had to be one or two cars—would be the engineer’s cabin. If Jake could make his way inconspicuously to that car, perhaps he could clobber the engineer and engage the brakes before the train found certain disaster. All of this flashed quickly in his brain, and, under normal circumstances, he would probably have been quite proud of himself for it, but at the moment only the thought of saving himself was of importance.

“You may want to check on that guy up in seat 18, though,” said Jake as steadily as he could. “The one dressed in the black suit. He seemed to be having some trouble.” The steward gave a skeptical look over Jake’s shoulder and proceeded to brush past him.

Jake followed closely behind, and was somewhat surprised to see that Death was no longer in his seat. He was nowhere to be seen. While the stocky woman turned back to look at Jake imploringly, something snapped inside of his head and he shoved her down into the seat, turning to run the length of the car and to the large door separating it from the next one.

Jake fumbled with the latch and finally pushed the door inward. Stepping into the breezeway, he cast a glance backward to the steward, who was speaking haughtily into a small pocket radio. She looked extremely angry, and so Jake wasted no time in slamming the door behind him and entering the next car. So much for inconspicuousness.

Running as fast as he could, Jake clambered through the second car and opened the doors to the third. It was here, however, he saw the only thing standing between him and the continuation of living. A sturdy-looking man stood in the middle of the aisle and watched Jake with the eyes of a predator, or simply a man trained to act like one.

“I’m going to have to ask you to stop right there, sir,” the man said gruffly. Jake spied a small silver badge fastened below the man’s lapel that marked him as either transportation security, or maybe even a police officer. Jake did not see a gun on the man, but noticed that his hand was held at the ready next to his breast coat pocket. “Please turn around slowly so that I can walk you back to your seat and figure out what the problem is.”

“The problem?” Jake shouted. “I’ll tell you what the problem is, man.” In the middle of speaking, Jake’s eye was caught by the man sitting at his elbow near the doorway.

Grinning slightly, the morphing face of Death stared up at him, and shook his head in disapproval. “Jacob, come now. Have a seat.”

“This man. This man right here is the goddam problem. He’s here for all of us!” Jake shook an accusing finger at the haunting figure, looking frantically between him and the security guard.

At first, the guard looked confused, but then concerned, and he began to step forward through the aisle. “Sir, what man?”

Jake looked down and saw Death still watching him intently, but he also saw an elderly woman sitting fearfully close to the window, not daring to look directly at Jake.

“They can’t see you,” Jake whispered.

“Of course not, Jacob. Come now, you are scaring these poor people. Even that man there is mere inches from drawing his weapon and shooting you on the spot.”

“You’re all going to die!” Jake shouted. “We all are!”

Those must have been the magic words that the guard had been waiting to hear, because his hand shot into his coat jacket and pulled at what was surely a large-caliber weapon. Something had caught, perhaps the release on the holster, but for a moment the guard was obviously struggling, and Jake rushed forward to bowl him over. During the course of the loud collision, a few things happened: the guard’s gun came free and spun out of his grasp, Jake slammed his head into a seat back, and a noise like breaking glass filled the cabin.

Opting to reach for his gun rather than for Jake, the guard managed to let him slip past. Jake hit the door and frantically grabbed at the handle, which would not budge. It was locked.

Jake gasped when he saw a frightened face looking back at him through the panes that joined to the engineer’s car. Stepping back, Jake realized it was the face of a very spooked train operator. In his back step, Jake also saw a glimmer on the floor. The guard’s keys. And the most noticeable thing on the ring was a large plastic access card, which Jake had little doubt would grant him access through the door. He stooped to pick them up.

“Freeze!” commanded the guard from behind him. “U.S. Transportation Security. You are threatening civilian lives, sir. If you do not step away from the door, I will open fire.” There was no uncertainty whatsoever in the stony voice.

Jake hesitated, eyeing the slot next to the handle where the keycard must pass through. Next to it was a lock, as well. Jake did not have time to fiddle with keys, and knew that if he tried, he had better be able to do it while full of holes.

“Three…” said the guard.

Jake looked at the engineer apologetically.

“Two…”

“Okay,” Jake said. The guard paused, and in the next second Jake shot his hand precisely with the card, miraculously finding the slot. The card slid through with a sharp explosion. A green light flashed on the reader and Jake fell forward into the adjoining breezeway. The door slipped shut behind him, with more explosions following.

Jake knew immediately that he had been shot. Blood coated his right hand; his ribs were on fire. He fought nausea watching the ground slip by at an alarming rate. The junction separating the engineer’s cabin was not enclosed as were the other breezeways that Jake had passed through. Wind whipped through his hair in a deafening roar. The key card had tumbled out and onto the now distant tracks.

