The Fictioneer

Winter 2015

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Claudia Rankine should have won the

National Book Award.

Poems
Mark Magoon

The Goods

To The Drowned and The Falls Before Lake

Superior
Crayon Color Mental Illness, Call Memory
Ride Along the Wheel
Between Siblings
My wife thinks that she is the only person
that suffers from anxiety and that isnt true
so I wrote this poem.

Kevin McCoy
Boardwalk
Sunset
Adela Najarro
Playing around Csar Vallejo
Lorca's Rain
Fiction
William R. Soldan
The Bad Ones
Joe Baumann
Turning into the Storm
Brendon Vayo
Trekker Trekker
Conrad Smyth
Today Is Your Lucky Day
Monica Macansantos
Maricel
A LaFaye
Point B Deferred
Editor's Note

Poems

Mark Magoon
To The Drowned
and The Falls Before Lake Superior
Manido might better mean nonsense,
but in Ojibwa translates spirit or ghost.
On the Presque Isle River,
Manido means both, and put together
the word splits in two, something whispered
like rain-awoken or washed-away.
In a world un-living Manido means nothing;
no longer and no rush, no water.
Manido is sound, simple, an Indian name that falls
a drop of the Upper Peninsula.
In my world your name is still, it means more;
it is hard to save, harder to say.
So I say now Manido and Manabezho
and Nawadaha and more and more for me.
I say they fall despite fire gone early or
morning come quick. The falls, they flow just
as those above and those further down
and before the great empty
their fall is followed by calm. And they join body
with waters that know only one great name.

Crayon Color Mental Illness, Call Memory

I.
The daddys hopes are at home
housed in a mausoleum
where he keeps a few things,
even more. From his father,
theres an old sweater and pinned on it
a note written for his children: Someday
There too he keeps them, daughters
preserved past, from an age he knew;
children how he wishes, misremembers.
Them and their daddy, wishing
that was still a name.
II.
Twelve drawings hang in an attic
in the Upper Peninsula
daughters and all, everything
that ever had them, the things he could collect:
Patched, the pattern of tape,
they hang, barely touch,
the wall and the way those drawings meet
even at the room corner.
And now I have taken too long
to get to the things worth getting at,
but I will say little more:
Many have thrown my uncle away.
Two women would tear away
the attic walls if they ever saw

the way the dust has settled

on the way they once were.
I tell you now the saddest thing:
A shrine for the living.
III.
The craft paper is delicate, it is thin
and it rips easy.
That makes childlike, torn out
and hand drawn. Crayon
all and especially the memories from
first drawn, God-etched.
A couple of six-year-olds
can make forever the year 1993
when once two daughters were,
wish, would: Just to see them.
Again if all the power could be found
in their colors. Hunch over. Be still.
Brown lines make an arm and green a neck,
and orange lips make a frown go red.
And now this drawing can be forever,
long as you erase your name.

Ride Along the Wheel

A Ferris wheel was brought in to celebrate
and the cobble stone city streets
are litall the square a false, sick shade of blue.
This machine moved-in,
the height and mass of the mechanism,
and the moving pieces, all of it
is next to a church
that took 160 years to build. My god,
the patience, what that took for so many
never to see. For many now,
this is the first Kings Day.
For so long in the Netherlands
they have celebrated only the queen
I visit my mother in laws' life
from great distance, from every few years
My mother-in-law, lonesome
as she goes around
her children a nine hour roll.
Her closest, seven hours and
four thousand miles and
that makes for tough travel, even today.
Travel is at first, a simple word, but
when transported, even properly,
fails at distance, fails in taking to change.
And my mother-in-law, all those miles,
they seem exceptionally long, especially
for a Midwestern boy such as myself.
Many years ago, travel
meant a town overit meant many times
going round on great wooden wheels.

Now months become minutes.

Maybe has become measurable.
Dead persons, now depth and perception.
In the Netherlands, there is
a great mass in a great square,
and all of it for a King
Cheap lights and churros.
A very old place. A church,
travel, change.
My mother-in-law rides along this great wheel.
Her matter, her distance.

Between Siblings
My sister and I hardly ever touch
the grass, all of it dead
and yellow and were above
the stiffness of our summer
gone dry. Were too fast.
Running miles many, hours
the way never, the way that
time and meaning is nothing
when you fly without shoes.
Back by the pear tree
and the still of black
and old swing-set
are the snarls
of cherry trees;
for cherry throw, for cherry blood
stained shirts.
Cherries in your hands
my big sister, no
matter how small.
Hidden by high grass,
between crabapples, wedged
in yard-corner
near the raspberries, sweet
on the long side, lost
in the legs of our parents
in the shadows we should
one day summer in
all over again.

My wife thinks that she is the only person that suffers from
anxiety and that isnt true so I wrote this poem.
While you are away I will vacuum, literally,
the entire apartment twice every single day of the week that I
can,
when I have the time. And sometimes twice
and I am not using the word literally figuratively. Twice.
Its a twitch, I suppose.
There are times when I will vacuum and scrub
the old wooden floor of our rented apartment
and I will walk back and forth up the creaky floorboards of our
short hallway wondering if I could have done things better
more thoroughand not in my life,
like my job, or in my relationships. I wonder,
should I have worn shoes?
Do shoes just track dirt in from outside?
Should I have worn socks?
Do socks track lint, and dog hair, and dust around?
I will wash the dishes again when youre not there.
I will mix two kinds of hand soap and
worry over the warmth of the water. I will imagine
tiny microbial things that I cannot see and
I dont even know the right name of, germs, I guess
and I will scrub those goddamn germs so god damn fucking hard
that my forearms hurt. I sweat like a banshee.
And to tell you the truth, I dont have a clue what I am doing.
I will go to the drugstore
and buy bottles of new and improved spray stuff
that will kill all the tiny allergies out in the air,
strangle those little bastards to death before they both buzz
and bother our sinuses or make our nose, ears, mouth, and
throat itch.
I go through those bottles so fast.
Honey, I itch too.
I worry that I will never own a home, have enough.
I worryfuck even the idea of enoughI worry
if I can cook dinner right, if I will ever learn to play the piano,

if the stranger on the subway saw me look at their phone.

Small children are afraid of memy own niece one of them.
What does that say about how I look?
Does that mean I wont be a good father?
And what if something is wrong with me
and in like, say, four or five or maybe even six years
(I suppose we will need to continue to talk about that too)
what if I cant have kids?
And holy shit, carsdriving in cars is dangerous.
So dangerous! I thought about that as I was driving
next to the median the other dayI am going
seventy miles per hour next to another person I dont know,
what if their day was bad or if their brain is scrambled
or their tire blows outwhat if I change the song,
sneeze, hit a pothole at the right second
and my seatbelt is broken and the airbag wasnt tested
and my weight and moment carry me
through the windshieldwhat would happen to you
if I flew out the windshield?
And since were talking about danger
flying in a plane is the scariest thing ever.
I always check if my fly is down. Always pull at my shirt.
I worry I have dandruff. I am positive
that there is no way I am ever getting a book published.
I wonder if writing poetry is worth a damn, if any of my poems
are worth a damn. I worry I am too fat, that my dick could be
longer,
and that I will never have enough money.
I am claustrophobic for christsakes.
Dear wife, all problems are internal until we open them.
Dear wife, sometimes you will get red
and break out in hivesthis is not something you can cut out of
you.
It is not something you can kill.
This is not something that I can clean.
When you cry in my arms
sometimes I think, Nothing will ever be alright.
After you have gone,

and kissed me good-bye, I move the bed back

and place the chairs just rightI think if I do,
your life will be a little bit more. I place warmer water
in the flower vase on the table. I clear out the dead parts
of the plantI am trying so hard to keep that plant alive and
I am killing it.
If I sneak a cigarette, I apologize to you
and say out loud, I hope this is not the one.
When I wash my hands after, scrubbing thoroughly, the rings
you got me bang together. I am anxious and I am thinking of you
always.
And every now and then I take a break from writing sad, terrible
poems,
and try to write you a sad and beautiful poem.
Something like:
Anxiety is a dog waiting at the door for its master, everyday
goingthe dog,
silent, simply wonders, but where, to whom, how long?
I worry you will not understand and because I am anxious,
I will erase, unwrite what was only so briefly in this world
because everything in this world should be enough
for you.
Dear wife, anxiety does not lessenits a book that forces us to
turn back
and reread a few pages to relive what happened before,
to maybe better understand whats ahead.
And I am here too.
Dear wife, from the table I write at in our home,
in our dining room, sometimes the sun shines in at the right
angle
and the fall, mustardy yellow of our walls
and the red cherry of the wood mix, together
they make a golden light. In that moment,
I can feel that something grows inside of mesome small part
of me whispers that inside of me there is something terrible,
but some part of me still is thinking only of youpicturing you
and the way you can only sleep inside your parents house.
Its night there, the night before our trip ends,
and the windows are open and when this night ends

we have to head back to our home across an ocean.

There you are deeply breathing in the blue night
that can only be seen in the darkness of memory
or the dusk of dreams. I believe you are dreaming of your mother
there,
but it is impossible for me to know.
And like many nights, I cannot sleep, so I get up
to close the windowsoutside the church bells ring
and the cold comes in and just as I shut them you call
my name into that blue and I come right back to you in bed.
I was only gone for a moment. I was only shutting the windows.

Kevin McCoy
Boardwalk
So ends the ocean eating earth
Out here by the boardwalk we know all the hiding places
We see the angles like razors,
Feel the foam of changing times
Feast upon this most boring rapture
Its the roll of those damned dice
That keep us welded to the pier
The twisted neon and roller coasters
The burn on young faces
Walk with me in the shattering moonlight
Time will expire sooner than you think
On the boardwalk, youth is a stain on ghosts

A Phrase of Sunlight
It was a phrase of sunlight that
fell upon the clock face
and in the remaining
darkness
we did not see that the hands
kept moving.
Listen.
There.
A single tick in the empty chamber
resounds with more truth
than a million mouths in motion.
In that small slice of light
we own the air
and inhale heavily until the light returns.

Adela Najarro
Playing around Csar Vallejo
The day I was born
God conched his mighty roar
into Kruschev's ear.
Dandelions bloomed yellow,
then white and fell away
countless airborne, and a very young boy
sat down to a bowl of wild mushrooms,
while chickens
scratched in the yard.
Few know the leopard print
pajamas I found on sale and that
I've withstood stars withered
into a faint echo, the pulpy mass
of a tomato
cut open, sliced and salted.
The day I was born
God found his sense of humor
and whispered a dirty joke
into my grandmother's ear.
Oil heated in a pan,
kernels of rice crackling before
water and she forgot the brush
taken to my mother's legs, the welts
of anger when a bullfrog
let loose his mighty tongue.
Let's go to the Dragon River
and order moo shu pork rolled
with plum sauce. Did you wake
in love this morning? Never forget
a warm December and the cold
water deep in a lake,
August, September.

The day I was born

God was feeling much better.
What is the proper location
for a box of rusty nails
or those squirrels,
those damn squirrels again
sitting on a fence. Who knows
what you know and what is true?
I think the earth is in league
with red-tail sparrows, maple trees,
and the stench of tar, wet and fluid;
all laughing as we sit
confused and mourning January's
overcast sky, the death of an oriole
frozen in ice.
And yes, Csar, light is inexhaustible
as well as shadow,
and it is the Mystery, the vast space
of what is unable to be said
that is kicking,
kicking us upside the head.

Lorcas Rain
No te puedo decir. Sometimes,
I lose the words. El caracol
came from the onion skin pages
of Lorcas collected works.
A book found in a dresser drawer
alongside sticky Polaroid photos,
receipts from the cleaners, and
a bottle of aspirin. My mother
brought his poems from Nicaragua,
along with a language woven
through memory and distance.
Now I speak Spanglish under
a wet sky, while orange poppies
lie low holding the weight of water.
Los caracoles in my garden grow
fat from rain and are eating away
an unidentified citrus; will it turn
out to be an orange or a lemon tree?
And the succulent jade. The leaves
all caracoled out. Snail bitten to pieces.
Where do they hide their teeth?
Then the rain. On Sunday.
Forgiven again. Water can cleanse,
dissolve mud stained smears,
and cast away what we do
to ourselves, those mistakes
we fold past in order to move on.
The poppies should dry out.
Los caracoles will continue to grow.
I have always loved my mother.
Even when language is not,
when doubt commands a heavy sky,
when a breath is hard to come by,
I will put down words dressed in red,
y palabras hechas para atras.

Fiction

William R. Soldan
The Bad Ones
It was the second week of June. School had just let out
for the summer, and as the four boys walked along the top of the
ridge, David could already tell it was going to be a long couple of
months. With him were Nate Griggs, his weirdo younger
brother, Rodney, and a husky kid named Lucas Green who all
the kids called Chubs. Nate, a lanky boy with big gums and stiff
spiky hair like the bristles on a hog, was fourteen, older than the
others by two years, which he believed put him in charge. But
although David received his share of Nates bullyingusually
verbal assaults and colorful references to his momit was
Chubs who bore the brunt of everything Nate dished out. One of
Nates favorite things to do was spit onto his fingertips and fling
it at people. Hed call, Hey, Chubs, come check it out, and
when the younger boy came running, Nate would spin around
and let him have it. His aim was good, too. One time he had got
him right in the eye while Chubs was on his bike. The poor kid
wrecked into a fencepost before hitting the asphalt and skinning
up his knees and elbows. Nate just laughed and said, Ride
much? then wandered off with Rodney following at his heels like
a dumb but faithful mutt.
Chubs was about the closest thing David had to a real
friend, and it bugged him the way the older boy always picked
on him. He had asked Chubs on numerous occasions when he
was going to stop falling for the same stupid trick all the time,
but Chubs always just shrugged and looked at his feet.
When they came to the narrow path at the far side of the
fallow field stretching out at the top of the ridge, they followed it
single-file through a mess of brambles and into a stand of tall
oaks. Their camp was a circle of packed earth in a little clearing
at the top of the hill. Off to one side was the tee-pee they had
constructed with four thick, fallen tree branches and an old
tattered tarp pulled from the trash pile in the woods down
behind old man Pruitts place. The site sat above the bend in
Trappers Creek and overlooked the town, but it was well hidden
among the thick summer foliage. When they first found the
place in early spring, before the leaves all came in, it was a lot
more exposed. Now it felt like they could see the world, even
though the world couldnt see them, which must be sort of what
God feels like, David thought.

We need a fire, Nate said. He pointed at David. You

and Chubs go find us some wood. Well finish gettin things set
up here.
Rather than question Nates commands, David knew it
was better to just agree, so he and Chubs wandered off into the
woods to gather things to burn. When they came back about ten
minutes later with armloads of sticks and small dead logs, Nate
was just finishing stacking rocks and pieces of broken
cinderblock, forming a jagged ring in the dirt. Rodney sat off to
the side hacking at an old spray-paint can with a dull hatchet
head without a handle. He grunted with each downward
motion, drooling down the front of his shirt. The boy went to
school with the rest of them, but he was in the special class. He
and a handful of other boys and girls spent their days in a
battered old trailer out behind the school. David always
wondered, when hed look out his classroom window and see
them being led from the cafeteria back to the trailer, what they
could be teaching them in there, because if Rodney was any
example, David figured it sure couldnt be much.
Rodney hadnt talked much since a few summers ago,
when Nate talked him into holding a lit M-80 between his teeth
on the fourth of July. When it exploded, it took Rodneys bottom
lip clean off, along with half of the top one, and cracked his
bottom front teeth just above the gum-line. He tried to hide the
fact, but David found the kid hard to look at most of the time,
especially on the occasions that he did try to talk. Any words
requiring the use of the letters p, b, v, m, w, or a th sound
came out unintelligible and were invariably followed by a bubbly
strand of spit that oozed over the broken stumps in his lower
jaw.
Although Rodney had always had a few screws loose,
when David thought about it, he figured the firecracker incident
had probably loosened a few moremaybe even removed a few
entirely. Either way, the boy wasnt right in the headthat
much was for sure.
Give me them matches you got, Nate said.
As David pulled out a book of matches, he thought about
the day school got cancelled because of snow. He had gone to
work with his mom that day and swiped the matches from the
end of the bar when her back was turned. He wasnt sure why
he took them, just that he probably wasnt supposed to, which
always made him want to do things even more for some reason.
His mom worked tending bar at Millers Tap during the
day and the nightshift cooking at a place called The Cloverleaf
over by the turnpike. I know I aint around as much as I ought

to be, she had said one night as she was heading out, but its
the only way to keep up on bills and put a little aside so we can
get out of this godforsaken town someday. His old man was
originally from Miles Junction, and had moved his mom here
from her hometown in Nowhere, Indiana, just a couple years
before David was born. He was a truck driver and had been
passing through, hauling a load back to Ohio when she had
waited on him in the truck stop diner. They got to talking and
next thing he was hauling her back, too. Then the good-fornothing ran off when David was still in diapers. For as long as
he could remember, his mom had worked two, sometimes three
jobs, which left him to fend for himself most nights. So when
she asked him if he wanted to come to the Tap with her that
day, he jumped at the chance. He spent her whole shift
shooting pool, drinking cokes, and playing Pink Floyd songs on
the jukebox.
But during the summer, his mother encouraged him to
enjoy being outside. I dont want you hanging around in here
with these old drunks, she had told him just this morning when
he stopped in to ask her if he could have a pop and shoot a
game. She poured him a coke and said, You finish that up and
go on out and play. Enjoy being young, cause itll be over before
you know it. Aint that right, Sam?
One of the old men at the end of the bar downed the last
of his draft. I know thats right, he said, taking a long drag
from his cigarette and staring into his empty mug, as if maybe
his lost youth was somewhere at the bottom.
Come back before my shift ends, his mom said, and Ill
fix you something to eat.
He finished his coke, and as he crossed the parking lot on
his bike, heading back toward home, David saw Nate and
Rodney in the alley behind Morts Little Shopper and decided to
pedal over to see what they were up to. Nate was sucking on a
Blow-Pop, his entire mouth shiny and red, while Rodney poked
at the bloated carcass of a dead cat with a bent coat hanger.
The cat was covered in tiny red ants, thousands of them, and
looked like it had been there about a week, maybe more. David
figured some drunk must have run it over, probably from the
Tap. He liked cats. They were mysterious and didnt slobber all
over your face like dogs. He wondered if it had belonged to
anyone, and as David stared at the moving red mass swarming
all over the cats face and body, he found himself wondering if
the poor thing had died fast or slow.
#

After getting some twigs going with a couple fistfuls of waddedup newspaper from the trash pile, Nate ordered Chubs to add
some of the bigger pieces of wood. He complied clumsily,
accidentally snuffing out the flames as he tried to stack the logs
in a miniature version of their tee-pee. Damn it, Chubs, you
fucked it up, Nate said, walking around him and kicking him in
the back with one of his ratty off-brand sneakers. Chubs fell
forward into the fire pit with a thud and a grunt, burning the
palm of his right hand in the smoldering ashes.
What the hell, Nate, David shouted, Whatd you have to
do that for?
David stood up, went over to Chubs, who was sitting in
the dirt on the edge of the site, crying and holding his burned
hand to his chest.
Fat ass cant do nothin right, Nate barked.
I think you hurt him bad this time.
Nate shot a stream of spit through the gap in his crooked
front teeth into the failed fire where it dripped from a stick and
hissed like a snake. Hes just bein a pussy, he said.
You alright, Chubs? David asked, kneeling down beside
him.
He nodded, sniffling. Yeah, I think so.
Hed be fine if youd quit kissin his ass all the time, Nate
said, picking up a stone and throwing it, as if skipping it across
water, directly above their heads. It bounced off several trees,
making a series of hollow cracking sounds as it disappeared
down the hill. David ducked after the rock had already whizzed
by them, and then shot a look toward Nate, a look that he
instantly thought might be too aggressive, so he dialed it back.
No sense in causing more trouble. Not that Nate needed an
excuse, but why give him any more of a reason to act like a
bastard?
What? Nate said, chuckling. You gonna do somethin?
David sat down in the dirt next to Chubs without saying
anything. He went back and forth inside his head, silently
praying that Nate would just go away and scolding himself for
continuing to hang around the kid in the first place. Then he
glanced over at Chubs. He had stopped crying but his
scrunched-up face made it look like he might start again. He
thought to himself that Chubs needed him. Thats why he hung
around. David knew he was no match for Natethe kid
outweighed him by nearly twenty pounds and was a few inches
tallerbut he at least spoke up when Nate got too rough. And
when he was around, Nate usually let up on Chubs after a while.

