Issue 13 Table of Contents

We did it. We have produced an issue, despite our lack of time and better judgment. We probably always say this, but you better appreciate this one!

However, we have to admit, the print issue is still in production. So, while we have this up to prove to the world that we have work and it is here and we do not feed our submissions to a mutant Toucan and only pretend to have a literary magazine, our actual physical issue may require some time (hopefully not too long). We'll let you know when it's together and printed--we have all the parts, but we just have to get the right screwdriver. And not that kind of screwdriver...because that would be bad for the copyediting. (As you probably now, our copyediting can be pretty damn suspect anyway, and this was before Liz turned 21.)

Thanks to Mike Scelfo for producing us a wonderfully rich cover on short notice. Thanks to Kim Osment, who you'll meet soon enough, for pretending to be a Russian mail order bride, and to all the various cats who distract the Toucan with their utter adorable cuteness. And thanks to you for reading and putting up with us. We really don't know why you do it...or come to think of it, why we do it either. Oh right, to warn you all about killer escalators. Right. Yeah.

Out The Door, Mike Perkins
Four Strangers Near the Weathered Statue in a Downtown Park, J.J Steinfeld

Speaking Test, Chris Castle

Escalator Feeding Frenzy and art, Ryan P. Kennedy

Self-Help, Chris Bridges
The Marriott, Jacob Edwards
Alimony Payment, Gary Sprague
Guys Like You and Me, B.D Fischer
The Requirements For Performing A Head Spin, Calvin Fantone
Rabies and Rosaries, Gabrielle DeMarre
Inhumane, Ashley Cline
Domestic Nomadism, Ashley Cline
Microbiology 101, Laavayna S.
Neon, MaryAnne Kolton
YouTube Recommended, Don Kingfisher Campbell
Scenes From a Diner, Alec Cizak
Breakfast With Meursault, Cody Deitz
Natural History, Ashley Fisher
On January 14th, 2010, Tyler Bigney

Contributor Bios

Editrice Note: Grim? Toucan't Be Serious!

Editrice Note: Grim? Toucan't Be Serious!

This is unlucky Issue 13, after all, and it’s going to be a dark, bitter, Editrice Note, because currently life seems dark and bitter and without redemption. Or sleep. Yes, sleep would be nice. Also the time to put one’s feet up on the couch. Well, if we had feet. Because we don’t have feet anymore. You want to know why? Because of the escalator.

We are not making this up, we have an essay about deadly escalators in this issue. We have a poem about YouTube. And one about break-dancing, which was presumably written before the breaker, (pardon us, we know the lingo now) got on the escalator.

Do you want to know what’s really going on with us, why we haven’t been our usual, cheery, punctual self? It’s really not the loss of our feet. We’re trying to put our lives together, getting real jobs, pretending we can exist in the nonfictional world, all the while shelving books and writing, or not writing. And we don’t really have time between all this, to do much of anything. Not even figure out why our hair looks like it—

“Oh, just admit it, Liz,” Laura screams from the escalator, where her long mane is currently entangled, in sort of a reverse Rapunzel. “You don’t want to do this Editrice Note, anyway. You don’t want to do this issue. You want to pour yourself a whiskey and Coke and watch Dead Poets Society for the 17th time. But I’m onto you, you little faker. I’m onto you.”

“Really? ‘Cause it seems like all you want to do is to play Beatles Rockband and watch Doctor Who and knit argyle bikinis.”

“So what? At least I’m making stuff. YOU don’t appear to making much of anything. Not even an effort. What is with you? Ever since you found that hussy of yours…”

"HEY NOW, HEY NOW..."

What is the most important thing in life, Toucan fans? Is it sanity, or is it love, or is it responsibility? Because honestly, we don’t know any more. Is it learning not to complain? Is it learning how to deal with feelings of failure and emptiness, even if perhaps they have very little basis in reality?

We would put submission info here, like we always do, but frankly we might not get to you for a while. We would tell you when these issues would expect to appear in stores, or God forbid, be sent out, but all of those would be fanciful, optimistic lies, and we love you too much to do that to you. That’s why we hurt you so much. Yeah, we’re twisted like that, but at least we’re honest about it.

Sorry we can’t make it to being funny this time. Give us a few months, and maybe we’ll get the old wit back in our pen. For now, our noses are to the grindstone, and our feet jammed firmly in the escalator—the escalator of life.

Liz and Laura, the harried Toucan Editrices

Out the Door, Mike Perkins

This is how it ended. You would think that a marriage three years old that had started in Kansas and ended in Missouri would have some kind of message to convey or at least bring a sense of finality. Instead, it ended just about like that last walk when I go through a rented hotel room before leaving. You do that last inspection just before you walk out of the room for the last time because you want to make sure you did not leave something valuable behind. At the same time you are anxious to be on your way, and sorry to be leaving too. Something did happen, finally, at the end but it was so vague the telling of it is like ripping out the last chapter of a murder mystery leaving the affair unsolved.

It seems reasonable that a person would take the day off and not end their marriage on just the thin margins of whatever else is going on in their life. Instead I got divorced on my lunch hour having told nobody except that I might be a little late in coming back since I had some personal business to attend to. It was a lonely and private affair.

I had been in county courthouses before and after the divorce. I have visited courthouses professionally to testify on behalf and against people, as well as to cover news stories as a photojournalist. The courthouses are all the same with their imposing entryways, high ceilings, marble floors, and a sort of forced grandeur deemed appropriate for those temples of fiscal responsibility and civic duty. They are cold places with no warmth or humanity in them. As a rule good things seldom happen in a courthouse.

As usual in any courthouse there were people around but they were like props or mere functionaries. Somehow I managed to find the courtroom where the divorce was scheduled and was permitted to enter to wait until my case was called. The courtroom was sparsely decorated and attended. Of course there was the judge, my soon to be ex-wife Glenda, and her lawyer. There were also two or three other couples waiting their turn to put a bullet in the head of their own marriages, and they were all young like us. This was not the place were marriages came to die, it was the place where they were executed. The surreal nature of the proceedings was highlighted by the fact that everyone was sort of bland, uncomfortable, and solemn all at the same time like we were attending a funeral.

In the courtroom you felt guilty not because of what you had done, but because of the consequences like when you were hauled before the principle for some infraction you were not awfully sorry for. In such a place, it seemed appropriate to keep your head bowed somewhat while sitting and waiting at the edge of your seat on the courtroom benches which were exactly like those of a church. The marriage had begun with hard wooden bench seating and would end with it as well.

The judge was a middle-aged women with long bright red hair in the customary black robe. She was older than the rest of us. I had a chance to watch her in action as the couple before us finished up with their day in court. She was neither friendly nor rude. She was brisk and efficient with the file of cases yet to be heard at her right hand and the completed ones at her left. She had a system. There were certain technical questions she asked from a mental list she kept in her head, and she made notes and signed papers as she went along. She seemed only professionally curious and I imagined that except for the occasional hysterical or violent break down in decorum requiring some kind of effort to regain control, by her or possibly even the bailiff, it was an assembly line process to be endured. She asked questions of the people appearing before her but they were almost all answered instead by their attorney like a parent answering for a child who is somewhat unreliable in providing answers when it really counts. The couple ahead of us were finished. There was not even a drop of the gavel, it just ended and they stood there for a moment as if asking themselves if this was all there was. It was. Then it was our turn.

The judge noted that I did not have an attorney. My wife, for the next few minutes barring some kind of unforeseen event, was suing me for divorce and I had just showed up for the formalities. The judge looked at me and asked me if this was all okay.

"He's stipulated to the conditions your honor." That was Glenda's attorney.

The attorney was about the same age as Glenda and I. He could not have been long out of law school. Equipped with a receding hairline he was dressed in a light colored suit and tie with a white shirt and shined shoes. Those were his work clothes. He had the shiny pallor of someone who works inside too much and was thin. He seemed anxious, and I imagined that if he was new to the practice of law he was hoping that this easy payday was not going to be ruined by some unexpected difficulty involving some kind of lawyerly intervention requiring him to think on his feet.

Her eyes remained on me. I guess the judge did that sometimes when some answer actually required a response from the individual to satisfy her.

"Yes it is." I nodded and that was that. My great courtroom oratory was finished.

There were no children, there was certainly no property, and we had already divided up things completely to our mutual satisfaction. If there ever was a divorce free of legal complications this was it.

Glenda was standing on the other side of the lawyer she had hired and the judge asked her some question and was completely satisfied not only with the answer but that the lawyer had replied for her. Linda had dressed up, but at the time she was working in retail and I had no idea if she had dressed up for court or work. As usual she seemed a bit stern and introspective, and I do not recall her saying a single word until after we walked out of the courtroom.

It was over in five minutes but it was a long five minutes. When we were done, just like the couple before us, we stood there expecting some kind of ending. There really was no ending to speak of. There was no final hymn or prayer, no congratulations nor condolences, nothing but a process and a marriage that had run their respective courses and it was time for everyone just to move on.

The lawyer disappeared. Out of habit, and perhaps other reasons as well, Glenda and I walked out of the courtroom together even though we were now divorced and had not seen, nor spoken, to each other for months. We continued to walk together down the stairs, then out the hallway, and then out the front door. Without warning, as soon as we were outside, Glenda began to cry.

She had waited to cry until we were out the door. She had also been the one to file for divorce although I was none too sorry for that. Yet, despite everything, she had found something she needed to cry about. There we were, standing together divorced, two people who may or may not have ever been in love but two people who had certainly shared the most intimate of times together. We were alone, and she was alone except for me. I did not know what to do.