Pulling himself to his feet, Jake glimpsed back at the government guard through the blood-spattered glass of the closed door. Surely it had been bulletproof. Unfortunately, Jake had not.

The engineer watched Jake intensely.

“Let me in! You’ve gotta let me in!”

Jake pounded on the glass, leaving bloody fist prints on the pane.  “There’s something on the tracks! Please let me in!”He began to lose strength, and finally found himself mouthing help to the engineer.

The engineer seemed to be struggling with the decision of letting an injured man die before him or letting a potential threat enter his cabin. Apparently, the engineer had a heart. He released the latch from his side and pulled Jake inside.

Not getting too friendly, he let Jake fall to the floor and asked him, “What in the hell is going on here? Tell me right now, or so help me God, you’re gonna bleed to death right there on the floor.”

“The tracks,” Jake spat. “There’s something on the tracks. It’s going to kill us all."

“What! How in the hell do you know that?”

“Death. I saw death in the seat next to me.”

“Son, are you on drugs?”

“Just let me stop the train,” Jake said, summoning some inner reserve of strength. He climbed to his feet and stumbled forward toward the driver, who promptly socked him in the mouth. Jake stumbled backward into the door. “You’re all gonna die.”

Realizing that there was no visible brake like he had seen in so many movies, Jake groggily stepped backward and released the hatch.

“I can still save me,” Jake slurred.

For a second the engineer looked like he was going to come forward and stop Jake, but finally the response to a potentially dangerous threat won out, and he let Jake step through the doorway and tumble off the side of the car junction.

As the train had begun to make an emergency stop in the distance, the dark figure loomed over a grit-toughened and bloody body lying facedown in the weeds.

He sighed.

“Ah, fear. I do not believe I shall ever comprehend it.”    

* * * 

Einstein and Kerouac at my Family Reunions
By Gail Gray 

These competitions in my family. When will they stop? When will my family start acting like other families? You know the ones where the competing comes down to who has a baby first, or who has the biggest McMansion, or the best paying geek job in the most far off big city, or the smartest kid or the newest Range Rover…you know the normal stuff.


No, mine, is this contest between my uncle Peter and my dad trickled down to me and my two cousins. You see my uncle (who at some time was in prison but my folks would never tell me why) went on about how in New Jersey he and Einstein met in this tea room. This is back in the day when they didn’t have Starbucks or even privately owned coffee houses, but they had tea rooms. We had one here too but we didn’t get to go until we were teenagers and that wasn’t for the tea but for what the tall gypsy lady said when she came by after we finished our cup of tea and sandwiches with the crusts cut off. The gypsy lady swayed over, coin bracelets clanking at her wrists and she’d sit down and with a solemn look on her angular dark face, she’d read our tea leaves.


Well, anyway, my uncle Peter used to talk about how at the tea room he would be the only customer who would sit at a table with Einstein because they all thought he was nuts with that whacked out hair and the crazy way he talked. But the place was really small. And if you wanted your lunch or to have your tea leaves read then you had to share a table sometimes. Well my uncle liked the way Enstien talked and in fact I remember my uncle even talking about the stuff they talked about… wormholes and such things. And at first I thought he meant real wormholes like in the garden (which I had never seen) and then later after Dune came out, I figured it was the wormholes the spice worms made on Arakis. Especially since Einstein talked about the planets and space and stuff too, but it wasn’t until later, actually after my uncle died when I realized he was talking about wormholes… you know space/time-rip type of wormholes like in the movie, Donnie Darko, and that’s how my uncle said he got out of prison… through a wormhole.


And then my dad used to talk about how he bought drinks for Jack Kerouac. This was at the Old Worthen Inn in our home town, Lowell, Mass., on Worthen Street (one of the cobblestone streets still left near downtown, not far from where my mother would later work at City Hall.)  And my dad bought rounds for Kerouac just like he bought rounds for everyone in some bar somewhere every Friday night. He was a good time generous drunk…and his friends knew to count on him.


But all their lives, my dad and uncle tell their stories at every family get together and my uncle would always win. My family believed him along with all that crap about escaping from prison through a wormhole that Einstein told him about. They didn’t believe my dad who sat and drank beer with Kerouac – this was before On the Road. Maybe even my dad inspired Kerouac to go on the road or maybe even write some of the stuff he did on the road….who knows? Sometimes you sit and listen to the guy whose footing your bar tab all night, right?


But it would all come down to me and my cousins and they would always win. I don’t know if it’s ‘cause I was an only child and easy to outnumber or because they liked the wilder most likely untrue story; or because my dad’s story wasn’t as exciting because after all, it happened in Lowell, our home town and the place we all lived. Lowell didn’t have the magical charm of the 100 mile rule; or maybe Einstein had more clout than Kerouac; or maybe it was more exiting because my dad just drank beer and their dad escaped from prison.     