Theres no telling what hed put the kid through if David wasnt
there.
This sucks, Nate said. We aint got no more paper.
Just then, there was a sound like air being let out of a
bike tire as Rodney punctured the spray-can with the hatchet.
Everyone looked over at him. His mangled face was colored by a
blue mist of paint. He got excited and used the hatchet to pry
the can open, pulling the marble out and staring at it like it was
some sort of priceless jewel.
Cmon, Rodney, Nate said. Lets get out of here. Im
hungry anyway. Rodney jumped up like a good dog, shoved the
jewel into his pocket. As the brothers headed toward the path,
Nate shouted back, See you fags later! Then he laughed and
trotted off through the woods with Rodney close behind him.
David and Chubs sat there in silence for a few minutes.
There were still several hours of daylight left, but some dark
clouds had moved in from the north. Chubs finally said, He
didnt mean nothin by it. He was just playin around.
Looking through the trees, out past the old abandoned
high school, which sat like an ancient ruin in a sea of weeds and
cracked asphalt, David saw a black plume of smoke rising up
from somewhere across town. It was probably someone burning
tires or trash. He wanted to tell Chubs he was as stupid as
Rodney was if he actually believed Nate was just kidding around.
Instead, he nudged him in the arm and pointed toward the
smoke in the distance. Looks like someone got their fire goin,
he said, and they both laughed.
#
Though he had put up with Nates meanness in varying degrees
since the first grade, it never failed to surprise David just how
rotten he could be. As if spitting on Chubs and beating up on
him and calling him names wasnt enough, Nate always came up
with new ways to torture the boy. David suffered small in
comparison. He had a thicker skin than Chubs, could shrug it
off when the older boy punched him or flicked him in the nuts or
made filthy remarks about his mom. But Chubs was the perfect
victim because he took the abuse and kept coming back. It
reminded David of some of the guys his mom ran around with
over the years, guys who would get drunk and treat her like
garbage, but for some strange reason shed stay with them like
they were something worth holding on to. Once she had woken
up to find the guy long gone and the jar where she kept their
escape fund, in the cupboard above the refrigerator, empty of all
but a few sticky nickels stuck to the bottom. But without fail,
some new bozo always came into the picture to replace the old

one. Some days, David resented his mother for allowing herself
to be treated like that, but others he just felt bad that no one
ever loved her back the way she loved them.
Now it seemed he felt the same way about his friend
Chubs. He was a sweet kid who wouldnt hurt a fly, would give
you his only dollar or probably the shoes off his own feet if you
needed them. But people like Nate Griggs seemed to regard
those with kind natures as weak and were inclined to exploit
weakness at every turn. David thought this might very well be
the reason behind there being so many awful people in the
world: because the good ones are too good to withstand the bad
ones. It was like some sort of terrible natural order that, no
matter how hard he tried, he just couldnt understand. What
David did understand was that Nate knew Chubs would never
fight back, which made him easy prey. More than once, David
actually caught himself being angry at Chubs for being such a
coward. But he knew it was wrong to be mad at Chubs, and
such thoughts eventually made David wonder if maybe he was
one of the bad ones, too, just for thinking them.
#
It was the end of June when Nate decided that they were a lost
tribe. He had come up with the idea one morning when he and
Rodney found a sparrow with a broken wing on the side of the
road. David and Chubs were already at the site when the two
arrived. Rodney had the twitching bird cupped in his grimy
hands. From now on, were Indians, Nate said. Well earn
feathers for doin different things, like gettin firewood and
standing guard and stuff. Rodney put the bird down on a piece
of cinderblock around the fire pit, its feet kicking. He pulled the
hatchet head from his back pocket and, using the blunt side,
hammered the birds tiny skull until it was nothing but a little
glob of jelly with a beak sticking out.
Nate took the bird from his little brother and started
pulling out its brown and white feathers, shoving them in the
pocket of his Rustler cut-offs. Ill assign jobs, he said. David,
you go to the trash pile, get some more paper for burnin and
find us somethin to use for headbands to put the feathers in.
Rodney, you go with him, see if theres anything else we can use.
Me and Chubsll get wood and start the fire with the little bit of
paper we still got. After, well all get our first feather. Now get
going.
At first, as he and Rodney moved down the hill through
the woods toward the trash pile, David thought playing Indians
was sort of dumbkids stuff. But he was more curious as to
why Nate would have Chubs stay behind to help with the fire.

Ever since the day Nate kicked him into the pit, he hadnt put
Chubs on fire duty once. Usually Rodney stayed with Nate. The
change in routine worried David a little.
As Rodney scurried ahead of him, David tried to convince
himself that Nate hadnt actually been too bad today, other than
a few insults, which David was so used to by now that he hardly
even noticed anymore. Besides, he supposed that pretending to
be Indians might end up being kind of fun, after all.
#
With the zoning being lax this far from the city, many people
lived off the main route of the garbage pick-up. So rather than
having to constantly haul it to the dump just outside of town
themselves, some folks just let the trash pile up out back.
Occasionally, when it got to falling over or stinking too bad, they
would set it ablaze and start a new pile in the old ones ashes.
The pile in the woods out behind Old Man Pruitts little shack
was enormousprobably fifty feet around at the bottom and at
least ten feet high, David guessed. There wasnt much food
waste, however, just some crusty cans of Spam and a whole
bunch of small animal bones. Most of the pile consisted of stuff
that David was pretty sure could be junked for money if you
were willing to load the stuff up and cart it over to the scrap
yardthings like radiators and water heaters, bent screen-doors
with the screens busted out, old grills and bed frames. He
would sometimes see guys driving around town, stopping at the
curbs in front of houses and rooting through Dumpsters, loading
up the backs of their trucks with stuff like that, trucks hed later
see parked in the gravel lot of Millers Tap, the backs empty of all
but some discarded jugs of antifreeze or motor oil, the occasional
spare tire.
David used to see Mr. Pruitt in town about once a week,
coming out of Morts with a sack of potatoes, or going into
Kurtzals Hardware, but he had seen less and less of the old man
over the last couple of years, heard his wife had died and his
only son had gone crazy or something. Now he was supposedly
all alone out here in these woods.
Rooting around, David found a pair of yellowed curtains
that he figured they could tear into strips for headbands and
some more newspaper for the fire. Rodney had grabbed up a
soggy spool of twine, a few bungee cords, and some long strands
of rusty barbed wire that were coiled around the legs of an old
wringer washing machine. He held them up for David to see,
and a shiny string of drool hung from his mouth as he tried to
twist his damaged face into something like a smile.

When they got back to the top of the hill, there was no
fire, just some twigs in the pit and a few fungus-covered logs
lying off to the side. David looked around for Nate and Chubs,
and was just about to holler for them when they came out of the
tee-pee, ducking under the naked corpse of the little bird, which
Nate had hung by a string from the door. The older boy was
scratching his crotch and David noticed that Chubss eyes were
red and puffy. When he asked him what was wrong, Chubs told
him it was just his allergies acting up, but David knew he had
been crying again because of something Nate had done. He just
wasnt sure what it was.
Took you queers long enough, Nate said. Whatd you
get?
David and Rodney dropped the supplies on the ground,
and as Nate walked over to examine the haul, David said, I
thought you were gonna build a fire. He glanced over at Chubs,
who was chewing on a hangnail and staring at his shoes like he
always did when he was nervous or avoiding something.
Wasnt enough paper, after all, Nate replied. Had to
wait for you to get back with some more. Chubs decided we
should go in and make sure the tee-pee was secure. Didnt you,
Chubs?
Chubs didnt say a word, just nodded without looking up,
and busied himself picking up more twigs.
#
Around mid-July was the first time Nate tied Chubs to the tree.
He had realized that being a tribe of Indians wasnt much fun
without enemies, so he made Chubs his personal captive. By
then Nate had fashioned himself a headdress using nearly all the
feathers from the sparrow and a couple stray crow feathers he
had found in the woods and demanded that everyone call him
Chief. At first, he just left him there, tied up at the bottom of the
hill for a couple hours at a time. Hell be a warning to others
who might try to attack, Nate said, getting a bit too into the
game, as far David was concerned. Chubs actually seemed to
enjoy his new role, even giggling from time to time, and since it
wasnt hurting him any, David decided to play along. That first
time, as evening came on, Nate got bored and told David to Go
untie the captive. By the time they returned, Chubs looked
exhausted and was no longer giggling, and Nate and Rodney had
already pissed the fire out and gone home. Even though David
felt they had left Chubs down there far too long, Chubs insisted
he didnt mind.
That was fun, he said in a tired voice as they walked
back along the path together.

David looked west just as the sun dropped out of sight.

If you say so, he said. Dont seem like much fun to me.
How come you keep playin, then? Chubs asked.
It was the same question David had been asking himself
all summer. Rather than tell Chubs the real reasonthat he
needed to protect him from Natehe just said, I dont know. I
guess I just aint got nothin better to do.
Well, Im glad you keep playin, anyway, Chubs said.
David again wondered how much more vicious Nate might
get toward Chubs if he wasnt around to speak up for him time
and again. Then he wondered if maybe he was giving himself
more credit than he deserved. After all, had he really made a
difference in how Nate acted? As much as he liked to think so,
he wasnt convinced. Yeah, I suppose it aint so bad, he said,
trying to believe the lie. He assured himself that today could
have been worse, though. At least no one got hurt.
#
David began lying awake in bed at night, trying to talk to God.
He and his mom never went to church because she believed
most of the so-called Christians that filed into St. Johns or the
Providence Presbyterian across town on Sundays were nothing
but a bunch of no-good hypocrites. One day when David was
about eight, he had asked her, How come we dont ever go to
church or nothin? They had been going into Middleton, the
next town over, to the More for Less market to do some grocery
shopping at the time. As they passed the church, she pointed to
a group of men standing out front. They all had greased-back
hair and dress shirts tucked into their dirty dungarees, some
smoking cigarettes, others chewing tobacco and spitting in the
grass.
You see those men there? she asked. David nodded.
They call themselves Christians, but theyre just a bunch of
drunks who like to beat on their wives. She paused for a
moment then continued. They aint no Christians.
David looked confused. But theyre at church.
His mother looked at him with sympathetic eyes and
patted his knee. Oh, Sweetheart, that dont mean nothin. Just
treat people good, and try to help those who cant help
themselves. At the end of the day, thats really all God wants us
to do. Then she lit one of her long menthol cigarettes, exhaling
a trail of thick blue smoke from the corner of her mouth, and
didnt say any more on the subject.
David didnt give it much thought after that. Every now
and then, he would say a feeble prayer when hed hear his mom
and whatever joker she was with at the time fighting. But to

David, it seemed that God never really answered, anyway. Must

be too busy, he told himself. The worlds a big place. But one
night, in the dark of his bedroom, he just started talking, hoping
someone was listening. He thought about what his mom had
said about being a good person and helping people, so he
silently asked the ceiling if that was really all there was to it.
David waited for an answer to his question. But night
after night, as he lay there listening to the soft ebb and flow of
his own breath, the only reply he got was from an occasional car
backfiring somewhere in the surrounding countryside just as he
drifted off to sleep.
#
As a hot July became and even hotter August, there was a week
of steady rain. It was a Saturday when the first drop fell. That
afternoon, Davids mom had taken him over to the Village Outlet
thrift store in the city of Youngstown, which was about a twentyfive minute drive from Miles Junction each way. She wanted
him to pick out some clothes for the upcoming school year.
Afterward, she took him to an all-you-can-eat buffet. He ate so
many mashed potatoes and dishes of soft-serve ice cream that
he groaned in the car on the ride home, taking a nap on the
couch when they got back and his mom left for her nightshift at
the Cloverleaf.
When he woke up two hours later it was nearly eight
oclock, and the air inside their dilapidated ranch-style was thick
and stale. His shirt was damp with sweat and clung to him like
flypaper. He had told Chubs that he would sleep over at his
house tonight, so he rubbed his eyes and picked up the phone.
The boys senile grandmother, who Chubs had lived with
ever since his folks died in a car wreck when he was still in
kindergarten, told David he wasnt home. I spect hes out
playin somewhere with that nice boy, she told him, one with
the funny lookin brother.
David thanked her and hung up the receiver, then walked
out on the stoop. The air here wasnt much better. The sky was
hazy and everything seemed wilted. He wasnt used to napping
in the middle of the day and was groggy as he crossed the road,
jumping the shallow ditch and making his way through the field
that led toward the ridge.
When he got to the site, the fire pit was smoking but no
one was around. The woods were silent except for a few
twittering birds and some mosquitoes. The patch of sky visible
through the trees had grown darker, and a faint thunder
rumbled inside an approaching clot of dense storm clouds. He
checked the tee-pee, seeing on his way inside the decaying

sparrow crawling with squirming white things that, for a

moment, reminded David of Rice Crispies.
When he stepped back outside, a sudden, sharp whistling
sound, followed closely by a loud crack, like a gunshot, echoed
up from the bottom of the hill. David jumped and staggered,
colliding with the dead bird hanging in the doorway. He cringed,
moving away from it quickly. After about a minute, again:
whistlecrack! This time, as the echo subsided, Nates vicious
laugh rose up through the woods. David feared the worst, and
without thinking descended the hill as fast as he could, losing
his traction and sliding on his backside in the dirt and shale.
He saw them before he reached the bottom. A few yards
from the water, Chubs sat on the ground, bound to the tree with
twine and bungee cords, one leg bent under him, the other
kicked out to the side. He had been stripped down to his
underwear, which were dingy and appeared to be soaked with
urine. Bawling, he begged Nate to stop. Please, Nate, this aint
fun no more, he cried, tears cutting clean tracks down his
cheeks. The older boy was shirtless and wearing his crude
headdress of sparrow and crow feathers, and had streaked his
own face with what looked like soot from the fire pit. He paced
back and forth in front of Chubs, cackling and whipping the
crying boy across his pudgy belly with a long switch. Thin red
welts hash-marked his doughy skin. Between every few lashes,
Nate lit one of the bottle rockets he had saved from the holiday,
arranged in a semi-circle, sticking out of the dirt and pointed
toward Chubs. They were positioned in such a way as to just
miss his face, but several of them hit him straight ona few in
the chest and shoulder, one in the side of the neckleaving
black powder burns. Rodney hid behind the muddy clump of an
uprooted tree that had fallen across the creek, covering his ears
and cowering lower to the ground each time one of the
firecrackers exploded.
By the time David got there, Chubs was a blubbering
mess, unable to beg anymore. Nate was apparently too
preoccupied to interpret Rodneys lipless babbles of warning,
because he didnt appear to hear David running up behind him
until it was too late. By the time his ears seemed to register the
sound of dry branches snapping under Davids feet, David was
on top of him, knocking him face-first into dirt, the headdress
coming unseated from his head.
You sonofabitch! David screamed as they grappled on
the ground.
Nate was stunned, but only for a few moments. Quickly,
he resumed his mad laughter as he gained the upper hand.

