The Free Press

Spring 2009

Editors
Benjamin H. Zucker, Editor-in-Chief
syd low Stephanie Webster Tom Foley
Baron Keith Culkin Robert Vulfov

Mr. Steven Schieffelin

Advisor

Cover photograph by Mel Mendez

9+5 theses Sydney Low

While I recognize that it is a privilege to attend Taft, I also believe that Taft should recognize its students and take into account the direction they want their own education and time at Taft to follow. Taft cannot be a school without students; if it wants to maintain its impression of a beloved community and not sour into a rigid institution, the administration would do well to heed some general reform suggestions. However, its also true that students are very much responsible for the general feeling at Taft, and they need to speak up and possibly change themselves as well. 1. Trust IssuesAlthough signing the pledge is a fairly painless procedure (except when you forget to do it and have to track down your test/essay/lab because obviously you meant to sign it), it is bothersome. If the first principle of the honor system says that a students word is his or her bond, and every student will tell you that he did not cheat, regardless of whether he did or not, then why is there this added ordeal of writing down the honor pledge? If Taft is to become the beloved community it strives to be, it should be assumed that the students dont cheat; we should not have to perfunctorily affirm that we dont. 2. DEFCON 3Put back the peanut butter already. Even during the salmonella recall, you could always buy peanut butter at the store. So, Big Brother, why are you holding out on us? The same thing happened with the spinach two years agobut at least that came back. And people, if rats falling into your processed food is a turn-off, I suggest you avoid most meat products and packaged foods. [Update: the peanut butter has thankfully been re-installed since the time this article was written. Editors] 3. Silence in the Peanut GalleryIndefinitely shutting down the radio? Really? If the problem is that no one takes WRED seriously or knows how to use it, the problem cant be fixed while WRED is inoperative. Bad shows that survive on gossip and name-calling have been around for a while now, so perhaps a better screening process is in order. It will doubtlessly be a slow crawl to get the radio back to at least the semi-legitimate level at which it was in my sophomore year, let alone its heyday level, but its impeded progress benefits no one. 4. Youre Not Leaving Looking Like That!The school dress code is a constant source of irritation for many individuals. I often hear complaints about the differences in girls and boys rulesusually from the boys. While boys have a definite collared shirt rule, girls have a blouse-ish/v-neck/t-shirt rule. Still, boys can appear just as sloppy as girlsmeaning that the real issue is not what you wear, but how you wear it (and its condition). This relates the to newly instituted hoodie rule. Hoodies removal from typical teenage attire is due to the fact that they look slovenly to some degree (Do parents seriously care? I am skeptical. I personally am eyeing admissions). That there was any doubt that the Collegium sweaters should be allowed is ridiculous! They dont even have a hood! What is so terrible about sweater material? As long as it is not riddled with holes or covered in innumerable stains, a hoodie is a reasonable article of daily attire. Even my previous Episcopal school, at which we had formal days every Thursday and wore nice uniforms every other day, allowed hoodies (admittedly, only in school colors). I guess what would be best is either a tighter or a looser dress code, but not our current awkward ambivalent thing. Let guys un-tuck their shirts and allow dark jeans, or make girls step up. (I will not argue for plain blue jeans or sweatpants; some things are understandable.) Do realize, though, that for some, Tafts looser dress code affected their decisions to attend Taft. If I thought wearing a skirt and collared shirt every day would improve my education, I would have gone to Suffield. 5. Head ShotPlaying GoldenEye, Guitar Hero, and Super Mario Party for multiple hours was obviously not the most constructive use of my time, but it was certainly more fun than procrastinating in front of my computer, which is what Ive been reduced to. Video games do not instantly make you anti-socialcomputer games are better at thatand besides, video games can be a great way to unwind in the brief after-ex-before-study-hall 3