So, when I found the trunk full of letters after my dad died things got a little weird…a little tense.  First of all I found this letter, see….it was from my uncle to my dad. It was dated 1957 and he talked about how he was now out of prison because of this wormhole idea put forth by a friend of his, some weird guy who didn’t do much but sit and scribble strange letters and numbers on a pad but he taught my uncle how to find the wormholes. And my uncle claimed he did although I have to wonder how he could go on living in New Jersey and then later return to Lowell if he was an escaped convict to raise his kids and all.  But attached to this letter with an old rusty paper clip was a small piece of paper, maybe the size of an index card and on it my uncle claims is the theorem written out by Einstein himself and my uncle wanted my dad to have it in case the cops ever caught up with him as an escaped felon or my dad ever himself got arrested and needed to get out of jail. Although how my dad would know how to recognize or summon a wormhole, whatever the hell you do with them if he ever went to jail, is beyond me. Or do you just chant it like a mantra and it automatically appears? Maybe that’s how Einstein got out of Germany in the 2nd World War, who knows?


Anyway the theorem was not in the same handwriting as my uncle’s letter.


A few weeks later, after flipping through a lot of old photographs and some old letters from my aunts in England to my mom in Lowell, I found a stained piece of notebook paper and on it was this poem….this weird poem. No date, mind you. But two initials down at the bottom….J.K…..and the poem talked about the night this J.K. dude and some other guy (maybe my dad) had broken into the Hi Hat Roller Rink (which was right up the street form us in Lowell) and skated around all night for free although minus the live organ music and how they’d stolen a couple of pairs of skates and after that would make night time runs to roller skate on the roof of the Blue Moon night club kind of catty corner across Princeton Blvd. from the Hi Hat.  


Also in the trunk were these photos. None of J.K. or Jack Kerouac (as I interpreted the initials) and my dad, but a bunch of my dad on roller skates on a roof somewhere and he’s hefting some lithesome showgirl up in a fancy Olympic pairs kind of move…you know the kind where you think the guy’s gonna drop the girl. And I just got to wonder…was J.K. the guy taking the photos? Because you know, J.K. was a football guy…maybe he thought roller skating was for sissies. But my dad was no sissy. He was a slender guy, sure, but he had the heft to lift a showgirl. I would argue that my dad was just as strong as Kerouac as any football player, had been in the Coast Guard, while Kerouac had only been in the Merchant Marines and my dad was known to be a roller skating champion of some sorts (maybe that’s how he knew how to break into the Hi Hat Roller Rink). Maybe Kerouac knew he didn’t have the style or maybe he was too drunk so he ended up taking the pictures.


And so now I’ve got a dilemma. When I meet my cousins at the next family gathering, it may be Ronnie’s, the younger one; at his 50th birthday…do I show him my dad’s photo and the J.K. poem? Or do I show him the letter from his dad with the additional theorem? Or do I show him all of them? No matter what I do, even if I went to the lengths of handwriting analysis….what’s all this gonna do to the competition?
             
* * * 

Poems by Amy L. George

Flood

When the water went down,

he went back.

Shafts of light found

the darkness, transformed

blind broken plates into

shadows that trembled

with every shudder

of his flashlight.

He sloshed through drowned keepsakes,

thankful that his memories

were buoyant.

The sofa used to be around here somewhere.

His eyes followed the murky ripples

to the baby cradle,

crushed in the corner,

the boards his grandfather sanded

like a rotting woodpile,

collapsed and askew.

The TV antennae caught the light,

one of the arms wore

one of his wife’s sweaters,

frayed and torn.

I never did like that sweater.

His daughter’s violin case floated by,

and he strained to reach and grab it.

One day her notes would trill

through the air again,

over the city.

Past the water.



Nursing Home

Your eyes shift

with uncertainty.

The wind has slaughtered

your thoughts again,

rattled you as it does

the loose window,

pulling at the strength

of the pane.

Focus is hard for you these days.

The cold air outside

is a blank canvas to you,

you say the trees are lonely,

wonder where the leaves have gone.

Funny, you muttered,

they were orange yesterday.

I’ve come again to sing for you, Mattie,

though the tunes are still in your body.

The lyrics to “Amazing Grace”

float up from some forgotten corridor,

your smile a candle

to guide them back

as though you’ve not lost the days.



Thoughts on the Fly

I want to smash a fly,

end its drug-tripping,

weaving,

erratic flight

around my desk.

In desperation,

I swung at it with

my Merriam-Webster’s,

convinced I could kill

it with the weight of

1200 words in one place.

