Editorial Note

A colleague once wrote "that editing a journal resembles writing a poem in that the finished product may end up very different from the sum of many small, incremental decisions." The decisions one makes in editing are not easy and sometimes deciding what photo to place next to which poem can enhance or take away from the image or the words. It's only at the end when it all comes together that each assumes a different power that is strengthen by the whole as the book/poem takes shape. As we go into our third year of publication, we salute our students, their creative talent, and their willingness to share with you the reader.

Patrick Collins served as editorial assistant for the Spring issue and Deb Duval of Student Activities provided, as usual, continued support in ways too numerous to list a thank you goes to each of you for your time and patience with this project.

Cherry Luedtke, reference librarian for the Northridge Campus, continues to offer web support, for which we are most grateful. The back issues are available for viewing on our web site at <www2.austin.cc.tx.us/RioReview>.

Donetta Goodall, Associate Vice President and Margie Huerta, Dean of Arts and Humanities continue to make the journal possible with their generous support again, thank you.

We look forward to the fall when another book/poem takes place; we hope you enjoy this one.

Spring 2000

The Poems

Skipping Stones

(for WCW)

Mark Armstrong

On the old creek bridge

my father and I skipped stones

as the locust's creaked

like a thousand rusty hinges

and the sun sank down.

Black Sunny Ashabranner Black is not hollow or shallow Black is bold and strong standing on the Earth as if to shield us from red demons and death How magnificent is the sky when this black backdrop is let down Standing above holding up stars Allowing imaginations to run Scorpio wishing the flesh would pass Orion standing arrow in hand until eternity Eight other spheres with objects in orbit Showers of florescent light Black holding all this Must have Shoulders of steel How can one explain These phenomenon Day in and day out Black’s job is clear--

Broken Star

Mike Avila

There I am at abuelitas house between

the old pecan tree and her clothesline.

I am playing, dreaming, not knowing or caring

how life is going to be or turn out.

In the early morning the winds

chased each other from one window to

the other taking with them the warm

scent of abuelitas tortillas.

The sky is happy blue

as I am then.

All the family gathers there,

mis primos, tias y tios.

Bright paper colors-star-shaped,

bursting and releasing candy.

All of us rush to fill our

bolsas full of the broken star.

If that star had not fallen from its place

above, breaking into sweet candy, then

the old pecan tree or the delicate Chinese

plum tree would have fed us some kind

. . . of sweet pleasure.

Que Ella Es (ni aquí ni allá) Mike Avila Ella no está ni aquí ni allá Ella es la lluvia el sol brillante la flor marchitada y el arbol fuerte Ella es aquí un momento como el rayo tibio del sol luego desaparecido con la brisa fuerte de la muerte

Ella revolotea con

sus alas que

cambian los

vientos agitados

mandándome un

nuevo sendero

En las mañanas

ella me canta

canciones en la

voz del pájaro

en la tarde

ella susurra su

historia en mi oído

recordándome

que ahora ella

está ni aquí

ni allá

What She Is

(Nowhere and Everywhere)

Mike Avila

she is nowhere and everywhere

she is

the rain

sunshine

the wilted

flower and

strong tree

here one moment

like a warm

sunshine then

gone with the stale

breeze of death

she flutters by with wings

that change ruffling winds

sending me on new paths

in the mornings she sings

me songs in the voice of a

bird in the evening she whispers

her story in my ear reminding

me that now

she is nowhere and everywhere

But, Baby

Shawn Badgley

(An Ode to Winston Lights)

But, Baby, they

want me

to quit ya'

they say

you're no good

for me &

that I'm

too good

for you.

They say each

seven

minute

kiss

steals

seven

minutes

from my toothless,

loveless old age;

seven

minutes

from my bowel

breaking afternoons

in the public

restrooms

at the

rest home;

seven

minutes

from me mourning

them.

But, Baby, see,

I don't care.

They don't

realize

you burn

for me

over

&

over

like some pagan

sacrifice,

van had a

flat tire;

three bucks

to my name;

Paige introduced us.

I must admit

I was ashamed

of you at first,

couldn't let

you meet Mother

in Malibu,

but you

understood.

Followed me back

to St. Louis &

we reconciled;

sat for hours

almost silent

on the porch

& days later

in Baltimore

we came

to a decision:

we were an item,

kissing under

leafless trees

nearly 40 times

a day & going out

with other couples

to Fell's Point &

the ballpark

it was,

in a word,

wonderful.

We were married

by the time

Mother

moved to Zurich;

looked at our

visit as a

honeymoon;

marveled

at the architecture

& the fact that

the French &

the Czech &

the German &

the Dutch &

the Danish &

the Spanish &

the 'Talian

all

do it differently;

do it all the time;

do it everywhere.

So we did it too

When in Rome, right?

We giggled,

fools

crazy for each

other.

I came home

coughing

blood

that was

too red

with

love.

You, darling,

were fine

somehow,

immune

to the consequences

of commitment;

we separated

for a time

while I recovered

but soon

decided

to move

down

South,

together

again.

Here in Austin

things are

different

you act

distant &

I'm distracted;

I gotta lot

going on, &

you should

know that

by now.

We rarely

have time

for each

other, &

when we do,

your kisses

taste bitter;

taste nostalgic;

taste like you

belong

to someone

else

from your past.

Maybe you do,

who knows?

Mother thinks

we're over with;

says she can tell

by my voice

so hoarse

from our

arguments.

But, Baby,

I won't let

you go;

I simply can't.

I still think

of you

all day,

even

while I sleep.

So supple;

so textured!

So patiently beautiful

with your

burning

orange saintly

crown &

grainy

golden belt!

I will stay

with you

now;

I will force

you

to love me

again & to

stay with me

as well,

for if you leave

tonight,

tomorrow

you'll come back

to a boy

furiously

chewing Trident &

suffering blind

lovelorn

seizures

of regret,

& I promise

in his blindness

he will not

recognize

your perfume.

Now, Even, Sometimes

for the Dying

Shawn Badgley

(SHE SAYS)

You really wanna know?

You must be crazy or somethin';

you must really be outta your mind!

(I SEE)

The purple cactus keeps swaying

& lately I think it must not be

what I thought,

but something more like an outline

or ghost of an outline

or the bruised sticky film of that

cactus, rotting.

(SHE SEES)

Cathedral-skinned bones of

the blue fish

still pricking my throat,

pink holes showing veins.

(SHE ASKS)

Isn't that enough?

Isn't that enough, to see

your own flowing blood

in a bowl?

(I SAY)

I'm not lying, Sweetheart.

I wouldn't lie to you.

It's the way it had to be,

has to be.

You know me, babe;

you know how I am.

(SHE REMEMBERS)

Even the simple gift of memory

as suspicious back then,

glad now it's gone

but refusing even to play

the tape in our

makeshift kitchen,

trapped in porcelain;

trapped in my memories

since they're still there

& I'm not trying to forget.

(I KNOW)

Trapped is not a bad way to be,

at least right now, & let's face it, man,

everything's a trap,

most of all what doesn't seem it,

& maybe she can't find the

tape anyway, who knows?

(I HEAR)

Another appliance make noises

I never learned to understand

& another daughter says, My God,

I can't believe what's happening to him!

& more footsteps in the hallway

I can't recognize,

& she hears them too

but pretends she doesn't

& four ears trying to work as one

maybe is love but is more likely

something so constant,

like the heat; the humidity.

(SHE'S EMBARRASSED)

That we're poor now

& don't have a bathroom

& go like dogs outside under trees

& sometimes even on the

motel room rug

if my legs won't work

or it's too cold.

(SHE KNOWS)

My greatest fear is

to be blind or deaf or

for God's sake both &

(I KNOW)

Hers is to drown in cheap cement.

(WE FEEL)

Wicked sometimes when

we share my drugs

& don't blame the priests for what

they'll sometimes do to little boys

or even girls, 'cause we understand

what it's like to look forward

only to death,

& sometimes she'll be the priest

& I'll be the little boy,

or sometimes we'll switch,

or sometimes we'll just watch T.V.