Then she said the oddest thing. "I'm sorry."

Was she talking to me or herself, and what was she sorry for?

I looked at her expecting some kind of clue as to what she wanted from me. Despite everything I felt sorry for her.

"Glenda there is nothing for you to be sorry for. This whole thing is mostly my fault."

We had continued to walk awhile but then stopped a distance outside the courthouse door on the sidewalk. The sun was shining and it was a beautiful day full of sad things.

Before I could move toward her, which I was reluctant to do for many reasons but sorry to see her suffer alone with nobody else to comfort her, she put her hands straight down to her side

drawing on some kind of inner resolve. She stopped crying and got a hard look and from experience I knew that I was being tuned out and all communication had ceased. That was her way of saying no.

Those were the last words we ever spoke to one another and I never heard from her again. There were a few rumors from friends, and one time she tried to reach me through my parents. She called a few years after the divorce, and told them she was back in Kansas, but wanted to get in touch with me to see if I would help her by cooperating to secure an annulment for our late marriage. She was engaged to marry some farmer, who was Catholic, and in order to get married in the Catholic Church she would have to get an annulment. Nothing ever came of that either.

Four Strangers Near the Weathered Statue in a Downtown Park, J.J Steinfeld

On an overcast afternoon—the morning news’s weather forecast had mentioned only a 30- percent chance of light rain today—in front of the weathered statue of a fearless-looking, bronze-handsome explorer who first set foot in the area three centuries ago, a self-appointed downtown park prophet, jabbing his closed umbrella toward the sky as if to get the attention of some celestial meteorologist, is the only one of the four people, strangers to each other, standing near the statue to have an umbrella. “I am a prophet if I like it or not,” he says in a rich baritone, first toward the sky, then to the statue, and finally at the other three people standing near the statue. “A prophet’s job is to prophesy, rain or shine,” he continues, and laughs at his own remark.

The park prophet seems to be appropriately dressed for a movie about wild-eyed prophets set several centuries ago, say around the time the explorer was redefining the area, at least that is what one of the other people in the park, an unsuccessful local filmmaker, is thinking as he points his cellphone camera at the park prophet, who announces in his impressive voice that the world will end tonight, or the night after, or the night after that—the point, the prophet declares, is the world will end sooner or later and we will need to be filled with humility and thoughts of love or else oblivion and worse would be our everlasting confinement. The park prophet steps closer to the statue and taps with the umbrella at the explorer’s legs and backside, a rhythmic secret message of sorts.

“As far as prophets go, this guy sure isn’t the coolest one I‘ve ever seen,” a teenager who has had his share of apocalyptic visions says to an elderly woman who is attempting to recall the names of her grandchildren and wondering what God has forgotten, her name included. Suddenly she remembers that she was on the way to buy a birthday card and a present for her oldest granddaughter who she guesses is about the same age as the teenage boy standing next to her near the park statue. The teenager is in the park to research the statue and its historic plaque for a high-school history essay that is due tomorrow morning and he hasn’t written a single sentence yet, but is confident he can write the essay in three or four hours tonight. In fact, he always puts off doing his school assignments to the last possible minute and is quite pleased to the point of boastfulness of his ability to get schoolwork finished under difficult time constraints.

A light rain starts to fall and the park prophet opens his umbrella, offering it to the elderly woman. She seems confused by his offer, and the teenager takes the umbrella and holds it over the woman’s head. “I like the rain,” she says to the statue, and the teenager wonders how his parents will behave when they are as old as the woman he is attempting to shield from the rain.

The local filmmaker, who never believed in God or the end of the world, is catching the prophet on his new cellphone camera for a possible experimental film about a park prophet on an overcast afternoon turning rainy. He had been earlier contemplating doing a film about the explorer but the park prophet suddenly seems to have more creative possibilities, then decides that the park prophet is a direct descendent of the explorer, and starts to call a friend to tell her about his new idea for a film. He is already thinking of where he can get funding for this film project.

Then the unexpected overtakes reality, a heart attack or stroke, the prophet falling like the night or a night to come. The statue seems to gasp, an ambulance is called by the local filmmaker, the teenager drops the umbrella and starts CPR, the elderly woman recalls a prayer she said as a girl, and it starts to rain more heavily than predicted on this morning’s news.

Speaking Test, Chris Castle

Speaking Test, Part One: ‘In the first part of the test I’m going to ask you some questions about yourself…’

John Lennon

Jim sat in the reception waiting for the new student. The Dayton school for English was covered in snow today and his new student, Sia, was almost late. He re-read his letter from his sister back in London, smiled at the news of his nephew’s birthday party, the faulty remote controlled plane and folded up the letter. The bang on the door made him jump and he looked up to see the girl, right on time, standing by the glass door.

It was three weeks until the speaking test and Sia had applied at the last minute and subsequently been taken ill. Her school was now closed because of the pig/bird/monkey flu and Jim’s boss had offered to help out.

“So the English speaking test is split into four parts,” Jim said, going over the rules for the nth time. In his first and only year of teaching, he had managed to pass every student in the school. It was a combination of encouragement, patience, cheating and blind luck. It was also the only thing he was good at. “Part one means I ask you some questions, usually three from five, never more than one from each section. So today, we’ll just do that section to get you used to it, okay?” he looked up and smiled his best neutral, non-creepy-to-girl-students-smile. In all matters of school he tried to think neutral: like Switzerland.

“Yes,” the girl replied, not looking up and immediately screening the notes for the questions. She was interested at least, thought Jim. He had kids who repeatedly looked under the sheets to their mobile phones, their eye-lines clearly nowhere near the papers; they would make rubbish spies, Jim had thought with a rueful smile. Looking at them, so excited at the prospect of each message and so clearly not thrilled with the prospect of learning, Jimmy, at the age of thirty-two, had begun to feel old for the first time.

“So, let’s start with lessons at school, or education,” he said and looked up. He felt himself blush a little as he began to speak. He felt ridiculous at having to put on his slow, ‘amateur dramatics’ voice for each question, but knew it was necessary for first time students who, being Greek, wouldn’t have a clue what to make of a slightly rough, outskirts of London male voice; a male voice that was incredibly deep, to boot. Jim sighed inwardly; he’d always hated drama at school and had got out of it with a sick-note at every chance.

The oral tests had been a success all the same; he had had managed to pass the lad who had, at the start of the test, very politely asked Jim to come round to his flat when he was away and eat his dog. They were good kids, all in all; even the ones who were a pain in the ass weren’t spiteful. Each week he read the news websites about back home, knives in school, falling standards and realised how lucky he was to be confronted, at the worst of times, with a couple of verses from Hannah Montana.

“Let’s go on with family, Sia. How important is family to you?” She was good, if slightly uninterested; Jimmy guessed she was probably smart at the things which took her interest and suspected being here and talking to a man with clipped English tones wasn’t one of them.

He tried to ask as many varied questions as he could to see if he could see any spark in her answers, but had little joy. It was a trick he used for all the students; find out what they were interested in, then try to incorporate it into the questions in the exams, so they would feel more comfortable talking about something they understood. So far, it had paid dividends in the real tests; one girl, who in class was painfully shy, spoke for over two minutes about the latest ‘Harry Potter’ film; another boy, who had spent most of Jim’s lessons talking, singing and generally giving him a headache, turned in an eloquent debate about which football team was better to support, Olympiakos or Panathanikos (for him it was always going to be Olympiakos).

The hour trundled on until five o’ clock came about. He watched her as he told her it was time to finish up and smiled as all the energy, absent from the previous hour, rushed through her as she sprang out of the seat. It was a good thing, really; what teenager would really choose to be in class on the fringes of a Saturday night? She scrambled up her books and pencils into the bag as Jim wiped the board cleaned of the few words he had put up.

“Do you have any plans for the weekend Sia?” he said, as he cleaned down the date and the ‘Mr. Jim’ he had written at the start.

“I was supposed to go out but I think that’s changed,” she said carefully, making sure each word was right. Jim understood from the off, that most of the students’ biggest concern was not passing or failing but looking or sounding foolish in front of other people. If there was one thing Jim had learned quickly here; never underestimate how grown-up teenagers were about practical matters.

“‘Life is what happens when you’re making other plans,’ I guess” Jim said without thinking. The whiteboard was clear. He looked at it; when he was at school, they still had blackboards and teachers were still allowed to throw chalk at noisy students. Good times.

“John Lennon,” she said as she hauled her bag onto her shoulder. Jim turned round and smiled. “Good night, Mr. Jim.”

“Good night, Sia,” he replied, not wanting to patronise her by saying how impressed he was by her knowledge. He walked her to the front door, holding it open for her and then locking it up as she stepped onto the street. She strode off, bracing herself against the cold; obviously, she didn’t have a hat, gloves or a scarf. It was music she was into: Jackpot.

***

Speaking Test, Part Two: ‘I’m going to read some situations. I want you to start or respond as necessary…’

Jimi Hendrix

It was important not to push it straight away; trying to openly start a conversation about a hobby, or look to enthusiastic, could sometimes backfire. Jim looked up with the tap and unlocked the door; the snow had eased down but it was still cold as hell; he saw Sia’s knuckles were white, her cheeks flush. He tried to remember from his old science classes whether teenagers were impervious to cold. He thought back on it; no, it was only homework. They said hello and walked down to the classroom. Jim asked about her week, the weekend and they settled down in the chairs.