I hate flies.

I know scientists

could explain to me

the delicate balance

of the ecosystem

and how this winged

kamikaze pilot

is in some way, crucially

related to the survival of

glaciers in Antarctica.

But all I can think

right now

is how the bugger

has landed on my dictionary,

and is tap-dancing on it

to taunt me.

* * * 

Thump 
By Tai Dong Huai 

The morning after Barack Obama is elected President, my adoptive dad is elated. He’s working, by his own admission, on less than three hours sleep. He stayed awake, sitting in the living room with the television volume turned low, until the final result came in. Later, after hours of commentary, a concession speech, and a victory celebration, he went up to bed but was too excited to do little more than occasionally drift off.

“It was an amazing night,” he says as he drives me to my eighth grade homeroom.

“You should take the day off,” I tell him. “You don’t look so  hot."  

“Are you kidding?” he says, as he reaches forward to switch on the radio. “No way I’m missing today.”

He teaches at a Catholic college where, for the past year, most of his colleagues have been telling him that an African-American can’t win. He’s insisted they’re wrong – that the country has advanced beyond that – and this is his day to puff out his chest and strut.

A page in the book of American history has been turned, a radio talk show host tells his audience. This morning we all sit proudly in the front of the bus.

We’re on Route 58, stopped at a red light, when it happens. It’s not much – hardly noticeable – but a thump and a nudge let us know that the car behind us has tapped our bumper.

“Crap,” my father mutters as he reaches for his door handle.

The other driver is out before we are. He’s a black man with white hair and he’s shaken. He wears heavy brown shoes, navy blue pants and a matching zip-up jacket with the name ‘Ralph’ stitched over the left breast pocket. “You folks, okay?” he asks.

“We’re all right,” my dad says. “What about you?”

“I was adjusting the radio,” Ralph says. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

My father inspects the back of our car. It’s an eight-year old Honda CRV, scarred by its share of falling bikes and windblown shopping carts, so one more dink hardly seems to matter. 

“I don’t see any damage,” my father reports.

“I am really sorry about this,” Ralph says.

By now, traffic is moving around us. Some people beep, most gawk, one man on a cell phone takes his hand off the steering wheel just long enough to shoot us the finger.

“I guess we should get out of here,” my dad says.

“Probably a good idea,” Ralph agrees.

We haven’t even made it back to our cars when we hear the command. It comes over a public address system mounted on top of a slowly approaching police cruiser.

“PULL YOUR CARS OVER TO THE SIDE!”

My dad smiles, raises his hand, waves toward the police car stopped just behind Ralph’s car. “It’s all right, officer!” he calls. “No harm done!”

“PULL YOUR CARS OVER NOW!”

There’s a clearing on the side of the road, a place where I’ve seen a concession truck selling hot dogs around lunch time. We pull in, followed by Ralph, followed by the police car. The officer is out first, a muscular looking guy about my dad’s age.

“Everybody out!” he orders.

“Wait here,” my father says.

“He said ‘everybody,’” I remind him.

My father, out of the car, already has the necessary paperwork in his hand: license, registration, insurance card. Ralph, not as organized, flips through a tangled mass of odds and ends in his glove compartment.

“I said out of the car!” the officer bellows, his hand now resting on the butt of his holstered pistol.

Ralph has apparently been around enough to know to comply. He gets out of his car and hands the officer what looks like his license. “I’ve got my registration in there somewhere,” he says.

“You been drinking, have you?” the police officer asks.

“No, sir,” Ralph answers. 

“It was just a little tap,” my dad tries to explain.

“I saw what it was,” the officer says as he takes my dad’s papers. “Don’t anybody move.”

With the officer in his car and out of earshot, I tell Ralph, “It’ll be fine.” But in fact, I have no idea how it’s going to be.  A few minutes pass before the police officer comes back and hands my father his paperwork.

“You planning on filing an insurance claim?” he asks.

“No.”

“In that case, you’re free to go.”

“What about him?” my father asks.

“I’ll take care of him.”

“I really don’t think he’s been drinking.”

“You an expert?” the officer asks.

“No.”

“I’ve been on since midnight,” the officer says. “They’ve all been drinking.”

We get back into the Honda, but my father sits for a minute and stares out.

“I’m going to check your eyes,” the officer tells Ralph as they stand next to the police car.

Were only Dr. King alive to share this day... the guy on the radio says.

“Keep your head still and follow the stimulus,” the officer says as he removes a pen from his pocket and waves it in front of Ralph’s face.

If only President Lincoln was here...

“Do not move your head.”

...or Rosa Parks or Malcolm X...

“I said not to move your head!”

“Turn off the radio,” my dad says as he puts the car in gear and eases into traffic.