(I FEEL)

Sorry sometimes that it's come to thisI really do.

(WE ARE)

Sick of sex & drugs but

we still like rock & roll,

& is there a doctor around

who can explain that to us?

(I'M CONVINCED)

Life is a liar

& death is a lover

too honest to live with,

& not even God could tell me

any different anymore.

(SHE IS)

Wearing headphones,

canceling appointments,

reading the Bible

& washing my bedside bowl.

(I WANT)

To sculpt her when she does that

& take the statue to my tomb.

(I AM)

Simply

not who I was an hour ago

when you stopped by for coffee

& won't be who I am tomorrow

for very long,

& now, even, sometimes,

I cry 'cause I can still remember

Everything;

now, even, sometimes,

I wonder what she'll do

when I'm gone.

Since 1884

Shawn Badgley

1.

At O'Connell's,

the wood wears ancient scars

& stains of blood & beer

mark the tables, cave paintings,

vague shapes ingrained

that catch occasional light &

bounce it green off the walls,

where framed photos of

great Irish writers hang

suspended above college kids

who know the old joke:

If you glance in a mirror &

look drunker than Behan,

it's time to get a ride home.

"So you're telling me you

still don't remember kissing

Lucy Williams?"

"That's right, man,

no recollection whatsoever."

"That's bull, is what it is. Bull."

2.

Red & Henry flirt with Wendy

at the bar

like they've been doing

for 40 years, she throwing

her bald head back

with a squeal; smoke escapes

her nostrils as she laughs

thinking of Wicklow &

the cricket boys out back

calling her name while

Old Mama O' brushed out her

auburn curls after dinner.

The sun sometimes stayed out

'til midnight there,

she often tells them.

"I dunno, Hanky, this chemo

is really startin' to take its toll."

"Well, it sure as hell shows what kinda

woman y'are when ya' show up

to run this place everyday."

"Oh, you know I'm just comin'

to see you, love."

3.

1:35 a.m.

the streetlamps on Kingshighway

are mostly dark, shot out

by streetkids, their grayish shards

still dangle

from wires like dead fruit about to

drop. Sweaty cooks in

their torn t-shirts smile &

sneak a beer; they feel

that breezy asphalt air

suck away the damp

along their necks

as they rest before

cleaning the kitchen & going

home to something that lately

seems too much like nothing.

"You wanna come over &

watch the game Sunday night

or what?"

"Sure, I guess. You wanna mop tonight

or shall I?"

"I'll take it. Just make sure y'all clean out

that damn dishwasher drain

you was s'posed to do it last week."

The Tears the Onion Brings

Peter Beronio

Slicing mushrooms on the counter top he notices

the small of her back

standing next to him, the delicate manner

in which she slices through hearts

of artichoke.

They stand laughing, each one looking forward

to the tears the onion brings.

The water is getting hotter,

almost boiling now,

and he is hungry.

Delicious scents of:

fresh tomatoes,

mushrooms,

garlic and red peppers,

the wine already relaxing.

They smile when it strikes

the same thought,

the same retort.

They try not to relate too much,

but the wine makes it hard as

their hands brush by the stove and

they try not to notice, hoping no one sees

the awkwardness between them.

He too is trapped,

but in her eyes he can see

that she too looks forward

to the tears the onion brings.

The Poet

Mark Boyle

He wraps sentences around his fingers

grips his pen,

glides the ink,

as he funnels the imagery

into a ribbon of silk.

The audience reaches out

to grab the poem,

but it envelopes them instead,

tells them things,

they already knew

but in a way they finally

understand.

If you listen to the poet

his persistant p's

or his falling t's

even the hidden vowels between,

you may hear the word sing

a lullabye that puts babes to sleep

or the purr of a cat

as it nuzzles the sides

of your legs

feeling your expierences.

America, the Sitcom

Krist Bronstad

My father wrote us in an airmail that he'd met a woman at a bus terminal in a lost place along the Rockies where buses are always late. She told him her sons were on crack or probation; they listened to rap and brandished large firearms and subversive ideologies. She herself was just devoured and abandoned in a villainous divorce, roughly handled by the dumb claws of the justice system, and now wandered the slagging and paunchy midsection of the country in torn Dior and Chanel, doomsdaying in the age of doomsdays. An ex-cheerleader, "if such things are relevant," a token and proponent of Americana with big hair; she told my father not to move us back. "It's not the America they knew. It's evil. Stay oceans away."

"What should we do then?" wrote my father, who continued to look for computer jobs and visit dying relatives. "It's different now," he confirmed. He remembered his youth, the small gravel pit town where his own father worked on airplanes and his mother taught. He knew every type of plane that flew above. He knew everything that could be known. He went back for funerals. His sister, a civil engineer with a Russian fetish, drove him down the highways in her turquoise Jananese gem. “Your cousin karena is going to private school now,” he wrote of her daugher. @ They watched too many movies in the public school system. From what my sister says, her education is more like your own, just not as learning intensive as the European system. Ther is still an American emphasis on entertainment.

He sent us newspapers from Chicago, Dallas, San Francisco. We sprawled out on the floor, by the fire, shucking all the paper that was not comics or entertainment listings. Everything was in color, everything was huge. We concocted jealous fantasies of Karena's contemporary life as if it were some future event of grandchildren. There would be: 7-11s, rap music, IHOPs, 24 hour television and radio, cartoonish violencerampant sex, with the shadows of home movie fifties, Super-8 cam sixties, the burgeoning prospect of malls. There our cousin Karena, would be stuck pleasantly between the everlasting prepubescent glow of Punky Brewster and the perky-breasted sexual spectrum presented by the girls of Facts of Life.

"Here are the copies of Teen Beat the girls requested," my father wrote. He had been without a car and was hitching a ride out of Texas and into the Badlands with a Minnesotan college student named Corey. It was the fall and my father wrote that Corey was enamored with his knowledge of foliage and birds. Corey studied English at a little Lutheran college. My father included a picture; Corey was encased in fall shadow, a man of science, in a world where it was always cold. We tracked their journey across colorful weather maps, wrote in grids which shows they could watch on snowy TV screens in cheap motel rooms.

Black Clouds in the Kitchen

Krist Bronstad

Watch for black clouds in the kitchen.

You will not see them before you see

the shadow of flames

from another room,

around the corner.

There is a wok on fireits flames touch

the ceiling.

The woman you're with turns the burner off.

You've turned the knob accidentally, as you

squeezed your widening body against it,

hunting for garbage bags.

She curses you in a slow, soft voice

as she stirs the flame with a plastic spatula,

blows on it, stares at it, finally

grabbing it by the handles

and putting it under the running faucet.

You just stand there, keeping a window from closing,

searching for something to take your place.

There are many windows

between there and the kitchen.

Open them all, like you are doing

something.

She says, "haven't you done this before?"

She will not look at you. She is not

looking for an answer.

When you go to take the garbage out,

she tells the dogs that you are evil, and

whatever time you come back, she will think

to herself the it is way too early.

Richard the Neighbor

Krist Bronstad

A couple of things:

he was quiet; he wore white

socks; he had cats.

His nieces came in carloads; they

struggled with seat belts by the

oily glow of a dome light, spilled out

into the snow with pillows

and clouds of breath and backpacks.

I heard the laughter and the benign warning

chime of an opened car.

That's how close

we came to one another.

I walked dogs by his hanging socks.

I watched the carousel of television light

beach itself on his sandy white wall as

I shivered and shifted my feet in the snow.

We were often alone and up late.

His ex-boyfriend told me old jokes

after midnight on my porch,

in thunderstorms.

That's how close we came to one another.

He was quiet. He would walk in the alleyway.

He would say hello. He came to our parties

and was smooth with the lesbians. He was my

co-conspirator, we were both lonelystilled by loud voices.