period. Taking away video games isnt going to suddenly produce children frolicking outside or tackling some classic novels; if we want to loaf around indoors, we will. Its a no-brainer that video games distract students from their work, but do we really need to be work machines? Rather than total abolishment, simple rules could be a better solution. For lower-schoolers, something like the internet rules could work fine. For upper-schoolers, a policy of no limitation, within reason, would be appropriate. Parents may not want their children glued to TV setsor playing games at allbut in sending their children to boarding school they should recognize that there must be some transfer of dictatorship, and that they will have to trust us, the children, to make good choices eventually. 6. Lets Talk About InterdormingIf people want to have sex they will do it regardless of any restrictions. I have encountered enough condoms in Bingham and heard of enough interdorming violations to be sure of this. Interdorming rules do not need to be so awkward. The available evening window of opportunity is unhandy for both day-students and my work ethic: the majority of interdorming time is during study hall. Its difficult to hold coed lively discussions from 8-10. Moreover, the open-door rule lets everyone know your business. Of course I can see that comingling of the sexes may be a concern for parents, but, again, there must be some compromise. Usually parents can let go a little by junior year, so (sorry, lower-schoolers) different levels of interdorming rules might be appropriate. Possibly by senior year, when I want to work on a project, in the afternoon, with my male friend, in a place more comfortable than the library, we could please just use one of our rooms? 7. LockdownI know Ive been segregating lower-schoolers from upper-schoolers a fair amount in this paper, but I care about them too. Lower school study hall could use some alterations. Although I got away with it throughout the entire first semester of my sophomore year, eventually someone cracked down and told me I couldnt sign out to the library without a reason from a teacher. Was the fact that sometimes I could just not focus in my room an insufficient reason? And having to ask to use the internet is a pain. I also hear of discrepancies between boys and girls in this area. Still, I am not directly embroiled in this dilemma and so am out of touch with it; I encourage someone who is more aware to step forward. 8. Youll Poke Someones Eye OutThe slow killing of Taft traditions is alarming. Regardless of when they started, that they were around long enough to be traditions should imply that they merit some retention. Sometimes bad things happen, but thats life. First Snow isnt deeply malicious; snowball fights can just be a little dangerous. We cant all live, as my grandmother suggests, wrapped in pillows and wearing helmets. Halloween also can be good fun when kept within reason, and when an individual oversteps that boundary, only that individual should be punished. For readers who arrived here after this tradition was removed, Halloween celebrations included freshmen dressing up as superheroes, sophomores dressing up as seniors, juniors dressing up as celebrities, and seniors dressing up as teachers. There would be an evening assembly, and people would show off their costumes. When this went underground and student-organized, it only got meaner and less humorous generally. So traditions pose a two-part problem: the administration needs to allow these general assemblies, and they need to know that students can show some respect for each other. Another quasi-tradition being slowly chipped away is senior exemptions. To take a senior ex now, one must fabricate some elaborate scheme to better the community, typically through creating another club that may never meet. For one term, would it be so terrible for a student to simply have more time to work or do whatever else they wanted? Bettering oneself is bettering the community. And what about cut-meeting exemptions for seniors? Its getting to be a real drag around here. 9. Talking HeadsMaybe I wouldnt feel so gypped about not being able to use senior cuts to skip Morning Meeting if we had better speakers. I know it must take a lot of time and money to find people and get them here, so shouldnt there be a better selection process? When I ask people about who stands out in their mind of past speakers I often get the answer the wolveswhich came 4 years ago. Yes, there have been some good ones in between, but I think thats saying something. One of the ones I enjoyed was the speaker on the structure of the Twin Towers: he was relevant, accessible, and good at public speaking. People preaching for assorted causes 4