Within seconds, he was straddling David, pinning the boys

shoulders with his knees. He shoved a fistful of the forest floor
into Davids mouth. Big mistake, faggot, Nate said, slapping
David across the face. Never interfere with the interrogation of
a captive.
David spat, trying not to choke on the dirt and leaves.
His heart slammed against the inside of his chest. Youre a
crazy motherfucker, he gasped, struggling to breathe beneath
Nates weight. Chubss sobbing had subsided; hed exhausted
himself. His head slumped to one side, his chest still heaving.
Rodney kept peeking over the fallen log and ducking back
down, expecting another explosion.
The only mother I fucked was yours. Nate grinned down
at David with his slimy, crooked teeth. Fat beads of greasy
sweat broke and ran down from his ash-smeared forehead,
dripping from the tip of his nose and zitty chin onto Davids face.
David continued trying to struggle free as Nate reached
for the filthy headdress that had been knocked from his head.
He turned it in his hands, examining it thoughtfully, as if to
make sure it hadnt been damaged, then placed it back on his
head.
In his mind, David prayed. He couldnt think of much to
say besides Please, God repeatedly, but he figured God would
have to know what he was asking.
But it seemed that the good Lord was once again too
busy.
David gathered enough air in his lungs to force the words,
This ainthow youplay a game, Nate.
Nate leaned in close. David could smell his sour breath.
He lit the mini-Bic lighter he had been using and held the flame
about an inch from Davids left eye. Its Chief to you, boy, he
said.
Suddenly the sky lit up, and there was another crack
from far above the trees, much louder than the others and
without the preceding whistle.
Nate jumped to his feet and drove a fist into Davids
stomach, a blow that spread through his body and caused him
to curl into a ball. As David lay there, clutching himself, he saw
Nate whisper something in Chubss ear before hopping onto the
fallen tree and crossing the creek where Rodney was still
huddled like a scared puppy. The brothers disappeared through
the brush. As David crawled toward his friend, there was
another flash of light and clap of thunder. Seconds later, the
clouds split open.
#

That night David lay staring at his ceiling, listening to the rain
and watching shadows dance across the walls, while Chubs
slept fitfully on a pile of blankets on the floor beside his bed. On
the way back from the creek Chubs had asked him in a weak
voice if he would still spend the night at his house. David just
wanted to go home, so he asked if Chubs would want to stay at
his place instead. Chubs said that he would, but asked in a
rough voice, Can we just stop at my house for some dry clothes
and to see if Grandmas okay? He worried about her
sometimes, what with her being so old and all.
David nodded and said, Yeah, we can do that.
A little while later, after making some TV dinners and
playing the Nintendo that Chubs had brought from his house
until just past twelve oclock, David offered him the lumpy bed.
But the boy said he liked the floor, so he laid out some old quilts
and a couple throw pillows from the couch. They were silent for
a while. Finally, David said, Nate whispered something to you.
Whatd he say? When Chubs didnt respond, he looked over
and saw that he had already fallen asleep, squeezing one of the
pillows to his chest like a shield.
David couldnt get it out of his mind: the image of Chubs
bound to that tree, terrified and begging for his life. And Nates
beady eyes. The way he laughed like it was the most fun hed
ever had. How he leaned in close with the cigarette lighter and
said, Its Chief to you, boy.
He didnt bother praying anymore. It didnt work, he told
himself, not even when it really mattered. Instead, he rolled over
on his side and watched rain overflow from the clogged gutters
outside his window.
Around three in the morning, he woke up when he heard
his mom come in. She wasnt alone. There were hushing
sounds as she and the man she was with crept past his door
toward her room. A few minutes later, David heard the bed
squeaking and the moaning and heavy breathing. He put his
head under his pillow like he always did and tried not to think
about how it would turn out, though he knew: In the morning,
the guy would act all buddy-buddy with him while his mom
made them all breakfast, something fancy like French toast or
eggs Benedict. He would maybe ask David if hed like to go
fishing sometime or help him fix-up an old car or go see the new
Schwarzenegger flick. Maybe the guy would stick around for a
week or two. But probably not.
The rain was still tapping its fingers on the sheet-metal
roof, and as David let the sound lull him back to sleep, he
pictured Nate with those grimy feathers sticking up around his

head, the murderous look in his eyes. Soon, the image was
stolen by darkness, and his last conscious thought was that the
fucker had to pay.
#
The following Saturday the rain let up. But it was followed by a
nearly month-long stretch of oppressive humidity that left people
perpetually slick and ready for fall. Chubs had slept over at
Davids for several days. The two of them spent hours playing
video games and watching movies on the little television in the
living room while Davids mom was at work. When shed come
home from the Tap before her night shift at the Cloverleaf, she
would fix them some macaroni & cheese or a frozen pizza for
supper. Chubs didnt talk about the day by the creek. In fact,
he didnt talk about much at all other that not wanting to go
back to school in two weeks. Sometimes I wish I could just
never go to school again, he said one afternoon. But David was
lost in thought, trying to figure out how he could pay Nate back
for what he had done.
A few minutes later, he asked Chubs again, What did
Nate whisper to you that day?
Chubs started biting his fingernails, avoiding the
question. His eyes became wet, and he looked like he was trying
not to blink so he wouldnt cry.
Tell me, David said.
After another minute of hesitation, his eyes spilled over,
but Chubss expression was flat, not screwed tight like a person
in tears. He spoke in a low voice, as if to himself. He said to
never tell no one. Then he added, Or next timell be a lot
worse.
When the weeklong rain stopped, Nate never came around
to Davids house, and from what Chubs told him over the phone,
he hadnt come by there, either.
So David began watching Nate from a distance, hoping to
catch him alone and off-guard somehow.
One morning, as David reached the top of Cherry Street
on his bicycle, he looked down into the trailer-park which sat
across Route 70 from the overgrown field that stretched all the
way back to Trappers Creek. Nate was standing on the sagging
front steps of their dented old trailer while his fat father chewed
on a cigar and talked to a serious-looking man in a suit. Rodney
sat in the backseat of a long black car, staring out the window,
off into space somewhere. David wondered where that man was
taking him as he watched the man get into the car and drive
away. Rodney turned to look out the back window, looking
confused, as if he was wondering the same thing.

David still wasnt exactly sure what he was going to do,

even after thinking on it for quite a while, but when he spotted
Nate crossing the field on the ridge that night before suppertime,
he decided that whatever it was, the site was where it needed to
happen.
#
The next afternoon, on his way home from the Tap after eating
lunch with his mom and shooting a couple games of pool before
the five oclock crowd began pouring in, David spotted Nate
chucking rocks through windows out behind the old high school.
He was alone.
Before he was completely aware of what he was doing,
David began walking toward him. Well, well, Nate said
when he saw him coming. Look who it is.
David tried to act as if nothing had ever happened.
Whats up, Nate? he said, in as casual a voice as he could
manage. Nate ignored him, threw another rock at the school.
As the window shattered, David said, I swiped some beers from
the fridge at home. It had come out of nowhere; he just blurted
it out without a moment of forethought. But it got the older
boys attention.
Nate stopped midway through hurling another stone.
Oh, yeah?
David ran with it. Yeah, took em up to the site. Havent
been up there in a while.
Thought you and your little girlfriend ran away together
or somethin, Nate said, then scoffed and spit at Davids feet.
David wanted to jump on him right then, shove one of
those rocks down his throat. Wanna go up? he said.
Nate considered it for a moment, then said, What the
hell, why not? He threw the rock he was still holding. But
they better be fuckin cold.
#
When they got there, Nate said, Well, where they at?
In the tee-pee, David said, his voice quavering.
For a split second, Nate gave him a suspicious look, but
then he ducked inside beneath the bird, which still hung by a
string but by now was little more than a small cage of hollow
bones.
Picking up a triangular piece of cinderblock from the fire
ring, his heart pounding so hard he felt it in his fingers and toes,
David approached the doorway.
There aint no fuckin beers in here, Nate said from
inside.

David was afraid hed lose his nerve. But as Nate ducked
under the bird again on his way out of the tee-pee, David
brought the rock down where his neck met the base of his skull,
and Nate dropped with a thud, his legs still partway inside.
He wasnt knocked out cold like David had hoped, but he
was barely moving. He was disoriented enough that when David
hit him again, this time with a rotten log that split into pieces
and unleashed a flurry of bugs on impact, Nate went still.
#
Nate was heavy, and it took David several minutes to drag his
unconscious but breathing body to the lip of the hill. Once
there, he rolled him down with relative ease, only every now and
then having to jostle him around a mess of roots or fallen
deadwood.
At the bottom, it was yet another strenuous bout pulling
Nate across the carpet of matted leaves and mossy stones.
When he got him to the tree, he took a minute to catch his
breath and knuckle the sweat from his stinging eyes.
Before he had pushed him down the hill, David had
unhooked Nates stinky headdress from the rusty nail hammered
into the side of an oak tree and tucked it in his waistband. He
held it now as he stood over him, wondering what to do next.
Walking over to the edge of the creek, he tossed it in and
watched the lazy current carry it downstream. He looked at his
face in the waters wavy surface and let the anger that he had
kept inside come into full bloom in the center of his chest. After
a few moments, Davids body hummed with rage.
Yet at the same time a sense of calm and clarity seemed
to settle over him.
He stripped Nates clothing, tossing it aside, leaving him
in nothing but his shit-stained briefs. The hardest thing was
keeping Nate upright as he sat him at the base of the
cottonwood and tied his upper body to the trunk of the tree with
the scraps of frayed rope and stretched-out bungees that lay
scattered on the ground.
But he managed to get the job done.
Almost an hour had passed before David saw the first
twitch work its way back into Nates limbs as he began to regain
consciousness.
David stood a few feet from him, holding a four-foot
switch that was as big around as his thumb at one end and as
thin as a the line on a weed-whacker at the other. He swung it
back and forth a few times, listening to it cut through the muggy
summer air. He held an end in each hand, bending it, testing its
strength.

Nate started groaning and moving his head a little, and

David saw the barbed wire that Rodney had brought back from
the trash pile the first day Nate had decided they were going to
be Indians. It was caught in some ground cover near the base of
the tree. David hadnt noticed it earlier. Maybe I could do
something with that, he thought.
The older boy started to raise his head, his eyes still
closed, mouth slack-jawed. David waited, holding the switch.
After a moment, Nates eyes finally opened. And when his brow
wrinkled, a look of recognition creeping back into his pimply
face, David stepped closer. He leaned in real close, smiled, and
said, Hiya there, Chief.

Joe Baumann
Turning into the Storm
Were going to Cuba, Tobias said, puffing up his chest, to
get us some concha. It was the only Spanish word he knew,
besides stuff like hola and adios, stuff everyone knew. Hed
looked it up on the internet after Mr. Moray sent him to the
principals office for yelling out in class about wanting to know
how to say pussy in Spanish. Of course, Tobias, empty-handed,
had just dodged the hall monitors, slunk out the rusted blue
doors by the gym, and smoked a cigarette behind the dumpsters
that reeked of rotten fish and the funky fruit cocktail no one
bought at lunch.
We were all standing in the emptying parking lot, huddled
together in the cold. A big storm was moving in, a blizzard that
would blanch the sky an impenetrable white, so they let us out
early to get home before it started falling hard. Marty and I
frowned and glanced at one another as Tobias exhaled a blend of
smoke and air. Despite the winter freeze and the flea-sized flakes
that were already showering down in a steady stream, Tobias
was wearing a sleeveless white t-shirt, his ropy, pale arms
hanging down with disinterested relaxation. But I could tell he
was cold. His lips had a blue tinge to them, and when he
reached up to take a drag on his cigarette, I could see the telltale
tremors of numbness in his hand as his body tried to generate
heat. A spindly, wavering line of smoke trailed up from the
burning end of the unfiltered Marlboro, cutting Tobias in half.
Only pussies smoke that filtered shit, he always said in the
convenience store that didnt bother to check IDs.
What about Anisa? Marty said, voice muffled by the collar
of his fleece jacket.
Tobias swung one of his hands, the rats-tail of smoke
lancing through the thickening flurry of snowflakes. They were
caking on Tobiass buzz-cut hair, making him look like he had a
dandruff problem. Everyone knew Tobias hardly showered.
Man, Anisas old news. I dumped that weeks ago.
Didnt you say you two hooked up behind Wal-Mart
yesterday? some freshman asked. I dont know why he was
there. His eyes were wide, edged with red from the cold. His nose
look blistered from the freezing weather. Aside from Tobias, he

was the only one not wearing a hat or scarf, letting the iciness
cutting through the air permeate his skin, as though by freezing
to death wed think he was some kind of badass. Tobias didnt
notice him, and the rest of us thought he was being an idiot.
She keeps coming back. What can I say? He spread his
arms wide. Thick hair poked out from under them, curling
around and peeking across his flat chest. I imagined each strand
was covered in its own bit of frost.
Marty glanced at me again. Okay, he said. So Cuba. How
are you gonna get there?
Not me. We. He grinned and poked his cigarette toward me,
and then Marty, and I could see the trembling in his fingers.
They were bright and pink like firecrackers.
Okay, I said from behind my scarf. How are we gonna get
there? Cubas, what, couple thousand miles away? Last time I
checked we didnt have any money.
Tobias shrugged and chucked the burning nub of his
cigarette with a snap of his fingers, arcing it past my ear. I could
feel the dull heat of it, embers still flaking off the smoking end. I
reached out and punched toward Tobiass arm, but he barely
moved. My hand throbbed where my knuckles connected with
his bony shoulder.
Small details, amigos, he said, cracking a wide smile. His
teeth were already yellow with rot, his gums dark pink.
Sometimes they bled. His mother didnt buy him floss or
toothpaste. Id only been in his bathroom once, late one night
when Marty and I were struggling to get Tobias to bed after he
drank too much of his moms cheap whiskey. He puked all over
the toilet, a brown, thin liquid that stuck to the seat, and when
we tried to flush it down, nothing happened. Wed looked at one
another and shrugged. So had Tobias, the next day, when we
saw him at school. He was holding a Big Gulp he said he stole
from the gas station by his moms place. I could still see some
brown smeared across the edges of his lips. He looked hungry.
Stop talking like youre Hispanic, you asshole Jew, Marty
said. You dont speak Spanish.
A few boys snickered. Despite the cold, I felt a melting heat in
my feet. I looked at Marty, ready to punch him myself. Everyone
knew that the only thing that made Tobias Jewish was his
fathers DNA, the blood squeaking through his veins that Tobias

always tried to forget. The blood that had walked out of his life
forever but not before branding his mothers face with a lit cigar
when Tobias was six years old. He was eating dinner in his
bedroom, sent there by his mom before his father came
stomping home, already drunk, probably high, and definitely
tinged with the sweat of paid-for sex. Tobias had told us this
story before, more than once, usually when he was drunk. He
stole his moms bottles of liquor and didnt even bother replacing
them, said shed never notice, and even if she did, she wouldnt
do anything about it. Marty and I would sit with him on a park
bench and watch him lift the bottle to his lips, pouring it down
his throat in deep gulps, bubbles curling up into the bottle and
popping with deep, gurgling noises. When it was half-gone, he
would slam the bottle down, cough with a smile and a dim stage
light in his eyes, and then babble through the story, poking at
his own tight cheek to show us where his father had burned his
mother. At least his mom only had to see the nickel-sized scar in
the mirror. Tobias had to see it whenever he looked at the only
parent hed ever really had and watched her turning herself into
a half-dead body.
He told us all the time how he wanted to burn himself, too.
That way, hed say, tracing his finger across his cheekbone,
people might think its a genetic thing, you know? Burn the
burn right away.
The snow was falling faster now. The wet flakes clung to the
tip of my nose and covered my feet if I didnt move them for a few
seconds. They stained Tobiass head a frosty color. He crossed
his arms and stared at Marty.
Fuck you, man, he said, shoulders curled in and slumped.
He looked like the kid in seventh grade who had scoliosis. Then
he straightened up and uncrossed his arms. Fuck yall, he
said, and turned his back.
Where are you going, Tobias? I called to him. He didnt have
a car. I drove him home from school on the days he decided to
show up. I didnt know how he got to homeroom and I never
asked.
He said nothing, just waved a hand, beating me away.
Screw him, man, Marty said. I looked at him and slugged
him in the shoulder.
Dumbass.

What? He can dish it out but he cant take it.

I followed the shimmying crease in the back of Tobiass white
shirt. He was already on the other side of the parking lot, dim
and blurry, hands thrust in the pockets of his saggy jeans. He
never looked at us, never reconsidered, and came back for a ride
home. Instead, he just kept going, and slowly, as he crossed the
street and became smaller and smaller, he turned into the storm
itself, absorbed in the heavy white that fell around us.
*
We were off school for a week. Snow piled up by the bay
window in my dining room and I sat there, feet folded under me,
wondering if Tobias had gotten home. He didnt call me, and I
didnt bother trying to get hold of him. His mom couldnt afford
to get him a cell phone, and half the time the landline was fuzzy
and crackling like a fire when you dialed. And when someone did
pick up it was always his mother, slurring the vowels in her
warm, liquidy, Hello, full of flirtation, saying he wasnt there.
Maybe he was and she was just lying, but I had no way of
knowing.
When school did start back up and we all trudged across the
marshy parking lot, greasy gray slop of ice and snow skidding us
around as we navigated the asphalt and up the thin stairs to the
front doors, Tobias wasnt there, either. Marty and I stared
toward his locker every day before the bell beckoning us to
homeroom. The locker didnt have a lock on it. As far as anyone
knew, Tobias didnt even keep his books in it. No one was sure
Tobias even had any books anymore. He would just sit in class,
his desk empty, hands behind his head, flexing muscles in his
honey-colored arms that were invisible to everyone but him. I
would smile and Marty would snort to hide a laugh, and our
teacher would yell at the three of us to pay attention.
He never came back. For six months, we didnt hear a word
about him. Marty and I went by his place once, right before
summer break, and we could hear a television blaring something
like Judge Judy, but no one answered when we knocked. I
thought I heard a sad moan from the couch and the sound of
someone slamming against the floor, but Marty acted like hed
heard nothing and just shrugged, so we walked off and didnt
really mention Tobias again.
A few weeks after wed gone to the apartment, Marty called
me.

Turn on the news. Channel four.

I did, and there Tobias was, face pale in the heavy light of the
police station, a thin rail of wimpy hair running across his upper
lip, his eyes boring flaming holes in the television screen.
Brownish dried blood was smeared across his nostrils, and his
nose looked broken. A mug shot. The newscasters crisp, even
voiceover was in the middle of saying something about a
teenager getting arrested after attempting to rob a convenience
store. The teen, as the scratchy black-and-white footage of the
security camera demonstrated, was heavily intoxicated at the
time. I cringed as I watched Tobias in an identical shirt to the
one Id last seen him in, holding a gun up sideways with one
wobbly arm. He tripped over himself and fell backward into a
display of twelve packs of Coke, where he flopped like a cartoon
character. The tower of cardboard cases fell, and one of the
boxes smashed against his face. The footage lingered, and he
didnt move. The screen flicked back to the reporter, a cleanshaven man in a pinstriped suit. He was shaking his head
slightly, saying the teenthey never mentioned Tobiass name
was being charged with attempted robbery, assault with a deadly
weapon, and public intoxication.
You believe that? Marty said. Id forgotten the phone was
pressed to my ear still, and his voice startled me. I dropped the
phone to the floor and let it sit there. I turned off the sound on
the television, just watched as, for a few final seconds, the
screen switched back to the mug shot and the glaring, drunk
face of Tobias stared at me. I had to change the channel because
I thought the station might have frozen, but no, the television
was fine. When I clicked back to the news, Tobiass face was
gone.
I sat still for a moment, watching as the news moved on to
some other story about a football coach recovering from cancer
or something. I could hear the metallic buzz of Martys voice in
the phone calling out to me, asking if I was still there. I didnt
pick it up and answer him. I just sat there, thinking of Tobias
and the vacant look in his eyes, a blend of drunkenness and
rage, loneliness and disappointment. I felt as though hed been
staring at me, as though he could call out to me, a lovelorn
ghost stretching across time and space to reach out and choke
me, drag me back to him.
*

When the phone rang, cutting through my sleep like a

roaring marching band, I assumed it was Marty, drunk again at
college, calling to tell me about some girl hed met. He would just
call back if I didnt answer, so I rolled over, pawed for the phone,
and croaked out a hello without checking the caller ID.
Yo, man, what you doing?
My feet went cold, colder than usual in the damp apartment
with poorly built windows that let the wintry air and little flecks
of frost whistle in and tighten my skin. Tobiass voice splashed
me awake and I couldnt resist sitting up despite the drop in
temperature that smacked my chest when the blankets slipped
down.
How did you get my number? I bit my cheek, unsure why I
had said that. But what else could I have said? All I could
picture was Tobiass mug shot staring at me.
Its me, amigo. Tobias, homes.
Then it was as if he was standing in front of me, shaking,
shoulders caked with all the snow that had piled atop him on his
lonesome walk home that day at school, as if it had never
stopped snowing and he was now some walking, breathing
snowman with coal for eyes and teeth. I wondered if I was
dreaming.
What, you already forget about me? His voice became a
razor, sharp and acute against my ear. I almost lifted my hand
to my face to feel for blood, the sound was so crisp in the phone.
No. No way, I said. When did you get out? I heard they sent
you away to juvie.
Few days ago. Good behavior.
I wanted to ask if he had a place to stay, but I bit my tongue.
I didnt know what else to ask, or what he wanted, so I simply
sat there, hearing my own breath.
You there, man?
Yeah, Im here. Its justits late, thats all. I have work
tomorrow, and school.
School? Howre you still in school? You were one of the
smart kids, yo.
College, Tobias. Im taking classes.