We were both riding on the momentum

of something

we could hear coming.

A couple of things for him:

he was quiet; he had a black truck he parked

in his ex-boyfriend's drivewaytitle in the glove box;

he had cats; he never seemed to have anywhere

to go.

That morning they found him charred,

by the back door, with his arms stretched out,

as if fighting through smoke to reach

a door knobhe almost made it.

The cops were in my backyard

all day, stepping in my life, putting

my bike beyond the realm of a police line.

We watched from the windows.

We watched us watching on the 5 o'clock news.

That's how close we got.

Eternal Rainbow

Monica Cadena

There is a canyon in Utah

that may exist

only in dreams.

Silent desert at sunset,

still life,

serenity,

where a young girl

and the word Ute

live in the earth eternally.

Hear her thoughts.

Taste her visions.

See through her eyes,

stories of a metal serpent,

killing of the buffalo,

strangers settling the land.

A rainbow stays stubbornly in the sky

above Eagle Mesa land.

Her tribe sinks like the horizon.

She captures the rainbow

where it will stay young and free

in reds, yellows, violets, and greens.

To be seen by the People,

its beauty eternally shared.

Summer Storm

Monica Cadena

Tropical depressions

of currents

leave undertows

like tattoos on skin.

Windy wet cold fronts

out of season

condense and define

this slippery second.

In the calm eye

of Texas humidity

the inner waves

saturate the air.

Weather triggers memories

that live in puddles left

on the earth by

slanted raindrops of reason.

Clouds soon break

as sunlight peaks through;

the summer storm ends

and the warm rays rejuvenate the skin.

---

Mother

Mindy Copeland

The street was bustling with Christmas shoppers;

the smell of the delicacies floated from restaurants.

The cold whip of the wind snapped at my face,

as I hurried among the crowds.

Street vendors called out to the walkers,

to stop, to bargain, to buy.

The people kept moving like ants,

scurrying to the yellow-lighted windows.

Voices of the happy laughing people,

floated into my ears in another language.

I remember the fowl smell of the water,

as the merchant boats sliced through the dirt.

"Sawadee!" the Thai merchants called,

to bustling crowds shopping and bargaining.

The boats and people swarming like ants,

chattering loudly to each other.

The aroma of the market was of sour water,

mingled with the exotic tingling spices,

cooked meat, and fresh fruits,

and dirty bodies of homeless children.

I realize I was not floating on a boat,

I was standing in San Francisco,

a busy neon Chinatown,

bustling with Christmas shoppers.

I try to look for the eastern sky,

as it begins to rain,

I try to find the mother I never knew,

among the older Asian women.

I whisper, mother where are you?

Purgatory

Cara McCallum

If we believe

there are angels

in this world,

does that mean

we are to know

there are little diablos

out there as well?

I call them "Mamshitas."

I'm not real sure

what that means

but it says

enough for me;

daily they seem to try

and get to me

often in the simplest

things;

maybe angels and devils

want our attention

for the higher powers

they serve.

They sneak through open doors

in our souls,

prompting us in accordance

to the cadences they convey.

I have felt mamshitas

attach themselves to my fears

and magnify them beyond

belief;

just at the times I've

been struggling the most

to hold tight to faith,

dispelling some of my hopes

and dreams.

So the question then

if this is true,

becomes how do we combat these

together,

you and I?

Will the angels be on our side

and guide us until the

battle is through?

Maybe simple thoughts

filled with light and love

are more important now

than controlling the skies above,

or ponderments of an

afterlife,

when we still have

a lot of life left

right here and right now.

Black

Kari McElfish

I sit in the shadows

and feel the darkness

panting

down

my neck, and

wonder when black became

such a sleepless night.

If not for the stars and moon,

this black may swallow, and

hold me captive without remorse,

then spit me out like fire

when the sun gets too hot.

I twist my fingers and hands

into different shapes;

find black shadows

upon the wall.

I paint this soul of mine black,

lie after lie

my thoughts turn darker.

I notice the black

of your skin against

the pale of my flesh

what a beautiful contrast;

my cheeks are crimson.

I once saw a black cat

run before my car,

and still I wondered about

the sleepless nights.

Yo Tengo Que Darlo a Usted

Bear Montgomery

las manos suave-escabrosas han habido

terminado el más más el trabajo agotador

sin hacerlo literalmente

ellos han pintado y han esculpido grande

las obra de arte sin alzar un cepillo o cincel

ellos han jugado en los conciertos,

los entusiastas de diez-mil ovaciones,

sin rasguear un solo instrumento,

ellos han cogido la ganancias incluso

el tanto del cuenco excelente sin

ocuparse del futbol

ellos han hecho todo casi posible

eso ya puede lograr

pero en lugar de decir la verdad,

ellos quedarían más bien

simplemente a usted

I’ve Got to Hand It to You

Bear Montgomery

soft-rugged hands have been through the most

exhausting work without literally doing it

they have painted and sculpted great

works of art without lifting a brush or chisel

they have played in concerts,

fans of ten-thousand cheering, without strumming a

single instrument

they have even caught the winning

touchdown of the super bowl

without handling the football

they have done just about everything possible

that hands can achieve

but instead of telling the truth,

they would rather just lie to you

Equinox

Elizabeth Pereira

Leaves droop,

thick with wilt.

Zinnias stand tall

and parched

and crisp,

their once vibrant petals now echoes of color,

echoes of color, fading to ash.

Air hangs

heavy and thick,

watching

and weighted

with stifling haze

to smother the silence where nothing is heard,

nothing is heard save reflections of heat.

Imperceptibly

almost

comes some sign of change:

the noiseless lilt

of a monarch's wing,

6 or 8 birdsongs

where once there was one,

a liquid trickle of verdant air,

or a shifting of light, more imagined than seen,

more imagined than seen than a shadow by star.

A sudden

imbalance,

the scale swings its arc,

propelled by a butterfly's weight.

A faraway presence moves southward at ease,

summer undone falls apart.

Water collects in great oceans of sky,

then the tide rushes in,

rushes in and then leaves.

Rushes in and then leaves,

pouring downward and out.

Regarding the Woman in the House Opposite

Elizabeth Pereira

"She spends her days washing dishes,

her nights watching stars."

"And doesn't she sleep?

Not ever?"

"Not ever. Well,

maybe she sleeps

on the cloudier nights."

"Her face is so distant,

like moonlight on mountains."

"And never but once

have I yet seen her smile.

She leaned from her window

and asked for a peach.

But I held it, demanding

the magical word.

'Once upon a time,' she replied

with a sudden bright smile,

like sunlight and shadows

in swift-running streams.

'No, not those magic words,' I told her

to tease.

But she vanished inside

and fastened the shutters

and left me outside

all alone.

I had fully intended to give her the peach."

"Then give it to me," the customer said.

"Might as well," said the fruitman,

who then turned away.

La Ventana

Elizabeth Pereira

Los cuervos brincan en dos pies

a través del césped cubierto con hojas.

Luchan valientemente por un insécto

que ya ha desaparecido.

Las nubes estiradas son flacas como el humo

y los árboles sin hojas están fatigados.

Aún el césped es verde

y los cuervos están mirando las hojas amarillas

con los claros ojos oscuros.

Soy vieja.

Y los pies siempre están frios.

Tengo sólo una moneda en cada mano por día.

Mis viejos amigos están viejos,

no son como eran.

Y las bailarinas ya no me miran.

Es bastante que los cuervos

salgan del césped

en una raya rota

uno tras el otro.

The Window

Elizabeth Pereira

The crows hop on two feet

across the lawn covered with leaves.

They fight valiantly for an insect

that has already disappeared.

The stretched clouds are thin like smoke

and the leafless trees are tired.

Still the lawn is green

and the crows are watching yellow leaves

with their bright dark eyes.

I am an old woman.

My feet are always cold.

I have only one coin in each hand per day.

My old friends are older;

they are not like they were.

And the dancing women no longer look at me.