have a point, but Morning Meeting does not need to be a sales pitch. So what could be changed? Along with just looking for better speakers, openly encourage students to suggest speakers. Allow more student or teacher speakers. Maybe only have Morning Meeting once a week so that less speakers would have to be found and more time and effort could be invested into selecting them. This would also make the experience more meaningful than a bi-weekly ordeal to hurry-up-and-get-through. The variety of possible speakers and performers Morning Meeting could showcase should make it something looked forward to, not dreaded. 10. Project OverruledThese days, I find that students are less and less inspired to pursue anything beyond good grades and finding friends. People are less motivated to take risks, either because of of laziness or fear of being shot downshot down not by their peers but by faculty. Getting ISPs and Senior Projects approved has become difficult to the point of being a deterrent, both to students looking to slack off and to people who really want to work. Some Senior Projects Ive heard of were understandably denied, but otherslike learning to play an instrument or writing a cookbookseem reasonable. The school shouldnt approve class-dropping requests for everyone, but it should allow everyone to present at the project fair if he wants to. If people succeed in their endeavors, why not let them show off? Small accomplishments rarely get time to shine on their own, and the project fair is a good place for an amalgamation of them. On the flip side, students shouldnt feel the need for graded recognition, college recognition, or the ability to drop classes as the only motivation to pursuing outside goals. I have been messing around on guitar for several years now, and while some forced presentation would probably make me work harder at it, Im still enjoying myself. When it comes down to it, independently gained knowledge can often be the most valuable. So, as Mark Twain said, never let your schooling interfere with your education. 11. Beating a Dead Horse to DeathMLK! Diversity! We are awesome! Wrong. Look at uswe may have people from all sorts of ethnicities and backgrounds, but most of the student body is still wearing Vineyard Vines and playing sports. The theater is in a downward spiral as we lose actors and tech crew. I didnt even know there was an ex for building and racing cars until last month. It seems silly for Taft tout itself as a beacon of acceptance when Taft has nothing to do with how students have (or havent) overcome their barriers. One years MLK Day ceremony included people from different countries explaining how great it was that they had become friends, usually because of some common interest (surprise!). Hooray, but that doesnt deserve a medal. Its congratulating yourself for not being racist; that should just be a given, especially in this time and place. Maybe its just the ceremony and pomp that gets to me, but Im sure others would agree that we need to move on to celebrating other cultures, not just celebrating our acceptance of them. We should certainly applaud Dr. King, but we dont need to keep applauding ourselves. 12. Please Dont Stop The MusicA real formalone without lower-schoolers and that lasted past 11 PM would be nice. There are plenty of all-school dances, and assuming that everyone will eventually proceed to graduation as they should, they will get their chance to experience a formal/prom at some school. (lower school dates should be allowed though). 13. He Shoots! HeStudents, no more ten-minute sports videos. Not even five-minute ones, preferably. Realize that thats longer than you think. If people want to watch that much soccer/whatever, then they will go to the gamedont make everyone sit and watch jerky videos that sporadically zoom in and out on mediocre events for any longer than you would like to hear a boring announcement. 14. Speak, Spot, Speak!Isnt there something youve griped about? Or maybe some of this article has piqued you? Well, now is the time to speak up. Talk to your friends, talk to your teachers, write me an angry letter, anything! Just please dont think, Well, Ill be out of here in a few years (or days) anyway, and I just like complaining. As a student body, we are becoming mindless and allowing forums of expression to slip away. Dont let your work keep you down; its not what you want to remember of high school anyway. [] 5

Where theres a Bow John Lombard

there are Arrows or a Cello or perhaps Presents under a Pine or a little girl with Sandy Gold Hair on a Vibrant Mahogany SeeSaw in a neighborhood park notofar from Home. Have you been there? Let me show you the Emerald grass and the Overzealous sky of marzipan fluff where cares are free and the sun shines unblocked. Ahh, this is the place I have seen, my Home and the SeaSaw Do you remember the girl with the Bow, the place we called Home out there, a-far, a-once, once-a-far-upon-a-time way out there in the Recess!es of our memories. Do you remember? Can you remember? I can. []

Our World in a Thermometer Zoe Hetzner

We, as a whole, Are scattered and separated by indifference And preconceived notions. Yet somehow, The consensus seems to be: If we all meet To talk for an hour, we will suddenly, All of the separate entities, Be pushed together like Droplets of spilled quicksilver From broken glass. Some force greater than ourselves (The clumsy scientist watching) Will roll the droplets together Into one shimmering mass And all will be healed. But

Do you remember the properties of mercury? Do you know what happened to the alchemists Who tried to turn us into gold? The shimmering essence seeped through their skin And killed themslowly. What does this say about us? Whether together or apart Perhaps we are not meant to be touched Moved, prodded Against our will. So if you will, roll your way into a blob, But do not push the far-out droplets to join Lest ye find not gold, Only a slow wasting death. []