“I should have done something,” my father says just as we pull into the school parking lot.

I’m about to ask him what he could have possibly done. Why get himself into trouble? Except then I realize. He should have done something. Or I should have.

Somebody should have done something.
     

* * * 

Poems by Chris Pike

Days Like These

On days like these,
when the sun hides in the clouds
and the rain falls
hour after hour,
the chaos of this city,
the traffic, the sirens, the trains,
all slip away
like smoke from a cigarette,
and all that is left
is the damp leaves under my feet
and the cool breeze flowing through
my finger tips.
On days like these,
I can be still and watch
the gutters
fill.



Fire

Out my window
the sky is bleeding ash.
The flames are turning our green hills
orange and red and, soon, black.
We escape in a long line down the road.
The firefighters sit on the sidewalk,
helpless.
The fire is too hot for them,
too fast for them.
“Will it burn the town?”
“I don’t know,” my mother says.
“Will it burn our house?”
“I don’t know,” my mother says.
The sky bleeds, and the hills burn.
I hope home will still be home
after the flames.



Making It

Nothing ever changes in this life.
There will always be old men
sitting on milk crates,
reading the newspaper
in the rain.
There will always be beautiful women
in high heels and dresses,
walking down the street
in the sun.
And there will always be you
trying to make it,
dirt and bugs under your feet,
with nothing to lose but yourself.

* * * 

Swedish Ivy 
By Beth Rodriguez

Maddy touched Joshua’s back. He rolled away from her.


“Josh, honey.” She shook his shoulder gently. “You’re going to be late.”


Grumbling, her husband sat on the edge of the bed and reached for a frayed pair of jeans.


She reached for her bathrobe. “I’ll get you some breakfast,” she said, sliding her feet into a pair of worn slippers.


He made a non-committal grunt as she left the room.


Before they’d married, she’d dreamed of loving mornings together, of waking cradled in his arms. But he never turned towards her after he switched off the lamp at night. His back was a wall between them.


She pulled out a pitcher of milk and two eggs from the refrigerator. Maddy said a silent prayer of thanks that Lila hadn’t woken up yet. Not that Lila was a difficult baby. On the contrary, the six-month-old was unusually well-behaved for an infant, only rarely crying. Most of the time she gazed up from her crib with a solemn look, as if she knew something Maddy didn’t.


Joshua’s work boots clattered against the wooden floor. “Don’t have time to eat,” he said stiffly. “Have to be on site in ten minutes.”


“Oh.” Maddy was quiet. “I thought we could have breakfast together,” she finally said in a small voice, gesturing lamely at the table, which was already set for two.


He gathered his keys and yellow hard hat from the table. “Can’t be late again. Murphy about canned my ass last time.”


“Well, here.” She quickly scooped up some of the egg and slid it between two slices of bread. “At least take this.” She held it out like a child coaxing a small animal.


Joshua looked at her almost warily, before grabbing the offering and heading out the door.


“Know when you’ll be back?” she called after him.


At the car door, he shrugged. “Who knows?”


Then he was gone.


Maddy turned back towards the kitchen. She put away the extra setting and reheated her cold coffee. She pulled the Sunday newspaper, which still lay strewn on the table, towards her.


She felt a pang when she saw the ad for Piggly Wiggly. It had been two years since she’d quit. Josh had insisted she stop working after the wedding. His salary would be enough.  Maddy had been tempted to argue, but stopped when she saw the cold determination in his eyes.


She still missed her old job. There was something soothing about methodically stacking cereal boxes and arranging fruits and vegetables into attractive displays. She hadn’t been much of a student, scraping by with Cs in most of her classes. But, after school, she’d been in her element at the store. She would count out change slowly for elderly Mr. Herbert or advise Mrs. Walker, a mother of six, that peanut butter was twenty-five percent off all week. Maddy had been employee of the month when she quit. Sandy, the portly manager with the gray comb-over, had been sad to see her go. Not many people stayed as long as she did. She’d been there three years, since before she’d had her driver’s license.


Maddy got up, placing her dishes in the sink. She rubbed her finger over the veiny leaves of the Swedish ivy which hung from the ceiling. Her mother had brought it by two weeks ago, as a gift for their second anniversary. The edge of the leaves had already turned brown, crinkly as aged newspaper. Her mother of all people should have known a plant was a poor choice for a gift.    Sometimes Maddy forgot to water them, sometimes she didn’t add enough fertilizer. The end result was always the same. Even the third-grade class cactus had died during Maddy’s week to care for it.


A soft cry came from Lila’s room. Maddy continued watering the sad little plant. The wail repeated itself. Maddy sighed and headed towards her daughter.