It is enough that the crows

leave the lawn

in a broken line

one after the other.

Winter Evening, Chicago

Elizabeth Pereira

classical music floats gently like feathers

from four-story bookstores

and winds down the street

twined with the fragrance of dark-roasted

coffee, that mingles and sighs

with the saxophone song

of a talented man wearing mittens

and scarves, in the ice-shaken wind

under trees full of stars

high above all the pale clouds knit together

their chill icy substance

surprisingly warm

while the heedless white wind blasts with furious cold

tearing sightless through streets

leaving ice in its wake

but halts in dismay at the rich golden light

overflowing from doorways

with caramel warmth

and the ones laughing softly in golden-lit squares

scatter showers of snowflakes

good gifts to the ground

which the wave-rushing wind spins in bright careless circles

as benevolent echoes

sift down to the street

where the air smells like water is nearly enough

is more than enough

to make winter seem good

My Good Angel

Cheryl Wanamaker

lying in bed

watching shadows take shape on the ceiling

my good angel emerges silently

extinguishing evil

dark becomes light

hate transformed into love

chaos is ceased

my eyes close

feeling safe

my soul is once again navigable

A Reason to Rise

Cheryl Wanamaker

Released like the yolk

of a cracked egg,

you are as free as a wild

mustang on Avery Island.

No limits, no lines to color in,

while I stay

behind like a pair of shoes,

that no longer fit,

life as unexciting as Monday,

a rainbow of browns and

grays, as useless

as a pair

of mittens in the summer,

searching for a reason

to rise with the morning sun.

The Willow

Cheryl Wanamaker

Leaves blowing in the breeze,

branches stretching out to the sky

sang me to sleep as she creaked in the wind

Shaded me from the sun,

hypnotized me with her undulating limbs

Roots grasp the moist ground,

never quenching her thirst

Shallow roots hidden beneath the ground

mask her fatal flaw of frailty

Cut down by my father

I lay there remembering,

stripped of my childhood

The Stories

The Car Dealer’s Daughter

Rod James

Allie sidled up to me. "Well, Paul, are you still with us?"

"Sure, I'm still here, and mostly conscious. Ah, there she is! Listen, Allie, can you do me a big favor? Introduce me?" I gave her my best beagle-puppy look.

Allie stared up into my face for an inordinate length of time, then dropped her eyes and sighed, "Paul, you're hopeless. Okay. Come on, I'll do it now." She grabbed my hand and marched me over to where Jill and her family were talking to the choir director. Allie introduced me to Mrs. Curry, Mr. Curry, Margie, Jill, and Wayne, the younger brother. Handshakes and pleased-to-meet you all around. Yes, I am a member here. No, my family lives in Arizona. Yes, for a local architect. They seemed to be convinced I wasn't a war criminal, so I decided to go for it.

"Uh, Jill, do you have any plans for lunch?" I hoped I didn't sound as school-boyish as I felt.

"I don't know. Mom? Are we doing anything special?"

Her mother raised one eyebrow and pursed her lips a bit before answering. She didn't look pleased. What did I say?

"No, we were just going to get some chicken on the way home and then watch the football game."

Jill turned her incandescent eyes back to me. Blue. How can blue eyes seem to burn? Well, they tell me that blue-white stars are the hottest. Blue flames, too.

"Sure, I'll have lunch with you. Margie, here are my keys. Would you drive my car home?"

Lunch was everything I hoped it would be. I was at my charming, witty best. I impressed her with my ability to read the fluorescent-chalked specials from across the dining room. I learned that she was much more than long legs, dark, foamy hair, and blue eyes. She worked part-time for the newspaper while going to paralegal school. She just lived with her parents until she could finish and get a real job. We were pretty close together in both our religious and political views, and liked the same kinds of music. She began to touch me gently on the arm as we talked. This was getting too good.

Somehow, without my noticing, three hours had passed and I was getting scowls from our waiter. I overtipped him and we left.

When we arrived at her house, she invited me inside. A thigh-high brindle-coated boxer greeted me in the hall, loudly earning his watchdog badge.

"Oh, Amos, hush. He's a good guy." Amos wasn't immediately convinced, but after some suspicious sniffing he deigned to present his neck for scratching. I did just that, and said, "Amos, eh? Cool name, how'd you come up with that?"

Jill said, "You see how his white fur makes it look like he's wearing a clerical collar? We 'named him after a man of the cloth, called him Amos Moses, just like in the old song."

I keep the nails of my right hand a little long for guitar playing, and Amos fell in love with my

guitar picks. He bowed his neck and leaned hard against my leg, whuffing, as I scratched. That set Jill to giggling, which started me off, and we stood in her hall cackling at Amos and each other.

Cc

Over the next several weeks she went out with me to the occasional movie or play, sometimes dinner, once to the ballet. As we walked to the car, she asked me what I thought of the ballet and I confessed that I liked the music better on my stereo at home. She smiled and hugged my arm and said she really didn't like ballet that much, either.

"Why did you insist that I take you, then?" I asked her.

"So that you would think I was classy and cultured."

"Why would you want me to think that?"

She stopped us walking, and cupped her hand against my cheek. In heels, she stood eye to eye with me. "Because I think a lot of you. I want you to like me." She gave me the full effect of her eyes and smile for another breathless moment, then took my arm again and started us toward the car.

Next Saturday I talked about her with Allie. Allie was keeping her sister's nine-month-old son for the day. I helped her stroll him through an autumn-grayed park, watching children on swings and seesaws, watching a shirts-and-skins touch football game. An errant punt bounced out in front of us, and I threw a long pass back to the bare-chested team, a tight spiral: the arm still worked.

"Allie, she's turning twenty-one next Friday, and I'd like to throw her a party. Will you come?" Before she could answer, a cheery, elderly woman leaned down to tickle nephew under his chin.

"What a lovely little boy! He's just precious. What's his name?" We made some small talk about how old and how big he was, and she left us, remarking, "You are such a delightful little family!" It was all I could do to keep a straight face until she was out of earshot, then I broke up, fit to burst from laughter. Allie was red-faced and shrill, though.

"We are NOT a family, and you are certainly NOT my husband! It's not funny, Paul. Stop it." The more I laughed, the madder she got, and the funnier it was to me. I eventually placated her enough to let me buy her a burger, but the rest of the afternoon was pretty quiet. No, she wouldn't come to the party.

As it happened, Jill's parents beat me to the punch, and threw a big cookout the next weekend for her. I met some more of her friends, and gave her an opal birthstone pendant. It decimated my bank account, but it was worth it to see her face when she unwrapped it. She hugged me thanks, tightly. Over Jill's shoulder, I noticed her mom scowling at us. Geez, was it my breath or something? All during the party, her parents were very polite to me, but found things to do and people to talk to whenever I approached them. Otherwise, the party went fine.

Later that evening, I took her to the blues club where a friend of mine, Andy, was playing with his band. They were cooking, and during their second set I sat in with them on guitar. It seemed there were only two people in the club then, Jill and I. I played only to her, and saw nothing but her eyes shining back at me. The guitar caught fire under my hands, and together we torched the room. When I came to my senses, spent and shaky, and handed Andy's guitar back to him, he just looked at me wide-eyed and said, "Damn, Paul." I guess I done good. When I returned to our table, Jill asked, "Was that for me?"

When my birthday rolled around, two weeks later, Jill presented me with a guitar amplifier I had been lusting after. "Allie told me you've had your eye on this for quite a while. Happy birthday, Paul." She kissed me. I died.

Halloween. Veteran's Day. Thanksgiving. The pages fluttered off my desk calendar, like an old movie cliche, and more and more of those pages were spent with her. She finished her paralegal studies in December and lined up a job with a local law firm, to start after the first of the year. We celebrated by looking for an apartment for her to share with a fellow paralegal. It was an ecstatic, joyous time for me until she left town to spend the holidays with an old friend in another city. There was no way for me to call her, and I told her to call me collect, often. She demurred, saying it would be too expensive, and she didn't want to charge on her friend's phone, either. I was a ruin until January. I made Allie miserable, fretting and complaining to her without end, until she got stern and told me she wanted to hear nothing more about how much I missed Jill. I spent Christmas with Allie and her sister and brother-in-law.