The Immortal Idiot and the Chaos Switch Ben Zucker

For reasons currently incomprehensible to humanity, there appears to be a different god overseeing each star system. It turns out, however, that these gods are not completely all-powerful, all-knowing or all-seeing. They are not even truly immortal (although they practically are): each one lives exactly as long as the star of which it is in charge. They do possess what we would call the powers of telepathy (communicating by thought) and telekinesis (moving things around by thought), but they are still bound by the dimension of time. They have the power to do almost anything, but they are very busy; and so they find time for almost nothing. These gods of the stars tend not to interfere in each others affairs. We humans deal with only one god: the god of the star system in which we live. So, practically speaking we can give this god the name God. God, while real, is very abstract, so its easiest to tell the story metaphorically. For example, God is certainly not humaniform, but for storytelling purposes it is easier to talk about God as if it were a person. Since the gender of this metaphorical person is arbitrary, I will pick a gender randomly: female. Ms. Gods offices are at the center of the sun (if you dont believe me, go there yourself and prove me wrong). She spends most of her time in the Master Control Room. On one wall of the Master Control Room is a large number of switches, knobs, and levers. Manipulating these controls causes things to happen, and almost all of them work in ways currently incomprehensible to humanity. Another wall hosts a large number of monitors: video screens, headphones, and other devices that display the outputs of various sensors placed around the solar system. God has the power to do anything these controls do, and she has the faculties to sense everything that the sensors detect. But she cannot do everything at once. As soon as she realized that she could not run the solar system by herself, she built the monitors and the controls and created a workforce of angels to watch the monitors, communicate to her only the most important information, and work the controls according to her commands when necessary. She gave these angels lives equally long as that of the Sun, because back then shorter lives had not been invented, and she gave them the power of telepathy to make communication easier, but she kept them stupid and ignorant so that she could keep them under control. That turned out to be a mistake. Ill randomly designate as male and give the name Angelo to the first angel God created. He was the stupidest angel of them all. God accidentally made Angelo too stupid do to any real work, but she didnt have the resolve to throw him outwhere would he go?so God created a post for this practically immortal idiot to occupy. She added to the control wall a new switch. We can think of it as looking like a common human two-position light switch, with one position of the switch labeled EVERYTHING OK and the other position labeled TOTAL CHAOS (see Figure 1). When God put the switch together, she left it in the EVERYTHING OK position. Angelo, this is the Chaos Switch, God said slowly. Your job is to watch over it. If the switch is turned to the TOTAL CHAOS position, the solar system will be thrown into complete chaos. Everything will become crazy. Do you understand? Angelo nodded. At Gods gesture, he took his seat in front of the switch and began to stare at it. God walked away to attend to more important matters. Several millions of millennia later, long after humanity had emerged and subsequently disappeared, Angelo was still sitting at his post, barely having made any movement. He was bored. The other angels were almost constantly attending the monitors or working the controls; only when a clerical error mistakenly left another angel without work for a few seconds would anybody have time speak to Angelo. A few of the other angels came to resent Angelo for his easy job. The one who resented him the most was the one who sat next to him; Ill designate this one as female and give her the name Cecilia. She happened to be in charge of the controls that dictated the geological activity on Io. She got her information from the angel on the other side of the room who was watching the monitor which kept track of the 9

gravitational forces between Io and Jupiter. According to a set of rules that God had given her, she would then decide which volcanoes should spew out sulfur and manipulate the controls accordingly. Like all the other angels, Cecilia had received from God the skills necessary to do her own job well, but she still wasnt really intelligent. Cecilia worked very hard, and she was jealous of her neighbor who apparently never had to do anything. So when the telepathic stream of information halted for half of a second due to some kind of monitor malfunction, she took the opportunity to insult Angelo. The nature of telepathy is such that the following conversation happened within that half-second gap. Angelo, she said, you are so worthless. I never see you do anything but stare at that one switch. Thats my job, Angelo replied. Youre such an idiot, Cecilia snapped. I bet youre too stupid to even figure out how to work that switch. Angelo was still staring at the switch. I think I could figure it out, he said. Oh yeah? Try it. I cant! God said that if I do, everything will go crazy. Cecilia scoffed. Theres no way God would have put you in charge of anything important. That switch probably doesnt do anything. Yes it does! Then show me. Cecilia smirked. FINE! shouted Angelo. He smacked the switch into the TOTAL CHAOS position. As soon as he did, everything went crazy. The lights in the control room flickered on and off, and they flashed different colors. Angels were thrown across the room in random directions as gravitys force changed directions. Gooey green matter spontaneously precipitated out of the air. A panicking buffalo floated by. God flew from her chair in the middle of the room to the Chaos Switch station. Cecilia, her hair on fire, was screaming at Angelo, calling him an idiot. One of the gravity shifts had thrown Angelo to the ceiling, and a huge sticky waffle had trapped him there. He tried to move the waffle with telekinesis, but for some reason his powers had vanished. God reached the Chaos Switch and managed to flip it back into the EVERYTHING OK position. But everything remained crazy. She frantically flipped the switch back and forth, but the switch was broken. God felt her powers waning and surging erratically. She began to cry, but as soon as the tears fell off her face, they turned into blue kangaroos. There was no way shed be able to regain control of the solar system, now that the chaos had taken over. []