“The second part of the test, Sia, is the conversations. In ‘A’ I start the conversation, in ‘B’ you start, okay?” She nodded and the two of them almost simultaneously cleared their throats.

This part of the exam, Jim noticed, was sometimes the most difficult. Some students were mortified at the idea of having to talk to their teacher as a friend and the concept of going to the cinema or a restaurant usually meant descending into a fit of giggles or horrified silence. Jim couldn’t say he blamed them all that much; for his part he tried to keep it as light and as simple as he could, achingly aware he didn’t want to come across as the ‘hip’ teacher. Jim remembered from his own school days the substitute teachers who pulled out the guitar and asked everyone to call them by them first names; it usually ended with them in tears and a galaxy of spit-balls on their back: painful.

“‘We’re friends. I want to go to the beach this weekend...’” To her credit, Sia seemed to take the whole thing good-humouredly, smiling in that half-amused, half-bemused style that only teenagers could get away with.

The trick, Jim had decided, was to use ‘W’ words: where, when, who, what…to make it easier for the students to answer. Tragically, Jimmy remembered how happy he was to come up with the idea and even found himself making a ‘W’ with his hands as he explained it and wrote it up on the board. He looked round to see if they were following his instructions; of course one of the boys was making a ‘L’ for Loser sign with his hand. Still, it had been a help.

“Now, with part ‘B’ of the test, you’re going to start the conversation. First situation: ‘You are at a restaurant…’” Jim waited for a few seconds; this part, he thought was the toughest. It was hard enough for a teenager to strike up a conversation, let alone in a second language. Jim had a default setting if it got really tricky; just to say ‘hi, how are you, Jim?’ and then let him take it over. But to her credit, Sia got through them, stopping once or twice, but on the whole doing well.

“That’s good work, Sia, well done. Remember, as well; if you want to think about something, try and make it a pause rather than a hesitation, okay? Maybe say ‘let me think…’ or something like that, okay?” Jim saw her jot it down. A student actually using their notebook for notes; was there any finer sight? He stole a quick glance at his phone for the time—never let students see you check the time; don’t let them think you’re as bored as they are—and was surprised to see it was almost time to go.

“You like music, Mr. Jim?” Sia said, making him look up from his own notebook.

“Yes I do. English music mainly, rock. How about you?” He watched her set herself in the chair and fought against smiling; for all the speaking, she was ready to talk.

“I love English music; rock, punk. My favourite bands are The Clash, The Arctic Monkeys and the Cure.” Her eyes lit up when she spoke and Jimmy saw her in the cafes in town; holding a coffee with both hands, talking animatedly to friends about songs, films and all the other things that really mattered.

The two of them talked for a few minutes; Jim tried out a few bands and nodded when she came back with album titles and lyrics. When she glanced down to her watch and politely reached for her bag, Jim drew himself out of his chair.

“Do you mind…” she said, looking to the whiteboard and pointing to the pen. Jim waved her on and stepped back as she stood by the board. Carefully, she moved across the space, her writing neat—better than Jim’s, whose first month of writing on the boards had almost slanted clean off them—and then stood back. Without turning round she cleared her throat.

“‘When the power of love is stronger than the love of power, the world will be at peace.’” She looked over her shoulder. “Jimi Hendrix,” she said and smiled, nodded and then walked out the door, in the effortlessly cool way that only a teenager could manage.

***

THERE'S MORE. READ IT BY CLICKING HERE.

Speaking Test, Continued

Speaking Test, Part Three: ‘In this part of the test we’re going to discuss something together…’

Johnny Cash

Sia was at least wearing a hat when he opened the door for her the next week. As they sat down, Jim reached into his satchel as Sia rummaged through her bag and pulled out the clutch of CDs. He turned round, his arm outstretched and found Sia in exactly the same pose, to the point where they almost, as the kids called it, ‘knuckle bumped.’ In her hand was a pen drive.

“Music?” He said, looking at it; it wasn’t even as big as a pen, more a stubby pencil. There was probably enough room to store his entire record collection on there, Jim thought. The CDs in his hands suddenly felt like antiques.

“Music,” she said, accepting the discs and pushing the stick into Jim’s hand. “I don’t have these,” she said, beaming. Before he could answer, she listed what was on the drive; Jim knew about fifty percent of the bands.

“Thank you,” he said, holding it up, like it was some sort of ray gun and feeling about one hundred years old. He wondered if she’d ever seen a vinyl record. He thought about explaining it to her, then got himself out of it by pretending it would be too hard to explain.

“In part three, you actually keep the paper; on it is information that we have to discuss…” Jim was usually pretty positive about this part of the exam; if it was pictures, it was safe ground; written details were a lot trickier. The only problem with the visuals were when they weren’t made clear on the sheet-one student, on ‘The Birthday Present Question,’ seeing a picture of an animal, mistook the idea of a cuddly toy for a real pet and explained how a live-gorilla would be the best birthday present ever: he passed with flying colours and quite right, too Jim thought.

The two of them bounced through the sheets in good time; Sia chose CDs as ‘A Birthday Gift,’ bought a band t-shirt with ‘Christmas Money,’ and chose a concert for ‘A School Trip.’ With ‘Excursions,’ she picked ‘Hard Rock Cafe,’ and for a film night she chose ‘I’m Not There’ and ‘Moulin Rouge.’ Jim hoped to Christ music was going to feature heavily in the exam.

***

Speaking Test, Part Four: ‘You are going to talk on your own…’

Jeff Buckley

“Okay, Sia, now Part Four is a bit more difficult; most of the students find it the hardest part of the test. You have to talk on your own for about a minute about a topic. Now you get paper to make notes and thirty seconds to plan it, so try and make bullet points, okay?” Jim looked round from the board and Sia nodded. During the break, when he usually ate a satsuma and drank a cup of coffee, he had written up bullet points for the fifteen odd topics that had come up so far in the past papers.

“Obviously, I’ll try to pick the one most suitable for you (music, music, please god music) but we’ll cover all of them just in case, okay? And also, you can adapt the topic to suit you; for instance, what you care passionately about…” he left it hanging in the air and watched her smile.

“Music,” she said, tapping the CDs.

“My Hobbies, Spare Time, The future…”

“Music, music, music,” Sia answered and Jim smiled, hearing her voice relax as she spoke; since they began talking about the songs, her way of speaking had changed noticeably; it was less formal and steadier. Jim had laughed thinking about it; he had been exactly the same, losing the mannered accent and letting himself relax enough to talk passionately about the bands and singers.

“So let’s go through them, one by one and write down the notes as we go.” He handed over a sheath of scrap paper and then looked down the list of topics. “Something you care about…”

In the movie version of the lesson, Jim would have allowed them to play one of the CDs in the background but unfortunately this was real life. Sia found a couple of the topics difficult and they had to go back over it once or twice. The lesson over ran a little and by the end of it Sia looked as tired as Jim felt. He cleaned the board after he checked she had copied down all the notes and she began to scoop the CDs up into her bag.

“Johnny Cash?” She said, holding up the last CD; the one Jim had been unsure whether to include or not. He reasoned that he could include it because he wasn’t inflicting Tom Waits on her.

“He covers one of my favourite songs, ‘Satisfied Mind.’ Great song.” He looked over and expected her to nod or shrug; instead her eyes lit up.

“I’ve given you Jeff Buckley. He sings that song.” She nodded, smiling.

“I heard his version first,” he said and spun back round to the board to write. When he was done, he stood back, shoulder to shoulder with her.

“‘How many times have you heard someone say, ‘If I had money, I would do things my way?’” He looked over to her. “You finish it off, Sia.” She cleared her throat.

“‘But the wealthiest person, is a pauper at times, compared to the man, with a satisfied mind.” She looked over. “Pauper?” He walked back to the board.

“It means ‘poor man.’” He wrote over the top of it. His handwriting was a mess compared to hers. Jim looked round. “Well, you’ve done great and I think you’ll do fine next week, okay?”

“Do you think I will pass?” She blushed suddenly and looked down to her bag. Her voice returned to that first day, uncertain tone. It was the time when Jim had to be a real person and not a teacher.

“I’ll be with you as the examiner, so there’s no need to worry. And anyway, it’s not about passing or failing but doing you’re best. That’s all I ask, Okay? I’m sure you’ll do fine.” Jimmy always said that: He always meant it, too. He lifted up her bag and handed it to her. “Thanks for the music, too.”

The two of them walked to the door. Jim held it open for her; as she pulled on her hat he reached into his bag and pulled out some gloves. She waved them away, so he kept waving them at her, until she was exasperated enough to take them.

“Give them back next week, okay?” Jim was careful not to say ‘at the exam.’

“Okay,” Sia said and walked out to the street. She reached the street and looked back; she waved. Jim waved back and then closed the door as she turned round the corner.

***

Exam Day

Sia was seventh of the list of eight; the curse of having a surname beginning with ‘T’. Jim got into the exam room and prepared himself; he checked the Dictaphone was working and the batteries were at full strength. He filled out the paperwork and opened the exam paper itself. Jim read through it and highlighted the questions he was going to ask. Jim made himself go through all of it part by part, reaching four last of all. He highlighted the topic he was going to use. After two cups of coffee from his flask, he walked to the door and called the first student in.

“Can you spell your family name for me please?” He said and looked over to Sia. She was pale and when she began to spell the first two letters her voice trembled. Jim smiled to try and calm her down but she wasn’t looking at him; instead she was staring at the small Dictaphone as if it had horns and a forked tongue. Next to it were the returned CDs and her pen drive.