Oh. I could almost hear the slump in his shoulders, the

same curl that had overcome his body that day in the parking
lot. His voice was damp and weary like his mothers. Tobias
sounded desperate.
He let out a deep breath that crinkled in the phone. It
sounded like someone was rubbing the receiver with foil. Sorry,
man. Im sorry, he said, then hung up.
I tried to fall asleep, but I could only stare at the ceiling. If I
closed my eyes, his voice echoed and bounced around me, and I
felt like I was falling into a cavern where the noise grew and
vibrated, smothering me in a black heaviness. Marty and I
hadnt talked about Tobias for a few years. Hed become nothing
but a snowy blur, blending right into the blank shade of
memory.
But as I lay there, I realized, finally, what was bothering me.
It wasnt that Id let all my memories of Tobias slip through some
invisible cracks in my veins or the desperation in his voice. It
was that word: sorry. Id never heard him say it before.
*
He was wearing a green t-shirt with a tattered collar, ripped
and filled with holes, when I first saw him. We were in sixth
grade and the principal knocked on the door, interrupting our
math teacher as she led us through a word problem about two
boys sharing apples theyd picked in an orchard. The picture on
our worksheet was simple: they were lanky and happy, lips
curled into big smiles, and they sat under a tree brimming with
fruit, the basket between them full. One was handing a huge
apple, bigger than his palm, to the other. The principal had both
hands clamped over Tobias and looked like a hawk gripping a
bony mouse. Our teacher pointed to the empty desk next to
mine when the principal was done introducing him, and Tobias
slid into the seat and leaned back, looking around the room, his
gaze far away. When we were dismissed for lunch, I watched him
stand and hover by his desk, looking toward his dirty sneakers.
As I pulled my crumpled brown bag lunch from my desk, I
looked at him.
Come on, Ill show you. I looked at his empty hands.
Youre buying?
No. My mom didnt give me any money. His voice was high
and shaky, but pleasant. Almost like a song, I remember
thinking. He wouldnt look me in the eye.

Then wheres your lunch? I held up my bag. He shrugged.

I gave him half of my peanut butter and jelly sandwich,
which he inhaled in two bites, and I let him drink my milk. We
sat across from each other.
My dads a doctor, I said. Whats yours do?
He looked away from me and didnt say anything. He
shrugged.
I dont know.
How do you not know?
He didnt really work.
He didnt?
Tobias shook his head. He polished off the last of my milk
and looked away from me, out the grimy cafeteria window. He
was silent the rest of lunch, his hands invisible in his lap.
Where are you from? Did you just move here?
He nodded.
Whyd you move?
Tobias chewed his lip. He never said thank you for the
sandwich, but his eyes had turned soft with something like
fullness, and he had sighed, a smear of grape jelly on his lip. At
recess, I tried to get him to play four square with us, but he
ignored me and just walked along the raised curb of the
blacktops edge where it met the grassy beginning of the soccer
field, his arms tilting out like propellers. The seventh graders at
the basketball hoop yelled at him when their ball dribbled over
by his feet, but he ignored them, just kept tightrope walking
toward the end of the lot, past the bleachers and the makeshift
baseball diamond smoothed into the grass. I watched from afar,
convinced he might just walk to the end of the earth.
*
My wife was in the bathroom brushing her teeth when my
phone rang, vibrating on the nightstand. I didnt recognize the
number.
Mr. Guidry?
Yes?

A cop, a detective something. His name slid by me. My wife

appeared in the doorway in one of my old oversized t-shirts,
brow furrowed. Wed been trying to have a baby for months.
Shed already decorated the second bedroom in neutral colors in
a safari theme. I looked at her and shrugged.
Then the detective told me: they had a dead body with no ID,
except my name, cell phone number, and address scrawled on
the back of a crinkled receipt from a liquor store nearby. I
swallowed, then exhaled, and raised a hand to my wife, who
relaxed and slid into the bed next to me, putting her hand on my
bare chest near my heart. She must have felt the heavy
thumping, because she pressed her head against my shoulder
and took a deep breath. I wanted to hang up and hold onto her,
tell her I loved her. But the detective was telling me he needed
me to come see if I recognized the man.
An olive-skinned male, thin build, with
I know who it is, I said. When should I come down? It
didnt occur to me to ask why he couldnt just show me a
photograph. Or why it couldnt wait until morning. Wasnt that
how it worked on television? A picture of a sleepy head, eyes
closed and face bruised and sutured, slid across a tidy table in
the comfort of the witnesss home, where he sipped on a cup of
coffee and his wife chewed her fingernails nervously and paced
until the cops left. But the witness was usually the criminal,
wasnt he? He held onto some dark secret, some buried offense
he had committed against the deceased.
The sooner, the better, the detective said.
I looked at my wife. Her hair, long and black, was curved
down over her shoulder. She looked beautiful, and I wanted to
take the t-shirt off her.
I can come now, I said. He gave me the address, told me
whom to ask for. I slid out of bed and shut my phone. My wife
sat up, face taut.
Brian, whats going on?
I pulled on the jeans Id left in a pile on the floor, not sure
what to tell her. She didnt know about Tobias. I hadnt really
tried to hide him; hed lurked in my memory for years, hovering
in the darkest corners of my childhood, but I never had a reason
to bring him up. I never told her about pulling him up from the
grass in my backyard the night he got so drunk we tried to take

him to the hospital but how he woke up and started hitting the
back of Martys head while he drove down the highway when he
figured out where we were going, yelling something about not
wanting to deal with pig coppers. My stomach had knotted up
and Id had to roll down the window and vomit, liquid detritus
from my dinner streaming down the empty road behind us like a
trail that would lead the police to us. Tobias had laughed and
laid back down in the back seat then, saying I needed a doctor
way more than he did.
I felt that same gurgling feeling now. As I plucked my wallet
from the nightstand, I told her not to worry. That someone I
knew had died, and he didnt have any next of kin except me,
and that the police needed me to identify him.
Thats all, I said.
Thats all. The words hovered in the quiet of the car,
bouncing against the windows and dashboard, echoing and wet.
The streets were empty in anticipation of an impending
snowstorm, the lanes dark except for my low beams and the
occasional streetlamp or stoplight. I didnt bother turning on the
radio. Instead, I rehearsed what I would say when they led me
down into the belly of the nearby hospital, and I imagined
Tobias body laid out, tiny and skeletal and lumped on the slate
table. I anticipated the question of how I knew him and why hed
have my number and address. I tested out saying his name,
changing my inflection, lowering my chin. Widening my eyes.
Sounding surprised. Sounding relieved. Sounding everything. All
of my answers seemed mealy and weak, as though they were
hiding a murder confession. At a red light, I noticed my hands
were shaking, and I had to take several deep breaths and tell
myself I had done nothing. I hadnt seen Tobias in years.
Perhaps I wouldnt even recognize him.
But I knew. Even though his eyes would be closed, his chest
quiet, his lips colorless, I knew: he would be there, and I would
know him. The detective would ask his questions and I would
answer, and when he asked about when Id last spoken to him,
Id know exactly what I should say.
*
I just cant, I told Tobias.
Homes, come on.

It was luck, really: Id come home from work early, a payroll

meeting cancelled on a Friday afternoon, freeing me up for
happy hour before my wife came home from cleaning peoples
teeth. Id walked into the apartment and as soon as I set my
briefcase down the landline had rung, the phones screech
foreign and rare. I would have let it go to voicemail, but the
warmth massaging my chest and stomach from one too many
scotches with my colleagues loosened me enough to pluck the
phone from the receiver and slither out a warm greeting.
Tobias told me he was in town and wanted to see me. He
needed money, just a thousand or two, enough to get a plane
ticket. The warmth slipped away, and I started walking in small
ovals around the couch and low, square coffee table, the one my
wife had found at the flea market she went to every weekend,
while Tobias told me he just needed the cash to get to Cuba and
that hed pay me back no problemo.
I gritted my teeth, feeling flush. The bay window in our third
story apartment caught the gray afternoon and dragged the
dreary color into the living room, crushing the carpet and couch
with its stagnant light, and I felt heavy. I wanted to yell at him,
ask him why he was still hung up on that stupid idea, that
ridiculous dream, what the hell he would do in Cuba, how he
would get back, how he would get the money to pay me back no
problemo, why the hell he ever wanted to go in the first place,
and would he stop speaking Spanish like he was some Latino
badass that everyone knew he wasnt. But as soon as I opened
my mouth, I pictured him, hovered on the other end of the line,
shoulders curled toward the phone in desperation, and I
remembered him that day in the parking lot, shivering, blue, and
half-naked in his sleeveless t-shirt.
Come on, man, he said. For old times sake.
I felt my ears go red, flaming up on the tips. He wanted to
meet. Told me Marty bought him a drink at a bar a few weeks
ago when he found him up in Massachusetts. I hadnt seen
Marty in years, not since he finished his masters degree and he
came to town and asked me to get a drink with him. Hed hardly
been recognizable, had put on weight in his cheeks and neck,
ordered a dry martini and stirred the olives around with the
translucent toothpick, barely looking at me. Id gotten home well
before nine.
I just cant, Tobias.
Man.

I told him no over and over again, as I paced through the

living room. When I finally hung up on him, refusing to tell him
where I lived or to give him the money, I kept on walking in
circles. I expected the carpet to wear away, for the wood
underneath to rot. I would fall down, through the downstairs
neighbors roof, and just keep flailing my arms as the phone fell
out of my hand and descended too, Tobias disembodied voice
the last thing I heard as I hit the ground and fell apart.
*
The morgue was cold. I was only wearing an undershirt
beneath my pea coat and I shivered. The scratchy material
agitated my arms. I waited in a low-lit room by myself for way
too long, and my neck and legs got stiff. There was no clock on
the wall, just a few chairs, and a bare table across from the vast
curtained window.
When the detective finally came to meet me, he shook my
hand. I was surprised by how clammy his palm was. We were
both sweating in spite of the cold, and I nodded at him. He didnt
say much, just rapped his knuckles on the glass and we waited.
The window parted, and there he was. Night pierced through a
single high window in the corner of the morgue, and the harsh
bulb in the room illuminated the snow starting to fall, piling up
against the glass. Tobias skin was white in the unforgiving light,
and I could see the tail of a red incision along the surface of his
sternum.
It was him. I told the detective his name and his mothers last
address, which leapt from my tongue like a sprung wild animal. I
didnt even know I remembered it, and I had to catch my breath,
set my hands against the glass.
You okay? he asked, clicking his pen and depositing his
notepad in his breast pocket. I felt his hand on my back.
I nodded, but didnt look toward him. Instead, I stared toward
Tobias, his body frail and empty like one of those starving
African kids. Hed clearly been on drugs. His lips were
discolored, his eyes sunken. He looked like hed already been
embalmed. His fingers were so tiny, like chopsticks.
Youre sure thats him? Take your time.
I didnt need time. It was him all right. He looked old,
weather-beaten. I looked at the window, staring without blinking
until my vision wobbled and my eyes pulsed. I shut my eyes and

there he was, staring at me in the cold storm in the parking lot

building with snow, still seventeen, thin, Jewish, and ragged.
I said nothing until the detective pressed his hand against me
again, and I opened my eyes and stared at Tobias, nodding.
When I asked if he needed anything else, he shook his head and
thanked me for my time. I didnt bother asking what had
happened, how Tobias had died. It no longer mattered. I didnt
want to know. I wanted, instead, to be back home in my bed,
with my wife, so I turned and walked away from Tobias, out of
the hospital, and into the falling snow, never looking back until I
found my way to where I wanted to be.

Brendon Vayo
Trekker Trekker
There we were cruising, trekking, scouring the
desert of Texas, me and Joe. The sky ripens to a lethal shade,
the hardpan all wavy and fucked up. Thirst may kill you, but
first you got to breathe. Even with the windows down, Im
sucking air through a straw.
And Joe.
I dont know what the hell kind he is, but somewhere
under that coat of sand is a soggy black nose, a tiny snout, and
an under-bite. Hes cool.
I found him in a dumpster, as I took a piss at three in the
morning, a hairless tube of bubble gum pink no bigger than my
fist. He couldnt open his eyes for a week. I thought thered be a
whole litter, but I only found Joe. We have that in common, I
guess, except Joes happy wherever and Im chicken-shit.
I dont know much about dogs and less about puppies,
but I washed him cause he stunk like maggots, been feeding
him ever since. We seem to have purpose out here, a bond.
Yeah, the desert makes you think things over, or so Ive
been told. But all I see is beige sand and blue sky, empty enough
to leave me desperate for breath: mine deep and low, Joes
panting and quick like a heartbeat.
*
The suns yoke bleeds into the horizon. The speedometer
tells me Im going ninety-five, and I better slow it down before
the engine smokes and me and Joe have to walk all the way
back.
A sign for a town called Pecos flies by. The oil light comes
on, my muscles are cramped, and a black figure smudges the
mirage. The way I look at it, if Im seeing Jesus, its time to pull
off the long stretch of highway burned into my memory as
though thats the only thing Ive ever done in my life, travel on
Fifty-Fucking-Four.
Joes pawing a crushed package of Snowballs. When he
feels the loss of speed, he perks up. Even though the black
figure trudging along isnt there, Joes wet nose is twitching as if
he smells the mirage. Or maybe he doesnt even notice; maybe
my nose is twitching and Im trying to smell it, but all I smell is
dust.
He scratches at the side door, and I know how he feels: I
have to flow too.

Soon as I let out the clutch, Joe leaps out the window.
Dust flies up. Grit covers my face. The heat returns like an elbow
on my collarbone. No privacy for me to take care of business. Not
much here, actually, other than the heat and hard sand.
And my damn left arm flakes like mica. My right arm got
nothing, like I took a hot shower, and thats it. Cant think of
anything that looks dumber than a sunburned left and a pale
right arm.
Ite! Ite! This at my feet. Joes got his head cocked, ears
pointed.
I say, Whatchoo want?
Ite! Ite! Impatient. He clamps the cuff of my jeans, tugs
in a semicircle.
I say, All right, Joe, and laugh that he reminds me we
need gas. Youre the boss.
R-R-R . . . Ite! Ite! And he pads behind a clump of rocks.
I stop in front of the Mustang. Not much: lime-green,
duct tape all around the headlights, except for a girl leaning into
the passenger side. Maybe its a dream or a puzzle. She grimaces
cause the frame sizzles, but doesnt remove her bare arms. Even
when she nods at me, and says, Sup, I wonder if I lost my
mind.
Okay, so two things. Maybe I anthropomorphize my dog;
maybe I mistake coincidence for fate. Maybe its the heat, lodged
in my head, every move and every thought coming via Jell-O. On
the road, these things happen.
Shes young, the vision. Her cheeks are chubby in that
baby fat kind of way and her eyes are soft. Her skin is dark and
her eyes are darker. A backpack is strapped over her shoulders.
I get in the car, rub my head. The interior is unbearable.
The passenger door slams, and the girl crinkles some
papers. She says, Adoption Reunion Registry . . . yo, you got a
birth certificate and shit up here, R-Rob-ert, if that is your real
name.
I keep my eyes straight ahead, wondering when I gave my
hallucination permission to get in.
The girl says, Is you like headed near Vegas, cause I gots
a living to make, yo. Her accent is thick, as if shes got a mouth
full of something.
A crumpled advertisement flops onto my lap. LINGERIE
MODEL COMPETITION, it says. Words drift: All ages welcome.
The girl says, Its like totally legit, and points to the
sponsor, STARLIGHT, STARBRIGHT PRODUCTION COMPANY.
Theyre licensed and everything.

I turn the Mustang over, just to get something in motion. I

say, Whats your name, girl? deciding to treat her as if shes
real; you know, on a preliminary basis.
The girl says, Maria, and wags her head back and forth.
Could I of thought of that?
Joe hops onto the passenger seat, as he does. But the
sudden presence of a girl causes him to let out this pathetic
squeal and spring onto the gearshift. He spins in a circle. When I
touch his back, he cringes with his big, damp eyes and dripping
nose as if he forgot I was there almost.
The girl says, Its okay, boy, and she pets him. I wont
hurt you.
Joes rear legs go limp. Now I got confirmation, but price
is the interior smells like dog pee. The girl soothes him, and
when I nod, Joe licks his lips. They both look like kids, Joe
trembling, the girl awing with an innocence that feels very
strange out here. The oil light flicks off the dashboard, but my
head is pounding.
So I say, How old are you, Ma-ree-ah? hoping my voice
wont change just cause Im accepting her reality. Over a young
person, a steady tone has power.
The girl says, Sev-eight. Eighteen. Her voice hiccups.
She cant handle this stare I got going. Fine, Im fifteen. B-but
Im not, like, a kid, okay?
I say, Fifteen, as if I dont believe or disbelieve. Where
your parents?
Her tongue unsticks from the roof of her mouth. She says,
Theyre the foolios who dont think I can win the five hundred
dollar grand prize. And the guy even said, I got it. Hes a talent
director, and he goes all over America. Her hands splay and Joe
cowers. That wad of cotton in her mouth nearly chokes her.
I grin, a bit delirious. I say, What, some guy pick you out
of a group of friends? Was he at the mall or something? Id like
to spare her the effort of lying or my mind the effort of inventing.
I feel good, feel that look coming back, what I like to think of as
my stonewall stare, and I peel out. The engine sounds very loud,
rages over the wind that blows the girls black hair in frenzied
spurts.
She says, Stop treatn me like a child.
I say, Well, theres a couple rules you forgot, and my
voice is real casual, in control. First, youre in my car, so you
belong to me. Right, Joe?
Ite! Ite! Joes tail beats furiously against my thigh.