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Figure 1 Ben Zucker

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Hannah Vazquez
From a loose lock tickling my throat, shoulder, vertebrae, From not knowing who calls me, if anyone does From the insecurity being alone brings, and the peace, From the suns deceitful kiss, right before it burns, Comes unbearable pleasure. []

Barberious Robert Vulfov

From his house, the boy watched as snow fell in thick leaves, whirling tightly at the base of the old shop across the street. He had loved the solitary feel of the old abandoned shop with its fearful loneliness, avoided by others. He had always loved it, but now, he loathed it. It had always been derelict; at least as far back as he could remember. Pigeons made their home in it, as did rats and the stray, wild cats that spat at you and chased the dogs. He rememberedhating to rememberhow he had climbed in through the back window, searching for something that he knew couldnt be there. The dark lured him in, seducing him with its magnetic pull, knowing the weakness of curiosity that the young possess. The stench of waste was overpowering. His eyes adjusted to the dank interior. To his revulsion, carcasses of dead birds carpeted the shop, their fragile bones gleaming like hulls from tiny ships caught in the rocks, blending into an origami of shadows and foulness. The rats had stripped the flesh. It was a massacre, a feasting of the dead. He was baffled: how could creatures of flight have been captured so easily? Only when he stumbled on the two birds, each crucified to the beams, their necks twisted into grotesque, feathered question marks, did he realize the rats had only played a meager part in the bloody pantomime. A shudder iced his spine. What if the killer was still in the shop, watching him this minute, knife in hand? No one would know. They hadnt seen him enter. The killer could leave him dying in his own blood, just like the ugly birds pinioned to the mast, staring at him in disbelief, at his stupidity in remaining in the shop. Then the rats would come. Something echoed behind him in the darkness, making his heart thump, his face swell with rushing blood. Then silence. He wanted to ask who was there but feared it would expose him, so he moved slowly across the room, as if swimming in a morass of sand. If he could only make it another few feet, freedom would sweep him away to safety, away from whatever or whoever lurked there, peering at him. Suddenly, the sound of feet crushing glass made his hair tight, burning his scalp. Liquid was flooding his brain and he could no longer think. Was it his step or someone elses that had made the sound? He heard a whistle, so soft it was almost silent, meant for his ears only, sinister and deliberate. The boy ran. He needed to escape. He wouldnt die. Not here. Not with the birds. His escape was ungainly, and the perfect casement of glass suddenly became a kaleidoscopic pattern as he tumbled to the ground watching his blood hit it before he did, the shreds of glass following him, piercing every inch of skin. Afterwards, he could only remember the pain as he drifted in and out of needle-induced nightmares, wailing for water to be thrown on his face to stop the seething heat. Masked figures floated above him, surrounding the face of his mother. Scarred for life, he remembered her whimper, contradicting the specialist. The doctor manipulated the shadows on his face, obscuring clarity of expression. They will fade, he said, speaking like a politician. Given time, hell hardly notice them. *** 12