The labor had been relatively short, six hours, and not as painful as Maddy had thought it would be.  The attending doctor, a red-faced man with a sweaty bald spot, had beamed stupidly at her after it was over, as if she was a prize mare who’d just delivered a promising foal. Maddy had expected to feel a rush of love, a pink glow of tenderness, when the tiny bundle was handed to her. But there had been nothing.


Josh had cooed over the baby, using the same honeyed tone he used to use with Maddy herself.


He’d been shy when he asked her to homecoming dance sophomore year, almost as if he expected her to say no. She’d noticed him around school before; a tall, lanky redhead who kept to himself.


Josh had arrived at her house promptly at eight, with a long-stemmed rose for her, and one for her mother, which impressed her parents. “Such a nice young man,” her mother had murmured in her ear.


The following week, he escorted her to and from every class, his long arm wrapped tightly around her tiny waist. They talked on the phone until late at night, exchanging youthful vows of undying love. Her parents, not impressed with the grand scope of their romance, threatened to disconnect the phone.
She hardly noticed as her friends drifted away from her, tired of unreturned phone calls and skipped trips to the mall. It was enough to be Josh’s darling, his sweetheart, his “little baby doll.”


Maddy did, in fact, look like a doll. Petite, barely five feet tall, she could still buy clothes in the childrens department. Josh, at 6’ 1”, towered over her. She teased him about their difference in height, but she liked it. She felt protected by his additional inches. No one had been so protective of her, not even her parents. No other boys had taken such interest in the details of her life. Joshua always wanted to know where she would be and what she’d be doing.


No one had been surprised when he proposed to her in the spring of their senior year. They were married in a small ceremony a month after graduation, with only family and a few close friends in attendance. His parents, although not terribly well off themselves, had paid the first month’s rent on the apartment as a wedding gift. Maddy and Josh couldn’t afford a honeymoon, but it didn’t matter to her. She was happy just to be his wife.


Maddy couldn’t have guessed how quickly things would change.


He was like a child who excitedly unwraps a gift, only to toss it aside moments later, the thrill already forgotten. Maddy had been his only serious girlfriend, a situation he seemed increasingly unhappy with.


She had turned nineteen a few months after the wedding. Josh had taken her to dinner at one of the few places in town with cloth napkins. Vicki, an old friend from high school, had spotted them in the restaurant, and stopped by to say hello.


“Vicki’s looking good,” Josh had commented after she left their table. His eyes had roamed over Maddy with a faint look of disdain, letting her know she didn’t look nearly as good. Josh had glanced admiringly at Vicki’s retreating figure. “You know, you’re lucky you got me when you did. If I wasn’t mar-ried,” he added in a sing-song voice, waggling his ring finger at Maddy, “you know that girl would already have me halfway to her place.”


It was shortly after this that the poker nights started. Each Wednesday, Maddy was forced to retreat to the living room while Josh’s work buddies invaded her kitchen.
“This is five-star stuff after Maddy’s cooking,” Josh would say, reaching for stale Doritos. After struggling with a beer bottle cap, he’d joke that it was easier to open than his wife’s legs.


His voice would carry clearly down the hall to Maddy. She’d stuff  a fist in her mouth, biting on her knuckles as she heard the laughter. Maddy would squeeze her eyes shut, willing the tears not to fall.


Josh had warmed to her again briefly when the home pregnancy test showed she was expecting. He’d spoken of playing catch with his son, and of family trips to the beach.


Yet as her waist expanded to accommodate the growing child, he’d given her a new nickname. Having long since stopped calling her his doll, his angel, or even just darling, she was now known as "the heifer." The tone was almost affectionate, almost teasing, when others were around, but the hard edge underneath let her know it was meant to hurt.


Lila fell silent as Maddy entered the room. Maddy gripped the edge of the crib and stared down at her daughter. The baby’s brow wrinkled as she gazed back at her mother. The furrowed brow and nearly bald head gave Lila a slight resemblance to her grandfather, the appearance of a world-weary little soul.


“What is it?” she snapped at the child.


Lila pursed her lips, as if about to speak. Maddy’s chest felt wet. She looked down. There were two large wet spots on the over-sized t-shirt she used as a nightgown. Maddy sighed. Of course, the little thing was hungry.


“Sorry, kid,” she mumbled apologetically, reaching down into the crib.


The baby felt awkward in her arms. Surprisingly, Joshua had been a natural as a father. Since that first day in the hospital room, where he’d cradled the infant in his arms and pressed his lips tenderly to her forehead, he seemed to instinctively know what she needed. On the rare occasions Lila woke up during the night, it was he who walked up and down the hall singing her to sleep. He changed her diapers almost cheerfully, blowing raspberries on her stomach. It was Joshua who elicited Lila’s rare smiles. Maddy felt a tightness in her chest watching the two of them, Josh’s hand caressing the small back as he whispered softly in Lila’s ear.