The girl says, Uh, listen. Why dont you just let me out?
She goes for the door handle. The speedometer tells me were
going eighty miles an hour.
I say, Rule Number Two, and grab her arms.
Whatever the rule is, something about observing safety
regs when a vehicle is in motion, never mind I have no idea
where shes from, it gets lost in the sideways wrench of our
momentum. Hey, its cool, I say, youre just a Fig Newton of my
imagination. At least, I think I say this.
Joe barks in the air, his hot breath like balls and ass.
That sort of rouses me and, since I really got nothing else better
to do, I grab the wheel. Fine, with both hands, but were still
fishtailing.
Im getting dizzy, which means any second Ill come to.
Thats what happens when you get in a crash in a dream. Except
nails swipe my face. And were flipping, but I still dont come to. I
lose count after four.
*
The girls screaming. The engines grinding. None
competes with the roar in my skull. My legs are locked into the
accelerator, pedal to the metal, even though were upside down.
Shes saying something: What the, what the . . . I-I-I
cant breathe.
I release her seatbelt, she yelps after she crumples onto
the ceiling. Dust surges through the windows. Above us, the
tires flap to a stop.
The doors screech open. We stagger outside. I cant stop
coughing.
To the west, the sky is a searing streak of red and orange.
If we drove farther, on and on through the desert, eventually
wed see ocean. I wish I could believe it. Nights come for me and
Joe, and the girl. Oh, shit, Joe!
I call for him. He doesnt come, but I hear him sneeze.
Joes in the girls arms.
She says, At-at the l-last second, I p-p-pulled him cclose. H-he was in the air.
Joe springs from her arms. He has a few scratches and a
nasty bulge on one of his rear legs, but doesnt whimper when I
touch it, only licks my face.
The girl says, I-Im sorry. I didnt m-mean to grab the
wheel. I promise Ill never do it again.
She blames herself, which suits the moment just fine.
Even if we upright the Mustang, no way itll run again. What can
I tell you, its a piece of shit. It needs transmission, tires; the fuel
pump crapped out six months ago. Someone was getting

stranded. It just happened to be me, when I just happened to

pick up someone like I been told a thousand times not to do.
Wind snorts dust in my eyes. Joes tail wags as he
disappears behind the car. I cant tell if hes limping or if its my
imagination.
The girl says, We gotta call for help. My chest hurts.
I say, You got a cell phone? Go get it. When she turns, I
check mine for bars.
Doesnt matter if shes fourteen or whatever, and too
young to inform, if Im feeling a little shaky from my bout with
death, if lately I been feeling . . . indecisive, I guess, about whats
real and whats not, what matters and what doesnt, if I like the
idea of a girl out here by herself or if Im indifferent. Soon as she
comes back from her rummaging, I stuff the phone into my back
pocket.
The girl says, Whats witchoo, man? What?
I say, Either that, or I break it. Smash it up against the
goddamn rocks that near killed us. Now listen carefully. We
cant call for a tow. No police neither.
The girl nods at the headlights. She says, White boy near
Mexico. I get it.
The only sound is dirt traveling up the road. I leverage my
neck until it cracks. After inspecting my temple, my fingers come
away with blood.
I say, The police might notice the registration doesnt
match the license.
The girl says, They impound the vehicle, inspect its
contents. Sounds like a cop show. She squints. How much
you get, each shipment?
I scan the area behind a large mound of boulders. We
hear the whirl before we see the headlights. The girl waves her
arms, and I hold them down.
She says, Hey. Come on, man. Let. Ill . . . damn.
The headlights hurt our eyes. The driver, a family man
with a passed-out wife and kids, acts as if he doesnt see us
wrestling on the shoulder, as if were the hallucination this time.
The rubber cuts along the road. Then taillights. Then darkness
once again.
*
The girl says, Why dont you just pull out a gun, jack the
car?
Behind the mound of boulders, we follow the moon up a
dry riverbed, the bags rattle, and I count paces. We see the
shadows of boulders and saltbushes, but not til they jab us are
we sure of where they are.

The girl says, Hey, think I could get a job? I could hold
the gun.
At three hundred, we stop at a live tree. It crumbles to the
touch. What passes for nature here looks very tired.
I say, Crossing state lines with a piece?
The girl stops digging, frowns at the stars. She says, Oh.
Hello, felony. Her lips are purple. Thats disappointing. The
uncovered sand glitters like diamond dust.
I say, There goes eight hundred bucks.
The girl says, Thousand? Puta madre. Oh. Eight
hundred. Thats it. You know, drugs are like mucho dinero right
now, right?
A cars brakes squeak. Though a large mound blocks us
from the road, I drag the girl into the hole with me. Joes
obsidian eyes concentrate on the mound, but he doesnt move or
speak. To our left, red lights splash across the desert.
I count to three hundred. Then I toss in the bags, cover
them, use the tree to obscure our tracks. I say, Customers need
steroids too. Pay sucks, but if I get caught, its just a
misdemeanor. When I look up, the lights are gone.
The girl whispers, Arent you worried Ill make it back
and, and like rip you off or something? Her eyes bug out. Not
that Id do that. Like seriously, whod find this place again?
The wind is unceasing here.
Our steps crunch on the riverbed. At two hundred paces,
were just about halfway around the big mound, which means on
our return trip our steps are shorter. I want to remember both
counts, but its unnecessary. Tomorrow morning, G.P.S. will
track this location far better than my frazzled memory, which
the night will fuck up too.
The girl says, Estpido. I shoulda said something. Not
my responsibility to worry about no steroids yet. Hey, know
whats weird? I looked up the address, for the lingerie
competition. Its in the back of some old warehouse or suttin.
Not even at a casino. Thats weird, right?
A cone of blue light clicks. We freeze. The girl raises her
hands.
Behind it is a tall person, large and stocky, wearing a
dark blue coat, though all I see is his shoulder. A patch is there,
but I cant tell if its a badge or not. Too late, I realize I didnt
actually hear the car drive away. How did I miss that detail?
The man says, What are you doing out here?
The girl laughs and gushes. She says, Oh, God. We just
lost my dog. This man. She beams at me. Was helping me find
him. Her American accent is good.

We wait for Joe to bark, as he does when anyone might

mention him or another dog. But he too is frozen. His pose looks
like hes out hunting fox or quail.
The man says, Is that your wrecked car over there?
The girl raises her eyebrows. She says, Oh, did
something happen? Her innocence is almost pitch-perfect. My
eyes stop registering the flashlights intensity. They accept the
blindness to come.
The man says, So, youre out walking. By yourself, with
your dog. This man helps you find it. And you have no clue why
an auto de mierdas lying on its roof, huh? Nia, why dont you
come over here?
Joe sniffs the sand, coughs. The flashlight darts from Joe,
to the girl, to me. The girls steps crunch toward the man whose
accent, when he rolls the me-er in the Spanish word for shit,
sounds more Russian than Mexican.
First, the girl is silhouette, and then she disappears
behind the blue light. I see his outline better now. Hes about
thirty feet away, and definitely not in a cops uniform. Marias
looking him up and down and fretting her hands.
The man says, Whats a cute little chica stripper doing
out here with her little perra? Running away from Mommy and
Daddy, eh, hoping to get a fresh start with this gringo?
I say, Yo, Joe aint no bitch, and the light returns to my
eyes. El pair-o ess fress-co. I roll my Rs and everything, just in
case hes Mexican and might think I got a little in my veins too.
Seems real important to correct the improper grammar at the
time, to reassure him of Joes cock and balls.
The man says, Nearest towns forty miles, amigo. I could
give you a ride, I suppose.
I say, Yeah, thats cool.
The man nods. His beard is long and shaggy. I see spots
of crust on his coat.
For some reason, Maria walks toward me. The man
follows and the light whitens.
I say, Actually, we know a, uh. A shortcut right over
those dunes there. When I look down and out of the light, Joes
nowhere to be found.
His absence spikes my panic, but theyre walking closer.
Maria passes me. The big, dark man lowers the light and stands
over me. Hes more a puddle of lake water than a man right now,
but even if he is a puddle, hes at least a foot taller and reeks of
body odor and bacon.

The man says, Oh, a shortcut. Thought youd like to

show me some moves before you go, Chica, but no matter. Well,
gringo. Adios, then.
I say, Adios, amigo, just the way he said it. I dont feel
like I turn, but I guess I do cause this iron clamps down on my
shoulder. Everything neck-down goes numb. Out of the puddle
of night comes this mans yellow teeth cause hes grinning. He
head-butts me and the stars swoon.
Maria screams, Put him down, or something. I cant
really remember, I cant really hear.
He butts me again, this time on the nose. I taste the salty
wetness of blood, but feel no pain. Everythings coming down a
long, dark tunnel. I dont know if I forgot to breathe or I cant.
Maria says, Hes got mota back there, uh . . . pu-pinga.
Pinga. I-well show you. Real good shit.
Behind the glistening beard, the man gives a thoughtful,
Hm. He even scrunches his lips. The moon dances in his eyes.
I bring up my left arm and try to knock off his hand, but my
forearm refracts as though its a cheap plastic toy.
The man shakes me. My head snaps back. I feel pressure
but still not pain.
He says something, but it sure doesnt sound like Im
sorry or I surrender. His breath reeks of rotting flesh, and I dont
want to die being dangled like a rag doll, so I do the only thing I
can do with a flailing arm, and that is strike with my fist right
into his throat, the bushiest part of his beard.
At once, I fall to the ground. Shit and I stagger; I didnt
even realize I was up in the air.
The man makes this hollow sound, grasps his neck with
both hands. He doesnt collapse, but his legs shake. His words
suddenly ring into focus: So, its about the drugs and the ass, is
it, esse?
He pitches forward, spits a phlegmy glob of blood on the
pavement.
I say, Ah, my fucking neck, and my foot is up, into his
chest. The mans teeth come down with a clack. I kick him
again. My eyes water.
Maria says, Lets get out of here, and grabs my arm.
We stumble to his car, which idles in the middle of the
road. A fan whirs like a dragons snarl. Without the sun or its
headlights, all I know is its a real P.O.S. from the 80s. In fact, it
matches my Mustang in ways that strike me as a neat switch; he
can have my car if he wants, the fucker.

Maria slides to the passenger side, with again Joe in her

arms, whose barking pinches my eardrums like a needle. Where
the hell was he when I needed him?
I say, This is fucked up, but I cant enunciate with a
broken nose.
All I really see is a heap of violet, but I hear the man move
around, maybe stand; at least my ears work fine. This triggers
certain understandings: the car is on and we can escape, which
we do.
The car, a Chevy Celebrity, doesnt peel out as if the
Mustang would, but its tires have enough trouble with the sand
that our getaway is satisfyingly dramatic. The man doesnt
shout, just watches. We hear nothing behind us and see only
crimson dust. It feels like hes on my collarbone still, his iron
fucking hand.
Into the night. Cruising, trekking, and scouring the
desert. Shit, was I tired by then.
*
We dont trust the first couple of towns. With about forty
miles to Alamogordo, the fuel light flicks yellow, and we have no
choice. Somehow, the glitter of civilization springs from the
depths of twilight before the tank is empty. We roll the car
behind a grocery store, run to a cheap motel a few miles away.
Maria hides until I walk up to the room.
Then she staggers out of the bushes and whoops as if
Joes tickling her. Once inside, she paces from the television to
the sink, twirls her hair. Joe drags a leg behind him, grins up
hopefully as though to ensure I wont close the door on him.
Smokers yellowed the ceiling long before me and Maria
were born, and the blankets have enough cigarette burns and
moth bites we would freeze if it was winter, but the rooms clean
enough to crash on the bed.
I curl to one side. My head wont stop spinning.
Maria says, What a creep, huh, and slurps from a can of
soda. Smelled like beer and sweat and ass. The bathroom light
clicks and a metallic fan growls. My Mom always warned me of
white boys.
Im glad she couldnt tell either, what he was. I have calls
to make, especially if that asshole persuades his friends to dig
up the whole desert, but I dont want to ring the boss without
the pills in hand. Maybe we didnt clean our tracks. Maybe Joe
disappeared to dig out our hole, and the plastics exposed right
now. The one rule is not to fuck up, and I broke the rule a few
times already.

I reach down and sigh, feel hot breath on my hand. Thats

tomorrows problem, and the first task will be to take Joe to a
vet.
*
Heat pricks my face. Its water dripping from Marias frizzy
hair.
Under her eyes are bruised, but her lips are vividly pink.
Mustve put gloss on when I was snoozing. I never noticed, but
she has a mole on her cheek and two white hairs sprouting from
it.
She says, You think good people can do bad things,
right?
The sinks fluorescent orange light irradiates her aura.
Her body spreads over me like a bird drawing its wings.
Maria whispers, I think of myself as good too. But when I
left on this trip, I had plans. Id have to make money, but I. I
didnt care. I still dont.
Her pupils nearly overtake the iris. Long nails whet
against my jeans.
Maria says, The guy out there, you in here. Dont matter
to me. Youre only innocent if you aint got a choice.
I say, Wait.
Joes curled up on the floor. He lifts his head. Already his
back leg is blue.
I say, Im not just here on some random steroid run, all
right? As you know. Her tongue injects heat onto my chest.
Joes Mama left him in a dumpster for me to find. Mine left me
on a doorstep for someone else. The tip follows the upraised
welts from the Mustangs seatbelt. Shit, I left her address in the
Mustang. But she lives outside Phoenix. At least, thats the
forwarding address they gave.
Joes black eyes and runny nose fix on me, filled with
guilt, love, fear. His paws rest on the rug, so small, so black.
I say, I couldnt knock on her door, and feel my eyes
burn. I musta drove by her house a dozen times, but.
Maria says, Relax, and draws it out.
Under us, Joe yawns. Like Joes, Marias eyes are black.
In the room behind us, a door slams, and our curtains jolt.
Maria says, How about? Tomorrow, we go there. Well go
together. Well go right up to her door.
Her breath smells like artificial sweetener, but her voice is
flat. Wheres her accent? What happened to that guys accent?
Why are the lights so bright?
A button pops. A zipper ticks open tooth by tooth. Cold
rushes in and I reach down.

The girl says, Im telling you, you cant take advantage of

me. No ones innocent anymore.
The ceiling burns with a thousand needlepoints, valleys
and mountains, canals and cities.
The girl says, You wont protect me. You wont ever.
I take a breath. The neighbors headboard claps against
the wall. My head and back still throb from the stranger with the
iron hand.
The girl says, Good. Thats really good.
My eyelids flutter.
The girl says, Tomorrow morning, youll see her again.
Shell open the door before you knock, and youll see something
of yourself in her. Shell have gray eyes. Her lips will be set like
yours too, like when youre stubborn about something or
nothing in particular.
Were in rhythm now. My back rises off the bed.
The girl says, Shell be old, though. She will be old. But
with her hair anchored with a bandana, shell be simple
somehow and beautiful. Just like you always imagined.
God, shes really tugging now. Its not the neighbors bed,
and it never was. Its my bed, its our bed, and the
motherfuckers quaking.
The girl says, You wont speak. Youll open your mouth,
but shell take you by the hand. Hold my hand. Thats how shell
hold your hand. Tomorrow morning.
Does she have rings on? Oh fuck, shes slicing me to
pieces, but oh God. Her hand blisters and tears my flesh, but I
dont want her to stop, I wont let her stop.
The girl says, She wants to tell you something, something
you waited your whole life for. Youre so close. Hang onto it.
My head cranes all the way back.
The girl says, You look just like your father, shell say.
You have his look.
Shes done. I. Done. Its over. Im ashamed.
The girl says, Youre your father.
I gasp and turn away. My body throbs, too raw to tingle. I
dont clean up, but in time I dry.
*
The scene brightens into color. I see a garden where my
birth mother grows tomatoes; I see a house where tomorrow I
will go, right after I take Joe to the vets. Right after I find a car
and get back to the place where the Mustang flipped over.
Footsteps stumble across the floor. The doors bolt pops.
At first, I panic, believing the stranger found us after all,
even though I figured theres too many motels for him and the

police to search. Then I see the girl staggering outside as though

shes as dizzy as I am. A breeze rolls a leaf and relief into the
room.
The clouds churn but withhold the mystery of their
future. Whether theyll rain on us some tonight as we sleep, or
some time in the morning while we drive, splashing quick drops
on the windshield before the desert sucks it into the deep blue
sky, we dont know.
She inhales. I can smell home, she says.