“And where are you from?” Jim went on, hearing her voice steady as she answered. “Okay, now in part one…”

Sia did well in part one and part two. The information was terrible for the third part and Jim steered it a little, hoping the examiners didn’t go any deeper than ‘processing and using’ the information. She did fine, even though she forgot to use her own ideas, as every student had done that day, having been faced with the tough subject matter.

“Okay, now in part four of the test…” Jim heard her take a deep breath and ready herself. “Your chosen topic is… ‘What I would do if I won the lottery.’” There was the few seconds of silence that always followed him reading out the topic, when the student quickly tried to figure out if they were going to sink or swim. Sia looked straight at Jim and then looked down to the blank piece of paper, which Jim took as a good sign.

The other two topics were terrible and Jim had thought this one was the best choice. On his question sheet he had doodled; ‘record collection, stereo, concerts, start band.’ If she froze completely he was prepared to silently hold it up for her to follow. That didn’t seem necessary though; before he had the chance to repeat the topic, she looked up, her eyes alert.

“If I won the lottery…” He said.

“If I won the lottery, I would find the man in town who sells the tickets. I always remember him because the other men are always loud and pushy and he is always friendly and polite. I would find him and I would give him some money and say thank you for taking-sorry, selling- me the ticket. I would then give him some money because he seems sad to me; sometimes when I see him I think he’s talking to himself. I don’t think he’s a crazy person, I think maybe he’s just lonely. When he goes into cafes a lot of people ignore him and don’t speak to him, so maybe he just talks to himself and pretends it’s the voice of other people who are kind. Maybe, people he knew when he was my age. I would also give him some money because his eye looks bad and I would want him to go to the hospital to get it fixed. If I won the lottery I would give this man some of my money because I want to show to him that somebody notices him and he is not all forgotten like a shadow but a real human, like me and everybody else.”

No music: Absolutely perfect.

“And just a follow up question;” Jim cleared his own throat, close to speechless. He read the highlighted question on autopilot. “‘Do you think money always makes people happy?’” He looked up; for the first time that day, she smiled.

“‘How many times have you heard someone say…’” she began to say and Jim almost started to laugh; he hadn’t even had that in mind when he’d highlighted it. He listened to her as she spoke, her voice relaxing for the first time in the exam. “Poor man-sorry- pauper at times, compared to the man with a satisfied mind.’ ”

“Sia Tarrou, that is the end of the test…” Jim said and pressed the stop button.

***

Jim tidied up the paperwork and handed it over to the examiner who was waiting in the bar. He looked around but Sia had long gone; Jim knew she had passed and he would not see her again and that was okay. He ordered a coffee and put everything in his satchel in order. When he left, she would be one of the students that he would remember. Jim sipped his coffee; he looked out of the window and saw the snow was starting up again, falling in quick, wild flurries. He finished his coffee and slipped on the earbuds of his mp3; the music she had given him was good and furious. Jim walked out into the snow; he was tired but he felt good. He was pleased for all of them of course, but most of all, Sia. As he stepped into the snow and pulled up his collar, he jammed his hands into his pockets and laughed; she had forgotten to return his gloves.

Escalator Feeding Frenzy, Ryan P. Kennedy

ESCALATOR FEEDING FRENZY:
AN ESSAY IN AWE OF THE ESCALATOR

art by Ryan P. Kennedy

 

Without exaggeration it can be said the escalator is an awesome machine. A hundred years after its invention, the escalator represents our nation’s commitment to luxury living and continues to doggedly resist obsolescence. And, like all things awesome, it rewards earnest contemplation.

Let’s marvel at the eight-ton tangle of belts and drive gears. What mind first imagined this asymmetrical metal structure? In what deep industrial sweatshop are forged the materials for its sensational enterprise? The American inventor Charles Seeberger is considered the father of the modern escalator. Seeberger (a Virgo) liberally cribbed from earlier inventors. His design was purchased by the Otis Elevator Company in 1910 and manufactured throughout the world since then.

The escalator was invented for one practical reason: Marshal many people from one spot to another as steadily as possible. And thanks mostly to the public’s fierce hatred of staircases it today remains a popular fixture in malls and ballparks. But the escalator has since transcended its original purpose. It cannot be stressed enough that escalators are dangerous machines. Despite this, people trust escalators. That’s what makes them powerful social tools and worthy of serious consideration.


A HISTORY OF PERIL

Escalators woo passengers by offering them an effortless ascent to the floor above them or perhaps a tranquil descent to the floor below. People love them. And apparently escalators love people and their soft flesh. Each year approximately 11,000 people become escalator meat, and the Consumer Product Safety Commission reports that a quarter of them are children. Nearly 35,000 escalators lurk in thoroughfares across the United States. Many of them dwelling in shopping malls and department stores encumbered by heavy foot traffic. Thus, it is common for malls to ask its patrons to avoid wearing loose clothing, mostly to prevent shoppers from being pulled under the escalator’s landing platform, but also because it’s easier to mop their gooey remains out of its inner workings.

The Washington Post reported in 1998 that “intoxicated riders are more likely to fall or sit down on steps. Other riders horse around and can trip and fall; and some adults who ride with children don't hold on to their hands.” The suggestion here is that escalators strike when their prey is at their most venerable, like when people stick their fingers in the moving gears or squat on the steps, exhausted from feverishly shopping. The advert-crowded Washington Post knows who among their target readership might have their buying power squandered by a purse- or ankle-hungry escalator. It obviously wants to keep its readers alive and able. Though malls are the most likely feeding troughs for escalators, other danger zones do exist.

West Virginian Floyd Shuler, 61, tried to sue an airline in 2004 after he took an embarrassing spill on an escalator, instantly putting his life and favorite limbs in jeopardy. Somehow escaping the metallic jaws of death, Shuler threw a hissy fit over the fact that the airline allowed him to get drunk on the flight then tried to feed him to their escalator once he deplaned. Shuler backed out of the lawsuit partly because it was unwinnable but mostly because the real victory here was Shuler’s continued ownership of his limbs. Another victor in the battle of man versus machine was Jeffrey Roth, a five-year-old boy whose hand was devoured by an escalator in a Boston-area department store in 1967. Doctors were able to reattach the hand at a nearby hospital. Others, however, have not been as fortunate.

A 1964 escalator accident at a Baltimore baseball game injured 68 people, most of them children on a field trip. One teacher told the Lewiston Morning Tribune, “People just kept getting chewed up by the steps.” One girl died. A judge later absolved the stadium owners of any criminal negligence. The law, however, does not always side with machinery. A 1996 lawsuit was decided in favor of four-year-old Shareif Hall, whose foot was plucked by a Philadelphia escalator. A judge found $7.4 million to be a fair market price for the youngster’s foot.

Unknown whether it’s out of love or fiscal desperation, parents are constantly suing escalators for munching on their children’s toes and fingers. Knowing that a typical escalator could wolf down the 90-lb. Mary-Kate Olsen in less than 30 seconds and dispatch a hearty 250-lb. Drew Carey in less than two minutes, it is a poor parent who allows a child to frolic on something notorious for its steady diet of human. Especially when it is known that even the most unusually serene escalator can willingly seek out chunkier morsels.

Peacefully coiled for eight years within a Denver baseball stadium, a three-story escalator roused its hankering in 2003 and famously embarked on a limb-munching spree. In its warpath were 32 baseball fans. One of the escalator’s targets was Angela Morrow, a teenager who described her attacker as “a giant meat grinder.” In one bold gesture, a New York City escalator, reaching for record-book mayhem, chomped down on 71 children at a movie theater in 2005.

The escalator operates beyond its practical use of marshaling people from one spot to another. It is a machine that performs operations it was not programmed to execute. It is a machine that disobeys. In the words of escalator survivor Angela Morrow, “It was biting you like it was alive.” It is probably better not to ask why escalators deplume us of our limbs and faculties. To better understand the meaning of its defiance, we shall look at the effects escalator rebellion has on society. We might then be able to consider the escalator a sentient machine. We shall thusly explore in the next two sections the unforeseen and profound effects escalators violently impose on our lives without our consent.


ESCALATOR PSYCHOLOGY

Crime stories abound in newspapers and news programs every October of vulnerable children gobbling poisoned candy or caramel apples brimming with razor blades. The amount of national attention given to envenomed treats is large and police departments issue stern warnings to parents of innocent trick-or-treaters. There has been, however, only one documented case of poisoned goodies. Compare that to the escalator bedlam mentioned above. In one swift minute in 2005 a New York escalator throttled 7,000% more children than did all the poisoned Halloween candy combined.

Roofie-wielding rapists and road rage threats are also dangers overestimated and perpetuated by news outlets and police statements. But there is a reason why those near-fictional fears are all amplified over the real threat of getting mutilated by an escalator. It simply doesn’t suit our consumerism lifestyle. Escalators are part of our shopping and tourist experiences. They allow us to reach our destinations full of energy. Particularly in the mall, where escalators ensure that shoppers conserve their energy for navigating the sprawling sales floors. If shoppers, in fear of the escalator, had to huff and puff their way up several flights of stairs to reach the retailers, they would be exhausted and without the moxie necessary for impulse purchases and bankrupt of the strength needed for lugging bulky shopping bags long distances. To report the ominous peril of the escalator is to risk a sharp plummet in profits of advertisers and potential advertisers. Pointing out these dangers would rob people of what makes them happy: The freedom to shop and buy. And this freedom is what makes them happy Americans. Despite this, there are still those who promote awareness of escalator dangers.