Mechanically, Maddy shifted the baby from her chest to her shoulder and burped Lila, patting her back a little too roughly. Continuing to balance Lila against her shoulder, Maddy moved back down the hall towards the bathroom.


An infant-sized plastic tub had been deemed an unnecessary expense, so the child was carefully bathed each day in the full-sized porcelain one that Maddy and Josh used. Maddy turned on the faucets, adjusting the knobs until the water ran lukewarm. She pulled the pink-elephant patterned onezie over her daughter’s still-soft head, and threw the used diaper into the wicker basket.


Maddy lowered Lila’s naked body into the tub and worked the soapy lather over the baby’s smooth skin.  Josh would be home late tonight. The meatloaf and mashed potatoes long cold, he’d walk right past her without a word.


To Lila. He’d go straight to Lila’s room and bounce her on his knee, telling the baby about his day in a sing-song voice. He confided to Lila, not to her, his wife. Maddy would wander alone to the living room and stare at the photo of two giddy teenagers on their wedding day.


So very long ago, it seemed. Maddy felt tired suddenly, much older than twenty years.


Relax, just let go, a voice hummed in her ear. And she obeyed, loosening her grip on the small body. It slipped from her hands easily, the small head dipping below the surface like a ship’s prow. Maddy gazed steadily into her daughter’s eyes. They were a deep liquid brown, just like Josh’s. Was she mocking her, just as Josh so often did? Were those tiny lips curling into a little sneer?


Maddy smiled at her daughter as she reached for the faucets. It was the first time she’d smiled all morning. 

* * * 
 
Coping Mechanisms 
By Joseph Belser

A paper weight with no papers underneath sat on Shannon Barkley’s desk.  It was a turtle.  A turtle with a fish in its mouth.  Some spiritual symbol, she was told.  A pen set sat next to the turtle.  Other than those items, the desk was bare.  A slick mahogany top reflected the light of a dim overhead lamp.  Shannon’s legs sported a rash of goose bumps beneath a pair of business suit slacks.  A cover in the front of this desk would be nice, she thought.  Maybe tomorrow I’ll bring in my floor heater.

She had always been told that floor heaters were fire hazards, but she didn’t care.  The cold deems it necessary.  She turned and gazed at a cheap calendar sporting a tropical beach scene hanging from a thumbtack on the wall to her left.  December 4th.  Twenty-one days till Christmas. 

She adjusted her glasses and pulled out a bottle of water from her bag lying next to her feet on the floor.  She took a drink and screwed the cap back on.  The bottle went next to the turtle paper weight making the item count on her desk three.

Her watch read 7:59 and she shook her head.  Time always goes fast when you don’t want it to.  A knock on her door immediately followed that thought.  “Come in,” she said.

The door opened.  A young man who looked fifteen, but was really twenty-six, walked in with one sheet of double bonded paper between his right thumb and forefinger.  Without saying a word, he placed the sheet on the desk in front of Shannon.  He nodded.  Shannon put her hand up as if to thank him as well as to simultaneously shoo him away.  The young man turned and walked out the door without acknowledging her.

A list of ten names stared up at her from the paper.  She scanned the names and sighed, while rubbing her temples.  Exhaling a couple of more times, she stood up and took her coat from hanger in the corner of her office and put it on.  She jammed her hands in the coat pockets, feeling for the box of cigarettes and the lighter.  After locating both, she closed her eyes for a moment.  Then she walked out of her office shutting the door.

On her way to the building’s exit, the secretary, a fat middle aged man wearing a white button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, stopped her.

“Where ya going?”

Shannon’s voice was monotone.  “I left something in my car,” she replied.

The secretary furrowed his brow.  “Do you leave something in your car every day?” he asked.

“I’m forgetful,” she replied as she walked past him without looking back.  The phone on the secretary’s desk rang and he answered it, feigning an enthusiastic tone.

The cold wind hit her face as she exited the building.  A dark sky loomed over her with the vague promise that it would produce a hazy shade of gray in about an hour.  She shivered as she approached her car, a red Acura.  A fresh scratch made by the jagged edge of a key ran horizontally across the driver’s door.

She got in the car and turned the key in the ignition.

Two and half minutes later she pulled into a vacant parking lot adjacent to a vacant office building.  Two signs with phone numbers decorated the building.  They both read:

FOR LEASE

She got out of the car and produced the pack of cigarettes and the lighter.  The car continued to run. She popped a cigarette in her mouth and flicked the lighter. While hunching over and turning her back to the wind, she lit the cigarette.  She inhaled and the stale smoke entered her lungs.  After a couple of more drags, she closed her eyes and felt a rush of endorphins flood her head.  The fire continued to burn the tobacco as she strolled around the parking lot. 