The day after Christmas I took Allie to exchange some too-large sweaters she had gotten from a well-meaning aunt. We strolled through the mall, dodging the bustle and munching eggrolls. She chattered about her imminent promotion, glowing, tossing her hair around like a frisky filly. We sat for a while by a fountain and watched the Brownian movement of the shop pers and sale-ivores. Presently she ran down about her job, and fell silent for a while. Then, she chewed her lip pensively and asked, "Paul, how long have we been friends?"

Allie and I were special. I called her Jiminy Cricket. She was a maddening voice of good sense when I got goofy or was in danger of sticking my head up between my glutes. I was there to comfort her when some guy jerked her around or when some minimum-wage underling at work whitened her knuckles. "I don't know. We met our sophomore year at college, yeah, and seemed to hit it off right away. Four years, I guess. Why?"

Because I think I, . . . I mean, we've been really close for a long time. You are my very best friend, male or female, and I'm kinda worried about you."

"Worried? Whatever for?"

"I don't think it's a good thing for you to be with Jill."

"What's wrong with Jill and me?"

"There's nothing wrong with you, Paul. And there's nothing wrong with Jill. I just don't think you mean as much to her as she does to you."

I chewed on that. "We've been dating each other pretty much exclusively for about three months now. Allie, she's the only woman I've ever met that makes me feel . . . I mean, Jill is the one. I love her. I'm certain that she loves me, too."

Allie shook her head. "Maybe so, but she doesn't love you like I . . . uh, like I think she ought to. I don't know why, it's just a feeling I have that she's gonna disappoint you. Ah, never mind. We'd better go home now, okay?"

We didn't speak the entire quarter-mile walk to my car. When we got there, I stopped before unlocking the door.

"Hey."

"Hmmm."

I turned her to face me, but she looked down at my shoes. I lifted her chin into the light from the street lamp. Her eyes looked dewy.

"You don't like her much, do you?" Allie just shook her head once and looked back down at the pavement. I went on, "I'm glad that my best friend is looking out for me. I'm flattered, and I'm sorry this has you so upset. It's gonna be all right, though, okay?" I hugged her. "Love ya, Jiminy."

She hugged me back and sniffled. "I love you, too, Paul." I opened the door for her and drove her home. Funny thing is, she was my best friend. I could tell her things that I would never discuss with a male friend, lest we both appear less than masculine. How could I go to a movie with a buddy and admit to being choked up over a really poignant scene? No, you go to a flick with a guy, there better be a car chase in it somewhere.

Jill came back the first week of the new year, and my face hurt from smiling. I was Pollyanna-cheery and generally disgusting to be around. I helped Jill and her new roommate, Barbara, move into their apartment and we had an impromptu tailgate party after we dragged the last box out of the borrowed pickup. Life was good again. I surprised myself, too. I literally ached with physical need of her, and often drifted off into some pretty steamy fantasies, but I never touched her, not intimately. I knew that she was the woman I wanted to make love to for the rest of my life, only her. I wanted it to be a fresh, new thing for us if we ever oh my God got married. I wanted it to be a big thing, not just business as usual. Still, sometimes my desire for her was crippling.

One night I took her home after seeing a play. She seemed unusually subdued, not talking much, but stayed very close to me, leaning her head on my shoulder through the second act, her hand warm on my abdomen on the way home. She held my hand in both of hers as I walked her to her door. I unlocked it for her and escorted her into the apartment. She turned to me and put her arms around my waist.

"Paul, do you have to go right away? Barbara's away for the weekend."

My head felt as if it weighed all of four ounces. "Do you think that's a good idea."

She stopped my mouth with a kiss. She molded herself to me and clenched my hair in both her hands and proceeded to arc-weld our lips together. I gave back her passion, measure for measure and we stood like that for a superheated while until we had to breathe. I pulled my face back from hers a micron or two and whispered, "Jill, I have to sit down."

I sat on the couch, breathing deeply. She knelt in front of me, her chin resting on her hands resting on my knees and fixed me with a look that dated back to Eden. I had to look away or I was lost.

"Jill, we'd better not. It's not the right time." Oh, Lord, that sounded lame.

She sighed and closed her eyes. "Don't you want me?"

I had to laugh. "Oh, woman. Look at me. Look at my hands. Can't you feel me shaking I want you so bad?" I held my quivering hands out to her. "I am in some serious pain here. But I can't, Jill. All that I believe about love, and doing things right, and being a good man . . . I can't stay, Jill. See, if you can trust me to control myself tonight, you can trust me forever." Some gorilla in my midbrain began screeching and bellowing at me no, no, there's your woman go take her now, take her now, now, now, and began ripping up tree trunks and beating his chest. My heart echoed his hammering.

She pressed her cheek against my thigh for a moment. "You're sure?"

"No. Yes. I mean, you are all that I want. Everything about you was made to make me want you." I leaned forward and pressed my forehead to hers, and clenched my eyes shut. "But I love you, Jill, and I don't want to screw this up."

She stood up slowly and pulled me trembling to my feet, and clutched me to her, cheek on my shoulder. "You said you love me. I didn't know that." She began to cry quietly into my collar.

"How could you not know?" I whispered.

She let go of me and went into her bathroom. I heard sniffling and nose-blowing sounds. She came back, red-eyed but calm.

"Oh, Paul, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I did this to you. Please forgive me, but I needed you so much. Or, I thought I did. Yes, I did. I still do, but you are right, we shouldn't. I guess you'd better go now."

I kissed her goodnight, gently, on the cheek, and drove home very slowly. I undressed, brushed my teeth, and lay staring into the darkness for a long, long, time.

Cc

After that agonizing night, Jill acted as if nothing had happened. Well, nothing had happened, but you know what I mean. I, however, walked around in a sensory whirlwind, everything just a little too sharply-focused, colors too bright, wondering if I had talked myself right out of heaven and questioning my manhood. I turned paranoid, wondering if she would inflame me again, dreading it yet craving it desperately.

I got a call from her father, wanting to meet with me the next day. I made the appointment, thinking, "Oh, good, he's hacked about me and his little girl, and I bet he has a shotgun." I entered his office at his car dealership, shook his hand, and sat down.

"I'll come right to the point. I don't think it's in your best interest to see Jill any more. I'm worried that your relationship has taken an ill-advised turn."

Rage flamed in me, but I banked the fire a bit and answered civilly, "I disagree, Mr. Curry, but I am curious about why you and Mrs. Curry have never really cared much for me. Have I done something to anger or offend you? And you can be assured that there has been nothing improper in my relationship with your daughter."

He chuckled and shook his head. "No, Paul, I am confident that you have been a perfect gentleman with Jill." I didn't know if that was a compliment or an insult. "Actually, Nora and I have substantial respect for you. I would like nothing better than for you to capture Jill's affections, which is why we have not tried to run you off. We have rarely approved of Jill's choices of boyfriends, but you are an exception."

"Then why are you trying to discourage me now? I'm afraid I don't understand." I didn't. He had really caught me leaning.

"Let's just say that I don't believe that my daughter will ever be what you want and need her to be. I am torn about this. I don't think it will work out between the two of you, but I sincerely wish it would."

"Mr. Curry, I love your daughter. Deeply. I believe that she loves me. I don't understand your misgivings, and I'm not sure why we are having this conversation. She's a grown woman, sir, and on her own. You can't forbid me to see her, and I intend to continue."

"You love her." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes, I do."

"You think you know her, and perhaps you do. But I have known her for over twenty-one years. I love her, too, but I must tell you that her loyalties have not always been ah, steadfast."