In a bid to keep our citizens from ending up on the lunch menu of their local escalators, America celebrates its 18th annual Escalator Safety Awareness Week this November. The Elevator-Escalator Safety Foundation, whose mission is “to educate the public on the safe and proper use of elevators, escalators, and moving walks through informational programs,” is pushing for national recognition of not sticking your fingers and other appendages in the treacherous gears of an escalator. But as a species we are attracted to the idea of automated doom. Fascination with mass murder achieved by mechanical means goes back to the death camps of World War Two and can be seen today in the apocalypse fantasies peddled by cable news and Hollywood. For years, action fans have been thrilled by damsels or heroes bound tightly to conveyer belts with lethal destinations. There is something equally thrilling about a cavalcade of passengers progressing steadily toward an escalator’s gnarly maw.

The escalator ride itself is titillating. It strips the rider of all control and ushers him or her closer to a grisly end or, as mentioned above, an opulent sales floor. But people trust the escalator. It is their shepherd. This faith in the escalator is what makes us vulnerable to its macabre effects.

One the goriest escalator accidents on record is the 1987 fire at the King’s Cross St. Pancras stop in London’s subway system. A flash fire burst through the station during evening rush hour. A wooden escalator designed to carry commuters to a higher level carried them instead into an inferno. Several survivors said “a sheet of flame” engulfed the escalator. Thirty-two commuters were ushered steadily to their doom by the fiery lift. The underground station, with black smoke billowing and bodies stacking high, could only be described as apocalyptic.

And the escalator is a metaphor for the Christian apocalypse. Passengers’ heads are packed with the gruesome images of automated murder and corpse-fed bonfires but, given a fervent faith in the escalator itself, the passenger will coast onto the Promised Land, the land of milk and discounts.


INSTRUMENT OF SOCIAL TRANSFORMATION

Compared to the physical demands of staircase use, escalators are really great, but, as persistently cited above, they are likely to mutilate passengers and their limbs the second they set foot on the machine’s roaring teeth of death. And when enough passengers are bereft of limb the escalator begins to have a powerful effect on the social world. This power to transform society is thanks in part to the escalator’s refusal to discriminate. The escalator, in other words, preys on everybody, including the elite. Amputee rights and acceptance of transsexual lifestyles can emerge from the fringes of society to its forefront as a result of ravenous escalators. Only after select limbs have been extracted from our nation’s most powerful can social change be effected.

Castration can be a boon for the individual male and the society in which he functions. In this way, the escalator represents an instrument of social transformation. The physical body regulates exotic pleasure for males. In other words, a man cannot muster enthusiasm for hanky-panky after his body is spent and his testicles sapped. However, obliterate the physical limitations and this man is capable of reaching new summits of arousal and erotic pleasure. He is able to go beyond physical pleasures. It is fair to say that to castrate a man is to unfetter his sexual imagination from the tyranny of his body. Enter the escalator. Exit the gonads. Now tamed by its menacing gears, the man, with spotless mind and shredded nards, can transcend the conditions of a pitiful, instant-gratification life.

Every elevator ride is an opportunity for the individual to become a eunuch. On a much greater scale, though, the introduction of escalators into a society can reduce its patriarchy to microdust. The escalator itself has the power to topple the male dominator hierarchy. The persistent global bloodbath brought to us by masculinity and the oppression of its opposite can find its conclusion in the thunderous escalator. (Only a matter of time before rumors begin to circulate about emerging escalator-worshipping cults, spearheaded by fanatical feminists and transsexual terrorists.)

Lurking in America’s great mall systems and ballparks is the bloodthirsty escalator, laying in wait for limbs and genitals. What stands between a generation of entitled frat brothers and a generation of egalitarianism is the short distance between the passenger’s limb or groin and the sawtooth edge of the escalator stair. The escalator, for all its practical use and disclosures about society, is most importantly a knife poised at the heart of patriarchy.


WORKS CITED

“Boy’s Hand Is Restored After Escalator Accident.” Lewiston Evening Journal. 19 Dec. 1967.

“Girl Killed In Escalator Jam.” The Montreal Gazette. 4 May 1964.

“No Negligence Seen In Mishap At Baltimore.” St. Petersburg Times. 12 Sept. 1964.

McCann, Michael and Norman Zaleski. ”Deaths And Injuries Involving Elevators And Escalators.” The Center To Protect Workers’ Rights. July 2006.

“Probers Try To Determine Escalator Accident Cause.” Lewiston Morning Tribune. 4 May 1964.

Raines, Howell. “32 Are Killed In Fire London Subway; 80 Reported Injured.” The New York Times. 19 Nov. 1987.

Reid, Alice. “Escalator Troubles Rooted In Metro’s Original Design.” Washington Post. 5 Dec. 1998.

“Several Injured In St. Louis Venue Escalator Accident.” AOL Sporting News. 9 Oct. 2009.

Zullo, Robert. “Tainted-Candy Myth Continues to Haunt Halloween Festivities.” Houma Today. 30 Oct. 2007.

Self-Help, Chris Bridges

Please don’t judge me for what I did. It was a desperate situation and I needed help. If you want to view it as exploitation then so be it, but first let me explain.

I’d come home from work that Friday, late as usual and feeling fit to collapse into a heap of limp flesh. My shoes were pinching and my suit felt restrictive. Mary had been that day which filled me with dread. I checked the list I’d left her. She’d ticked off the items she’d done and intimated in her shaky handwriting that’d she’d be back next Friday. I always felt self indulgent having a cleaner. I live alone but I have a demanding job and I earn enough money to fund it. I pay the going rate.

I decided to defer my checking and unwind a little first but the nagging thoughts prickled at me and I failed to wait. “Item 1: Clean the windows.” The sight of them bought back the rock in my stomach. They were smeary. Looking through the opaque windows, I spotted 3 cigarette ends, smeary with cheap lipstick, heaped in the soil of my potted Olive tree. Mary had promised me she would clear up her cigarette ends. It’s a dirty enough fact that she smokes but to pollute my plants with her detritus left me nauseated.

“Item 2: Clean the oven.” I opened the door with trepidation and the chemical smell of oven cleaner slammed into my face. I momentarily relaxed until I noticed that there was a dried on patch of food still remaining, the remnant of a casserole I’d cooked days before. I slammed the oven door with mounting irritation and set about stalking my territory like some crazed inspector. Finger marks on the mirror, a picture slightly askew and a grimy patch where she hadn’t gone to the edge of the bathroom floor. I’ll stop at that, the list could be endless. I was going to have to sack her.

I changed my clothes, got out my cleaning agents and began. It was midnight before I finished and my mood by this time was one of rage. I recall standing in the bath, scrubbing brush in hand, attacking the soap residue in the grouting with vigour and repeating a mantra: “This has got to stop.”

Naturally I was exhausted the next day and by evening, when I’d finished the remaining jobs, I was jelly limbed and brain fogged, hands reddened and fit only to collapse into bed. My bad mood persisted. I felt I’d wasted my weekend.

It was on the Tuesday that I saw the poster. I think I only noticed it because it was lopsided. “First Steps in Overcoming Obsessive Compulsive Disorder: Come along to our friendly group. Wednesdays at 8pm in the Wexford Room at the County Library. All welcome.” I knew I had to go. This couldn’t go on. I’d started work on Monday tired and irksome. I needed resolution.

The following night I showered thoroughly, put on some neatly laundered clothes and arrived at the library a good 15 minutes early. I loitered just around the corner, watching as a motley assortment of people arrived, before finally skulking in at 19:57. The chairs were in a circle and a rather brisk woman greeted me. There were 8 of us. The woman, who I learned was called Yvonne, spoke to me, explaining the protocol and form.

A grey looking man called Norman began the proceedings. He spoke in a monotone, detailing his constant hand washing and angst about accruing germs by touching things. It all seemed faintly ridiculous and I couldn’t relate to it. He was followed by a middle aged lady called Val who talked about her issues with checking things. Apparently it took her two hours to leave the house which was all very interesting in a purely abstract way but hardly germane to my needs. Next was Laura, an unconventionally attractive girl. The poor girl had what I believe is called “Health Anxiety”, a condition that I personally would have termed hypochondria and would have initially judged harshly. Laura, apparently, spent most of the day checking her body for abnormalities. In between this she searched the internet for disorders. What a terrible life. I actually felt sympathetic. She was on the brink of losing her place at college as it was interfering with her ability to work.

It was my turn to speak next but I deferred which Yvonne said was fine as it was my first time there. The next three speakers were equally interesting, talking about their issues with fears about grime, their children, their marriages and health and how it affected their behaviours. This wasn’t what I wanted to listen to and I must admit that by the time Sarah spoke I’d lost all hope of achieving what I came here to gain.

Sarah was quite a pretty girl but unobtrusive, the sort who could slip unnoticed into a room. My spirits lifted as she began to talk in soft child like tones. She’d been a school teacher and had lost her job through poor attendance. She was obsessed with cleaning, spending anything up to 12 hours a day cleaning her house. As she talked about her impossibly high standards and her perfectionism my spirits lifted. This was what I had come to hear. I knew this group had what I was looking for.

It took three weeks and a lot of guile but I finally managed it. I procured Sarah. She’s honestly the best cleaner I’ve ever employed, very thorough. If you’re ever looking for a domestic then I’d recommend an O.C.D. self help group as the place to look. It did entail a few little lies and pretending to have a mental health disorder was a chore but the results are worth it. My house is spotless and I don’t have to lift a finger. I always think the ends justify the means, don’t you?