Conrad Smyth
Today Is Your Lucky Day
Murray crouched on the living room floor among
scattered cardboard boxes and discarded pieces of masking tape.
Faded white walls stood bare, revealing little holes where nails
once held paintings and cracks the home inspector assured him
were benign. The house had been paid for in full, and all liquid
assets exhausted to that of an unemployed 16 year old. Still, he
was pleased with his purchase and radiated excitement at the
futures possibilities.
His knees popped as he rose. Murrays short stature
meant he was now only nose level with several of the larger,
double-stacked boxes. He took calculated strides through the
maze of clutter and emerged in the vapid kitchen. A sink lay
nestled into the peeling countertop and a yellowing stove
accounted for the rooms only appliance. He hoped to own a
refrigerator by years end.
The telephone rang. It was an aged rotary model from his
father shrill and rude in its manner of getting ones attention
and paired with an archaic tape-style answering machine. He
reached into the living room and lifted the phones receiver.
Hello?
Good morning, is this the homeowner? The voice was
friendly and enthusiastic.
Yes. He beamed.
Well then, today is your lucky day! Im calling with a
valuable opportunity to protect your property.
Oh? Ok.
Did you know that standard homeowners insurance
doesn't cover against many types of property damage? The voice
was speaking very quickly now. For only dollars a month, you
can secure your appliances against flooding, theft, wear and
tear, electrical malfunction
All I own is a stove. I think it needs replacing.
Our policy covers refrigerators, washing machines,
dryers, barbeques
I dont have any of those. I just took possession yesterday
paid in full.
The voice hesitated for a moment. Whats your name?
Murray.
You sound like a rich man, Murray.
Used to be. I plan on having a full kitchen by the end of

the year. Theres also the flooring in the master bedroom, the
wallpaper in the living room, the exposed insulation in the
basement
The line went dead. He laid the receiver in the cradle and
lifted it back to his ear. There was no dial tone now, just the
vacant sound of quiet air. He pressed firmly on the switch hook
several times with no effect. A trip to the phone companys office
would need to be made.
Murray stood in the living room scratching his thinning
scalp. He drifted his eyes out into the backyard and his body
tightened. A large, bright white bathtub sat between a sickly
spruce tree and a neat pile of decomposing mulch. He titled his
neck and peered into the corners of the otherwise unremarkable
yard. Murray slid opened the back door and moved slowly across
the moist lawn until he stood over the oddity. He ran his hand
along the gold-plated spout and ornate claw legs. The tub had
not been present the previous day and there was no proper way
to account for its sudden appearance. When all conceivable
possibilities had been exhausted, he pushed the matter to the
back of his mind and walked into town.
The telephone companys office was banal and smelled of
cheap all-purpose cleaner. He met with the general manager a
surly man who stood over six feet tall and had biceps that hinted
at exceptional strength destroyed by age and apathy. Murray
explained how he had been speaking to a friend when the line
cut out, and how he now had no dial tone whatsoever, rendering
his phone useless. The man became agitated and called him a
Luddite, then relented slightly and promised that a technician
would be by between noon and sundown.
Murray left the office pleased with the proceedings. He
retraced his steps through the neighborhood and reveled in the
high boxwood hedges and beautifully flat black tar driveways. As
his own property came into view, he felt a sense of burgeoning
exhilaration and slowed his pace, admiring the rustic siding and
expansive front faade and second story that sat at a nearly
impossible angle.
He moved up the brick walkway and pushed his key into
the front door lock. Murray entered the foyer and stepped into
the living room, producing a smudged metallic cooking pot from
a particularly weather-beaten packing box. He continued into
the kitchen and gazed at his distorted reflection as water poured
from the sinks facet. Murray positioned the pot on a rear burner
and looked to the backyard again. His pulse quickened. The
large, bright white bathtub was full of soapy water. Inside
crouched a longhaired man waist deep in suds, his scrawny

arms contorting as he scrubbed the small of his back.

Murray crossed the kitchen and opened the back door.
Hello?
The mans eyes bulged. He screamed and vaulted onto the
grass, darting across the yard, over a sagging chain-link fence,
and down the street, sopping wet and entirely without clothing.
Murray watched him disappear and stood silently, then moved
forward as curiosity grew, rolling both sleeves past his elbows,
and dropping an arm into the warm bath.
He poked at the drain plug. It was soft, with an odd and
vaguely familiar sort of texture. His fingers scratched, pinched,
and removed a small, round potato the water gurgled and
drained quickly. He stood watching this, then, as if compelled
without any question of doubt, began dragging the tub toward
the back door as little tufts of dirt and grass clung to its legs,
slowing his progress and causing him to curse under his breath.
He maneuvered through the back door and into the
kitchen, withdrawing to the living room and returning with an
armful of bed sheets. He took great care to layer the soft cotton
thickly between the floor and the curved legs. Murray pushed
toward the staircase. The old sheets clung dutifully and
produced a slick passage across the laminate.
The water had begun to boil now, and the pots lid
clanged and spit little bits of piping hot spray around the stove.
He reached the staircase and moved to the front of the bathtub.
Dropping his hands behind him, Murray grasped at the thin
porcelain ridge, lifted, and moved forward the lower legs hit the
bottom stair. He rocked back and forth and jumped the legs to
the next step, repeating the movement several times with
growing proficiency and fatigue.
The pot of water was boiling furiously now. Plumes of
steam curled toward the ceiling and a smoke detector, ill
positioned to be anything other than a constant source of false
alarm, began emitting shrill, unconscionable beeps. He grunted
and abandoned the tub wedged diagonally between the stairway
and the wall, retreating to the kitchen.
The beeps were deafening and horrible. He eyed the
ceiling and stretched out his arms in an inspired effort of
complete futility. He considered building and clambering up a
pile of cardboard boxes, instead shifting the pot onto an unused
element and clearing the steam with wild waves of his hands.
The piercing beeps persisted.
Murray returned to the stairwell as the telephone rang.
He turned and dashed into the living room. The line was dead.
He climbed back up the staircase and squeezed around the

bathtub, clenching its ridge and rocking the legs up another

stair. Sweat was dripping from his face as the smoke alarm cut
out, leaving the house in a state of odd, buzzing silence. He
exhaled. His body loosened.
Murray pulled higher. There was a loud knock at the door
the walls shook. He wedged the tub into the stairway for a
second time and maneuvered around its sizeable frame. He
descended several steps. Another knock, then a thud and a
sliding noise signaled immediate and irreversible trouble. The
old, wonderful bathtub had dislodged from its jerry-rigged hold
and was crashing down the stairs. He turned and braced himself
as 200 pounds of finely crafted porcelain slammed into his jaw.
Murray lay pinned under the tub. A ringing was vibrating
the hallway and he kept still, disoriented in his surroundings. A
loud crack from the mail slot focused his attention and he
craned his neck to see a thin sheet of paper settle onto the
ground, partially upright, with the phrase no response, will
contact within 10 business days printed in large, bold lettering.
He considered this inconvenience as the ringing became louder
and more pronounced, before quitting outright. A dull click and
a beep sounded, and the mechanical noise of analog tape
brought a friendly and enthusiastic voice floating in from the
living room. He struggled, unable to free himself. Murray hoped
the voice would call back.

Monica Macansantos
Maricel
There were six of these boys, and at dismissal time, one
would spot them taking their sweet time as they swaggered
towards the gate. Sometimes they stood, legs apart, in a circle in
the middle of the walkway, and theyd definitely be in ones way
if one wanted to get out sooner, for that was what they wanted.
They had their shirttails out, in defiance of the schools dress
code, and they were proudly aware that others envied their
insouciance, for they yawned, looked at those who looked at
them, and winked. One of them had a gold chain dangling from
his earlobe, and hed toss his head as if his fancy earring
couldnt catch enough light. He had rotten teeth and a highpitched voice, and Maricel didnt like him. The boy who stood at
the head of the circle, the fair, dark-eyed, broad-shouldered boy,
was the one who made her blush.
Hoy, Miss Byuteepul! he yelled at her, as she and her
kabarkada walked past them on their way to the gate, one
cloudy September afternoon.
As if on cue, his friends started hooting. She didnt like
this part. She didnt want their attention, only his.
Get out of our way, punyeta! Nadia, Maricels
kabarkada, spat out.
Hoy, ugly, he wasnt talking to you, so back off, the boy
with the chain dangling from his earlobe yelled back. He
swaggered towards Nadia, and thrust his face in front of hers.
Why, who do you think you are? Nadia muttered,
narrowing her eyes.
You think you can talk to me like that, eh? Do you think
I dont hit girls? Maybe you want a black eye as big as the one I
gave to my girlfriend.
Donna, another kabarkada of Maricel, touched Nadias
shoulder. Let it go. Hes a Tumbleweed.
Lets just get going, Nadia. Hes not worth your time,
Maricel said. A crowd of students in uniforms had gathered
around them, their bodies smelling of sweat and curiosity.
Nadia waved her kabarkadas away. This isnt any of your
business. This is our fight.
Just then, the fair, broad-shouldered, dark-eyed boy
pulled his friend away. Hey, dont start a fight with these ladies.
We dont do that kind of stuff, right? he said, flashing a smile at
the girls.

Nadia sneered. Just admit youre both pussies, and leave

us alone.
He glanced at Nadia, then raised his palms and backed
away. Hoy, peace ha. We dont want a fight. All we offer you is
peace. Peace! he exclaimed, waving the peace sign near her
face, as though he were explaining something new to a child.
Yeah, thats exactly what we want. Thank you! Maricel
said, putting an arm around Nadias shoulders and pulling her
towards the gate, while Donna tagged behind them.
When they were past the gate, Nadia grabbed Maricels
wrist, squeezing it until Maricel cried out.
What do you think you were doing in there, butting into
a fight you werent a part of, eh? Nadia whispered, twisting
Maricels wrist.
Im so sorry, I wont do it again, please let go, please,
Maricel begged. Nadias hands were small, but strong.
And you, Donna, youre just as worthless, Nadia said as
she pushed Donnas cheek with her free hand. Donna
whimpered, and looked away.
Maricel breathed hard and swallowed, as if this could
make the pain a little more bearable. Nadia chuckled, dropping
Maricels wrist. Gasping, Maricel brought her wrist to her chest,
squeezing it with her free hand.
Do you think youre beautiful? Well, miss, youre not.
Youre so ugly! Nadia hissed into her ear.
A teacher glanced at their group, raised an eyebrow, and
kept walking.
The closer she was to her familys apartment, the louder
their voices became: harsh, raspy, masculine voices, jostling,
mingling as night settled in. She could identify her brothers
voice, a deep and solid baritone he used for barking orders or
invectives, and rarely for endearments.
You shouldve seen him the other night. Drunk after two
beers! Who gets drunk after two beers? Jojo, her brother,
asked, sending a ripple of laughter through the group.
They were gathered in front of the sari-sari store a block
away from their apartment, smoking, passing around a shot of
cheap gin, and a bag of pork rinds. She looked away as she
walked past them, careful not to encourage Jojos friends with as
much as a nod, or a look.
The buzz of the television mingled with the sputter of
cooking oil as Maricel walked through the front door. Her mother
had returned a few months ago from Israel, where she had
worked as a housekeeper and sent her monthly earnings home.

Now that she was finally with them, she kept the TV blaring as
she cooked, dusted the living room, washed clothes, talked on
the phone, and slept. When she had been away, Maricel and
Jojo lived with their unmarried aunt, a bank teller who was out
with her boyfriends much of the time. Maricel had gotten too
used to the silence of her aunts house, and this constant
blaring made her anxious and walled in whenever she came
home from school.
Theres fried fish and sliced tomatoes. Rice in the pot.
Eat whenever you want, her mother said. She ladled oily slices
of fish into a serving bowl, and left them to cool on the dining
table.
Maricel went to her room to change. She could hear
channels being switched as she unbuttoned her white blouse,
unzipped her checkered uniform skirt, and pulled on a pair of
sweat pants and a T-shirt. When she returned to the kitchen,
her mother was sitting before the TV, legs folded under her
bottom, cigarette in hand.
Ma?
Ow.
Lets eat.
Ill eat after I finish this show, just go ahead, child.
As Maricel ate, she watched her mother take drags from
her cigarette, exhale plumes of smoke, and tap the ashes into an
amber-colored ashtray with the words San Miguel Beer printed
in bold Gothic script. Maricel still couldnt bend her wrist, and
she used her good hand to hold the rice scooper. She wondered
how long her mothers savings would last, and if her mother
planned to look for a job.
The door swung open and Jojo ambled in. He placed his
hands on the back of the living room couch, and leaned in as he
took in the moving figures on the television screen. I can never
watch a basketball game here because of your telenovelas, Jojo
said, straightening himself. He gave Maricel a cursory glance,
and it was only when his eyes landed on the platter of fish did he
start walking in her direction.
As Jojo took a plate from the dish rack, their mother
spoke. Mang Ernie has a TV in his sari-sari store. I see you
watching games there all the time. I wonder why you complain.
Because I want to watch the games at my house
sometimes. Jojo slammed his plate on the dining table, right
across from where Maricel sat.
Try paying the rent and doing chores. Maybe then you
could think about doing whatever you want in my house.
Oh, so this isnt my house anymore.

Maricel got up, brought her plate to the sink, and

switched on the faucet. Aside from listening to the sound of
running water, there wasnt much she could do to block out
their voices.
Her mother took another indulgent drag, and after
exhaling, said, As long as youre not paying the rent, Jojo, it
isnt.
Youre a bitch, Mom.
Maricel retreated to her bedroom before her mother could
come up with another tart reply. She lay face down on her bed
and buried her head in her pillow, trying to imagine the silence
of long ago, before her mother had returned, when her life wasnt
enclosed within these cramped spaces.
*
Nadia and Donna hadnt been her only friends. Back in
elementary school, there was Jamie, whose friendship seemed as
impossible as the house she inhabited. She could still remember
the silence that filled the living room of Jamies house that
wasnt hollow, but ghostly, as though a living soul had been
ensnared by the houses stillness. Objects stared at Maricel
when Jamie took her hand and led her beyond the front door: an
old phonograph gathering dust in one corner of the living room,
a leafy plant in another corner, two watercolors of the same
desolate forest, a box of colored glass balls at the center of a
driftwood coffee table, ceramics and carvings displayed on the
divider in the wall, and two huge bookcases crammed with
books. The only books in Maricels house were a Bible and a
phone directory. She wondered why people would want to read
so much.
She came here every afternoon with Jamie, after school.
Shed stare in awe at Jamies Barbie dolls, stored in a glass case
in Jamies bedroom. Jamie would take them down, one at a
time, and sometimes shed shake them from side to side in
Maricels face, singing, Isnt she pretty? Isnt she pretty? while
Maricel blocked her face with her hand to keep the dolls hair
from getting into her eyes. There was Policewoman Barbie with
her black cap, snappy white blouse, and black miniskirt;
Bridesmaid Barbie with her pink, polka dotted train and puffed
sleeves; and Miss Philippines Barbie with her tiny tiara, butterfly
sleeves, and silvery tube skirt. Maricels body was developing
faster than Jamies, and the dolls, when undressed, seemed to
tease her about the future that was growing inside her. Boys
leered at her as she walked down the corridors of her private,
Catholic elementary school, while Jamie ignored them, twittering
away about the latest book she had read. Jamie had the skinny

body of a boy, and was too absorbed in books and movies to pay
attention to the boys in their school. Maricel didnt have enough
books at home to distract her. As she sat in class, she returned
the looks of these boys, and was suddenly conscious of how her
training bra was biting into her flesh and squeezing at those
breasts that wouldnt stop growing.
Jamies father, a tall, quiet, bespectacled man, was
always at home whenever Maricel visited Jamies house, and
asked them about school as he prepared peanut butter and jelly
sandwiches for them. When he wasnt talking to them, hed be in
his office next to the dining room, typing in his computer. Jamie
said he was a sports writerhe wrote PR for rich and famous
people too, she added with flourish. Maricel nodded and
pretended to know what PR meant, so that Jamie wouldnt
laugh at her. This was probably what some fathers did for a
living. She sometimes wondered what her own father did. Jojo
once told her that he was in Manila, but if she looked for him,
she wouldnt know where to go.
Jamie passed the City Science High School test when they
were about to graduate from Sixth Grade. By then, Jojo was
going to the public Central High, and Maricel knew she was
going there too. Her mothers contract in Israel was about to
end, and it wasnt as if they had money left to keep sending
Maricel to private school. Maricel didnt mind, except for the fact
that she wouldnt be seeing Jamie as often.
They called each other almost every day during their first
two weeks as high school freshmen. Friendship never dies, she
told Jamie over the phone, and Jamie said, Isnt there a better
way of saying that? Thats so clich. Jamie was spending more
time with her new friends at the Science High, smart kids like
Jamie who lived in leafy neighborhoods Maricel had never been
to. In one of their phone conversations, Jamie teased her about
not knowing the meaning of an English word that Jamie had
tossed at her like the Barbie dolls that Jamie allowed her to play
with before taking them away from her. Maricel didnt bother to
remember the word after she hung up that night. She didnt
have to be reminded that she wasnt smart enough, or rich
enough, to be Jamies friend.
When Jamie didnt call for two weeks, Maricel picked up
the phone, and hesitated before dialing Jamies number. She
couldnt get past the third digit. It seemed that Jamie realized,
before she did, that these calls werent worth their time.
It was another Monday, another general flag ceremony.
They had just finished singing the national anthem and school

hymn, and they knew it would take at least half an hour more
for Dr. Manalo, the principal, to leave the podium. Maricels
classmates were taking off their jackets and holding them above
their heads to shield themselves from the heat. Citizens Army
Training officers in white T-shirts and khaki pants stood, side by
side, on either end of the quadrangle, keeping students corralled
under the cloudless sky.
The section lines had dissolved, now that people had
found their groups. The hip hoppers stood with their legs apart,
showing off their baggy pants and unbuttoned polo shirts. The
Igorots, dressed in corduroy bell-bottom pants and silver-pointed
cowboy boots, threw angry glances at the crowd, and stood in
tight circles as though to guard a secret loathing for those who
didnt belong to their tribe. A group of lipstick-wearing girls
stood in a circle, passing around a compact powder case and
taking turns powdering their faces. Maricel spotted Jojos
barkada from a distance pacing around in idle circles, wiping
away the sweat on their foreheads with the sleeves of their
uniforms, chatting with a bored-looking group of girls. Dr.
Manalos voice floated above their heads, failing to penetrate the
hum of their voices.
Let us give a big round of applause to the Baguio City
Central High School! Dr. Manalos voice thundered from the
podium. This was the school bands cue to play a quick, sloppy
marching tune.
This was when Maricel spotted the fair, dark-eyed, broadshouldered boy.
He seemed to be telling a story to his friends, because
they listened to him with rapt attention as he accompanied each
punch line with movement. He moaned, twirled his finger in the
air, swayed his head from left to right and bended backward,
dodging an imagined attacker. Maricel wondered what the story
was. As if he had read her mind, he spotted her in the crowd,
and smiled.
She was barely following the story Donna was telling her.
These stories became more unbelievable every time she listened
to them. Today, it was about a girl from another high school who
had been brainwashed by her cousin.
He locked her up in a closet for an entire weekend. When
they opened the closet, Donna whispered, she had drool all
over her clothes. She couldnt speak but her eyes were open
wide.
So she became inutil? Nadia asked.
Well, what else? She wasnt moving.