"I think this conversation is at an end, Mr. Curry. Jill is your daughter, and you can speak of her in whatever manner you please, but I cannot remain here and listen to you attack her character. I may someday ask you for her hand. I would hope to have your blessing as well."

"Her hand is no longer mine to give. I would give you my blessing if I could. Good day, Paul."

I strode out of his office feeling strange and very Victorian drawing room. Where did all that come from? The vocabulary, the formality. What I really meant to say was "Eat excrement and die, you old bastard. I'm gonna marry your daughter." And what was that about, "no longer mine to give?"

Whoa, Paul. What did you just say? Marry her. The thought crystallized in my mind. Yes, that is exactly what I intended to do. It had been in the back of my awareness for some time now, even before our near miss or near-bliss in her apartment. A great calm settled on me like gentle rain. Yes. I will marry her.

Cc

The night was perfect. It was one of those clear, cold nights when you could, if the earth were not round, see across the continent. No matter how we tried to cloud them, the steam of our breath could not obscure the hard brilliance of the stars. The restaurant was obscenely expensive, but the waiter's only thought seemed to be to make us happy. The candlelight's purpose was the same. Jill glowed as brightly as the candle. She could have been painted by Rembrandt, no, Vermeer. This painting would hang in my memory's gallery forever.

"Jill, that night in your apartment, when I told you that I loved you. Was it really a surprise to you?"

"No, I guess not. I did know."

"Then this shouldn't really surprise you, either." I took her hand. "Will you marry me?"

She took too long. Oh, no, come on! You shouldn't have to think about this at all. I mean, surely you have thought about this already, when not if I would ask, and what you would answer.

She stared down at her aprés-dessert coffee. "No, Paul, I can't."

The world ended. I was afraid to look down at the floor for fear I would see my tripes. I was guttedhollow and bloodless. I was dust, and the lightest breeze might blow me into oblivion. I managed to croak, "Why?"

She withdrew her hand from mine. "Because I am already engaged, Paul."

A brick. Someone hit me with a brick. Or maybe it was one of those big carnival mallets you use to smack a lever and ring a bell. Test your strength.

"Engaged."

Yes."

"Engaged to be married."

"Yes, Paul, about a year now. That's who I went to see over the holidays."

"What's his . . . no, don't tell me his name. I don't want him to have a name or a face."

"Why not?"

"So I won't feel any guilt when I take you from him. I love you, Jill. And either you love me too, or you're one hell of an actress. Tell me you don't."

"I do love you, Paul."

"Well, that's it, then. You call him or write him and tell him it's off."

"I can't do that. I love him, too. We've set a date. April."

Anger fought with despair, which fought with the need in me, and they all won.

"When did you intend to tell me?"

"Oh, God, Paul, I don't know. I was afraid to. I'm so confused." She was weeping now. So was I. I reached to touch her arm, but she pulled away. "Take me home, now. Please."

I did, and she got out of my car without a word and trudged up the stairs to her front door.

Cc

I don't remember much of the next few months. Everything came to my senses through a filter of pain and humiliation, like a milky, hazy screen between the world and me. I guess I went through the motions on auto-pilot at least skillfully enough to keep my job and function socially, although I'm not sure about that latter. I got to be a real pain in the ass to Jill and to Allie and to my friends. Jill's roommate began answering the phone every time and Jill was never home or was asleep or just stepped out and please stop calling. I would see her sometimes, out shopping or at a restaurant, sometimes on some guy's arm. Several different guys. Every time I saw her, it felt as if I broke a different rib. Allie got mortally tired of my whining and mewling around, and finally told me that I was welcome around her only as long as I did not mention Jill. Alan told me, "Look, Paul, I know you're all torn up, but man, you are getting to be a bore!"

One day I saw Jill at the supermarket, in the produce department. I spoke her name and she jumped and nearly dropped a head of lettuce.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

"Oh, geez, Paul. You scared me half to death!"

"So, how have you been?"

She couldn't get away. She looked around for some excuse to leave, then shrugged. "I've been pretty busy. Getting ready for the wedding, you know."

"Yes, I did know, thank you very much for mentioning it

"Yes, I did know, thank you very much for mentioning it.

"Yes, that's probably for the best. I don't think I could keep quiet during the 'speak now or forever hold your peace' part."

"What then should I do? You killed me, Jill. You field-dressed me like a trophy deer."

"Why don't you go back to Allie?"

"What? That's ridiculous. What makes you think that?"

"She told me. She also told me that if I didn't take you back that I was the stupidest woman east or west of the Mississippi, and that I deserved a serious ass kicking. She called me some unflattering names." Jill's expression softened a bit. "She may be right, you know." "What, are you having second thoughts?"

"Maybe. But don't get your hopes up. I've made my bed. Now it's time to sleep in it. The wedding is next Saturday. I'd like it if you'd come, but I'll understand if you don't." She kissed me on the cheek and wheeled her cart toward the deli. I stood for a while admiring the color of the eggplant and thought about her second thoughts. I wondered what I would ever want with a woman who would date me, even invite me into her bed, while she was engaged. I hadn't considered that before. Why didn't she wear a ring? Was I the only one she stepped out with? I wondered how long it would be before her first affair. Good riddance, I thought. She's poison. Sure, so how come I still wanted her?

On her wedding day I parked near the church and watched the stream of witnesses arrive. The stream slowed, then stopped. I sat some more. I watched the doors swing open and the double line of well-wishers pitching birdseed at the happy couple. I watched Jill and her new husband dash into the waiting limousine and motor off toward wedded bliss.

His name is Bob.

I spent a good bit of the next week in frenetic activity, working late on house plans, diving into church functions, playing volleyball with my amigos, even consenting to a blind date. I don't think I impressed her. I thought more and more about what Jill had told me about Allie. I didn't want to, but I did. At least it kept my mind off Jill. I finally went over to Allie's house the next weekend.

We sat on her couch eating ice cream and watching an old movie on television. I shifted around to face her.

"Hey, Jiminy, do ya love me?"

She grinned back at me, "Sure, Paul, I love ya."

I took her hand. "No, Allie, I mean . . . do you love me?"

Her lower lip trembled and her eyes started to fill. She whispered, "Yes, Paul, I love you. I love you so much."

"Do you think you would like to go to dinner with me tonight? On a date? A real date?"

She sprang up off the couch and swung on me roundhouse. She caught me with a vicious slap and her follow-through raked across my nose, making it run and my eyes water. She stood over me, shaking her fist in my face.

"What the hell do you take me for? Do you know how long I have listened to you moan about Jill, Jill, Jill? Do you have any idea how bad it hurt me to have you in my house talking about another woman, and all the time me asking, 'Oh, God, please, why can't he see me here? Am I invisible? Am I ugly? Why can't you make me stop loving him. I don't want to love him. I put up with it, with the pain and the humiliation just to be near you, just to be able to hug you sometimes. And now you want me to take in Jill's leftovers? Her table scraps? You go to Hell, Paul."

I rubbed my stinging cheek. "Is that what I am, table scraps?"

"You are to Jill!"

"Does that mean you won't have dinner with me tonight?"

She tried to look fierce a while longer, then broke into laughter through her tears. "You are some piece of work, you know that? I ought to kick you out on your butt!"

Then, abruptly, deftly, she curled onto my lap, in my arms. We sat that way for a while, watching classic black and white.

I told her, "You know your hair is the color of perfectly done toast? With honey on it?" She giggled and sniffled and I kissed her for the first time ever. Then I kissed her again. It was just as nice the second time. I tried once more, just to make sure the first two weren't flukes. They weren't. She rubbed her head up under my chin, like a cat.

"You know, I think if I try real hard I can make you forget her."

"Forget who?"

“Whom.”