The Marriott, Jacob Edwards

Three sad semesters, it was only fifteen grand, spent in bed, I thought about the army, I dropped out, went to the             Marriott

Veronica and I are pacing ourselves through a seafood buffet at the Marriott Resort on Queensland’s Gold Coast. I find my attention wandering.

Primarily, I’m interested in the jerky mechanical frond-fans that are sweeping far-from-majestically at intervals along the ceiling -- an out-moded facsimile of colonial grandeur; a glaring anomaly that would have any self-respecting Rajah choking on his speckled quail-eggs.

But in my peripheral vision I cannot help but be drawn to the enormous crab that is monstering Veronica’s plate, blood-orange in colour and spilling its crustaceous appendages over the edge in all directions. It’s somehow a little bit eerie -– a touch of ‘We are not alone’ -– and my eyeballs start to tremble.

I have a flashback to the time when I was vacuuming the shower (as you do) and came across one of Veronica’s plastic shower-caps huddling in the corner, lost and confused, like a jellyfish whose luggage has made it to Long Island, Bermuda, but who personally has boarded the wrong plane and ended up penniless and shivering in Long Island, New York. Wrapped up in my own comings and goings, oblivious to the cap’s wretched plight, I give the vacuum head a few token pushes, not too close, but the suction field is greater than I’d anticipated, and with a WOOSH! gwooble gwooble gwooble the shower-cap is drawn in and digested; empirically gone; just another lost soul riding helpless on the currents of life.

I try now to focus on my yabbies, which are proving impossible to peel, lying unperturbed next to a pool of seafood sauce and several hors d’oeuvres that I painstakingly retrieved from the upper tier of the buffet, despite having to contort my elbow and shoulder under some low-hanging plastic covers and despite my fingers having become stuck in the tiny handles of the standard issue M*A*S*H forceps supplied for this enterprise. (Why is the world designed for midgets?) Even in death, the cheerax destructors assert their exoskeletal dominance over my soft, clumsy fingers and much-hyped opposable thumbs.

“Shall we go and see a movie later?” Veronica suggests, inadvertently bringing to the fore some of my background processing.

“You know,” I tell her, by way of reply, “I’ve been doing some calculations, and I think that I could afford to live here. If I could work from this table, at my usual hourly rate, I’d only have to put in twelve hours per day. Allow eight hours for sleep, that still leaves four hours every day.”

The upshot of this little ramble, of course, is that our room is exorbitantly expensive, even allowing for buffet breakfasts and dinners (which, incidentally, lack both pavlova and chocolate mousse). I deposit some yabby shell onto the centre plate next to Veronica’s discard pile of crab armour and observe disconsolately that mine is a molehill to her mountain. I then toy with a piece of yabby no bigger than the tip of my finger, extricated in muted triumph and soon to be consumed with indifference. I grimace.

“So...?”

“So, at the rate we’re paying, I’m not setting foot outside of this building.”

Having made this point, I return my focus to the frond-fans, only to have it immediately diverted:

There is a piano located on the floor above us –- outside the conference halls where they’re discussing ‘trauma’ –- and a fairly nondescript individual has sauntered over and is now giving one of the upper keys an experimental tap-tap-tap. This, of course, is something of a no-no, for the piano has a sign on it, which reads:

#

PLEASE DON’T TOUCH. PIANO FOR DISPLAY PURPOSES.

#

Or words to that effect. You’re not supposed to touch the Marriott piano, and yet, this guy is, and nothing seems to be happening to him.

Whereupon the hypothetical question drops down on me like the quintessential tiger from a tree:

#

What would they do if Ben Folds wandered in to the Marriott, caught sight of their ‘display only’ piano, and spontaneously launched into a rendition of ‘Army’?

#

How would the staff respond?

By the time I’m ready to enlist Veronica’s help, I’ve narrowed it down to three possibilities:

Firstly, most creditably, they would run for the nearest video camera while making a general announcement along the lines of, “Ladies and gentlemen –- Mister Ben Folds!”

Secondly, most likely, they would try to tap him discretely on the shoulder, with a view to saying something like, “Excuse me, sir, but this piano...” trailing off into a whispered explanation that nobody else can hear.

Thirdly, not out of the question, they would sprint up the stairs, legs pounding, teeth barred, and crash tackle him. Friendly people at the Marriott, but with just a hint of underlying edge. “Steel-capped boots,” the affable man from concierge explained to us earlier, when Veronica dropped a chessboard on his foot.

“So,” I conclude, gracing Ronnie with a hopeful grin, “could you ask somebody for me?”

“Does it have to be Ben Folds?” she queries. “Nobody at the Marriott’s going to know who Ben Folds is.”

“But that’s the scenario –- it has to be Ben Folds, and he has to be playing ‘Army’. Do you know the song?”

“‘Well I thought about the army, Dad said, Son, you’re fucking high...’”

“That’s the one. You see, it’s a vital part of the hypothetical. You can’t have Elton John sitting down to play ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road’. He’s decrepit. The oldies would be applauding. They’re hardly going to crash tackle Elton John, are they? But Ben Folds, well, he’ll be standing up to play –- actually, there’s no seat, so that rules out Billy Joel too –- but Ben Folds, he’d be in their faces, bashing on the keys, and it’s a family resort...”

“How do we know the piano’s even tuned?” Veronica interrupts.

“We’ll have to assume it’s tuned,” I shrug. “It has to be. Given that the piano’s tuned, and Ben Folds wanders in and starts playing ‘Army’, what would the Marriott staff do?”

And is it really that outlandish a proposition? Ben Folds was in Brisbane a few years back, typewritering the ivories to the delight of all, except perhaps for the Queensland Symphony Orchestra, who sat in stately accompaniment while he at times stood in front of the piano, rocking it like a pinball machine. Besides which, Ben Folds married a girl from Adelaide, and has twins with different star signs. He’s a family man. He could conceivably stay at the Marriott. And if he saw that piano sitting there, unattended, with a ‘trauma’ conference in full swing and a dinner buffet sans pavlova... Well, who’s to say?

“I still don’t think they’ll know who Ben Folds is,” Veronica bemoans.

“Yes, but that’s the scenario. If you change the performer then you invalidate the hypothetical. I mean, you could say Ray Charles, but he couldn’t read the sign, so the staff’s reaction is obviously going to be different. No, Ben Folds it is. You’ll just have to pick the right staff member.”

And so it is that Veronica comes to wrestle with the tiger, targeting a girl at reception –- late 20s, blonde hair with brown eyes, friendly –- luring her into the security deposit box room, and then...

“Would you mind indulging me for a moment?”

The girl is a bit startled. This is not an inquiry usually associated with retrieving somebody’s handbag.

“I have a bit of an odd question,” Veronica continues. “Do you know the display piano upstairs? And do you know the musician Ben Folds?”

“You mean Ben Folds Five?” the girl says, as if correcting her.

(Which might lead to some confusion. Crash tackling Ben Folds may not be out of the question, but starting a brawl with Ben Folds Five –- even though there were only three of them –- well, that’s a different matter altogether, isn’t it?)

“Yes,” Veronica confirms. “What would the staff do –- what is the protocol –- if Ben Folds were to start playing ‘Army’ on the display piano upstairs? ‘Army’, which is a fairly confronting song.”

The girl draws her head back, slightly askance, good-naturedly assuming the posture universally recognisable as denoting, ‘I’m dealing with a total nutter here.’

But she is good enough to answer the question:

“He’d be escorted out by the staff.”

“Oh, okay. Even though he’s famous?”

“Yes, well, you see, we have conferences in progress –- they need their peace and quiet –- so the piano really is for display only. Yes, he’d definitely be escorted out... Or maybe asked to come back later?”

The last is thrown in with a slightly questioning undertone, as if the girl feels that she’s taking –- and possibly failing –- some sort of test.

And perhaps she is.

It’s clear to me that the Marriott (as an entity) just hasn’t thought this through. It’s one thing to place a ‘Please Don’t Touch’ sign on the piano, but it’s another thing entirely to enforce it, rather like anti-suicide legislation.

How does one escort Ben Folds from the building? I mean, first of all, you have to interrupt him. How does that happen? Do you lunge in on one of the high notes and grab him by the right elbow? Do you put your arms around his waist and pull him away, while he desperately tries to finish the base line with the crook of his left arm?

In either case, it’s not going to be discrete, now is it?

No, the Marriott may have a policy, and the staff may have some highly generalised instructions regarding how to deal with people, but when it comes right down to it, my money’s on scenario three; that is, a spectacular crash-tackle by three or four members of the concierge.

But in any case:

“I’ve done my duty!” Veronica exclaims, happily. She then takes her handbag and leaves.

The girl from reception is left somewhat bemused, and the frond-fans of the Marriott swish jerkily on, defiant in the face of air-conditioning and obsolescence; rustling the trees from which one day the tiger might pounce.

Alimony Payment, Gary Sprague

Ed sat hunched over the card table in his tiny kitchen, filling out the check with a trembling hand. In the memo space he wrote HIGHWAY ROBBERY. He scribbled it out, but not enough to cover completely. His lawyer had strongly advised him to cease writing derogatory remarks on the alimony checks, but it was a hard habit to break. To Ed, there was nothing derogatory about the truth. Besides, for two hundred dollars a week, he should be allowed to write anything he wanted on the damn check.