Their voices trailed away, dissolved in the heat. Maricels

eyes wandered, passing over the sea of anonymous,
unremarkable faces. Once or twice, her gaze fell on Dr. Manalo,
whose wide smile flashed at them like a searchlight. Maricel
could hear the sound of her voice, but couldnt make out the
words.
Nadia nudged her. Hoy. She grinned when Maricel
turned.
Youre not listening, Nadia said.
Yeah, Donna said. Why werent you listening?
Hey, sorry, I was just
Looking for someone in the crowd? Donna teased. She
and Nadia doubled up in laughter. Nadia took Maricels arm,
and dug her sharp fingernails into Maricels flesh.
Just as Maricel was about to cry out in pain, there was a
commotion at the far end of the quadrangle, and Nadia dropped
Maricels arm. Everyone turned to see what it was. Maricel
craned her neck to see above the heads in front of her. She
recognized the broad-shouldered boys green plaid jacket
flapping in the wind as he dashed across the garden at the right
end of the quadrangle and jumped over its low iron fence. This
corner of the quadrangle was unguarded by Citizens Army
Training officers, and their commandant shouted orders as
students cheered. The boy turned, raised a fist in triumph,
laughed, and ran off.
Show-off, Nadia muttered.
His laughter rang in Maricels ears as they filed back to
their classrooms. She trailed Nadia and Donna as they made
their way through the crowd, and as she was about to lose them,
she felt a tapping on her shoulder. She turned, and the boy with
a gold chain dangling from his earlobe grinned at her. He thrust
a note into her hand, winked, and disappeared into the crowd.
Maricel put the note in her skirt pocket and waited. At
recess, she entered the girls restroom alone, and waited in line
until she had a stall to herself. She locked the wooden door
behind her, took the note from her pocket, unfolded it, and read.
You are invited to a meeting of our proud organization at four
oclock this afternoon at Sunshine Park. Our organization boasts
of over 200 members and is a powerful group in our school. Our
leaders have chosen you to join our elite ranks, and we expect
you to be there.
Noel Flores
Supreme Leader, Tumbleweeds
Maricel, Im waiting for you.

The note was handwritten. He knew her name. His penmanship

was astonishingly elegant, the last line a lasso pulling her away
from the sea of faces in her school. The word Tumbleweeds,
written in Gothic letters, had spread like a worm across the
bathroom walls during the last couple of months. It had found
her, in this rank, mud-stained bathroom stall.
When the afternoon bell rang, Maricel rushed out of her
classroom before Nadia or Donna could wait for her to join them
in their walk to the main gate. She ran all the way to the park
across the street from school, and almost bumped into a group
of jacket-clad tourists from Manila who pointed their camera
lenses at the towering pine trees and flowerbeds that lined the
paved walk. Scarved Igorot cleaning ladies with tattooed arms
puttered about with their brooms and dustpans, munching on
betel nuts while sweeping up food wrappers and plastic cups.
Concrete benches painted to look like halved pine logs lined the
paved square. Students in uniforms sat on the pavement,
surrounding the dark-eyed, broad-shouldered boy, who stood in
the middle of the circle. Jacketed boys in caps and sunglasses
flanked him. Girls wearing hoop earrings and lip gloss sat facing
him, and threw suspicious looks at Maricel as she approached
the group.
Who is she? a girl with scrunched-up hair and gold
hoop earrings asked.
The boy with a chain dangling from his earlobe stood up,
lowered his sunglasses, and upon recognizing Maricel, said, I
invited her, Celia. Shes cool.
Shut up, Makoy. I invited her, Noel said, and nodded at
Maricel. Welcome.
He resumed speaking as she took her seat behind the
group. A girl in the second row turned to look at Maricel, and
dragged her ringed middle finger down the bridge of her nose.
Maricel chose to ignore her, fixing her eyes on Noel.
The afternoon sun turned his fair skin into gold. His voice
rose, fell, and tumbled forth, and he cast his words over them
like a solid, sturdy net.
The yellow belters stole our spot at the Athletic Bowl. If it
werent for you stupid wussies, that spot would still be ours.
What are you, chickens?
He jabbed his finger at them and moved it from left to
right as his voice reached another hard crescendo. She was
amazed by how he held their attention at the tip of his finger,
which radiated whenever it was touched by light. He set his eyes
on her, and she felt his dark pupils girding her, pulling her in.

They dispersed when the meeting ended; the girls walking

to the jeepney stop in one group, the boys to the graffiti-covered
archway at the north entrance of the park in another. She
watched both groups, too timid to join either of them. She felt
someone tapping on her shoulder, and turned to see Noel.
Thanks for coming, he said.
Thank you for inviting me, she said, trying not to
stammer.
I wanted to recruit you for a long time. If it werent for
that nasty friend of yours, we wouldve approached you sooner.
You mean Nadia?
Her names Nadia? Names too pretty for a face like that.
He brushed her cheek with his finger. Her face grew hot.
I was just looking for an excuse to see you. I couldnt
come up with anything else.
Youre kidding me.
No, Im not. He shook his head, cast down his eyes, and
kicked a pebble away. Can I talk to you sometime?
When?
Well see each other again. Ill find a way.
He brushed her arm with his palm, jogged away, and
joined his friends, who hooted and offered him high fives. She
wished Noel could take her away with him, right then and there,
but she had to wait for his signal, for permission to follow his
lead.
Jojo was sitting on the living room couch, strumming a
tune on his guitar, when she got home. As she walked to her
room, he drove his thumb down the strings, paused, and asked,
Do you know where Mom is?
No.
The bitch. Jojo frowned. For all we know, she has a
new boyfriend.
She stopped. So what if she has a new boyfriend?
Jojo clasped his guitar. What about our Dad?
If he wanted to see us, he wouldve looked for us long
ago.
If she disappears for good, Im not looking for her.
He gave the guitar strings a swift, upward brush, and
then continued to play. Maricel clasped the straps of her
backpack, trying to follow her brothers thoughts in the riffs he
played. Ever since he found a barkada in high school, he rarely
spoke to her, except to ask her about their mother, or the next
meal. Maricel never had the answers to his questions. To him,
she was probably another useless fixture in the house, like the

Hello Kitty clock on the wall, the small Santo Nino in his golden
robe, the silk carnations on the dining table, gathering dust.
If I disappeared, would you look for me? Maricel asked.
Jojo stopped strumming, and looked up. What kind of
question is that?
I dont know. It just crossed my mind.
Youre not thinking of running away, are you?
Maricel hesitated. Maybe not.
Jojo strummed a riff, and looked up at her again. If I
were you, I wouldve left this place sooner. But Im not you. Its
your life, really.
So that means you wouldnt look for me.
Jojo winced and scratched his head. Stop bugging me. I
dont know. As I said, its your life, and I dont want to get in the
way.
Dont, then.
Jojo picked up the remote, and the TV screen flashed at
him like an opened eye. If Mom doesnt come home now, Ill die
of hunger.
She walked to her room and shut the door.
The week wore on. She went to school every day, sat in her
assigned seat, and watched her teachers form words with their
mouths. The walls of her classroom were closing around her,
and the endless chatter that filled the damp corridors followed
her like a tidal wave that drowned her and filled her ears until
she couldnt hear anything else, except Noels voice.
Somethings on your mind, Donna said at recess one
day, as Maricel, Donna, and Nadia stood in line in front of the
fishball stand beside the entrance to the school cafeteria.
Tell us your secret, bitch, Nadia said, nudging Maricel
awake.
Maricel turned to look at Nadia, and felt herself tremble
as she said, Call me bitch again, and Ill slap you.
Nadia raised an eyebrow. Excuse me. Was that an empty
threat I just heard?
Its a warning, and it isnt empty.
Drops of spit landed on Maricels face as Nadia laughed.
If it wasnt for me, you wouldnt have friends in this school.
Those kids in our section wouldve messed you up really well.
Oh, but now you can disrespect your poor friend Nadia, since
youve just learned that boys would do anything to have a
glimpse of those melons, eh?
Nadia placed the tip of her finger on Maricels nipple. By
impulse, Maricel slapped her. Nadia cupped her cheek, eyes

widened in shock, and before she could raise a fist, Maricel

bolted.
Hey, Im not done with you! Be prepared, bitch!
As Maricel ran, she searched the school grounds for a
familiar face, but was met with stares. She thought of hiding in
the restroom stalls, but shed have to wait in line before she
could shut a door stall behind her. She thought of the alleyways
behind the makeshift classrooms, but she remembered the
construction worker who called her a sexy little thing a few
weeks ago, when she was alone and looking for a shortcut to her
classroom after arriving late at school. She had to get out of this
campus, maybe hide somewhere in the city. As she ran down the
corridor to her classroom to get her things, she spotted Noels
swagger and green plaid jacket. He turned and stood, legs
spread, blocking her way.
Hey, hey, hey! Whats with all the running? Noel asked.
Maricel stopped before him and put her hands on her
chest, catching her breath. You have to help me, please.
Someone chasing you?
Sort of. I just have to get out of here before Nadia finds
me.
Oh, so you were in a fight. Noel chuckled and took her
by the arm, leading her down the corridor. I knew you had some
fire in you.
She didnt know who she was dealing with.
From now on, you wont have to run away from anybody.
Were here to protect you.
Thanks. Maricel swallowed. I havent seen you in this
building before.
Well, I havent been to the freshman building in a while.
Since you were a freshman?
No, not that long ago. I come to visit friends, once in a
while, he said, stopping and fixing his dark eyes on her.
Who were you visiting? she asked.
Just someone, but I dont know if she wants to be my
friend.
Both of them smiled.
I was getting bored, and I felt like taking a walk, he said.
I wanted to take a walk too.
So that makes us a pair.
He straightened himself and gazed into her face as though
he were her teacher, waiting for her to respond to a question
hed just posed.
We can leave this place if you want to, he said.
Please.

Im not coming back after we leave. But you can, if you

want to.
I cant come back.
Of course. Thats why Im taking you away.
Let me get my bag.
Ill wait for you. He put his hands in his pockets, and
nodded as she made for her classroom door.
Traffic thickened as they entered the downtown area. The
Baguio Chinese School, a navy blue building, cast a bulky
shadow over the busy street. The acrid smell of day-old urine
filled Maricels nostrils as they passed the eucalyptus trees that
flanked the entrance to Burnham Park. A skinny child blocked
their way and shoved a pail of nuts into their faces.
Little boy, not now. We dont have money, Noel said,
before sliding a cigarette into his mouth.
Please, kuya, please buy, the boy whined.
Didnt you hear him? He said we wont buy, Maricel
snapped. The boy gave her a hurt look, and sprinted away.
God, you have a temper, Noel said, before lighting his
cigarette.
Those kids just get on my nerves.
He pulled out his cigarette, and exhaled. Youre just as
scary as your friend.
Really?
I used to be so scared of you I wouldnt approach you.
Im a nice girl. You just dont know me enough.
Thats why I like you. Youre a mystery to me.
A wooden swan floated on the man-made lake, carrying
the nervous giggles of a group of nuns.
Noel led her to a row of squat, narrow eateries at the other
end of the park, and they shared a coffee-stained linoleum table
with a pair of sullen jeepney drivers who slurped down their
steaming bowls of watery rice mixed with pig entrails. Aside from
the aproned women who stood behind pots of food and collected
used plates and cups, she was the only girl in this eatery. But
Noel said this was his favorite place to go for lunch, and she felt
safe with him.
Things usually get better when weve tested you, Noel
said, mixing the caldereta on his plate with his rice.
What do I have to do? She waved away a fly from her
Coke bottle.
Youll have to prove your loyalty, just like the rest of us
once did.

As he said this, he placed his hand on hers, and gave her

a look of reassurance.
You look scared, he said. Dont be. Im on your side. Ill
make it easier for you.
You would?
I was the one who recruited you, so why would I make
things harder for you? Besides, Im the Supremo. Everyone
respects me.
In the dim light of this soot-filled dining hall, his eyes
seemed gentler. His voice was firm, enveloping her in its warmth.
Lets go, he said, nodding. She stood up after him and
followed him outside. Flies settled on their plates, sipping the
leftover juice of her meals.
I live nearby. Would you want to come over to my place?
My mothers at work. Well have the house to ourselves, he said,
taking her hand as they crossed the road.
Cant we just hang out at the park instead?
Noel laughed. Cel, were still in uniform. If a teacher
catches us, were dead.
But why do we have to go to your house?
They had reached the other side of the road. Noel stopped,
and gave her a puzzled look.
Dont you want to see my place?
I dont know.
But I thought we were friends, he said, letting go of her
hand.
Yeah, of course were friends. Im just feeling nervous,
thats all.
You dont trust me.
No. Im just not used to this.
Fine. Go home. I thought we were cool, but it looks like
we arent. He turned, and began making his way through the
midday crowd.
She never came home this earlywhat would her mother
say if she walked through their front door at this hour? She
couldnt go back to school eitherNadia was waiting for her, and
no one would protect her now, not even Noel. She hadnt been
careful, and now she was losing him.
Ill come with you. Please, dont leave me here, she
yelled.
He turned and walked back to her. Why didnt you say so
earlier? he asked, putting an arm around her and pulling her
along.
Used clothes stores spilled onto the sidewalk. Battered
leather bags and stuffed toys were heaped in cardboard boxes at

the entrances to these shops. Tired blouses hung in rows, their

faded, drooping shoulders knowing a firmer past. Hanging from
plywood walls were winter jackets, dresses, and the occasional
sequined gown. Girls with empty stares sat near the entrances of
these shops, listening to telenovelas on their cheap Chinese
radios.
Noel led Maricel to a side street and they passed a few
more stalls. The peeling faade of the Bayanihan Hotel cast its
shadow on the sidewalk, darkening the greenish liquid that
trickled down the gutters. Young boys clad in greasy rags darted
through the crowd, dipping their hands into blind beggars cups.
Veiled Muslim peddlers filled the air with their shrill, nagging
voices. Wet clothes hung like heavy flags from the windows
above.
They approached a narrow wooden doorframe, and
clambered up a staircase that creaked under their feet. They
entered a small hallway lit by moth-stained incandescent lamps.
Children darted past them, battering the floorboards with their
feet as they ran into the street. There were doors on each side. A
radio blared from one of them, a baby screamed from behind
another. They passed a few more doors before stopping in front
of one. Noel pulled out a bunch of keys from his pocket, picked
through them, and inserted one into the doorknob. A woman in
heavy makeup and shorts stood in the doorway across from
where they stood, trailing them with her eyes as she drew a
cigarette to her lips.
The door opened with a creak. In front of them was a
worn velvet couch, facing a glass coffee table and a small
television set; a long plastic shelf on the left, holding plastic
figurines and dusty stuffed toys; a kitchenette on the right, near
the window, covered by an oily lace curtain; and, besides the
kitchenette, a row of unevenly painted doors.
Anybody home? Noel called out, sauntering around the
apartment, turning back the oily curtain with a finger. Stopping
in the middle of the room, he put his hands in his pockets and
said, You can put your bag down. I want you to sit on the
couch.
Maricel approached the couch with caution, and as she
sat down, the smell of old cigarettes and sweat rose from the
cushions like an invisible cloud. She felt a pang of loneliness as
her eyes traveled around the room. Noel watched her as she
placed her backpack on the coffee table and folded her hands in
her lap, as though he had witnessed this scene before, and had
rehearsed his part long before Maricel knew hers.

Noel took a seat beside her, and placed an arm on the

back of the couch, behind Maricel. The noise of the street floated
up to the room as he placed a sweaty hand on her shoulder.
She had spent so many of her days just being afraid,
thinking about the future seemed like a luxury she had enjoyed
when she was younger, when her mother wasnt around, when
she had more time for herself, when she could come to Jamies
house and make Jamies Barbie dolls enact the life she dreamt
of having. She hadnt prepared herself for this. She herself laid
to waste her own future. Here it was before her, a drab room in a
drab city.
He leaned over, and kissed her on the cheek.
She thought of the doors along the corridor outside this
room, and how equally hopeless, perhaps, the rooms behind
each door looked on the inside.
His hand moved down, to where her collar was, and he
unfastened the top button of her blouse.
Dont. The word came out in a dry whisper.
He unfastened another button, and looked up. Dont
worry.
She pushed his hand away, and stood, taking her
backpack with her. She fixed her eyes on a plastic wall clock as
she pulled her backpack straps over her shoulders, straightened
her blouse, and buttoned it up.
You need my help, Maricel.
I have to go home.
We have members across the city, sister. They all listen
to me. If you want to get home safe, youll need my help.
As she turned, she spotted a vase on the coffee table. It
was tall and heavy enough, in case she had to resort to that.
You dont strike me as nave, he said, spreading his legs
wide. You mustve heard of the things we do. We protect our
friends, but were not kind to our enemies.
Whats going to happen? she asked.
He winced, crinkled his nose. I thought I liked you, but
you dont trust me. Im sorry Cel, but I have a reputation to
protect.
Noel got up and followed her as she backed away from
him. He put his hand in his pocket, and jingled the keys that
were inside. I was trying to help you. Why do you have to
suspect me of all the wrong things?
Please dont hurt me.
If you just trust me, I wont hurt you, he said.
Her heart was pounding. She brushed one of her
backpacks side pockets. There was a pencil in there. That would

do, for now. As she pulled it out, gripping it, he grabbed her
wrist. The pencil fell from her hand. She screamed, and he
clamped his left hand over her mouth, using his other arm to
shove her to the wall. He was tall and strong, and she felt the air
in her lungs go out of her as he leaned against her body.
His right arm tore across her chest, ripping her blouse
open. Buttons fell to the floor. His other hand was pressing
down on her mouth, and she yanked her head back before
sinking her teeth into the skin of his palm. His hand tasted of
salt and dirt, and she bit down until she could taste his blood.
He yelled, and as he pulled away, gasping, she stomped on his
foot. She then ran to the door, struggled with the doorknob, and
swung the door open.
She shoved a little boy aside as she ran down the hallway.
The ashen glow of the light bulbs trickled down the staircase,
illuminating the doorframe that seemed, as she pulled her torn
blouse over her chest, like the end of a long tunnel.
On the jeepney home, she trembled as she fixed her hair
and wiped away the blood from her lips with the back of her
hand. Her blouse kept falling open, and she held it together with
a closed fist. When other passengers stared at her, she looked
away. Shed return home and pretend that nothing happened.
That wasnt difficult to do, since no one at home asked her
questions whenever she returned from school. Home was a place
where time remained constantnothing changed, or propelled
her towards the future.
Male voices peppered the air as she approached the front
door of their apartment. When she opened the door, Jojo and his
friends were gathered around the kitchen table, laughing,
jeering, and slapping each others backs. Jojo was too distracted
to even notice her, and she was thankful for this. A cloud of
cigarette smoke hovered above his head, and empty beer bottles
littered the table. Her mother was seated on the living room
couch, eyes glued to the TV screen.
Maricel was too tired to come up with excuses for being
home early, so when her mother looked over her shoulder, she
braced herself for a scolding.
Youre playing hooky too? her mother asked.
We were dismissed early today, Maricel answered.
What happened to your shirt?
She hurriedly grabbed the lapels of her blouse and pulled
them together. The buttons fell at school.
There was an explosion on TV, and her mother turned.
This was all she needed: a distraction. Oh my God, is Lucie

dead? her mother asked, nervously tapping the ashes of her

cigarette into her San Miguel Beer ashtray.
Sitting beside her mother wasnt too difficult. They didnt
need to talkthe sound of the TV was enough to fill the silence
that came between them. The background music swelled when a
body was pulled from a burning car, and her mother brought her
hands to her open mouth.
Ma? Maricel asked.
Her mothers eyes were glued to the screen. She hadnt
heard her.
Ma. Whats the story of this show?
Her mothers hands fell to her lap. Just as Maricel was
about to give up, her mother began to speak. Its about a girl
who was exchanged at birth with another girl at the hospital
where she was born. Her real parents are rich, but the poor
parents of the other girl raise her. The other girl grows up rich
and bullies this girl when they meet at school. I wonder why they
had to kill the spoiled girl. She was mean, but she wasnt that
evil. Jojo and his friends broke into song, and her mother
winced.
Cant you shut up? Im thinking, her mother yelled.
They stopped singing, and Jojo yelled, If you dont want
to hear us, turn up the volume! before waving at his
companions to continue.
Her mother pointed the remote at the TV screen and
pressed down on the volume key, drowning their laughter in
music. Their singing grew louder, jostling with the sound of
dialogue and weeping.
Without taking her eyes from the screen, she yelled,
When I was in Israel, I couldnt watch Filipino telenovelas. My
boss watched TV all the time too, but the shows were all in
Hebrew. I really had to come home.
Did you miss us? Maricel yelled back.
She took Maricels free hand and squeezed it. You should
watch TV with me more often, she yelled. Youre always in your
room and I never know what youre up to.
Maricel nodded, and tried to concentrate as she fixed her
eyes on the TV screen. But she soon found herself pulling her
hand from her mothers grasp and rising from the couch, taking
her backpack with her. She forgot about her blouse, and it fell
open, exposing her bra.
Hey, sexy! one of Jojos friends yelled.
She froze, and the fear shed felt earlier that afternoon,
and even before that, came rushing back like a cold wave. So it
had stalked her through the city, all the way to her home.