Four years passed and they did not fade, neither the scars nor the memories. Just as he was about to close the curtains of his window, his eyes captured a small blue car coming into view, its solitude augmented by the starkness of the deserted street. It stopped at the entrance of the shop and an old man emerged to stand at the doorway, nodding to himself in a world of his own. Every now and then he would quickly scribble something into a tiny pocket book, wetting the pencil with the carpet of his tongue, staining it black. What was he doing? wondered the boy as he watched the car disappear into the snow, its licorice tire marks chasing it. Months passed and the old shop remained unused. Then one Saturday he watched as men with tools piled planks of wood outside the shop, talking loudly to one another. His heart raced. It was happening, he uttered. Dont look at it. Youll jinx yourself. Theyll disappear. If the shop were to changebe transformed to anythingperhaps it would no longer have the power to make him wince with terror each time he saw it. Hope began to balloon in his chest, but an anchor of doubt kept it firmly in place. He hated Saturdays. All the other boys in the neighborhood loved Saturdays, but they didnt have to endure all the nonsense that he had to endure. At least it was raining outside. Plus, he had the added advantage of being up while most people were asleep. No one would see him, he hoped. First on his agenda were the boxes of apples from his mothers trees. As he approached the fruit shop, he stopped to watch the local glaziers horses. They stood in unison, eating, pissing and shitting. Sometimes his mother made him scoop up the dung to fertilize the trees, much to the amusement of the kids in the street. He wanted to poison the horses, burn down the trees, and make his mother eat her precious dung. He took a deep breath before entering the fruit shop, before having to deal with Mr. Richardson, the grocer. Ah! Young Samuel! exclaimed Richardson, crowbar in hand. Good to see youre not like the rest of the dirty dogs, sleeping in their beds on a beautiful morning like this. It was still pissing outside. Richardson squeezed the teeth of the crowbar between the lips of the banana crate and with slight movement of his elbow, popped the wood asunder. How many, young Samuel? asked Richard. Fifty, Mr. Richardson, responded Sam. He hated this part, the barter of apples. Richardson handled one of the apples, rubbing his thumb against the texture, smelling it with his giant nostrils. Four cabbages. Hows about it then? My ma said five cabbages, four carrots and five pounds of blue spuds. Sam wished Richardson would speed it up, in case one of his schoolmates came in for a candy apple and witnessed his humiliation. Ha! Yer mas lost her marbles! laughed Richardson, who was now juggling some of the apples like a clown into the air, winking as he pretended to allow them to fall. But youve caught me in a generous mood. Four cabbages. And heres some carrots as well. Sam was not in the mood this morning, so he didnt argue. As Sam left the shop, Richardson handed him a pear. It was badly bruised and had teeth marks in it. Here, thats for you. And tell yer ma shes gotta get up early to catch me! Sam could still hear the laughter halfway down the lane and he knew his mother would look on the exchange with disdain. Thats all? she asked as he entered the living room. Tiny needles of pain began to burn his skull. Why didnt you go yourself, then? he retorted, watching her face flush. A few weeks ago he wouldnt have answered her back, but she was becoming unbearable. A week later and the old shop had been transformed into the new barbers. It would be a godsend for the men in town who traveled at least three miles on foot to have their hair cut and their beards trimmed. A few days after the initial opening a Help Wanted placard was placed in the window. Sam stared at the sign from his room. It was teasing him: torturing him, whispering for him to return, to be friends. But he knew his mother would not permit him to take the job and he was more than surprised when she said she would consider it. 13

Surprise became anger. Consider it? How could she allow me to enter that place after all I have gone through? Had she been doing her job as a so-called mother, perhaps I would not have these scars for the rest of my life. But he said nothing, and simply smiled at her. *** So, youve come at last? asked the old man, scissors in hand. What do you mean? Am I not allowed to come in for a haircut? said Sam, indignantly. Of course! Of course! Silly me. I thought you had come for a summer jobto get yourself some extra pocket money. But not to worry, I believe another boy is interested. Both the barber and customer smiled at their reflections in the mirror. A stone of fear moved in his stomach, sliding downwards like acid. He was not interested in the pocket money. Did I say that I wasnt interested? Are you? smirked the old man, knowing the answer. Sam started that very afternoon, sweeping mounds of hair, making tea and reading magazines. Occasionally, he wiped the mirrors on the wall, careful to avoid his own reflection. As time went by, Sam began to love the shop. It was an emporium of treasures so delicious they hurt his heart: sweets harbored in jars lined the groaning shelves; towers of automobile magazines piled haphazardly, waiting to collapse; small stuffed animals dangled ghoulishly from the nicotine stained ceiling. Religious paraphernalia sat incongruously with magazines of half-naked women. The old barber, razor in hand, quickly attended the soapy face. He expertly made a swathe in the air with the lethal metal before resting it on the customers pliable throat and protruding Adams apple. With a slight, invisible movement, the old man removed the soap, leaving the customers cheeks gleaming a reddish pink. Power, thought Sam, watching as the stubble vanished. To make something disappear with such ease is true power. The old barber derailed his thoughts. One day, Sammy, you will be able to do this. You will become the best barber the town has ever knownbetter than me, perhaps. The crackling static of an old radio nipped at his neck as the classical music of Puccinis La bohme floated abstrusely about the shop, appreciated by no one except the old barber who prayed for the end of the day when he would sit upstairs, listening to his beloved music. Once, not too long ago, Sam slipped up the stairs, hiding in the shadows and watched as the old man prepared supper, listening to Puccinis tragic love story of Mimi and Rodolfo in La bohme, tears streaming down his face. The young man was fascinated. How could music make you cry? Even after witnessing his destroyed face, his mother had never cried. *** What are you doing? asked her startled but subdued voice. Sam returned, carrying a small bowl, a towel, and other utensils. He smiled. You have the privilege of being my first customer. Have you gone mad? asked his mother jokingly. Wouldnt we look the proper fools sitting here covered in soap, you with your plastic razor trying to shave a couple of my hairy moles! She tried to lift her hand and push him away. But its the only way Ill prove myself to the old barber. I know I can be the best. She laughed out loud, stopping suddenly, seeing the hurt on his face. I suppose it would do no harm, she said, relenting. He warmed the towel at the fire. Must do it right. Watch you dont burn it, she almost said, before biting her tongue. She had upset him enough today. 14