Guatemalan Antique

Thomas Patrick Miller

Conrad nearly skidded in the Grocery-Plus parking lot when he swung his '89 silver Honda Accord into the west entrance. "Who the hell parked in my spot," Conrad mumbled as his car made a winding and tapping sound while reversing. The horns of nearby traffic died out as he walked through the automatic sliding doors of the almost-closed grocery store. The store was occupied by sedated-clock-staring cashiers and an old couple arguing about the best way to pick a grapefruit. Conrad had just gotten off work and his shoes squeaked as they shuffled across the cold tiled floor. He worked in a small greasy-spoon diner on Interstate 52, where he stood for eight hours, spraying food off plates with a high-powered wash-hose. His faded Chuck-Taylors always got wet and he never noticed until he stepped into a place that was fortunate enough

to have air-conditioning during those Texas-hot summer months. Conrad didn't even need to search for the leaning stack of swinging-arm baskets to deftly swipe one into his hand. As his hand hovered above a bin of peaches, systematically gauging the softness and occasionally bringing a peach to his nose, he realized he was gritting his teeth and squeezing the peaches with excessive force. He mumbled aloud mimicking his stepmother's voice, "Why don't you get a better job?" He couldn't believe she had the audacity to say that. Conrad was usually gentle with the peaches, but his stepmother's comment from last night was still unfortunately on his mind. He had no qualms about his profession, or better put, lack of profession, but his family, especially his parents, were always digging at him. As he rolled three peaches into the almost-clear plastic bag, he asked himself, "Why does

everyone insist on telling me what to do with my life?" As he strolled by the softly humming and rattling refrigerators of the dairy isle, he mentally agreed with her and his father and their assessment that he could easily handle a better job. But he was still angered at how openly his parents spoke of what he should and shouldn't do with his life. When Conrad yanked his Horizon Vanilla Yogurt from one of the refrigerators, he realized that the main thing that he was avoiding in life was the same thing that has gotten the best of his older brother, father and stepmotherand that was a life of monotonous routine. After slamming the refrigerator door, he thought to himself, "Yeah, I do have a dead-end job but at least I have a little variety in my life." The arm-basket began to gain in weight and make a slight indention on his forearm. He shifted it to his left arm as he headed for the bread and tortilla section. Digging into the bread shelf, searching for a whole wheat, $2.19 for an unsliced loaf, he thought of his parents and their uncomfortable reluctance to try new restaurants or any of his foreign film suggestions. He smiled softly when he thought of how he could invariably know where his entire family was during any hour of the day; they were so stuck in their little worlds. He saw his special loaf of bread hiding at the back of the shelf and felt better when he snatched it and let it haphazardly roll out of his hand into the nearly full basket. Returning to thoughts of his family, he felt relieved in knowing that the people criticizing his life most adamantly had a great flaw that he felt he was safe from. Conrad shuffled toward the coffee counter with this new insight into his personal virtue and was slightly put back by the absence of the colorful chalked words, which were usually placed under the third thermos on the left, "Guatemalan Antique." There were only two thermoses out on the counter and under both white chalk redundantly read "French RoastFrench Roast."

“Excuse me!" Conrad said to a young man mopping the floor.

"Yeah, what's up?" the employee spurted out only after placing the mop in a yellow bucket full of dingy water

Conrad anxiously formulated words, "Um . . . . Where's the thermos of Guatemalan?"

"All out," the employee responded as he snapped his gum loudly, one of Conrad's pet peeves.

Conrad spoke again, "What do you mean? . . .you only have two thermoses of French Roast."

The employee said, "That's right. Want some or not? I'm trying to close down here."

"I don't know," Conrad replied with a look of bewilderment and kept going with, "did someone forget to make it?" and "it's usually right here."

The employee stopped chewing his gum with his mouth partially open and stared blankly into Conrad's eyes for what seemed to Conrad a very long time. Feeling obligated to speak he said, "yeah, I guess I don't have a choice. Give me a large of French Roast."

When the employee handed over the uncovered steaming cup of blackness,

Conrad unintentionally mumbled, "Do you still have lids?"

"Right in front of you," the employee said with his back already turned away.

"Well, that's different too," Conrad mumbled to the retreating back. Conrad fumbled with the coffee lid while he was in line, then traded his money for an almost-full brown paper bag.

Two of the coffee bar employees watched Conrad exit the sliding glass doors and walk in front of the huge glass windows that marked the front of the store. One employee laughed when he saw Conrad take one sip of his coffee, make a sour-milk face, spit on the sidewalk, and angrily throw the whole cup into a near-by trash can.

"What's so funny? What did you do to that guy's coffee?" The other employee asked.

"Nothing, that's the funny part, absolutely nothing."

"I don't get it . . . the guy looked as if he just drank gasoline," the second said.

"That guy comes in at the same time every Friday night, gets all his

groceries, then comes over here and rudely orders one large Guatemalan Antique; every Friday it's the same story. So tonight, I gave him Guatemalan Antique and told him it was French Roast . . . I guess he couldn't handle the change."

The Absence of Concrete

Jacquelyn Tobert

It must surely be the exact day, hour and moment when summer collides with fall, she had thought. That first cool, crisp breeze that brings with it not only the battle between the seasons, whether time will, in fact, move on but the melancholy of things gone by and those yet to come. All thought past, present and future, for her, seemed to come together all at once in something resembling a car crash.

She had experienced this collision before and decided long ago that in such moments of chaos and clarity, it was best just to sit still, ride it out, so to speak, or if possible get out of the way.

Previous experience had told her that movement in any direction at this moment could prove damaging or at the very least fruitless. There would be no decision making today except, of course, the wise educated choice she had made to resume smoking after a year of health. Melancholy will do that to you, she knew.

She had read somewhere the formal definition of melancholy was sadness but for here it was much more complicated. It is a moment, in her mind that does not really produce one clear thought, more of an overview that seems to defy vocabulary. Maybe it is assessment or state of the union, but all she knew for sure was that it was generally accompanied by the change of of the season.

How exactly had she arrived here, and now that she was at this unexpected destination, which road from here? Her eyes lazily drifted to the trail of ants busily moving to and fro. Obviously, they had felt the breeze as well but had interpreted it differently. What silly creatures, she thought, always moving, seemingly unaware of the greaater issues at hand. She contemplated for a moment about possibly tossing a twig in their way just for amusement, but then it didn't seem that amusing.

She took a drag off her third cig and though how odd it tasted after a year of absence, knowing full well that soon her body would adjust itself and pick up the habit again. She raised her head just in time to see the first leaf fall; her sense of melancholy intensified.

A young boy, possibly eight or so, rides up the street on his bicycle and pleased with the movement and distraction, her eyes followed the movement. Similar to the oblivious ants, he too seems to be unconcerned with the significance of the day. She realized immediately that he lacks a key component in this collisiona past. He is young, and as she contemplated the evil and the innocence of the boy, she saw a homeless man traveling down the street in his direction.

It struck her at once how strangely comfortable we have become with the term homeless when in reality it is a human being without a home. He has no porch, concrete or otherwise, no chair, and no closet. It is, in essence, someone who carries all that he has collected and all that he holds dear on his back. As she observed him from her porch, she decided he was the quintessential indigent, beyond the worry of melancholy. He possessed the standard heavy black overcoat and the common weary gait of a man who has no familiar chair or place to rest. She knew this, she had crossed the street at one time or another to avoid him or someone like him. The avoidance borne not so much out of fear as discomfort, she diverted her gaze by focusing again on the young boy.

Her attention peaked slightly as the man stopped the boy. She knew that this combination was rarely acceptable, as any good jaded city girl would know. What could this man possibly want with this child. The scenarios ran rampant through her six o'clock news mind. Sexual molestation was at the top of the list, with the idea of abduction close behind. She thought this sort of thing happens all the time. The man obviously lived on the streets, lonely and confused, most certainly this had taken its toll on him. Ransom perhaps, the young boy did not appear to come from a background of large amounts of money, but large amounts of money is a relative term.

All she knew at that moment was that she had to have a plan. She could opt for the ever-alert professionals at 911 or run into the street screaming and rescue the innocent child. She had, of course, decided on 911 because as they say in the south,

"her momma didn't raise no fool," and besides that was their job after all, wasn't it.