Pulling her blouse together, she turned to look at this boy. He

licked his dark lips, winked at her, laughed. What was it that
this boy wanted, that Noel, and all boys, wanted from her? They
all had that same look, that same leery voice.
Jojo grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out of
their apartment. Maricel ran into her room, shutting her
bedroom door behind her before Jojo could call her a slut. The
sound of the door slamming vibrated through her body, a hollow
instrument that could only register a painful, regretful
emptiness. She dropped her backpack on the floor and leaned
against the door, closing her eyes. They were hurtingit was
hard to keep them shut. She opened them, and through her
tears, she saw her twin bed, her collection of thrift store teddy
bears on the shelf above, and the lone window that faced the
grey wall of their neighbors house. It was a small, often
suffocating room, but it was a good place to hide and cry. Her
chest was wracked with sobbing as she climbed into her bed and
buried her face in her pillow. The noise outside her door
drowned out her sobbing, and she cried until she was
exhausted. Afterwards, when she was strong enough, she got up
and wiped her face with Kleenex. Her wrist was hurting, and she
rubbed it, thinking of what shed do when Noel and his friends
came looking for her at school the next day.

A. LaFaye
Point B Deferred
The shortest route between point A and point B is a
straight line, so let me be direct. I fucked up. Thats about as
direct as I can get.
Here I am zigzagging my way through rural Arkansas to
make it to my father before he dies and I went the wrong way.
Maybe it was the 1AM phone call from Mom that started, Your
father didnt want me to call, but its almost time...
Put a ticking clock over their heads and most guys go
straight for the finish line, but I never even stay on the track
hell, in the one and only relay race Ive runsixth grade trackand-field event on the last day of school, I got a little distracted
by a fallen birds nest on the edge of the track and wasnt there
for the hand off.
My girl gives me a dowhat-I-say-or-were-done
ultimatum and Im hundreds of miles away from herprobably
too far from my parents place to make it in timeand six hours
into a drive that shouldve taken five.
I took 55 out of St. Louis instead of 255 and headed for
Memphis for 100 miles before I realized Id screwed up. Now, Im
backtracking, thinking, if point A where my high school
graduationwhich I nearly missed due to a debate with a gas
station attendant about the inappropriate use of Give me your
John Henry as a colloquial substitution for Give me your John
Hancock considering John Henry was most likely one of about
200 illiterate convicts worked to death on a chain gang
construction of a railroad tunnel.
Anyway, if point A was the high school graduation I nearly
missed and B was the point at which I became gainfully
employedthat coveted destination that my father claims should
be my holy grail and turns out to be the brass ring you insist I
jump for or were done then let me shoot for a working
definition of Point B. Should it be defined in terms of a
permanent position (as in this is a job I could stand for more
than three semesters in a row)? Or perhaps, financial security (I
can pay my rent on time for 12 months in a row, rather than 6,
okay, 5), or in terms of the contributions Ive made to society?
Im still working on that last one.
Okay, okay, so I never made it to point B. I rarely ever do.
You know, Im the king of tangents of all kindsphysical:
I should be pulling into the retirement town my parents call

home about now, but instead Im on the mind numbingly

straight stretch between Poplar Bluff, MO and Corning, AR.
Intellectual; stopping at an Army recruiting office to discuss the
theory that the Vietnam War (pardon me, armed conflict) could
have been averted if JFK had traveled in a protected vehicle in
November of 1963 and General Thomas W Brown had lost at
PleiMe in Vietnam. Existential; if God exists at all points in time
in the space-time continuum, does free will exist? Better yet,
does God have a sense of humor when you consider that nearly
all humor is based on the sarcastic ridicule of a creation of
Gods? Political: For the sake of your ears, Ill just leave that one
alone.
Youve heard me tell people my middle name is Tangent,
but its really Tenniel after a great, great, great uncle who was
supposed to have been one of the only soldiers to have survived
Pickets Charge, but hed really deserted on the first day of the
Battle of Gettysburg and fled to Philadelphia to sell
subscriptions to Harpers Bazaar door to door.
My father always says, What good is all that information
if you dont put it to some use?
Shit, do I have to start saying, said now?
I need to call my mom. Let her know where Im at.
Why the hell didnt I bring my charger? My cell battery
died back in Festus, MO. But my tape recorders still spinning
its wheels, so Im going to keep talking to you, keep telling you
my Lucillethe girl who said, pointing the knife you were using
to dice celery for the chili you took to the charity cook off at
church today, Give me a straight answer or Im leaving. When
are you going to find a job you can keep? Or better yetone you
enjoy!
And the only thing I can keep straight right now is this
car, traveling down this road, but I can already see a blinking
traffic light ahead of me and Ill have to make a choice. Make a
turn.
And all I can see in my minds eye is Dad, his reading
glasses (just a buck from the Dollar Store) perched on his nose,
those watery blue-green eyes staring me down over the radio his
fixing next to his plate of eggs, bacon and toast all diced up and
mixed together, the screwdriver in his hand wagging in my
direction.
Why are people always shaking sharp objects at me?
Screwdriver flailing, Dad said, Dont do a job unless you
do it right. And no job is worth doing if its not useful.

Now theres a line of reasoning Benjamin Franklin would

approve of. If you dont know why, let me give you a hint,
Utilitarianism.
But he has a point, my dad, that is, well, actually,
Franklin had a few of his ownsee The Way to Wealth where
he pretends to be someone else to praise his own ideas. But I
was trying to say, I could earn a decent living IF I
A. Finished my Ph.D. I was asked to leave the university
for what I call intellectually disruption, but the official
expulsion letter said I created an environment that was not
conducive to learning for the other students.
Why? Because I refused to idly sit by while professors
butchered the learning process by proffering things like a book
on the history of childhood from the Romans to the present in
192 pages that left out children in 80% of the known world while
claiming to offer an academically sound examination of the
Cultures of Childhood.
Sitting in that ratty old rusty brown armchair of his that
makes me think of Archie Bunker, Dad said, Who gives a shit.
Go to class. Write the papers. Take the tests. Do whatever the
hell it is you college kids do and get it done. Treat your classes
like a job. Your professor as a boss. He tells you to do it. You do
it! So you can actually go out and get a damn job!
Its true that a Ph.D. could lead to a tenure track faculty
job that I might actually hold down for more than a year before I
imploded which is ironically only about three letters off from
employed. Or fewer, if youre dyslexic like me and frequently
unemployed or between two of the 27 adjunct positions Ive had
over the last 17 years.
As you know, I have great difficulty staying on task
(shocker, isnt it?) and covering relevant course content within
a given semester. Im not so good at articulating my assignment
expectations either. One of my students said that my classes
where excellent preparation for champion level competitiveness
for Jeopardy, but not much else.
Well, shit. I think Im on the road to Piggott. Yes, Miss
Philadelphia, theres a town in Arkansas called Piggott and its
not on the way to my parents house, but it was the occasional
destination of Ernest Hemingway whose in-laws (the parents of
his second wife Pauline Pfeiffer) lived there and I could go into
why the curators of the museum in her childhood home found
over 100 layers of paint on one side of their house and over 50
quilts in their attic, but Ive got to turn around and get on the
road to Imboden.

So what have I done with myself since I graduated from

high school and Star Wars was still in the torpor of the pre- and
post CGI eras that stretched it from triology to a hexology. To tell
you the truth, I had a lot more respect for George Lucas before
CGI took over unrealistic films (then again, I was only seven
when Star Wars came out). Still, what was he thinking with Jar
Jar Binks. Can anyone say, Step-n-Fetch-It in an alien suit?
And that has nothing to do with the fact that I spend my
time trying to put my brain into lock down mode to finish a
semester, a class, conversation with you or even a sentence
without wandering off into useless pedantic drivel. And ta-dah.
See, I can do it, though I have to admit that I wanted to tell you
about Alcunin, the tutor of Charlemagne, who was also the dude
who decided itd be a smart idea to use lower case and upper
case letters rather
ALLCAPITALLETTERSSMUSHEDTOGETHERMAKINGITHARDTO
READ. Still Charlemagne never did learn to read, so how good a
teacher could that Alcunin have been? Then again, try reading
without him sometime.
Speaking of reading. I think Ill write this all down when I
get home and give it to you. And yes, the footnotes I add will be a
necessity.
But let me be practical for just a moment (keep your jokes
to yourself). Theres only 11 more miles to Imboden. That puts
me about 45 miles out from my parentstoo bad every road
between here and there is more winding then a corkscrew.
Even Ill admit that I teach adjunct for any school that will
hire me, including the College of Global Business that presents
their classes online in such a strict outlined format even an
untrained ape could autopilot his way through a semester
Okay, so Ive been labeled untrainable on more than one
occasion since and Im so damn good at following the rulesbut
Ive kept the job for over year.
And when Im not wasting valuable instruction time with
details that might actually help people to be critical thinking,
globally oriented individuals who might make the world a better
place, Im not doing so badly down at the co-op. Im doing pretty
well with the five customers a 30-minute span rule Rudy came
up with. And hey, I never got the chance to tell youIve actually
beaten my personal best and pushed a whole 10 customers
through the line in 37 minutes, so Randy can take his five
customers in 30 minutes rule and plant itorganically, of
course. The gig you got me volunteering to teach the folks down
at Homeward Bound is still a go. Who knew Id be good at
teaching folks how to write resumes, and youre right, I do love

walking the service dogs for the folks in our building who cant
get out much in the snowy weather. It sucks to live in a hilly city
when they dont de-ice sidewalks, you travel via an electric wheel
chair, and you dont have the sensory perception to know when
youre suffering from frostbite.
So, what have I done lately? Thats the most common
sardonic response I get when I tell people what I do.
I still have the same job I had in January of last year.
Thats eighteen months and counting. And I am counting. If I
can get my shit together, I can still keep the clock ticking on our
relationship. Lets see you moved inMarch 15 (no, I will not go
on about the Ides of March at this moment) and May 15 is just
around the corner. Thats about 30 days longer than my right
now is not the time to talk about exes, is it?
Well, then Ill take your advice. Ill live in the moment.
Right now, Im driving to say good-bye to my dad. The
final stop on my fathers farewell tour.
Man, I just realized, its only been 72 hours since I got
back from Dave Reynolds funeral. Three days ago, my dads
funeral was the number one thing on my mind. Just a Tuesday,
a Wednesday, and a Thursday ago, the date of Dads funeral was
totally in limbo as he struggled with all the things that go along
with a terminal cancer diagnosis. When I think on Mom and Dad
sitting in that pew, her hand, cradled in both of his, I still cant
believe theyve been together for 47 years. That trip back to our
old hometown was a planned destination on the farewell tour.
The funeral wasnt.
While they were visiting, Dads best golfing buddy, the
man I will forever remember as the bald guy who said to me on a
blistering hot day in my 4 th summer of life, Its so hot out here
you could fry an egg on my head.
He died 14 hours after Dad visited him in the nursing
home where he was recovering from a stint in the hospital
coping with the myriad of issues that come with Type 2 diabetes
when your donated kidney has failed you and your leg has been
amputated. The most morbid thing about it is that when I heard
hed died, my good egg frying friend, I thought, oh good, Dad will
get the chance to say good-bye to more people at the funeral.
When he called to tell me about Davids death, Dad said,
Aaron, (no, I wont go into all of the allusions implied by that
name even if I did spend my 13th summer researching them and
had to stop at 13,712 because I had to help my dad dig a French
Drain in the backyard)
He said, Aaron, at times like this, a man might assess his
path through life and make changes accordingly.

Thats Dad speak for, Get your shit together, son.

And these days the old man has an echo. A beautiful (in
every emotional state), school teacher who uses my trivial tirades
as extra credit assignments to inspire her students. And what
does this Dulcinea to my Quixote want of me? She wants me to
find my niche. I love it when you talk French.
Too bad Im more likely to crawl into a hole and start
tunneling than to find my place in the world. I mean, lets face it,
you, Dad, and every advisor and boss Ive her had are convinced
that I cant or wont get my shit together.
I have tried. Honestly, I have. So far, I cant even keep my
trivial outbursts to a minimum. For a whole six months I
attempted to go an entire day (with intentions of working my way
up from there) without sharing any useless facts like 24 hour
days began to be timed with the invention of the astronomical
clock by Su Sung in the 11 th century in China. My record is 7
hours, 37 minutes and 18 seconds (while awake that is). Then
again, I was camping that day and didnt see a living soul on the
hiking trail until I came across a guy and told him without even
thinking that the first national park with hiking trails was
Yellowstone National Park, which was established by Ulysses S.
Grant on March 1, 1872. I didnt even slow down to see if he was
listening until I had to curse myself for failing again.
Still, you and my dad have a point (B or otherwise). What
exactly have I done with my life?
Even without the title of chair, Ive coached 37 people
through the completion of their dissertations from proposal to
defense. Thirty-three of them have jobs in academia. One died in
a car accident on his 39th birthday and three left the ivory tower
for various jobs (car sales, ad executive, and TV producer). Ive
published 29 articles on every subject from the villainous true
identity of Wyatt Earp (he was kicked out of Dodge City for police
brutality nearly 100 years before Miranda Rights were put into
law for crying out loud) to the restrictive gender roles of men in
fairytales (howd you like to be stuck with no dialogue, the job of
fighting the dragon, and a marriage to a girl you dont even
know?). Over 300 of my students have gone on to graduate
school. A dozen or so of them still stay in touch. One is even a
dean of an experimental college in Oregon thats spitting close to
global distribution of a solar powered portable generator thats
easily assembled in any developing nation where they need
electricity to power things like the lights in operating rooms,
respirators, and incubators. Ive tutored nearly 100 dyslexic
teenagers through high school and attended the graduation
ceremony for every single one of them. Thirty-one of them went

to or are in college, almost a dozen made it into grad school and

one is the president of a non-profit that collects the funds to
invest in short term business loans to entrepreneurs in
developing nations who want to build things like fresh water
wells, schools, and hospitals. I could go on, but my unearned
indignation is starting to make me gag.
Youve heard it a thousand timesIm allergic to the
letters P, H & D, so I try to keep my distance. But you know,
some days when the drug store goes into go-go graduate mode, I
walk in and shazamIm boomeranged back to the third floor of
the library, staring down at Milo Garrett being hooded by
Professor Camfield. I never felt more invisible than I did in that
moment. Id walked Milo through a record thirteen drafts of his
dissertationwe drank enough coffee in my dingy office in the
basement in Baylor to keep a plantation afloat, but it was till
Camfield who hooded him and handed off the Wallace Stemfield
Award for the best dissertation because his name appeared on
the paperwork as chair even though he did little more than fix
typos and ask the hardest question in the oral defense. Ah shit,
they can keep the hooding, but I sure wish I couldve handed
that award off to Milo. He deserved. Dudes a genius. Hes
chairing his own committees these days, hooding and handing
off awards left and right, so he claims, but hes had to cut back
on the coffeekidney stones.
Geeze, I forgot to get gas back in Corning and Im sure the
empty tank lights been on awhile. I better hit the off button and
pull off before Ill miss yet another point B in my ever-growing
list of incomplete journeys.
But you know what they say, there are two things (insert
point Bs here) you cant avoid, death and taxes. I did forget to
file my taxes for two years in a row once, but the IRS kindly
reminded me with penalties and interest attached as incentives
to remember. With my father facing the most final of point Bs, I
have to say, I may not be able to contemplate his departure
without tearing up over memories of tripping over each other to
wax cars at the fundraising car wash we did for the Kiwanis
every year; foiled attempts to teach me how to golf, catch, or any
physically adept task that usually ended in an injury to me
(broken nose, dislocated thumb, a sense of pride that has near
death experiences to tell) or my dad (strained vocal chords).
I was listening, Dad, I promise. I guess you and I just got a
different road map on this trip. You went for AAA and I never could
get Google maps or a GPS to work, so Im just winging it.
And if it matters, Luce, you and Dad would both probably
like to know Ive got the MLA job list bookmarked on my computer,

theres an unmailed dossier in my bagyeah, that Fairly

Ridiculous, I mean the search committee of Fairleigh Dickenson
in New Jersey actually requested one.
So, Dad, with 41 miles between you and me, as a I pull in
to fill the tank with an icy feeling sliding down into my gut, Im
going to have to ask you to give my regards to point B when you
get there. Ill be along as soon as I can, I promise.

Editor's Note
Thank you everybody for submitting to our journal. We had a
billion shitty submissions and some wonderful ones that made
this issue worthy. As always, we are looking for poetry and
creative nonfiction. We would love short fiction pieces. We would
love some cartoons and/or illustrations. We are on point for a
phenomenal 2015 set of literary issues.
Keep reading and thank you for your support.