After five minutes, her cigarette was at its end and her cheeks were red.  Her teeth rattled together.  Her thoughts centered on the cold.  The car heater would feel extra good now that it had warmed up. 

She had the car door halfway open when the first name on the list flashed in her mind’s eye.  Gary Rader.  She climbed in the car and shut the door.  She reached under the seat.  The cold bottle stung her hand for a moment and then she gripped it.  The golden rum sloshed back and forth in the bottle as she screwed off the cap. 

She kept the bottle of rum in one hand and flipped the latch of the glove compartment with the other. Inside was an assortment of scrunched up pieces of paper.  Sitting with the mess was different bottle: a small orange one that had been filled by a pharmacist.  She put the bottle of rum between her legs and squeezed it with her thighs.  She then opened the prescription bottle and placed two small yellow pills on her tongue. 

When she had capped the prescription bottle, she threw it back into the glove compartment and snapped it shut.

Her cell phone rang.  No ring tone.  Just two impersonal beeps.  Grimacing, she dry swallowed the yellow tablets and opened the phone.  “Human Resources, this is Shannon,” she answered.

“Shannon, where the hell are you?” demanded the man on the other end.

“I had to run a quick errand.”

The man laughed.  “Are you ready to wield the ax?”

“Of course I am,” said Shannon.  “What kind of question is that?”  Her voice was sharp and strong.

“You get back here or I’ll fire you,” he said.

“You don’t have the balls to do that,” replied Shannon.  “That’s why you hired me.  Because you don’t have the balls.”

The man on the other end laughed.  “I guess you’re right.  I guess you have the best job security out of anyone in the company.”

“Well, that’s stating the obvious,” said Shannon grinning.  She snapped the phone shut.  Always have the last word and make it strong, she thought.

She burst into tears.

Gary Rader.  Single father.  Two kids.

She unscrewed the bottle of rum, put it to her lips and tilted her head backward.  The bitter taste caused her to pause before swallowing hard.  She put the cap back on and placed it back underneath the seat.  A couple of snow flurries blew past her windshield.  She put the car in gear and turned on the windshield wipers as well as the radio.

A deep voice from the radio sounded throughout the car.  “While the unemployment rate stands at ten percent in the U.S., the Obama administration remains optimistic citing fewer jobs were lost in the month of November than expected,” it said.

She twisted the knob of the radio back off, reached for the bottle of rum underneath the seat and took another drink as she changed lanes.

When she pulled the red Acura back into the company lot, she went for the glove compartment one more time.  The orange prescription bottle went into the left pocket of her slacks.  A breath mint went into her mouth.  Eye drops went into her eyes.  Fresh makeup went on her face.  And then she headed toward the building.

Gary Rader was waiting.  He was thin, balding and sported grayish stubble on his face.  He stood next to the stenciled letters on her door that read:

SHANNON BARKLEY

HUMAN RESOURCES

She squinted at him.  His eyes were wide.  His hands were behind his back.  And his mouth turned upward in a nervous grin. 

Shannon answered his grin with a frown.  “Come in,” she said.

They walked into the office.  “Have a seat,” said Shannon, as she sat down behind her desk.  He took the lone chair sitting in front of her. 

She never took her eyes off of Gary Rader.  “Mr. Rader,” she said.  “I’ll get right to the point.”

Gary Rader’s face dropped and his shoulders sagged.

“We’re going to let you go,” said Shannon.  “Management wants you gone for good by the end of the day.  Your production has been down.”  Her words flew out of her mouth like machine gun bullets.

Gary Rader sat motionless. His head was still down, avoiding eye contact with her. 

Shannon continued to squint. 

“Thank you,” said Rader.  “I knew it was coming.  You always know it’s coming when they schedule a meeting with you.”

“That’s right,” said Shannon.  “Have a nice day.”

“Can I count on a recommendation?” asked Rader.

“Send Mr. Gage a request by mail,” replied Shannon.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

“Of course,” said Rader.

He turned around and exited the office.

When the door closed and Rader’s silhouette was out of sight, Shannon laid her head on the desk.  Tears welled in her eyes and she fought them off.  One down, nine to go. The next name on the list was Ben Natus.  Better get yourself together, she thought.  Ben Natus will be coming soon.   

The pills rattled in her pocket as she shifted her legs.  She took the orange bottle out, popped off the white cap and eyed the bottle of water sitting next to the turtle on her desk.  She placed the pill on her tongue and took a long drink.

* * *