And how are you today, Mr. McCarthy? asked Sam, taking on the role of the old barber. A nervous smile appeared on her face. Dont be expecting a tip from me, young man, unless you do a good job, she remarked, her voice hamming a masculine throaty gruff. Oh, no sir! You will never forget this shave. Itll be like a babys ass. Samuel! Watch your language, warned his mothers muffled voice from beneath the hot towel. Samuel, watch your language, mimicked a snide voice in Sams head. Samuel, pick up all that horseshit, rub it in those scars of yours. Thatll take them all away. He felt his fingers tighten on the towel and something bubbling in the hollow of his stomach. Sam! Youve almost suffocated me! Enough of this nonsense! No! Please, mother. Im just nervous, thats all. I want to get it just right. Please. She shook her head then sat back in the chair as Sam applied the shaving brush, gently, but firmly to her face. Whats that music youre playing? she asked, the soap tickling her nose. She felt a sneeze coming on. Opera. La bohme. It tells the tragic love story of a poor poet, Rodolfo, who falls in love with Mimi, a seamstress. I didnt know you knew opera. He sneered: There are a lot of things you dont know about me. He found his mothers skin not unlike the naked chicken he practiced on. It was withered, beyond care. He wondered if the consumptive-ridden Mimis skin was as horrible. Her skin may be withered, sneered the voice. But at least it isnt scarred. He tried to ignore the voice as he watched his mothers eyelids become heavy under the hypnotic softness and adagio of the music. Why should I have all the scars? whispered the voice, as his blood moved faster and faster, pumping in his brain. He placed the razor on her throat, just below the chin line and slightly cut her skin. It was strange and powerful how a tiny nick could create such a forceful release of fluid. Her clothes would be ruined, but it was a small price for satisfaction. She hadnt even stirred, lost somewhere in the music of dreams and failed hopes. He made another nick, a fraction wider to the left of the original, and watched as the blood joined her blouse, spreading over it like watercolors in the rain. She moaned this time, but he held her hand tightly, giving her strength, the strength he had needed all the years of his isolation inside bandages and darkened rooms. Somewhere outside, nightlights came on, accentuating the darkness in the room. The silence of the evening became eerily beautiful. La bohme came to a crackling end, leaving only his soft breathing in the room. He looked back at her, before closing the door, thinking how she resembled one of his toys: stiff yet lifelike. He tried to think which toy, but it wouldnt come to him. It was only later in bed, as he closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly, did he agree with the voice to tell the old barber that the time had come. He was a real barber now. []

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BLASTOFF b. rose

BurrBroseRecords

A Poet Mel Mendez

Its time to begin the fire of fame Its time to make my passion manifested in name. I have ideas spurting their flames the tires are spinning and burning til pain has reached the rim of ruthless games Increase the space between foot and dame

these are the things that make me feel alive and well but do you understand that my heart is burning hell only time can tell the way we can spell dice our name in the sand and make others bleed their yells the blood will smell []

Sometimes I get in these moods where I wish to write something that will move the world change the outlooks and dreams of those around me. Inspire But then my transformation disperses quickly as it came and I am left here jotting down some stupid shit on a used napkin in the middle of the dining hall. Fail. []