Across the street there was movement between the two. The old man handed the bag he was carrying to the boy. Simultaneously, the boy released his grip on the handlebar and relinquished his bicycle to the man. To her amazement, the man mounted the bike and began to quickly ride up and down the street, his movement carving figure eights. His teeth gleamed through his wind swept beard. The young boy stood by holding the man's worn bag. She watched as the old man finished with screeching tires, rubber against the black asphalt. His face was happy as he returned the bicycle to the boy and took his bag. No words were exchanged as they parted company each moving in their original direction; collision avoided.

There was nothing, of course, left for her to do. She sat back down and lit another cigarette. She decided to quit after this pack, and returned her eyes to the progress of the ants.

	The Beginning of the Beat Culture and Its Effects on American Society Lydia A. Rousey
	The Beat movement spanned the time period between 1940 and 1960. It was not just a passing fad, but actualized in the Beat culture, which continues to influence society today. In order to evaluate and analyze this event in history and come to this conclusion, it is important to first examine the men and women behind the movement, the Beat Generation. Who are the Beats, what did they stand for, and how did it all get started? The Beat movement started with a small group of writers who became a tight knit band of political and social visionaries. The maverick poets and novelists included Jack Kerouac, William Burroughs, and Allen Ginsberg, who all met in the Columbia University milieu. Other writers, rebels and hipsters who joined in the group were Lucien Carr, David Kammerer, Neal Cassady, Herbert Huncke, and John Clellon Holmes (Watson 5). Joan Vollmer was the first woman to be a Beat (Watson 57). Other women, such as Carolyn Cassady, Joyce Johnson, Hettie Jones and Diane DiPrima would become more substantial figures (Watson 265). The movement was concentrated in New York's downtown scene, and later the San Francisco contingent included poets Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Gary Snyder, Gregory Corso, and Peter Orlovsky (Watson 5). The Beat Generation also flourished at Black Mountain College and spread to Chicago and Denver, developing into a full-fledged culture of its own.
The Beats were in search of "The New Vision," which they attempted to create by their use of drugs and unconventional lifestyle. The literary works of innovative writers, such as Jack Black's You Can't Win, Oswald Spengler's Decline of the West , William Butler Yeat's A Vision, along with T.S Eliot and Ezra Pound's poetry, guided the Beat Generation's own vision. These literary works spoke of replacing morality with creativity. The poet, William Carlos Williams, served as a mentor for the Beats. This new vision was further defined by Beat slang. The Beats created a language of their own by transforming and combining the slang of all that was hip in their world: jazz, drugs, homosexuals, carnival and circus workers, and African Americans (Watson 8). In the fall of 1945, Huncke introduced the word "beat" to Kerouack, Ginsberg, and Burroughs. They used the word "beat" to describe themselves as being beaten down by the world. The word "beat" was a drug term associated with being robbed or cheated. In November of 1948, Kerouac remarked to Holmes, "So I guess you might say we're a beat generation." The Beat movement became a social rebellion against the conformity of the 1950's. This rebellion was also a response to the government's anti-Communist policies, also known as McCarthyism. The term "Beat Generation" was later popularized when, in November of 1952, Holmes wrote an article for the New York Times magazine entitled "This Is the Beat Generation," describing Beat philosophy (Watson 3). "It involves a sort of nakedness of mind, and, ultimately, of soul; a feeling of being reduced to the bedrock of consciousness. In short, it means being undramatically pushed up against the wall of oneself" (Holmes 22) In 1957, Kerouac published On The Road, and soon after the media began promoting the Beat generation as a fad. San Francisco Chronicle columnist Herb Cain coined the term "beatnik". after the October launching of the Russian "sputnik," asserting both the satellite and the new bohemian type were "equally far out" (Watson 264). Beat followers were depicted as the cartoonish avant-garde who wore black clothing and goatees, played bongos, drank cheap wine and smoked marijuana, listened to jazz and hung out in coffee houses spouting poetry and saying "Dig" and "Crazy!" (Watson 121). Though the Beats never intended to lend (or sell out) their culture for commercial purposes, images of the Beat Generation as cultural icons are still seen in today's media. Kerouac provided this historical definition of the Beat Generation for the Random House Dictionary : "Members of the generation that came of age after World War II, who, supposedly as a result of disillusionment stemming from the Cold War, espouse mystical detachment and relaxation of social and sexual tensions" (Watson 5). The lesson we derive from this event is that war and social expectations have a profound effect on the human psyche.
This lesson is continuously played out in history. The Beat movement started out as a response to the McCarthy era and the pressure to conform to an ordered society and ended as the basis for the social movements to come. By examining Kerouac's definition one can link the attitude of 1960's "free love" and "make love, not war" to the Beat Generation. Even the 1960's language of "sexual liberation" and "political revolution" can be traced back to the Beats. The Beats not only spawned the hippies of the 1960s, but also the punks of the 1970s, and later served as a basis for the alternative scene that blossomed in Seattle and Portland in the late 1980s and early 1990s. In the late 1970s and early 1980s, musicians drew from Burroughs' words. For example, "heavy metal" originated in Naked Lunch's "heavy metal thunder" (Watson 307). Indeed, the Beat Generation's nonconformist beliefs have made a major contribution to the evolving counterculture in America, inspiring countless artistic endeavors. While the Beats may have been looked upon suspiciously, they were in fact upholding their freedoms guaranteed to them by the United States Constitution. It can be argued that the Beats stood for their own brand of individualism, while American society resembled a more totalitarian state during the 1950s. This atmosphere of fear was a result of the "Red Scare." Unlike the Progressives before them, however, the Beats did not start out to change the world. The Beats sought to create their own world by removing themselves from conventional American society, often traveling cross-country and beyond. They detached themselves from involvement with the "squares," and rejected politics and materialism. They were discontented with political corruption and saw capitalism as the enemy. Though Beats sought to remove themselves from politics, some would later take an active role in promoting social causes, such as civil rights and protecting the environment. Allen Ginsberg said, "We realized there was a difference between the way we talked...and what we heard on the radio if any president or congressmen or even literary person began talking 'officialese'" (Knight xi). The Beat Generation was originally conceived as an intellectual and spiritual revolution (Ciardi 254). The reason the Beats chose withdrawal, rather than an attempt to change the system, was rooted in their belief that the world would end with the creation of the atom bomb and hydrogen bomb. The Beats sought to live out these beliefs by engaging their imagination. It was a journey of exploring the intellect by means of exaggerating the senses through the physical (drugs, sex, thrill seeking). They expressed their lives through their writings, most famously, Kerouac's On the Road, Burrough's Naked Lunch and Ginsberg's poetry, Howl. The Beats were also unique in that they permeated every aspect of American popular culture from politics to movies and fashion (Watson 4). Though some of the Beat slang is outdated, words like
"cool" have become entrenched in American vocabulary. Their most significant impact, however, lives on in American literature. The Beats literary expressions of their world initially went unpublished, and later gained notoriety in censorship trials. Their work gradually infiltrated the mainstream, and to some degree, were accepted by the traditional literary community who once shunned them. The publication of Naked Lunch was a landmark in publishing history. It was the last literary work to be suppressed by U.S. Customs, the U.S. Post Office, or a state government. This marked an end to literary censorship in America (Watson 284). In this respect, the Beats solidified freedom of expression through the written word as well as freedom of speech through their spoken poetry. Their stories, once shrugged off as fad, were the basis for a new literary age and are now considered classics. Arthur and Kit Knight, founders of the Beat periodical Unspeakable Visions of the Individual, believe that the Beats "have given us the only serious literary movement indigenous to this country" (Knight). The Beat Generation became the voice for the marginal, the hip, the dispossessed urban dweller (Watson 8). As such, the Beat culture continues to influence the American arena today, in politics (activism), society (literature, art, the alternative lifestyle), and commercial media (music, movies, and fashion).