He grabbed an envelope, writing Barbara’s name and address on it. Not difficult to remember; he’d lived there with her for twenty years. He worked some spit around in his mouth, back and forth, until he had a good amount. Spreading the envelope open, he leaned over and slowly drooled into it. Placing the check inside, he dipped it in the thick glob a few times like a chip in salsa. When the bottom of the check was properly soaked, he smiled.

Reaching with his left hand - it still felt strange not wearing a wedding ring, like going without underwear - he plucked a couple blond hairs from the back of his head and dropped them into the envelope. When Barbara had told Ed she was leaving him - leaving him, yet it was he who had to leave - she had admitted that his hair loss was a large reason for it. There were other reasons, of course, but nothing worth remembering. “You are a failure, even your follicles are failures,” she mocked. And it was true, the top of his head was bare as a nuclear wasteland. But the sides and back were full, thick as a deep-rooted forest. It was normal for a middle-aged man to experience some hair loss, he knew. His dad’s head was smooth as a cue ball, so Barbara had to know what was coming. Funny how she’d never mentioned this repulsion to baldness before. So he threw in a couple hairs with every check. Childish, yes, but it made him feel better.

Sealing the envelope, Ed stood from his rickety chair and stretched. It was Sunday, his only day off. Sunday used to be for mowing the lawn or playing a round of golf at the club. But now he had no lawn, only a small, dark, paneled apartment, and no money for golf. Sunday now revolved around writing and delivering Barbara’s check. He grabbed the envelope and walked out into the warm sunshine, across the parking lot to his truck. He didn’t bother locking the apartment, there being nothing inside worth stealing.

It didn’t take him long to drive to Barbara’s, twenty minutes or so. It would have been faster to stick the check in the mail, saving himself some gas money. But he delivered it himself every Sunday, hoping to see Barbara. He didn’t know what he would say if he did see her, whether he would be polite or punch her in the face. So far, he hadn’t had a chance to do or say anything. Every week he pulled up in front of the house, saw no one, and placed the envelope in the mailbox.

But this time he pulled up and there she was, trimming shrubs in the yard. He remembered planting those shrubs, watching like a proud father as each year they grew taller. Something else Barbara got in the divorce, he thought. She waved and began walking over as Ed parked his truck at the end of the long drive. He got out and watched her approach. She wore a tank top, shorts, and a large brimmed floppy hat. Ed had bought her the hat the summer before their divorce. It was green, matched her eyes. It really did look cute on her. He wanted to pull it over her head and suffocate her with it.

“Hi, Ed. You look well,” she greeted him.

“Thanks, so do you.”

She really did. She was a very young forty, just as good-looking as she was twenty years ago. Her legs were tan, flawless; Ed couldn’t resist a long gaze, up and down, for old times sake. The sweat glistening on her face and arms only enhanced her beauty. Ed did not like what he was feeling.

“I’ve been wanting to speak with you, but I didn’t have your number.”

“You have my house, my car, my money. I didn’t know you wanted my number, too,” he said.

Barbara wiped her wet forehead. “Ed, I hate that we’ve become enemies. I thought maybe we could have dinner together, or something.”

Ed’s heart pounded loudly. He wanted to hit it back, tell it to shut up. “Why would you want to do that?”

“I miss you, I guess. You can’t live with someone for twenty years and not miss him.”

“I didn’t realize you felt this way,” Ed said, softer than he’d meant to. Suddenly he was self-conscious about his hair and wished he’d worn a hat.

“I do, Eddie, I really do.” She placed her warm hand on his forearm. His chest jackhammered.

“Yeah, I guess I miss you too,” he mumbled. Sweat was beading up on top of his head, but he didn’t wipe it for fear of attracting attention to it.

“Are you busy tonight?” she asked “You could come here around six, if you’d like.”

“Sounds good,” he said, smiling. Every flower smelled like a sweet bouquet, every bird chirp was a love song. He gazed into Barbara’s soft green eyes and loved her again.

“This makes me so happy. I’ll have Ron make seafood alfredo.”

Ed laughed. “You hired a cook? I guess I’m paying you too much alimony.” It felt good to laugh, it had been so long.

Barbara laughed with him. “No, Ron isn’t my cook, though he is incredible in the kitchen. He’s my boyfriend. I thought you knew about him. I know you two will get along great. He’s a Yankees fan, like you.”

Ed’s heart dropped so fast he thought he heard it splatter. “Your boyfriend? But what about all that talk about missing me?”

“I do miss you, Eddie. I want us to be friends, the three of us. I thought you wanted to be friends, too. Didn’t I tell you about him?”

A man stepped out of the garage up at the house. He bent down and grabbed the newspaper. Ron. Tall, good-looking. Full head of hair, of course. He waved. Ed gave him the finger.

“Eddie!”

Without another word, Ed turned and got back in his truck. He wiped his face and head - his slick, bald, ugly head - and began pulling out of the driveway. He heard Barbara call to him, and looked back. Desperation filled her face. Ed stopped and she ran up.

“You forgot to give me my check.”

He threw the envelope at her and slowly pulled away. He didn’t look back. From now on, he would mail the check.

Guys Like You and Me, B.D Fischer

The man behind the counter is talking about his girlfriend.

“She got depression, you know,” he’s saying, and I’m patting my pockets for a pen, my chest, my thighs, my ass, certain that he won’t notice if I take a few notes.

“Guys like you and me,” he says, “it’s hard for us to understand. She say she don’t want to get out of bed and go to work and I say goddamit neither do I.”

“Who does?”

“But it’s not the same for her,” he says. “She got the depression.”

“It’s not the same,” I confirmed. “It’s a medical condition.”

I almost never don’t carry a pen. I blame it on my having snuck out of the office at lunch to get this taken care of. They watch our lunches like a hawk, but I don’t think anyone saw me leave. Ordinarily I would check my pockets for a pen before I left. I can see the undercarriage of my truck through the etched glass separating the office from the garage. I don’t know what they’re looking at under there. It’s just an inspection.

“My last girlfriend had depression, too. We didn’t know it but I can see it now. She had all kinds of problems. It was the same thing. If she didn’t eat right, get up at the same time every day, get a little exercise, eat the same things, go to bed, everything mapped out, she was just a mess. Always crying. Throwing things. You know how it is.”

I have no idea how it was, but I checked myself in the mirror behind the counter and knew that I looked good, in my best dark gray suit, almost gray-flecked black, with a purple shirt that screamed authority and bold vision and the red “Singin’ In the Rain” tie that was a gift from my secretary upon her retirement some years back. I hadn’t gotten her a thing and was so embarrassed by her generosity that I wear the tie now at every opportunity, even though she is dead. The red and the purple and the black and the gray. I don’t think I can wear the tie any more though. The cheap material has been malformed by overuse and I can no longer risk it.

“We applied for disability for her up in Vermont. Wasn’t much other choice. Of course they denied her the first time. They deny everyone that first time. This is our third time now. That’s when you get it, they say.”

“Third time’s the charm.”

“That’s right. You get it.”

He rapped knuckles stained a faded sub-dermal black against the counter. He had told me that the name stitched into his uniform is not his.

“That’s exactly right,” he continued. “Third time’s the charm, as they say. So we’re kind of counting on that. When that comes through we should be able to get a new place. I can’t rent because of my record and she can’t because she got no income. We’ve been stuck in this crappy motel for months and I am ready to get out.”

“Record?” I said, craning to see what they were doing to my truck. He waved a hand in front of his face.

“It was nothing. It was 1982. I was seventeen. Did four years in Angola. That’s in Louisiana. It was no picnic I’ll tell you.”

“I don’t imagine.”

“And you know something, since I got out I’ve done nothing but work hard, pay my bills, and raise my daughter, but I still can’t rent a place on my own. Doesn’t sit too well with me. Makes me want to do something, go postal, something. But of course you can’t do that.”

“Of course not.”

The truck is a cinch to pass inspection, even with Houston’s strict emission standards. It’s not even three years old, and it’s not what you’d call a work truck. More of a showpiece. They didn’t used to make trucks like that, but that’s how you show off down here in Texas. It’s not like I have kindling to haul, brush to clear. Two men in jumpsuits argue beneath it, pointing up in turn, which makes me nervous.

“No. We moved down here from Vermont when the crisis hit. Everything dried up up there, and I knew I could find work. There’s no place to work like Texas. I’m making almost a thousand a week now. It’s more than enough, because she can’t work at all. Funny thing is that her depression didn’t get bad, real bad, until her son died. Car crash.”

“Funny?”

“Not funny, but funny. You know. He was the same age as my daughter. They were in the same class at school and she cried up and down about it. My daughter, I mean. I remember reading it in the papers. Didn’t meet her until years later though. But I remembered, once she told me about it. Asked my daughter. The names were the same. She burst into tears again. I hate that.”

“I hear you. Seeing a woman cry. Just the worst.”

“The. Worst. You get me. My daughter’s almost grown now. I’m proud of her. She’s back in Vermont. Just got engaged. Got a good job at the warehouse, taking orders. We’ll go back for the wedding come hell or high water. I don’t care what it costs. I’ll drive all night if I have to and drag my girlfriend no matter what. She deserves to have us there.”

“Might be two nights, even,” I said.

He shrugged.

“If I have to. There are pills. Whatever it takes.”

“You have any idea how much longer they’re going to be with my truck?”

He shrugged again.

“I don’t work in the shop no more. Can’t have no complaints though. My girlfriend, she cooks for me, she cleans, and she’s good-looking as shit. I love her. I’m a lucky man.”

I nod, unsure whether to smile, which I finally do, halfway. I had gone for a run that morning, my first in the months since the divorce. I hadn’t been feeling so hot. The problem of shaving had been holding me back. At Christmas my wife had given me a fancy electric razor, even though she had to know she was leaving me, and it would never work on a sweaty face. But this morning I figured I could shave before I went on my run. I’ve been congratulating myself all day, but as a result of the run now I’m tired, nearly dizzy, disoriented. Still almost five hours before I can go home.

Lately I’ve been overwhelmed at work. I had roast chicken leftovers and sunflower seeds for lunch. I am trying to stick to a high-protein diet. This is harder than you’d think. You can’t just eat a Big Mac.

This weekend I will meet up with old friends in Bryan, friends I haven’t seen since my wedding eighteen months ago. It will be like a reunion. I’ve promised to bring some cocaine, but it was an empty boast and I have no idea how I might get some. I consider asking the man behind the counter, who is several years older than me, but I don’t want to get him in trouble. I don’t want to send him back to jail.

“Prison,” he’s saying, “is different from jail. Jail is county; prison is state. Prison is worse.”

I shrug, unsure, and let the matter drop. My truck’s back down on all four tires, and the men in the jumpsuits stand side-by-side at a monitor, pressing keys. It must be some kind of signal to my new friend, a guy like me, because he stops talking to concentrate on the monitor. He presses a key and strokes his chin. The monitor, I’ve noticed, is cracked ancient plastic, and displays everything in blinking green text, which is sad but can’t be a surprise.

I wonder if I’ll be able to continue running. I certainly plan to, but that’s not always enough. My ex-wife would agree that I need to, but fuck her. Still, I’ll do it for myself. It just might give me the boost I need to unbury myself from the mountain of work on my desk, which is in a state of clutter so extreme that even I am embarrassed. My old friends in Bryan swear that they’ve stopped doing coke, but I know better.

I would have thought that a pending disability application has to be transferred down to Texas but my man swears that would only delay things. I bow to his superior expertise. I’ve never filed for disability, and don’t know anyone who has. I wonder just how pretty his girlfriend is, whether she’s maybe prettier than my ex-wife, which I have to doubt. My wife sure as hell never suffered from any low self-esteem. No depression. Now one of the men from the garage is sliding my keys across the frictionless counter. They might go on forever, but I catch them falling off the edge, neatly.

“You’re all set,” my friend says, sliding me a receipt to sign. I wonder if he drinks. I sure could use a drink myself. I think about asking him. I doubt I’ll go back to the office.

I give a little salute and make for the door. He wishes me luck, but although I’m grateful it seems like the situation ought to be reversed. And yet it isn’t. In my luxury truck I run my knuckles across the newly appliqued sticker, smooth. The air conditioner runs so strong that it almost erases the Houston summer. It almost seems like it could do this. I’ve sweat through this tie before, which doubtless hastened its demise. I’ll miss it. Kicking the automatic transmission into reverse--forgoing the standard is one of my few regrets--I turn around to face the traffic but Airport Drive is surprisingly empty. Maybe I’ll get Cuban food for dinner from that new place off 59 and cull the leftovers for tomorrow’s lunch. I think plantains are OK on this new diet. The fiber. I’m shivering in the air conditioning, a cold sweat like an illness. It’s a good feeling. Having had lunch I don’t have anywhere in particular to go but I merge onto the 10 and begin eating up exits in the left lane. It is not yet rush hour. The feelings fade and morph into something else. I hope that my new friend gets her disability. Something good to happen to someone. I hope they find a nice place to live and to rent and that she finds some relief from working in their garden, fixing him his dinner, sweating in the sun. I could roll down the window. At this speed--approaching 90 now--I could roll down the window and undo my tie and make it my flag to fly in the wind. But no. That would only muss my hair, and I’m better than that. The 10 goes on for a good long while. There’s plenty of time to go home.

The Requirements For Performing A Head Spin, Calvin Fantone

YEAH BOYYYY
-Flavor Flav

1) Understand your motivation.

Do you really want to become a b-boy
or are you just trying to impress that girl?
Don’t lie to yourself.
You know you just want to impress that girl.

2) Learn the terminology.

The proper term is “breaking” not
“break dancing,” a group is called
a crew, and a windmill isn’t a machine
on the side of the freeway that converts
wind into energy, it’s a dance move.

3) Be a gentleman.

You don’t want to piss off a girl
with enough upper body strength
to do lifts and freezes. She is entirely
capable of killing you with her bare hands.
4) Dress in proper attire.

Try to look like you fit in but don’t go overboard.
Stay away from tracksuits, shell toe Adidas, Kangol hats,
and big ass gold chain necklaces. They make you look
like the long lost son of Mr. T. This is not the 80s
and sadly, you are not a member of Run DMC.

5) Come up with the corniest pick up line you can possibly imagine. Then use it.

For example:
“Girl, I know you love sick beats.
So I thought you should know that
my heartbeat is lovesick for you.”
She’ll probably laugh in your face and say,
“Nice try” but she’ll say it with a smile
and the slightest hint of red in her cheeks
and you’ll finally know what it takes
to make your head spin.

Rabies and Rosaries, Gabrielle DeMarre

“If you are ever bitten by a bat, you are supposed to catch it, alive, and bring it to the hospital with you so it can be tested for rabies.” This was the extent of my training to work here for you. As I cue your rosary tape, you smile and mumble, “Where have all the flowers gone?” Clearly they are still somewhere beneath your thinning hair—growing inward rather than outward now. As I press play, an Irish voice starts to lead you through the rosary. In the other room, I watch The Wild One with the volume turned up, hoping Brando’s angst will drown out the angst of the 80-year-old house because I am certain every creak is a bat waiting to give me rabies.

Inhumane, Ashley Cline

Over the green water, out
an alligator throat, the shake of a baby’s rattle
chhkks

Marsh sog, sad sod, rattles
the bobcat stomping into mud; cursin’, she chhkks
out

Chhkks chhkks,                           chhkks
the cicada celebrates, entreeted, over-heated,
straddled

Domestic Nomadism, Ashley Cline

Domestic Nomadism
         a short series

________________

The Homeless and the Housed

No mercy is mire
when looking for . . .

Dew straddles the clover
to cleave, “whisked wine!”

Said the Alpha Dog to the Omega
Frog, by an abandoned teapot of pond,

“Find me the finest finery, actually
the finest”

________________


Shrub Rosa

Let’s go



No

________________

If Secession Succeeds, a Recession Recedes

The body over a false balcony:
         the forge gorge,
wants the necessary honey, to fuel;
         the body, needs mead –
My body lies over the law of motion,
                   the economy,
                               also, of motion;

Forged gorge, the body some
           coin, voided –
Plead! the lea! the body sum
              need:                            mead.

________________

Sprig, the Right Rigor of Spring

No disagreement with house
Plant; clay pots –

Though furnished, not burnished,
Like the bonnet:

Made of mason jars, blue
Without the pus

Of berries . . .

Which, well-cranked, are
The finest
___________________

Delator

I want to

though

Microbiology 101, Laavanya S.

The X is increasing;
not two peas in a pod,
nor are you punctuating,
but children playing 'train.'

Little rods, squiggling
to be stained,
some not moving.
Tell me, are you
pink or purple?

You need to grow;
let me take a droplet,
do you like blood or
do you like chocolate?

Little blobs, shiny,
your growth leaves
me exponentially happy.
But tell me your name
else I extract it out.

Neon, MaryAnne Kolton

as she goes about she has no idea of the violet-blue neon sign

flashing on her forehead – needy – off – needy –off

she believes men are attracted to her for herself

she does not understand that the sign

translated into man-speak

flashes – vulnerable – off –vulnerable – off

many mistakes are made

and she is puzzled by the fact that all these associations

end badly

YouTube Recommended, Don Kingfisher Campbell

I was The Moody Blues with a House
Of Four Doors in front of me

when I wanted to be The Marx Brothers
in a Big Store on a chase

so like Monty Python's Best Sketch Ever
I found The Meaning Of Life

instead of being a Stealer's Wheel
Stuck In The Middle With You

like James Brown I remade Something
like Yes I covered I'm Down

I took a line from Carl Sagan's Message
For Humanity and made my Last Interview

this Von Trapp Family asked What's My Line
as I boarded a Rush Time Machine Tour

I said our relationship has been like some
Disturbingly Racist Cartoons, like a 9/11 UFO

and The Allure Of Hip Hop-ping away
like Rudy Francisco on the Final Stage

helps me locate my Spirit Of Survival
because Time Is Time has become my motto

I am (He Is) Sailing to the Horizon like the Hawaii
Governor who thinks he's Lazarus Once Again

to look for Vangelis Alpha in Donovan Colours
through Genesis Slippermen I will offer the Duchess Live

Christmas In Heaven not The Knife
as Seconds Out I'll Dance On A Volcano

do my Rick Wakeman Solo before I go
on the Grumpy Old Picture Show

like Andy Griffith on Halloween
like Harpo Shooting Out as he Goes West

Be A Clown in the Train Station
wanting one more Nursery Rhyme Concerto

I've got to make like James Mason
drink Thunderbird Wine

seek my own Marlena Shaw to Teach Me
How To Speak In Love for Madlib Infinity

Let The Good Times Roll B.B. King style
I've already Felt--Now She's Gone

Republican/Democrat What's The Difference
you're the Bette Davis in my Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame