Encounters Spring 2007

I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going “ over. Out on the edge you see all the kinds of things you can’t see from the center.

−Kurt Vonnegut 1922-2007”

© Encounters 2007 Baruch College, CUNY letterfrom the editor

The amount of work and dedication put into this publication is reflected in the quality of the works we have this semester. In this issue, you will read themes that range from the most common feelings of love and hate to the deep, dark desires from the underside of human nature, and even something about a ninja’s compulsive buying habits. The art submissions were nothing less than impressive. Our extended art galleries feature great pieces, from black and white photography to charcoal sketches and blown glass. However, I have to admit I was terrified of taking over as editor-in-chief of Encounters. I had immense shoes to fill and only an idea of where to start. But I had the help from my good friend and self-proclaimed editor-in-chief emeritus, Dov Gibor. His guidance and involvement in the production of this magazine from beginning to end was invaluable. In his last letter from the editor, Dov wrote that he was not scared about Encounters’ future. He said that I would have many things learn, but that Encounters is a great place to learn them — I could not have said it better. Leading this team has been one of the greatest lessons I learned at Baruch, though it was far from the easiest. I had the support of my great managing editor, Dmitry Omelyanenko, who went above and beyond his editing and managerial duties, leading our large — and still growing — team of editors. I also appreciate the dedication of my art directors, Edward Drakhlis and Dustin Winegar, who literally did not sleep until this issue was completed. I would like to thank my staff and friends for their dedication, which made my last semester so enjoyable, with great company and good laughs. I hope this issue gives you some insights, whether it is from a poem, a short story or a series of photographs.

So read on!

Thank you,

Natalia Diaz Editor-in-chief

ii special thanksstaff Editor-in-Chief Special Thanks Natalia Diaz Prof. Roslyn A. Bernstein

Managing Editor Ronald Aaron Dmitry Omelyanenko Vice President of Student Development Business Manager Maria Dorfman Luz Rodriguez Assistant Director, Student Life Creative Director Edward Drakhlis Carl Aylman Student Life Director Junior Creative Director Dustin Winegar Sakina Williams Coordinator, Evening Student Fiction Editors Services Maria Bardina Jacqueline Chancer Traci Espinet-Marquez Susana Gomez Macintosh Specialist/Webmaster Frank Marzullo Mark Kurlansky Poetry Editors Harman Writer-in-Residence Molly Felth Jana Kasperkevic Dr. Sidney Harman Andy Lawler Distinguished Alumnus Erica Schoonmaker Barbara Harman Copy Editors Executive Director of the David deLeon Harman Family Foundation Lauren Loeffel Shelley Ng Prof. Paula Berggren Heather Schultz The English Department Editor-in-Chief Emeritus Dov Gibor HighRoad Press

Cover Design The Baruch faculty, “Beneath the Surface” staff and administration Bogdan Matuszczak who support our efforts Spring ’07 Cover Contest Winner All the readers of Encounters.

iii For Piñero ...... 1 Stefan Malliet Spiked Collar ...... 2 Adrienne Rayski Exhaustion ...... 3 Jana Kasperkevic Cheesecakes ...... 4 Ken Tsé Borderline ...... 9 Dmitry Omelyanenko Gallery I ...... 11 Heroin Saints ...... 27 Johan Guzman The (Il)Logic of Love ...... 29 Dorin Rosenshine The Pen Swings in Pendulum Rhythms ...... 34 Igor Gorodetskiy Abuse ...... 35 Yvonne Erazo Summertime Executions ...... 36 Angela Melamud Heartbeat ...... 37 Erica Shoonmaker I am from Arizona (or Dustin’s Inferno) ...... 38 Dustin Winegar Buyer Beware ...... 39 Stefan Malliet Platform ...... 40 Lisa Chien The Duel ...... 41 Dmitry Omelyanenko You Water a Plant ...... 42 Igor Gorodetskiy Would Tight, Getting Pumped ...... 43 Frank Marzullo Gallery II ...... 47 iv oftable contents Monet’s Lemons ...... 64 Claudia Martinez Pardon ...... 65 Andrew Park Womb ...... 66 Robert Moran Sunflower ...... 67 Jana Kasperkevic Of Delis and Dweebs ...... 68 Frank Marzullo Flirtation ...... 69 Abra Morawiec Star Dance ...... 70 Erica Schoonmaker Midnight Thief ...... 71 Anna Medyukh Blood in the Flowers ...... 72 Robert Moran Salvation ...... 73 Adrienne Rayski I See the Wind ...... 74 Dmitry Omelyanenko What Are You Searching For? ...... 75 Lisa Chien For the Love of Coffee ...... 76 Yvonne Erazo A Sterling Record ...... 77 Molly Felth Bella Amazon ...... 79 Vanessa Strachan Fall 2006 Harman Student Creative Writing, First Place A Regular Customer ...... 90 Mark Atkins Fall 2006 Harman Student Creative Writing, Second Place Silent James Dolan ...... 99 Bhuwen Gadtaula Fall 2006 Harman Student Creative Writing, Third Place

v vi fiction poetryart Fo r Pi ñ e r o Stefan Malliet

la bodega is still selling dreams little nickel bags of futures picking Big Red Apple numbers countless papis, nameless mamis store kittens and children in the aisles among the beans and over-priced bags of azúcar la bodega, still selling dreams on every corner from sunrise highway to midwood, to sunset park bedford to broadway

¡baila mami! baila conmigo mi candy mami

¿como se dice “newports” en boricua? la bodega is still selling dreams veinte in a pack for 65¢ off ¡bachata! in the cookie aisle with the store owner’s wife ¡¡AZÚCAR!! la bodega is still selling dreams four for a dollar en pequeño bags half full of air la bodega’s dreams are only Co b b l e Wo b b l e half-empty or Victor Chu half-full depending on which corner you stand on

1 Th e Sp i k e d Co l l a r Adrienne Rayski They say it’s ironic to put A spiked collar On a half Chihuahua, half Who-knows-what. Sterling silver spikes Barely ward off teacup furballs. The rough, pointed edges warn: “Proceed with caution” Yet, melting into sleek black All but the very last notch is Left open, fitting loosely. Rugged, swaying metal clanks Against the tough exterior, Dancing to A sudden rush of wind Or a pat on the head Attracting sticky slobber from the Spotted chestnut neighbor In a hot pink, rhinestone-studded

Se Ll a m a La r e n Ma tt z a Collar. Gustavo Mattza

2 fiction poetryart Ex h a u st i o n Jana Kasperkevic

Feel the failure, of the strings, Hide me smell it in my sweat. dropping me to the from what I really am. Bask in the misery floor that reflects upon my face. I lie there Numb me against the helplessly, truth, Mind over matter, you say. without purpose. save me from the Can’t win them all, voices whisper failure, inside my head. Against my will, from the reality drowned within of the helpless being They lie. my failure that is me. I beg you The endurance they told me I had, to own me again. not real the strength that kept me going, Rule me. an illusion Delude me. leaving me gasping for air. Take me.

Testing me is what you do well.

Waking me from dreams I thought were real.

You pull the strings, dear puppet master. You turn the knobs, spraying me with cold water, numbing me wholly.

The pain, unfelt spreads throughout; hidden, waiting.

I move, function knowing that you call the shots.

You awaken the pain, you numb it away, and when you let go

Du m m y To r t u r e Dustin Winegar 3 Ch e e s e c a k e s Ken Tsé

It was about an hour before closing time at the café and Chan and Omar were locking up tonight. Omar was at the register while Chan was on barista and back bar. Chan was going through the refrigerated pastry display, counting what was left of the pastries when a young couple walked in. “Hello, good evening. What can I help you with?” Omar asked. Chan peeked over the display case to get a look at the couple and await their orders. He saw the gentleman was a tall, athletic black man in a suit. His lady friend was short, slim, Asian, probably Chinese, and also in business attire. Chan felt just a bit sick. The black gentleman wrapped his arms around his Chinese girlfriend and said, “Your choice, honey.” “Okay, we’ll have two slices of cheesecake to go.” “Absolutely. What flavors would you like?” Omar responded. “We’ll take one slice of chocolate and one slice of cherry.” “And a mocha latte and green tea,” the black gentleman added. Chan gave the couple the evil eye as they turned around, walked over across the café and took a seat by the windows to wait for their order. He watched as they held both their hands together and giggled to each other quietly. Chan turned back to Omar. “Separate containers or together?” he asked, away from earshot of the couple. “Put them in the same container.” Chan felt sicker. “No, I think it’s a better idea to put them in separate containers.” “Why would you put them in separate containers?” “Because they belong in separate containers.” “They’re probably going to eat them together anyway.” “They’re different flavors. You don’t mix two flavors of cheesecake together. How the hell would that taste?” “You’re not mixing anything; you’re just putting the cheesecake in a container.” “But by the time they get home, the chocolate’s going to melt all over the cherry and the cherry sauce is going to be all over the chocolate. It’s nasty.” “They probably want to eat it together.” “I’m going to put them in separate containers just in case they want to eat it separately and they can put it together later if they want.” “What’s the big deal? You save space with just one container,” Omar objected with palms out and a look of confusion. “Because it’s a mess and disgusting to have the two cheesecakes touch and melt all over each other. If you told me it was two slices of cherry cheesecake, I’d put them together, no problem, but not two different flavors. If they’re the same, they can go together.” 4 art fictionpoetry

“Look, cheesecake is cheesecake,” Omar said, still confused at Chan’s insistence on the separate containers. “Hey, when we got the cheesecakes delivered, did they come one whole pie of chocolate and cherry cheesecakes? No, they came in two different pies, and that’s how they’re going to leave, in two different pieces.” Without continuing, Chan packaged the cheesecakes separately, Omar completed the transaction, and the couple went about their night. “I don’t see why you had to get worked up over that order, man.” “Would you like mixed cheesecakes?” “Yeah. When you try two different cheesecakes at once, it’s exotic, it’s something different, you know? Maybe that’s what they wanted?” Omar was ready to laugh, not understanding Chan’s feeling of the severity of the situation. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, do you?” “All I know is you had a fit over how to pack someone’s order. Is there something else you want to fill me in on?” “No, I just prefer my cheesecakes separate. It’s cleaner, and it’s appropriate.” “Well, sometimes, just sometimes, even if it might be a little dirty, you can make some tasty combinations. You know what I mean?” Omar let out a little chuckle. “Whatever, it’s okay, I’m over it. It’s just cheesecakes.” Chan went back to the pastries and didn’t speak for the rest of the night.

*****

Chan lived about six blocks away from the café, but they were avenue blocks, which meant quite a distance of walking. Three blocks down from the café, Chan always passed by the neighborhood park. The park was closed by now, but right in front of the entrance to each side of the gate was a bench for people to wait for the bus. As Chan peered across the street to the park entrance, he caught the couple from earlier sitting at the bench on the left. He gave them the evil eye again as he watched them embrace in a passionate and ongoing kiss. Chan ducked behind a parked car so he could watch them further. They continued to go at it intensely. Chan felt sick again as he imagined them reaching their tongues into each others’ mouths as far as they could go to clean each others’ mouths of cheesecake residue. No decency for the public eye, Chan thought to himself, although the street was completely deserted. Chan recalled a time when he was about six years old. He and his father were on the bus and witnessed a Caucasian male and an Asian female couple sitting next to each other. They were feeding each other slices of pie. She fed him cherry pie, and he fed her banana cream pie. The Asian girl also kept pecking at the man’s lips and occasionally pausing to make out with him. His father turned to Chan and told him to look away. His father later mentioned that one should not eat so sloppily. Any clean food, especially desserts, which were typically creamy and rich, were to be eaten with care as to not make a mess of oneself or the dessert. He watched the couple across the street a little longer. My god, how could they go at it for this long? Chan fantasized about himself kissing her instead, the soft 5 Ch e e s e c a k e s

moist brush of her tongue on his. He let the faint sound of their faraway kissing entice his fantasy further. Chan shook himself awake from his fantasy shortly and felt that he should put a stop to their fondling session somehow. Kneeling next to the car, Chan rammed his shoulder into the side of the car as hard as he could. The car alarm went off as he expected, breaking the stillness of the night. The headlights of the car started flashing. The couple pulled away from each others’ faces and searched the street for the cause of the commotion. Chan ran.

*****

After realizing that the couple had probably seen him anyway but couldn’t possibly have identified him or accused him of peeping, Chan stopped around the corner of the next block and headed toward the 24-hour diner just up ahead at the intersection. He decided to stop in for a quick bite to eat. The diner was quiet tonight, only three tables were taken. Two waitresses were serving and another was behind the counter. Chan took a seat in the booth section by the windows, first looking outside to make sure the couple didn’t follow him, and then scanning the counter across from him to see what desserts were left for the evening. A nice warm sandwich and a slice of pie will be nice, he thought. A waitress came over with a menu for Chan. He looked up to read her name tag, “Vicita.” She was a slender Hispanic girl with her hair down, dyed in streaks of dirty blonde. She smelled of strawberries, which appropriately matched her bright red polo shirt. The shirt was small on Vicita, hugging her round curves exquisitely. Chan could not help but notice the shape of her bra showing through the shirt. “How are you tonight, sweetheart?” “I’m good, except I’m hungry.” Chan almost blushed. “Well, that’s great. You take a minute and see what you want hon, and I’ll be right back.” “Sounds good.” As she left she brushed her hand across Chan’s shoulder. He felt a tingle. Chan browsed the menu quickly, settling on the grilled chicken sandwich platter. As soon as he put the menu down, Vicita returned. “So, what’ll it be, sweetie?” “I’ll have the grilled chicken sandwich platter.” “Mmm, that’s one of my favorites.” She looked into Chan’s eyes and licked her lips. “Anything to drink?” Chan tried not to look bothered. “Uh ... Coke, please. Thank you.” “Just regular Coke? Or you want something in it? Vanilla? Cherry?” “Cherry sounds good.” She smiled, “I know it does. I’ll be right back with your drink, sweetie.” As she left, she brushed her hand across Chan’s shoulder again, this time giving it a slight, but noticeable rub. Chan felt a tingle again. He was beginning to feel nervous. Is she flirting? No, absolutely not. She probably does this with all the customers. You’re just here to eat, you’re just here to eat. He scanned the diner for Vicita, but couldn’t find her. He turned back to his seat, sitting up straight. Vicita returned with his Coke in her hand. She placed the 6 art fictionpoetry

Coke in front of him and he looked up at her. He wanted to say something, but he wasn’t sure what. Before he could think of something, she said, “I have to ask you something.” Chan sighed. “Sure, what is it?” “How do you get your hair all spikey and messy like that? It’s hot.” As she finished her sentence, she bit her luscious, glossy, shiny lips. Chan paused for a moment. “It’s just hair gel.” “Get outta here, really? Just gel? Is there anything else to it? C’mon.” “Well, after the gel, I use a blow … dryer. I blow dry it.” Vicita giggled. “Well, I really like it.” “Thanks, I aim to please,” Chan said, relieved. “I’m having a little trouble with my own hair.” She twirled some of her hair. “Yeah? What kind of problem?” Chan folded his hands on top of the table to keep them from shaking. “Well, I just had it straightened and dyed, but I still feel like I’m not satisfied with it. It used to be down and curly. Any suggestions, cutie?” Chan folded his arms now to keep them from shaking. “Well, personally, I think you’re better off with straight hair, first of all.” “Aww thanks, you’re such a sweetie pie.” Chan let out a forced laugh, which got caught in his throat. “Y-you could try um … w-wearing it up m-maybe? That might look good.” “Yeah?” She pulled her hair back and held it together with her hands to show Chan. “Like this?” “Y-yeah, t-that’d look great.” Vicita twirled for Chan and then struck a model pose and smiled. Holy shit. A bell rang and the waitress from behind the counter called, “Order’s up, Vicita.” Vicita brought Chan’s grilled chicken over and two gentlemen, one white, one black, entered the diner and took a booth on the side of the diner opposite Chan’s. “I’ll be back soon, sweetie.” Chan ate eagerly to keep himself busy while he anxiously awaited her return. He watched her take care of the new customers as he ate. She did not touch either of them, nor engage them in any sort of conversation. She just took their orders. When Vicita returned, Chan smiled nervously at her again. “Anything for dessert?” she asked. “What’s good here?” “How about a peach cheesecake for my sweetie pie? I love their peach cheesecake,” she winked. Then, Vicita leaned in and put her lips next to Chan’s ear, “But we can have our own dessert. I get off in an hour,” she ended, with her most enticing smile yet. Chan breathed deeply, but tensely. “I’ll have the cheesecake first,” he said without looking at her. Vicita disappeared into the kitchen, and Chan sighed to himself again. He couldn’t think of what to do now as he tried to keep from twitching. Vicita came 7 Ch e e s e c a k e s

back with the dessert in hand. “I warmed it up a bit and put a scoop of ice cream on top. You like that?” “I-I love it. I-I’ll take the check too.” “Sure thing, hon.” Chan was too nervous to touch the pie. Vicita pulled the check from the counter and handed it to Chan. Chan looked on the reverse side of the check and sure, as he had expected, Vicita had written her name and number down. Vicita returned to the kitchen. Chan could not stay another minute. He placed a ten dollar bill on the table and hurriedly got up, running for the door. But, just before he opened the door, he turned around, just to see if he could catch another glimpse of Vicita, just one last glimpse. As he thrust his body around, he bumped directly into the other waitress. She let out a yell as Chan pushed her into the counter, knocking over the entire pastry display. Pies, cakes, cheesecakes all splattered across the floor behind — and in front of — the counter; vanilla frosting, chocolate frosting, apple pie filling, cherry pie filling, peach pie filling, lemon meringue, whipped cream all exploded before Chan’s eyes. Chan froze for a heartbeat. Vicita emerged from the kitchen and gasped with surprise at the sight. Chan took one last look at Vicita, his mouth wide open, turned around and burst out of the diner. Chan ran. He ran faster than he did before. He breathed heavily as he ran, ran, with fresh pie all over his shoes. He could smell it on him. Chan ran all the way home — leaving a trail of fresh pie fillings and cream behind him.

8 art fictionpoetry Bo r d e r l i n e Dmitry Omelyanenko

I came back here for the sunsets, not the people. The golden-brown sun hangs lazily an inch above the horizon, sending out not the scorching-hot spears of noon but the steady simmering of the evening. The road wavers, heat rising up from the asphalt in steady streams, as the shadows lengthen and grow far greater than whatever casts them. The birds circle lazily overhead, floating on updrafts …. I lose my grip on the gas pump and it clatters to the ground like a dead python. Dazed, I stare at it before picking it up and placing it back. The attendant is nowhere in sight, but the lights of the diner are on. I head in, extracting my wallet. The cold air is a welcome respite from the evening heat. The woman at the counter is busy with something, but I’m in no hurry to leave. I look around. An impatient, corpulent white man in a suit and a cowboy hat has spread his double- wide body across the leather-covered bench. A tan waitress is moving toward him with a full plate in her hands. Suddenly there is a loud crash. The waitress is on the floor; the plate has shattered at the fat man’s feet and the food is spread on his boots. “Damn foreigners,” he growls, glaring at the girl, “comin’ in here an’ takin’ jobs they can’t even get right.” The girl lifts her hands to her eyes; she’s about to cry. I drop a bill on the counter and tell the woman to keep the change just to get out. Stepping outside is like easing into a warm bath: the heat envelops my body from all sides. There is no escape, so I stand still for a moment to let myself accept it. The voices inside the diner rise in pitch as I walk to my truck. I know the road well, but the setting sun paints it golden with the desert dust stirred by the warm breeze. The row of trees I planted with my father breaks the dirt track into a checkerboard, and the sun is anxious to release what little is left of its heat in between them. Soon enough I can see the house, much more worn now than it was when the whole family still lived there. I note the peeling paint with displeasure, but can only sigh. It would have been a breeze to fix it up with Dad if I had come back before his funeral. I drive south, past the house. All of this used to be green, but the wheels of my truck lift up nothing but dirt. All of this used to be my father’s, too, but it’s mine now. Everything’s changed since they started coming through. At the edge of the property I turn west. I don’t even have to stop the truck to see the traps are clear. I speed on into the setting sun, my glasses shielding me from its glare. There is only one place left to check when the sun’s disk touches the horizon. I stop the truck next to the dry riverbed that used to be a lively brook. Its bottom is only a few feet deep, but I still can’t see it from the truck. I grab my shotgun from the passenger seat and head out. I stand at the edge of the gully and peer down into the shadows. At the very bottom, dead center, is a tan-skinned man. The left leg of his jeans is stuck in my 9 Bo r d e r l i n e

trap. The fabric is torn, and I can see dry, caked blood. “Pleez,” he bleats, just like the goat I used to have as a kid. The one father gave me for my birthday. The one we had to eat. I load my shotgun and raise it up. I came back here for the sunsets, not the people.

Qu i t o Va l l e y I John Uske

10 poetry fictionart Find i n g Co l o r s f o r t h e Fi r s t Ti m e Sang Ik Na

11 Sk y l i g h t Mohamed Wann

12 poetry fictionart Un i o n Sq u a t e r Edward Drakhlis

13 A Sl a v e t o My s e l f Crystal Sewer

14 poetry fictionart Ch r i s Johan Guzman

15 Wa t e r Grzegorz Nycz

16 poetry fictionart Ex p l o s i o n s in t h e Sk y Johan Guzman

17 Un t i t l e d Sarunas Daunoras

18 poetry fictionart Un t i t l e d Luba Bogopolskaya

19 Mu s i c o n t h e St r e e t Sang Ik Na

20 poetry fictionart Ve n i c e a t Su n s e t Alex Skuratovsky

21 Sh a p e l e s s Sang Ik Na

22 poetry fictionart Wh e r e ’s My Mo n e y ? Mark Emmanuel

23 Sc a t t e r e d Fl o w e r s Hayley Rothman

24 poetry fictionart Wh e r e ’s t h e Su n ? Jon Berard

25 La d y Jessica Rozario

26 art fictionpoetry He r o i n Sa i n t s Johan Guzman

No matter how fucked up you are, what drug-induced hell or heaven you’re waddling through, your soul will always return to Earth when Jimmy Page, almost hesitatingly, begins strumming the chords. Jack was in heaven when Jimmy Page resurrected him. It seemed like he was always in heaven those days. His friends were laid out all over, many of them naked. Jersey summers were unbearable, more so when you’re on heroin. They were all deadbeats through and through, each and every one of them. Steal from your mother, steal from your job, sell yourself, kill, whatever it takes to get back to heaven. She was different though, sitting alone on the couch, wearing her new Hendrix shirt. Everyone there knew she was new. That fresh face. Eyes still glistening with hope. It looked like she still ironed her clothes. Hell, it looked like she still washed her clothes. Everyone could tell. She was innocent. He staggered over to her, planting himself too close to her on the big sofa. He told her with the bravado only coke gave him that Jimmy Hendrix wasn’t in heaven, and he knew because he had visited and asked around, and he’d take her there and prove it to her. No one had ever offered to show her anything. No one ever cared enough to. She wasn’t sure why she was there. She needed answers, yeah, but she wasn’t sure why she was looking for them there. She thought that maybe he had the answers. So her small hands found themselves in his. They stole away from the crowd and found themselves in a small room near the back, a blue room. It was a child’s room. There was a teddy bear missing an eye button. She noticed it because it looked like her if she were a bear or if she were missing an eye. Most of the room was taken up by a twin-sized bed sinking to the ground. There was no child in the room. Out for a hike, porridge wasn’t ready yet. Junkies dropped the boy off at grandma’s. Don’t touch the porcelain figures, Sammy. Eat while you can, there ain’t shit for you back home. We’ll be back tomorrow or the day after. There’s a lady is sure, all that glitters is gold. Robert Plant’s voice seeped under the door and the moment was perfect. She laid on the bed, eyes closed, facing up, motionless. He sat next to her. His kit emerged, wrapped in a dirty black bandana. The syringe, which he and his friends scavenged for in the dumpster behind the clinic, in the days before AIDS mattered. The spoon he had swiped from his mother’s drawers, an heirloom, family crest on the handle. His mother would often ask him about that spoon, to which he’d always say, “If I see it you’ll be the first to know.” Robotically, without a thought, like he’d done it his whole life and the life before that, he began prepping the heroin. That lowlife Steve had overcharged but his shit was always good. Something about a Colombian cousin. Bullshit. Shithead from the suburbs. Never left Jersey. Never met a Latin brother. On the spoon, a quarter needle worth of water. The flame from the lighter hits the bottom, bubbles foaming. Soak it in a cigarette filter. Suck it up. Make sure you’ve caught every drop. 27 He r o i n Sa i n t s

He tied a belt around her arm. She was scared that he’d notice the scars on her arms. Scars from the cuts she had made on her arms every night for as long as she could remember. Behind the large door of her room that had a tattered Monkees poster hanging on the outside, that made her parents think she was still their little girl. Next to the dolls on her bed, all kinds of dolls, short and tall, big eyes and small, each with a name. With the razors from her father’s shaving kit that she would swipe every week. Cut across, don’t want to kill yourself. Make sure the blood doesn’t drip on Madeline or on Joanne. Blood can be so hard to clean from fabric. But he didn’t notice her cuts and even if he did, he didn’t mention it. He tapped her arm in search of a vein. For the best road. Direct service to heaven. He felt around her delicate arms with his rough calloused hands. Her veins were small, he thought, she’s nothing but a girl. He found one, the leader of the pack, coming in above and beyond the others. He placed the cold needle on her skin beside the winner. He slowly pushed the needle into her vein and drew it back. Her blood-red blood danced inside the needle with the dirty junk. Then he told her that he loved her. They both knew it wasn’t true. But these are the things that sometimes need to be said. Then slowly, staggering the pleasure, he released that poison, that life, that liquid diamond, that purpose, that instant ecstasy, into her small veins. An army of hairs stood on edge as her toes curled. No Peter. No Pearly Gates, just God. Just bliss. This was it, she thought. This was what had been missing. Some people fill that void with Jesus, or alcohol, or sex, or work, or double cheeseburgers. They just want to silence that voice that never stops whispering into their ears, telling them that there is something more and they don’t have it. Hell, they don’t even know what it is. But they need it. They need it! They need it with every shred of their being. And as she lay there, she knew that this was it. She had found “it.” Jack fell next to her. He held her head close to his chest, his hairy chest. He smelled of spoiled milk. She didn’t notice. Or if she did, she didn’t care. You don’t turn Jesus away because he smells. She loosened herself from him and kissed him on his lips, hard enough to bruise. In the morning she kissed him harder than the night before. And she’s buying a stairway to heaven.

28 art fictionpoetry Th e (Il)Lo g i c o f Lo v e Dorin Rosenshine

Wow. I walked into my very first class, the very first day, and that was the only word that crossed my mind. The thought didn’t refer to the fact that I’m really in college, or the size of the classroom. Rather, it was the result of what my eyes had just caught. The object of my amazement was sitting at the other end of the room, yet somehow I could see him so clearly. I don’t know what attracted me to him so much. Maybe the dark hair that was gelled back so perfectly, the large almond- shaped eyes that I could drown into so easily, the nose I wanted to stroke so badly, or just the thin lips that whenever he talked revealed white teeth shaped so flawlessly. He looked so effortlessly “cool.” My mere glance turned into an uncontrolled stare. Whatever bewilderment I have felt over a guy’s appearance in the past was dwarfed by my admiration and wonder of him. In fact, it was all forgotten. All of a sudden, I felt like I had just started life anew. The next time I walked into the same classroom he wasn’t there anymore. He probably dropped the class or switched. Beyond that one time, I never saw him again. Not in that class, not in any of my other classes, not in the hallways, not in the elevators or the escalators, not in the 2nd floor lobby, or anywhere else for that matter. So much time passed, or at least it seemed like that to me, that I almost began to think it was all a dream.

*****

“That midterm was so hard.” Leaving a bunch of voices firing similar complaints in the air, I walked outside the test room on the 5th floor of the Vertical Campus. Hard or not, I aced it! I thought. The familiar sensation of a sickening perfectionist success filled me with temporary satisfaction as I rushed to the escalators, trying to make it before the crowds of students leave their classes. I got 35 minutes before sociology — more than enough to head to Frank’s for some brain fuel! Reaching the end of the hallway, I pushed the door wide open and was ready to continue my hastened stride for pizza. I didn’t. I stopped and stared. Straight ahead of me, leaning on a wall, I recognized the dark locks. I didn’t even need to see his face; I remembered it all so clearly, as if I had just saw it the other day. I knew it was him. It had to be him. But that wasn’t the only thing that stopped me. It was the company he was with — specifically, a girl. But that wasn’t the only thing that stopped me, either. They kissed — but it wasn’t just another regular kiss. It was a passionate, 29 Th e (Il)Lo g i c o f Lo v e

fervent, almost fanatical kiss. There was something eccentric about it; it was almost as if they were obsessed with each other’s lips and could not be brought to a halt, as if they were afraid to die if their lips were apart from each other’s for a breath of a second. I stood there and stared for what seemed like forever. I don’t know if it was the shock, jealousy, or other indescribable emotion that hit me, but after a few minutes of standing there and staring all I could think was, Why don’t you guys just go somewhere and fuck …. Eventually, they stopped, perhaps realizing that oxygen comes first. They hugged and cuddled and continued with a series of little mini-kisses. It felt like some muscled arm punched my tummy really hard. Suddenly, the midterm I had supposedly just maxed didn’t even occur. “Excuse me, can you MOVE?” A bundle of freshmen gathered behind me. I had been standing fixed in the same spot for the past 10 minutes — and now the masses were beginning to show up. I glanced at the overcrowded escalators and sighed. Well, I wasn’t that hungry anymore — and 25 minutes was certainly more than enough to make it to my next class.

*****

That afternoon, I climbed onto an overly crowded LIRR train, ranting to myself for what seemed like the one-millionth time, Why can’t the MTA run more trains during rush hour?!? I walked back, searching for seats. The only empty seat I could find was next to a woman that probably weighed in the range of 250-300 pounds. “Can I please sit here?” I asked politely. She moved uncomfortably to make some room. I needed to sit. Sociology only worsened my already weakened state. The pangs I felt in my tummy, which started before the class, didn’t stop; instead, they only got stronger and even managed to spread to my head. I sank into the chair and closed my eyes. So it wasn’t a dream. I really did see him that first day. And he really did look that unbelievably gorgeous. And he really didn’t disappear from the school; I just didn’t get to see him around for a while. And he already has a girlfriend. I continued to ponder who she is and how she looked. Was she as pretty as him? Frankly, I didn’t care. Actually, I didn’t even want to know. Sometimes ignorance is better than knowledge. The thoughts and disappointment continued to crawl through me, until abruptly disrupted by the announcement, “Great Neck will be the next and final stop — all passengers must exit at Great Neck. This train is going to the y-a-r- d!” What if I want to go to the yard? I quietly muttered to myself. Just for a day. Forget about everything else. At home, as I turned my laptop on, iTunes came up, along with my Israeli playlist. Shirly Lilo’s familiar voice filled my room. 30 art fictionpoetry

“If she said she loves only you then go with her Go there …” He already did, I thought, and fell asleep amidst my warm tears.

*****

Time passed. This time, I mean a long while — something like a year or so. In my neurotic compulsiveness to always busy myself with a certain project or goal while keeping an uncontrollable number of things on my plate, I managed to completely forget about him and the scene I saw that day. Occasionally it would of course, surface in my mind. In certain instances, such as during girls’ talks, when a friend would mention her boyfriend, or if I’d see a couple hugging on the subway or while walking through Madison Park on my way to Penn Station. But the rare occurrence of these cases, coupled with their brevity, almost eliminated the pain. Time, indeed, is the best medicine. Time and keeping yourself busy. One time, though, it did hit me. After seeing an ad in the newspaper about a new Israeli restaurant chain branching out to New York, I decided to seep out of my antisocial, nerdy shell for a short while and pay a visit. Maybe it was just a wish to relive memories of myself enjoying the coffeehouse’s sandwiches on Israel’s hot summer days and wintry evenings with my ex-boyfriend. So one day after classes, instead of taking the usual route to Penn Station, I decided to head downtown to Union Square and join the Israeli crowd. I had crossed the silver-metal subway turnstiles and walked to the end of the platform on the 6 downtown line, a train I never took before. As I approached the edge, looking for signs that the train was about to enter the station, a strong smell of perfume crossed my senses. I breathed deeply, registering the scent, and immediately identified it with the beautiful, dark locks I saw only twice in my life. I deserted my tired, eyes-half-closed state and hopped into a fight-or-flight alert mode that would have most likely earned me a perfect score on any test, even in astrophysics. Erect and tall, trying to follow the direction of the smell, I surveyed the platform for a familiar figure. My efforts weren’t successful. He wasn’t there. I couldn’t tell who it was that was wearing that perfume, but I didn’t really care. I was looking for someone very specific — and not because of his perfume. By now, the thought of him had seeped into my mind and with nothing else to fill it at the very moment — given that I had carved out some “free time” for myself to not ponder anything — wouldn’t let go. Thoughts of sitting in the restaurant in Israel, cuddled with my ex, had me wishing that he would now take his place. Take the place of my ex. Which was totally absurd, because he was most likely all-American and totally ignorant of anything Israeli. Does love EVER follow logic? I thought. “Get out of my head, give me some rest,” sings Shiri Maimon. And I sang with her. Just then I heard the whistle of the approaching train waking me back into reality. 31 Th e (Il)Lo g i c o f Lo v e

*****

Perhaps in a silly effort to become (or appear) effortlessly “cool,” I had purchased an iPod. Ultimately, the player effectively proved that some people (including myself) will never be “cool.” One cold afternoon in March, coming straight from work, I rushed into the Vertical Campus just in time for marketing. Let’s go, not another late! You got 95 seconds to make it to the 10th floor. If you keep running at this pace, you’ll probably make it, I thought to myself. Come on, come on! Where is that remarkable cardiovascular ability you exercise at the gym when you need it …. I squeezed into an open elevator and breathed deeply. Before I could exhale, I was on the 11th floor. My inner monologue continued: Okay, now just run through those doors down the stairs and you’re there. Push for just a little bit longer …. “Ouch!” I yelled out. I felt like someone was strangling me. I was pulled back to the door. The cord of my iPod’s earphones, which I began to unravel while traveling up the elevator, got tangled with the doorknob. The two wouldn’t separate — like they had a crush on each other or, better yet, a conspiracy to make me arrive late to class yet again. Muttering some curses in Hebrew, I tried to pull them apart. Damn! This was not a part of my plan. ARGH! “Need any help there?” said a deep, manly voice behind me, from inside the hallway. I turned around and looked up — only to once again drown into the most beautiful pair of eyes on Earth. As if the mission was accomplished, my iPod and the doorknob got detangled. “No, but thanks. My iPod got stuck to the doorknob ... but now it’s fine.” “Ah! No worries. Happens to me all the time,” he said and looked at me. “Hey, you look familiar from somewhere. Did I have a class with you or something?” “Possible … last fall ….” “Yes! I remember. Do you live in Great Neck?” “Yeah. How did you know?” “I think I once heard you say it. That’s awesome! I live in Garden City. You know it? Right by Roosevelt Field, they just opened a new Macy’s store there. Should be no more than a 15-20-minute drive from your place.” “Oh, that’s cool. Anyway, I have a class now, gotta run,” I approached the door for the staircase. “Wait, Dorin, just one more thing ….” How does he know my name? whispering to myself, I glimpsed at him. Our eyes met and I drowned once again. Decorating his were lashes so long and numerous, and I wanted to count and touch each one. I pictured myself caressing his chin very softly. Suddenly, all my worries and concerns floated away. I wonder if they broke up, I thought. And why or when. 32 art fictionpoetry

“Yeah?” A long moment of silence. “Nothing.” I stopped for a second. What, just because a guy speaks to you for three seconds, it means he likes you? Give me a break. You’re such a kid! My antisocial shell was enveloping me again. Anyway, marketing is going to kill me, I thought. I turned around and attacked the stairs. “You’re illegally beautiful!” I was lucky to have reached the top of the staircase, because if I didn’t, I would have probably tripped and fallen all the way down, possibly even making some 360-degree spins in the air. I’m pretty sure it was his voice, and it echoed very clearly inside the stair well, which meant that he had opened the door and screamed into the empty space. Was it, then, directed at me? Go back up and see! The minute-hand on my watch made a short, quick move from 9 to 10. I opened the door and rushed into the hallway, entering the class almost with the professor. I hastened to my seat, hoping that she didn’t notice. Frankly, I didn’t care. Actually, I didn’t even want to know. Sometimes ignorance is better than knowledge. Replacing the pangs was … nothing. I felt completely empty. There was a vacancy inside of me. Above my head flew an omniscient cloud of indifference.

33 Th e Pe n Sw i n g s in Pe n d u l u m Rh y t h m s Igor Gorodetskiy

The pen swings in pendulum rhythms Unpredictable changes in its hue. The heart sings its melody in alternating harmonies Twenty-four hours of 25 sensations Expressed in different handwritings. Lights blur by busy streets Reverberations engulf familiar tunes Kneeling on the cracked concrete To peer through the ink stained fractures To see each syllable escape in different tones; My identity floating in pieces of dreams Genres compressed then shredded Reaching all eternity to sequence ideas Puzzle together doubts Sorting fragments of notes and letters Only to rip them through again. For they only read in pieces, in doubt, floating randomly overhead.

Ty p o g r a ph y Jiaying Wei

34 fiction poetryart Ab u s e Yvonne Erazo

Denial rings free, Dark whispers caress a palpitation that resonates the wound as it grows against the walls of the mind. foul … absolved of its prior sanctity ….

It echoes within It begins to poison the bleakest of corners, the pure being once the place no one knows or goes. inhabited by that unfortunate soul.

Oh, how it lures. Defilement sheathed in an exquisite wrapper is no less vile. To r r e d e Be l é m Alex Skuratovsky

35 Su m m e r t i m e Ex e c u t i o n s Angela Melamud

With yellow orchids in her hair She seeds the way through time. Tampered dirt between her toes Soiled in the brine. Constructing bubbles from the puddle That the vessels call their air. Sunlight drips of ice cream, Little Sally doesn’t share. Clopping Janes along the pavement A stomach filled with greed Groveling bystanders vanquished Still she doesn’t feed. Rhetorical conclusions ask Would a heart severance prevail? A dragon in the distance Invites her to his lair.

Gh o s t Alex Nemenko Pen on paper

36 fiction poetryart He a r t b e a t Erica Schoonmaker here your heart beats against your chest muscle pumping blood through purple veins and arteries: a steady rhythm thump, thump, thump; the drums of life.

Wi l d Se r e n i t y Roman Matveyev

37 I a m f r o m Ar i z o n a (o r Du s t i n ’s In f e r n o ) Dustin Winegar

I am from an oven A cast iron skillet Eternally burning On an open fire.

An infernal valley Encompassed by mountains Ringed with black roadways It smells of burnt tires.

The heat’s suffocating Like breathing through sheets Wrapped tight round your body And hot from the dryer.

The sun sucks the life From a body now ashen, Holds still for a moment Then falls in a pile.

The distant horizon, An oily vapor Dancing and waving Like liquidy flames.

This tortuous heat! Perverts all that it touches The dried spinney plants Are a murderous sight.

Six years in perdition No bard in the lead I know what it’s like To be roasted alive. Fa h r e n h e i t Edward Drakhlis

38 fiction poetryart Bu y e r Be w a r e Stefan Malliet

I am the SHOP NINJA! I can show you how to spend with stealth and reckless abandon. In and out with the goods before the alarms are tripped.

I slink up and down aisles and aisles of racks, spinning my way through clearance shelves, dropping smoke bombs so the competition can see me.

You think you see me? I’ve already grabbed, swiped, and left out the door.

Boots for work and play: $244.85 Black flat front Kenneth Cole slacks: $69.50 Matching Claiborne button-up French-cuffed, purple with the sick window-shade striped pattern: $39.50 Getting it all done before the sales know what hit ’em — you know the rest

I’m slinging plastic and signatures like shurikens Visa, MasterCard, American Express. All tremble in my path and crumble in my shadow.

I am invincible I dazzle you with my display of unlimited consumerism. Flurries of account activity indefatigable as I invade department stores floor by floor …

And then … And Then … AND THEN!!

I got the bill.

Ni n j a Ni n j a Boris Berdichevskiy 39 Pl a t f o r m Lisa Chien

Right on the platform’s edge I stand alone. Why do I wander aimlessly about? Train misses — my near death — oil and chrome.

It’s midnight and I should be going home. Should I be getting on the train? Or out? Right on the platform’s edge I stand alone.

Train’s siren is recording on my phone Desire to jump is filling me with doubt Train misses — my near death — oil and chrome.

Rats scurry on the tracks, and beggars moan About their “broken ass.” They curse and shout Right on the platform’s edge. I stand alone.

The city’s finest and its basest roam Oppressive air surrounds them like a cloud — Train misses my near death. Oil and chrome.

Two giant eyes burn into my mindless soul, The screeching wheels evoke a hellish route — Right on the platform’s edge I stand alone. Train misses. My near death. Oil and chrome.

Un t i t l e d Anika Zabeen

40 fiction poetryart Th e Du e l Dmitry Omelyanenko

Do not believe the man below: Do not believe the words of man: Deceit is all his words can sow. Death always meddles with the plan. My honor’s clean. All I regret It interferes before they’re done. Is the unfortunate day we met And how a comment off-the-cuff Two corpses where there should be none. Can pierce an ill-constructed bluff And wound the ego and the pride — Not honor, which should be inside A common man, whose mind is sound: Not in the clouds, but on the ground.

Do not believe the man above! I’ve raised my sword; I’ve thrown the glove, The gauntlet, even; only death — The insults grow with every breath! — Will vindicate the grievous harm He shrugs away with wit and charm! You see that devil smiling wide? Only defeat can end such pride! Bi t c h Pl e a s e ... Oh, Co m e On! Alex Skuratovsky

41 Yo u Wa t e r a Pl a n t Igor Gorodetskiy

You water a plant Then cut its stem. Light a fire Extract all the air. Write a book Using a blotched pen as ink sprays. The preaching, the teaching Mixes with the teasing and belittling. Yet you remain in slumber, A prisoner of your own insecurities A grown man navigating another’s fate, Using his own failures as a compass. Common sentences roar, emotions mix and match, You say “equilibrium” as your moods swing at each syllable. You ignore the cracked foundations, rubbing proudly your engraved initials, For the earth, moon and stars bow to your gravitational pull. An earthquake draws them together momentarily, Yet they yearn to pull further apart What metaphors can disguise this diseased affection? A man yells for you to get up Yet drives your head down into the ground firmly with his foot. Demands scroll infinite, perfection, molded in this Godly image, Paranoia sets in as war drums sound, attempt after attempt to suppress But the enemy grows strong, Strike harder, Speak louder. Blinded eagle jarring with fury to posses the skies, While wingless viciously pecking at the branch it weighs on.

Fl o w e r St r i p Hayley Rothman

42 art fictionpoetry Wo u n d Ti g h t , Ge tt i n g Pu m p e d Frank Marzullo

Lorenzo logged off the computer in disgust and snatched up his book bag.Why even bother? It was easier haggling with scalpers outside the Garden ten minutes before the damn game than trying to hook up tickets online. His timing had always been off with everything else, so it was only natural. Too late again. The Knicks sucked again this year anyway. The only ticket demand came when a marquee team jets in to administer a clinical beatdown. He yanked his water and gym gear from an overstuffed locker, nearly falling on his ass in the process, and headed to the college gym to will himself to a better body. The New Year’s resolution still had the imprimatur of a hard and fast contract. Lorenzo knew himself. He had to follow through before grasping for any possible loophole. The holiday binge eating had been worse than usual. It started at Thanksgiving and just never let up. The anxious December onslaught of papers and finals became another lame excuse to keep scarfing a candychipssoda conveyer down the throat. Then it was Christmas nutscookiespastries. Why not just live at the bakery? He got blitzed New Year’s Eve on tequila and champagne in a cookie-cutter Lower East Side club, followed by all the beer in the fridge with the New Year’s Day Bowls on the tube. Even the Scope bottle was downed in the haze, unless he forgot to buy a refill. The college elevators might soon become Lorenzo’s best friends. And if he kept gorging, he’d be switching to the freight ones. His six-foot-two frame distributed and hid the fat, but not the sluggish demeanor that went with it. There was work to do. It was intersession and the gym was eerily bereft of students. Only the bargain- savvy community people, who signed up at low rates to the public facility, kept it looking moderately busy. He managed to break off 20 pushups before getting winded, a 50 percent drop-off. Lorenzo, undeterred, strode to his favorite, the dip machine. The triceps had begun to soften and needed remedial attention. He could always count on dips for a quick blast of pure energy. But even with a very generous 50 pounds of assistance to mask his atrophied muscles, the machine’s built-in training wheels, he gave up after two sets of nine. He could have sworn a mustachioed 60-something geezer in a lime green alligator polo shirt shook his head in his direction. How did it get this embarrassing? He switched to the elliptical machine, slamming the phallic 50-ounce water bottle into its holder. He wondered if they couldn’t give you more water by making an even taller bottle. It would look way cooler in a holder and double as a whiffle bat later. He jacked the time up to the 60-minute max. There’s no way he’d hold up that long on the knee-killing treadmill, and he needed to at least build some serious endurance results for the sake of mental motivation and perseverance. Hey, low impact’s better than no impact. The formerly loose polyester tank top felt alarmingly snug. The white, blue and yellow panels made him look more like the beach ball he was worried about 43 Wo u n d Ti g h t , Ge tt i n g Pu m p e d

morphing into. His attention alternated between the latest reality show and the depressing drone of CNN on the overhead LCD screens. At least it wasn’t the network with the nut screaming “Boo-ya!” every day at the top of his lungs, getting on his nerves. Though he did tolerate, and sometimes even enjoyed, the same nut’s snarky weekly magazine columns. At least there he managed to be more subdued in mute mode. Even the serious networks always had some offbeat soft-soap story to fray his nerves, like the ex-athlete turned financial neophyte still clinging to his fifteen minutes with some dubious consulting venture. Everything had to become a science with him. Being an accounting major didn’t help either, as he was forever consigned to counting the beans. He approached the reception girl, a dour gum-snapping work-study wretch named Tonya. “I prefer one of the first ten lockers,” he said. These were the ones closest to the showers, and he just had to quickly tiptoe back or his feet would be dirtier than when he started. Tonya wordlessly dangled key number ten at him, clasped to a tight elastic fuchsia wristband, as if the key would forever disappear in the folds of patrons’ fat if not worn on their pudgy wrists. He wasn’t too down with the fuchsia either. She drifted back into hypnosis, under the sway of the reality show, acrylic nails propping up her chin. Lorenzo was overdue for a haircut, fearing that any hair loss on his now jowly face would have him looking like a Tony Soprano clone. Fuhgeddaboudit. He’d wait until classes resumed or he dropped five pounds, whichever came first. He rocked an NBA headband to keep the warm salty sweat out of his eyes, and from streaming down his neck and back. He noticed the logo before putting it on, the iconic silhouette of old school legend Jerry West. That’s what he wanted to look like. Yeah, right. Maybe Jerry Seinfeld. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. He always turned the headband inside out after precisely 15 minutes so the other side would be fresh on his brow. After half an hour he would repeat the process with a second headband. Staying motivated meant maximizing a band’s sweat absorption or else being done in by your own over-stimulated glands and pores, so long denied their sweet relief. Commentators speculated on the effect of the latest troop upgrade in Iraq as the machine’s digital console hit 30:00 and Lorenzo changed headbands while staying balanced on the foot pedals. He slipped the soaked one into a small baggie and tossed it on the floor, taking another swig of the exactly half-empty water bottle. It’s a good thing I got over the whim of joining the reserves. I’d be on what, my fifth deployment?Would they ship Zoloft overseas? He sped up for a 30 second burst. Upgrade this, Dubya! He held neither the stationary handlebar nor the outer swinging handles. It’s more intense to just go with the flow, arms pumping back and forth as if on a normal run, and stabilize the midsection as a bonus. The readout said he’d burned 360 calories, but he was skeptical. He’d read somewhere that they were programmed using a standard model exerciser who’s about 150 pounds with 20 percent body fat. Bigger and fatter, he must be beating that rate. The screen was in a vibrant red, which can only be a subliminal message to lardasses everywhere to get it together, that this was an urgent ritual not to be sloughed off. On some models, it’s a calming green, the opposite message: it’s cool 44 art fictionpoetry

Gi r l s ’ Lo c k e r Ro o m Jamie Jin Lin if you don’t finish, do what you can, it’s all good. “You’re really working hard,” a voice purred behind his left shoulder. He knew that gentle Eastern European lilt anywhere. It was Sofia, who was in his Global Cities seminar in the fall. Her long blond hair was always severely pulled back, but she was plenty beautiful enough to get away with it. That face needed no framing. Her light gray eyes were so welcoming, somehow undimmed by the number-crunching banality of her finance major. It was funny to see her alone. She was always glued to her bratty pre-law girlfriend in and out of class. He never had a minute to make an impression without her extra baggage looming over; it kinda kills the mood for convos. The room’s unconventional layout didn’t help the socializing either. Eight desks were arranged in a square formation, making it unbelievably awkward to enter or exit without negotiating the narrowest of peripheries. The worst part was they’d sat opposite each other, she nearest the door, vanishing like a vapor. Lorenzo was always left forlorn on the floor, searching around in vain. Sofia had even brought in some chocolates from her home country of Romania on the last day of class. Well into his feasting period, Lorenzo took a couple before passing them on to the annoying girl with mousy bangs next to him, who liked to slurp on some unidentifiable foul-smelling soup during class. He took in the familiar voice, turned and smiled upon seeing her. “Don’t I 45 Wo u n d Ti g h t , Ge tt i n g Pu m p e d

always?” he said. The mystery woman laughed her mellow laugh, so easy on the ears. He was glad he didn’t come up with something like “I always melt when I’m around you,” as more than one clunker escaped his lips with the ladies. “Working off that chocolate,” he added. Again, that laugh. “I see you stayed in town,” she said, fiddling with her pink iPod. Her black tee and tights showed off curves worthy of the Autobahn. “Yeah, gotta love the city,” he replied, leaving out the fact that he wasn’t exactly flush with loot to plan an escape to some warm island and was therefore stuck on a cold, gloomy one. Atlantic City day-tripping was his idea of travel. “Well, I’m gonna go work out,” she said, nodding toward the yoga mats and walking away. “Sure, Happy New Year,” he called. Because Wait! Goddess, stay! would just sound too manic, even for him. Tonya would have to get up out of her padded chair, shuffle over and smack her gums at him, acrylic fingers darting his way. She always wriggles a quick escape, he thought. There was no way he’d cut the running short, insisting on finishing at least one thing he started today. Capricorns were like that. He had to get back in the groove, back to body maintenance with vigor. If Sofia had half the discipline he did, she would still be on the premises when he was good and finished, and hopefully a touch less desperate for her. Lorenzo turned his gaze to the television. A brutal ice storm hit the heartland. Millions in the Texas Panhandle, Oklahoma and Missouri were in harm’s way, skidding out and crashing on ice-coated roads. Then the weatherman put in his two cents for a while. It’s always worse somewhere. Not always greener on the other side.This was such a supermild winter for New York. December bordered on balmy and it hit 70 last week. A New Orleans crime surge story came on. Hey, it’s actually down in Manhattan. I’m so lucky! And then, most stunningly, some bimbo was breathlessly reporting that Justin Timberlake and Cameron Diaz had broken up. Lorenzo was positively gloating now. Even the perfect couple had bitten the dust. How he had envied their happiness and genetic perfection. He never imagined they would one day hit the skids, kaput, fin, hasta la vista. He allowed himself the daydream of hitting the clubs as a hanger-on in Justin’s entourage as they hit on chicks, bringing sexy back. More Cristal, Candy? Get your sexy on! The screen read 46:10. He was a little late to flip the headband, but he suddenly didn’t mind. His world had improved so much by comparison, his mood a mellower one. Without some goddamned chamomile tea either. He could see Sofia in his peripheral vision now. She lay diagonal on a machine, pumping her legs up and down for stronger thighs with the most sensual of leg presses. What did she want with stronger thighs?To compel a lover into protracted cunnilingus? He grabbed a handlebar for balance and waved, a meek little sideways hand motion favored by infants. Was she even shaved down there? She was so focused she would never notice. He grew bolder and expanded into giddy, sweeping movements over his head, as if desperate to be rescued. Which he was of course. Sofia ended her set. She got off the machine, smiled and waved back. Then she drifted out of sight, toward the dumbbells.

46 poetry fictionart Sy l v i a Hayley Rothman

47 Pl a y ! Alex Skorokhodov

48 poetry fictionart Un t i t l e d Jamie Jin Lin Scratchboard Bo t h e r e d Brian Gonzalez

50 poetry fictionart De a l o r No De a l Crystal Sewer

51 Mu l t i p l y i n g Po r t r a i t s Goseong Choi

52 poetry fictionart

53 35 Fr a m e s in 35m m Ian Western Contact Sheet poetry fictionart Lo o k i n g Up a t Wh i t n e y Dustin Winegar

55 LaG Ch r y s t a l Maria Bardina Charcoal on Newsprint

56 poetry fictionart Fl u ff y Fl u ff y Boris Berdichevskiy

57 Mi c h a e l Grzegorz Nycz

58 poetry fictionart Ha p p y Fe e t Ana Deleon

59 Un t i t l e d Sarunas Daunoras

60 poetry fictionart Gl a s s Pe t a l s Alex Skuratovsky Blown Glass

61 Qu i t o Va l l e y II John Uske

62 poetry fictionart Se r e n i t y Hayley Rothman

63 Mo n e t ’s Le m o n s Claudia Martinez

How could you be bitter, breathtaking One? Your luster and Resplendent aura become apparent As I admire you. My blade glides under your zest Juices drown my broken cuticles and reach for my brown eyes. Your scent dances with my nose hairs Tempts my pallette Your skin sooths the calluses that dominate my finger prints Yellow pulp, white veins revealed Impressions of sunrise and branches of rind; Monet was here.

Un t i t l e d Sarunas Daunoras

64 fiction poetryart Pa r d o n Andrew Park you climbed high into the canopy as far as i could see, even while squinting. it was fearsome to follow, starlet, the trees cloyed and rustled their hair at me. rustle, rustle, they cautioned till you sang for them to hush — to be still. sing, sing, you did for my own good as well. an arborous vixen’s song wafted upon my ears like the vagrant rain. i too, habitually so, hushed and fell as you wrapped me twice and said, “It’s okay. Now, aren’t you going to hug me back?” you were nearly hidden amid the leaves. i was in shambles amongst the twigs. Su n s e t Ana Deleon

65 Da r k St a r Ana Deleon

Wo m b Robert Moran

O gravid, happy womb! Incarnate void of life’s surcease. Why likened to a tomb? Corporeal; Death’s haunt made to bless.

And He entered the wide room from the side, beyond the door.

Illuminated!

But no base object shone in the Darkness. And He lit his way with fear.

What will ever become of me? How does a father hear his child’s cry? When will Death find the Dead?

Feed me with some dried tubers, Though this is the cruelest month.

66 fiction poetryart

Su n f l o w e r Jana Kasperkevic

Losing control you surrendered, your dress, a white flag, struggling within the wind that was him.

As the breeze of his breath caressed your cheek you fell, buried among the sunflowers, swaying just as you did to the melody of his being.

Wa k e Up a n d Sm e l l t h e Fl o w e r s Jana Kasperkevic Photo Manipulation 67 Of De l i s a n d Dw e e b s Frank Marzullo

Linoleum floor and fluorescent lighting hardly beckon the starving programmer But enter he does, the joint’s convenient. Pen firmly clipped to the button down pocket Short sleeves exposing two pale flabby arms. Sugar silo and napkin dispenser hold firm at the center; A long-steady couple.

Three slim sons in tow Ketchup, salt and pepper Two bastards the wrong shade. Chicken soup arrives Steaming enough to fog the glasses Greasy spoon dips into china not so fine.

Corned beef on rye higher than his big mouth Double chins drop in amazement He knocks it back Solitude’s sour pickle and all.

Ma c r o Bu t t o n Jein Funk 68 fiction poetryart Fl i r t a t i o n Abra Morawiec

Dawn lifts a hand to draw amid morning’s parting curtain, sketchy tops of pines and oaks opened with a brush’s single flourish. bare of rat-tailed leaves Seasons of waiting with an outstretched fragrant with red and orange notes. hand, Wee hours saunter hand in hand with Father Time holds for Dawn’s cue, day’s first blush, carried on wing, contented with brownstone silhouettes, to turn the cogs of the cosmos. the abstraction realized alight an obsidian canvas.

A winged zip of color satisfies Dawn’s taste and carries messages grasped in hushed beaks, recalling life once green. No sun to light their way, these blue streaks follow cockcrow’s fine strokes along the belly of the sky. A soul’s eye glistens like a fiery star Ba y o n n e Br i d g e John Uske

69 St a r Da n c e Erica Schoonmaker

the stars fly down out of my dreams like gleaming streams of light upon my walls casting shadows silhouettes dancing with their profile faces lanky arms and legs tall like stems of birches shaking reflections in the flickering light sprawling spinning swirling dizzying themselves till they fall against the pillow of clouds and when they look up it’s already dawn and the sun is rising.

Ch a r l o t t e Ai r p o r t Victor Chu

70 fiction poetryart Midnight Th i e f Anna Medyukh

Death is a midnight thief He is my robber I stand silently in the corner For his presence paralyzes He carves me up While I stand frozen I, the statue He, the artist Shaping me Pieces of my being Fall quietly to the floor Till he’s done And I am gravid — no more. Mo m Jessica Rozario

71 Bl o o d in t h e Fl o w e r s Robert Moran

Everything is all right Everything is fine Sleep in the Earth tonight Her gray skies are mine

Forget what you have been Forget what they made Oh, this must be a sin — Phylegas is paid

On Hypnos, Morpheus On Thanatos nigh It’s the death of us The tears the poppy cries

Waking when it’s over Find me in my bed Wrapped in rose and clover The lucky ones are dead

De M Ba r Maria Bardina Pen on Paper

72 fiction poetryart Sa l v a t i o n Adrienne Rayski

Oval blossom, you’ve arrived Soft petals peak out Under the shadow of A bare branch The red in my hair glistens From morning shine above The frost melts in fresh-cut grass And the gravel road returns As a bustling line of Briefcased commuters Unabashedly rush past My one, small Salvation

Lo t u s Victor Chu

73 I Se e t h e Wi n d Dmitry Omelyanenko

I see the wind in lazy clouds Stop saying I can’t see the wind Patrolling pale-blue sky Because it can’t be seen I see it in the schools of leaves How can you tell me I am blind It whirls while passing by And hide behind your screen?

I see it in the streams of dust Ignore me if you think you must It lifts to sting and spray My will you can’t subdue I watch the bending hands of trees But don’t believe my view’s unjust All point along its way Because it’s just my view

The trees, the dust, the leaves, the clouds Are not the wind, she says Why tell me I can’t see the wind? Why tell me no one cares?

Un t i t l e d Jon Berard

74 fiction poetryart Wh a t Ar e Yo u Se a r c h i n g Fo r ? Lisa Chien

She’s the wind, passionate and unruly, She comes and goes, always a different pace. I’m the river that flows ever so gently, Traveling this stream till I’ve made it permanent. She is a current of the Pacific, Her ups and downs create hurricanes. I’m the body of the Great Atlantic, My treasures buried so deep you’ve forgotten. She’s a storm that will rip out the Earth. I’m the rain that will nurture the wound. Her fog will leave you dizzy, wanting more. I’m the dewdrop that will sate your thirst. She’ll give you the Great Love, the one that you will regret, And I will be the sanctuary, there at your life’s end.

Un t i t l e d Swati Lashkery

75 Fo r t h e Lo v e o f Co ff e e Yvonne Erazo

Sometimes coffee is coffee, sometimes coffee is more. Sometimes we use the bed, at times it’s on the floor. Sometimes we use words, other times grunts, moans, and roars. Sometimes it’s sweet just like sugar and thick like honey poured. Sometimes we speak after, then there are times when we just snore. Sometimes it feels like love, two hearts to explore. Sometimes it feels like sex, bodies beaten, bitten, and sore. Most times it’s so good I can no longer endure. Sometimes, too, you ask for your coffee May I please have some more?

Te a -k e t Roman Matveyev

76 fiction poetryart A St e r l i n g Re c o r d Molly Felth

My finger is encircled This ring is a token, replacing Coors Light sea with a tribute to innocence glass eclipsed scraps from boys with ribcages like by red lunar lures. puzzle pieces to our own, The silver bears an inscription, like slight frames tumbling in new waters, footprints on sand, hair in knots, hasty steps diverging and meeting the sun spiking into our eyes; or like the raised calligraphy on our invitations from Dionysus, god of wine. this ring replaces morning good-byes. Our only god, our only guide, These shiny script scratches are the maps through dark summer waters. made on our pale legs during treks through the tangled brush Waves always erased our tracks, towards deeds cleared come morning, the bluing day, but this silver testament remains, shines our flitting hearts hushing on their way up as silver does, as silver the well-worn steps to home. stands out on the Connecticut gold-coast clashing with our fathers’ fortunes.

Co n c r e t e Po o l s Ex t e n d i n g In t o So u n d Dustin Winegar 77 Sidney Harman Writer-in-Residence Program

In 2006–2007, gifted student writers participated in master classes and workshops led by

SUSAN CHOI (Fall) MARK KURLANSKY (Spring) The program features public lectures and readings, prizes for student writers, and literary internships.

Since 1998, Baruch has been honored with the presence of these writers:

EDWARD ALBEE ANITA DESAI JANE KRAMER AGHA SHAHID ALI CAROL MUSKE-DUKES TONY KUSHNER YEHUDA AMICHAI WILLIAM FINNEGAN COLUM MCCANN PAUL AUSTER FRANCISCO GOLDMAN LORRIE MOORE APRIL BERNARD PHILIP GOUREVITCH JOHN EDGAR WIDEMAN BEN KATCHOR

Fall 2006 Harman Student Creative Writing Prizes First Prize: Venessa Strachan Second Prize: Marc Atkins Third Prize: Bhuwen Gadtaula

Fall 2007 Harman Literary Internship at Poets & Writers Magazine: Accepting applications

For more information, contact: Professor Roslyn Bernstein, Director, Harman Program One Bernard Baruch Way, Box B7-270, New York, NY 10010 Phone: 646-312-3930 E-mail: [email protected] Web: www.baruch.cuny.edu/wsas/harman

Baruch College expresses gratitude to the Harman Family Foundation.

78 art fictionpoetry Be l l a Am a z o n Venessa Strachan

The dimming lights flicker. Look up. Dead flies with their winged backs collapsed across the plastic, horizontal light fixture. The hallway is a terrible place to wait. The wooden step squeaks and winces from under me as I shift my weight from thigh to thigh. I hum. I chew lemonheads. I wait. And when I look down from the top floor I want to scream something fantastical again, but the neighbors keep telling my mother. There is a pile of worksheets and textbooks by my feet; the red knapsack with its shredded, worn straps and pink graffiti sits to my right. My face rests heavily in between my cupped hands and I am no longer interested in trying to figure out how many steps I can jump over at once. The answer’s always three. My eyes trace the nail marks and crooked staples sticking up out the sides of each step. The seldom seen maintenance men should never have taken up the coarse-grained green carpet that once blanketed the stairway. They never finish anything. So the black-tinged parallel stains race up each flight, and visitors know something is missing. I can’t fight the urge to scream in such an empty hallway. There’s something about the way a single voice echoes from the third floor that never gets old, even when the neighbors complain. I want to yell nonsensical things. It starts off as a hum and then the whole matter gets carried away. Commercial jingles about toothpaste and dog food. Church hymns my mother butchers on Sunday evenings over the kitchen sink. But my favorites are the ones that have no rhyme or reason — random words and thoughts. Things I’ve wanted to say if somebody cared to notice. I rock back and forth half-singing, half-yelling. The neighbors peep out with screwed up faces. Mrs. Mattie from the second floor warns she’ll tell my mother to “skin my backside.” And they all see me. And it’s worth it. On these days I seize the moment and flourish in the stillness of the halls, singing those words that should have been spoken. But today I just wait. I blow my gum into a ridiculously huge bubble. And spend the next ten minutes peeling the sticky mess of the edges of my lips and cheeks. It’s been my ritual for the past week. My head throbs and I wish I could be angry with somebody, but I only have myself to blame. I left my keys home again and have been enduring this cycle of waiting for my mother to get home every day. Kelly Turner, the lady who picks up stray cats and brings them to her first floor apartment — even though it’s not allowed — lets me in. I’m pretty sure my keys are lost for the third time this month, but I can’t bring myself to admit this to my mother again. And she knows it. I scribble because I cannot concentrate in these halls. Doing homework is out of the question. Like always, I rip a piece of paper out of a salt and pepper marble notebook by my feet. The paper tears out jagged and asymmetrical, and now I’m sure most of the pages from the back will have fallen out by Monday. But this is not the time to worry about that — it is time to draw her. First there is her face. 79 Be l l a Am a z o n

Oval — way too long. The body can be drawn with simple, sharp dashes. Skinny. They call her bird legs at school and her grandmother forces her to finish beef stew and dumplings to the bottom every time. Be careful with her lips. Those must be drawn to full scale. Wide and brown. No crayons, the pencil in hand must suffice. I color the oval in completely, staying in the lines when I drag the dark gray lead across her face. Black. Her aunts down south say she better marry light. Some kid at school called her shadow and said he couldn’t see her when the teacher turned the lights off at the end of class. I draw along her outline harshly; she will stand out if it’s the last thing I do. She should be seen, but she is not. The white paper is a stark contrast next to her dark bold edges. And I feel for her. I hear my mother open the front door and my heart rises. Thank God. By the time she’s made it up to the third floor I’ve already read the look on her face. She is disappointed and the realization surfaces. The keys are gone again. Her stationary white, flat shoes are in her hands and I can see a run stretched like a nasty brown scar racing up her stocking. Her hair is unraveling from its tight bun and the pins she used this morning stick out of her halfway-loose pony tail. She smiles and pats down her navy blue maid’s uniform before she speaks. And I know the words before she even says them. “Finish your homework?” “Not yet.” “Why?” Her face cringes up as if she is thoroughly annoyed, even though she knows the answer every time. “I can’t concentrate in the hallway. I’ll finish it when I get inside.” “You better.” She steps past me and I see the hesitation in her face. She wants to talk about the keys, but she’s waiting for me to bring it up. She knows I am not so forgetful to have left them home every day this week. My being locked out has been an underhanded punishment she’s allowed to occur without admitting it. I haven’t given in, due to the pure fact that I might run into the keys again. But my patience is running thin. “Locked out again, I see?” I stay quiet and nod my head. “Do you have something you want to say?” Her eyes burn into me and my pride melts like butter. “I … think, I think I lost them again.” “Did you?” The flat, dry tone to her voice lets me know there’s no surprise. “I’m getting too old for this.” She says this about everything, and I can’t figure out why. “Do you work?” “No,” I say with my head low, because this is the best strategy to getting this whole matter over with. “Becca, do you have money to buy spare keys every day of the week?” “No Ma’am.” “I didn’t think so. I don’t know what you have on your mind so much that you’re getting so forgetful. But you better get it together.” She stops speaking and there is a long pause. I wonder what the hold up is. When I look up, she is dangling 80 art fictionpoetry two new silver keys over my forehead. I smile. No more words are spoken and I am confused but thankful. She must not be in the mood to go on. But her face is still speaking. Her brows are raised and arched, one lower than the other. And there is a twist to the side of her mouth that says, “You better not lose these.” And I get the message.

*****

The next evening I start from the bottom when I jump. The answer’s always three. When I get to the top step of the third floor again my eyes dart around for something. But there is nothing to do but wait. I already plunged my hands down deep into my jean-short pockets and folded them out like dog-ears. Only candy wrappers and a dirty eraser. No keys. My red knapsack is already stripped open with its contents splattered out into a papery mess by my foot. No sense in searching in there again. I need to move, get my blood circulating; think of what I’m going to tell my mother when she gets home. There are no right words. And so I might as well relax. Can’t sing; feel too finicky. I head for the rickety banister, place one thigh around the long wooden rail and slide. That never gets old. I make it down the second floor banister unnoticed. By the time I slide down to the first floor I feel my left leg burning. At the end of the ride I sit up with my back against the last thick rail. When I look down I see blood draining down my thigh. Damn, a cut. I don’t remember which floor it happened on. I climb off the banister slowly and prepare to take it one step at a time. Something flashes past my eye. Two silver keys by the welcome mat — a breath of relief. I bend down to pick them up, and when I stand I see two bodies quivering in the shadows. They are embraced in the darkest part of the hallway, by the back of the stairway. His hand cups her head and so the stiff, burgundy hair in his grasp rises up like a mountain. He whispers things that make her head sway and soft giggles pop. There is kissing. And she sounds like the rusty hinges on my bathroom door. Every few seconds she reaches to pull down a pink spandex skirt that keeps riding up. I cannot see her face but she clamps one thigh around his black jeans and he dips her back like they are dancing. But there is no music. Where did these people come from? I cannot focus. They are bent jagged-like and his toffee skin looks like real candy against the white, chipped, pale wall. I want to run, but I can’t. He smiles when he sees me. His teeth are Chiclets. They do not match his wide, manly grin. He taps her shoulder and the woman looks back at me. She bends toward me, and her cat-like eyes narrow. I see that she is lanky because her narrow arms dangle awkwardly by her sides. She chews her gum and snaps bubbles in her mouth that sound like soft firecrackers. My heart stops. I try to get my feet to move but they won’t. She seems to survey me and smile. I cannot figure out why. “You a woman now,” she says and looks down at my legs. There is still blood draining down my shorts. I feel tears welling up in my eyes and I want to explain. But I don’t, I grip the two keys tightly in my hands and feel myself storming up the first flight of stairs. The sound of rough laughter echoes from behind me. I do not look back. What did she mean by that? I cannot concentrate in these halls. I keep running. When I make it to the top step I stumble 81 Be l l a Am a z o n

over my textbooks and quickly throw them all into my red knapsack. I drag the heavy bag against the floor and jam the silver key into its hole. The living room is dark. I flip the light switch and lock the door, with the long silver chain this time. My legs ache and I consider flopping myself down on the stiff, old brown couch — two sagging pillows strategically sunken into its dark corners. I survey the room, my usual rest stop after school. Coffee table; a splash of old magazines across its mahogany surface; bookshelf; a dusty black figurine resting on its highest shelf; right next to it, drying begonias my mother never waters; wood floors creaking under my feet. The room is not comforting. I head through the hall. My bedroom feels empty too. But I throw my red knapsack into a hill of clothes in the corner anyway and fall face down, arms stretched wide across turquoise sheets. I shut my eyes and try to think of happy things, but I cannot get toffee and cat-eyes out of my mind.

*****

They say her name is Ginger. I had never seen the lady before, besides that time in the darkness. I had no idea she would be moving to the second floor of our apartment building until I overheard my mother speaking to Mrs. Mattie about the “flat-faced tramp.” I make sure to pull my bedroom door wide open and pretend to do my homework on the floor right by the entrance. My mother’s voice drifts in and out as she walks through the kitchen serving Mrs. Mattie something to drink. “Did you see the skirt?” My mother’s voice cracks. “Which one?” “Don’t matter, they all sluttish.” “True. You know she’s moving into the apartment right next to me, too. I wonder what kind of money she gone used to pay her rent. They say her money’s crooked.” “I heard she used to walk the streets.” “Hmph! Used to?” I hear Mrs. Mattie’s chair creak back and forth. “You know Mr. Taylor. He don’t care nothing about that, as long as the money’s in by Friday. She probably fooled him with that young face of hers. But I know one when I see one.” “True.” “Reese, I don’t know who you’re dating, or what your plans are for giving that young girl a daddy, but if and when he does come over you better watch that spring chicken.” There is a long awkward silence before Mrs. Mattie speaks again. “Lucky thing I don’t have a man in my house anymore.” “God rest his soul.” “She probably would’ve been all over him. She ain’t even fully moved in yet and there already all types of men walking in and out of this place. It’s not safe for the children.” Mrs. Mattie says this in a whisper. “Becca! You finish your homework?” My mother’s voice yells from the kitchen. 82 art fictionpoetry

Se c r e t Crystal Sewer

“Almost!” I say. Her deep voice makes me flinch and I scribble random words across a blank sheet. Everything from now on is a whisper. I can barely make out a sentence. “They say her name is Ginger,” was all I heard Mrs. Mattie say before my mother followed with, “What kind of name is that for a grown woman?”

*****

The moving truck pulls up in front of our apartment that Saturday evening. I watch them from the living room window. Three men in yellow uniforms unload her boxes. At first Ginger watches with her arms tightly crossed and smiles warmly at them as they lug her couch up the stoop steps and through the doorway. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail and she has on light blue shorts that stop as soon as they start. The ends are shredded off and there is a gaping hole on the front near her thigh. She has on a huge white shirt with the fading neon words “Bahama Mama” on the front. The ends of her shirt are tied into one huge knot that rests at 83 Be l l a Am a z o n

the top of her shorts. She has on those yellow construction boots the men fixing the lampposts by my school wear. She carries in the small stuff like vases and pillows. I shift the blinds to a slant and sit on the floor by the windowsill carefully peeking over. I do not want her to see me. Part of me feels she will remember. And I cannot afford that. This would not be the first or last time I watched her. On most evenings she sat on the stoop with friends, most of them male. They played spastic music and she would get up and try to teach them the latest dance moves. She twisted her hips with her head flung back and her eyes closed. Her hands swayed in the air like branches in a hurricane and her shoulders jerked up and down because some mysterious puppeteer from the heavens yanked her strings. Then one of the men on the stoop would randomly jump behind her, grab her hips and join in. And everybody would laugh because nobody could match her talent. Soon I started to come home from school and catch her out there on the stoop sitting with a man — a different one each time. None of them looked like Toffee. I hadn’t seen him since that time in the darkness. Each time I kept my head low, grabbed the straps of my knapsack and took the stoop steps, three at a time. If she saw me, I did not know. I didn’t dare look back. Everybody watched Ginger. They saw her. The way she walked, who sat next to her on the stoop. What she wore. Her makeup. Her eyebrows were drawn on fiercely and jolted outward like sparrow wings. Her burgundy lipstick made her mouth look like Christmas beets next to her cornmeal skin. Part of me wanted that something that kept people watching. That something that kept people caught in a web of repulsion and fascination, trapped in that gravitational mist that covered her from head to toe. “She ain’t even nothing to the eyes,” I heard my mother say once. “Her face been done before,” said Mrs. Mattie. But it wasn’t about looks. It was about the way she held her head when she walked by folks who called her a “rotten whore,” in loud whispers. Like she didn’t care. She towered, and her foot never wobbled in heels like mine when I played Tina Turner in the mirror. It was the way the greasy-lipped men winked and sipped from their green bottles. How they slapped their fat laps when they said her name as she passed. They didn’t just say Ginger. They yelled Gin-Jaaa … Gin-Jaaa … and let her name drag out into infinity.

*****

I had not lost my keys in weeks. I did not want to ever be caught in the halls with Ginger again. I kept my admiration for her at a far distance. But that day I walked up the steps and found her sitting on the lap of a strange man on the second floor, I did not know what to do. They sat in the middle of the stairway that I needed to pass to get to my floor. His arm wrapped around her waist and she leaned into his chest. My heart stopped. I could not move, and this felt all too familiar. She must have brought her stoop company inside because of the rain. The man glanced up toward me. He wasn’t Toffee. He grabbed her chin and softly kissed her neck. “Alright babe, I’ll see you around.” He called her babe. Was he the official one? He stood to leave and walked right by me like I was another one of the broken 84 art fictionpoetry fixtures in the hallway. She sees me. “Hey, what’s your name?” Her voice is warm and inviting — a striking contrast to the sparrows on her face. I stay quiet and stare at my shoes. “Don’t be scared. I don’t bite. I’ve seen you around here before.” “People call me Becca.” I wonder if she remembers that day in the darkness. “Becca. That’s a nice name.” I nod yes. “What floor do you live on?” I put up three fingers. She smiles and picks up a small gray hoodie lying by her foot. “Well … gotta go, Becca. See ya’ around,” she says and gets up off the second step. I hear her house flip-flops smack the cold ground under her as she retreats into her apartment door, 2020. The second time Ginger is in the hall, she is painting the frame around her apartment door dark red. She sees me. “Hi Becca.” I pause before I wave. But I do not look her way. “I gotta bring some life to these halls, you know? It’s so dark sometimes,” she says. I want to answer, but I feel my feet take to the steps, three at a time. The third time, I see her leaning up against her newly painted door with a short man in a full gray suit. His head is balding and shiny. And his sweaty face is flushed the color of cherry twizlers. He puts his cigarette out on the wall and steps on it with a black, pointy-toed shoe. When he leaves — she sees me. “Becca, how you been? How was school?” Her face tells me she doesn’t want a real answer and so I don’t give her one. “Good,” I say. She walks toward me and sits on one of the steps. “I used to be real good in school. Keep your head in those books,” she says, nodding her head up and down. “You know I could have been a scientist or something.” I do not respond. She laughs out loudly at her own words and her echo sounds like something out of a horror movie. I grab onto my knapsack straps and stare at the cracks in the wall. I feel her eyes scanning me. “You get teased?” I shake my head yes, slowly. “People used to tease me too. Called me red stick. ’Cause I was red and skinny. I was the black sheep of the family, you know?” I cannot figure out why she is telling me this and I feel like I want to leave. “I like kids. They don’t judge you, like grown folks. They listen.” “I’m gone call you sheep,” she says as she rises off the step. “Bye sheep!” She whirls past me like an autumn wind and I watch her shut 2020 behind her. I cannot figure out what just happened. This time around Ginger sits by herself. Her chin cupped in her hands, both eyes closed. I want to believe she’s praying, until she starts humming some song I’ve never heard before. She leans back in the middle of the stairway. When Ginger opens her eyes, she smiles as she sees me. “Hey, sheep. How’s everything?” Her voice is perky and greets me like an old friend. I almost begin to feel like one. “Fine. Same-o, Same-o.” “Yeah, I’m bored too.” I watch her braid her long burgundy hair into a curved 85 Be l l a Am a z o n

snake. I stuff my hand into my pockets and feel around. No keys. I want to cry. I keep my eyes on my shoes. “Hungry?” “Who, me?” “Yeah, you, I got a whole pot of spaghetti inside.” “No thank you.” I walk past her and scurry up to the third floor. I empty out my red knapsack, check all the compartments and still no keys. I quietly tip toe down the steps to where Ginger sits. She hums. A strange feeling of curiosity overwhelms and I feel courage leak down to my fingertips. I don’t know what possesses me to tap her shoulder and ask her what kind of sauce. Pl a y i n g Ga m e s “Ragu,” she says, and I Mohamed Wann follow her into 2020.

*****

There are red curtains covering the windows. A glass table in the living room, on its surface a vase filled with fake orange flowers. Her apartment is not messy but there is so much going on in it that my first glance leaves me dizzy and irritated. She has a brown shag carpet under the table with an awkward squiggly shape, like puke. She has three couches, all different textures and colors. There is a ball of what looks like her burgundy hair on a settee pillow. On one of the smaller tables rests a huge figurine with two naked black bodies wrapped and twisted around each other so much I cannot figure out what starts where. Paintings fill most of the walls and there is a huge array of wooden planks hanging, with welcome messages. The types my mother and I walk past at flea markets. There are no family pictures in the picture frames sitting up across the counters. She leaves the images of the happy smiling families in them, the way you buy it from the pharmacy. The kitchen is plain and white and I can see when she reaches down to pour me juice there is hardly any food in her refrigerator. Two pots simmer on the stove. She places the plate of spaghetti and sauce in front of me. I twirl small amounts 86 art fictionpoetry and nibble. I am too anxious to eat. She notices. “Come on sheep, let me give you a makeover.” I rise and follow behind her sweeping, gold skirt that brushes across the ground like a wedding train. We enter into her tiny bathroom. There is a huge carton of what looks like makeup supplies on the sink counter top. She reaches into the cabinet just below the sink and pulls out a hot comb. She flips down the toilet seat cover. “Sit.” I take a seat and watch her blow off the steam rising from the hot comb. She untwists my hair and I feel the short rough strands free up and coil out like corkscrews. She uses a fine-toothed comb first to unknot my hair and I almost regret this. My face jerks from side to side. I hear the sizzle of the hot comb and watch as she draws it out to the end of my strands. My hair falls like bird feathers across my forehead. I smell my hair burning. When she is done we walk to the square vanity mirror over the sink and I like how my hair falls by my cheeks now. “See … pretty,” she says. I smile but I do not believe. She reaches for her makeup box, pulls out her signature lipstick and puts it on me. Then she paints on her blush and eyebrow liner. She stands behind me and we look at her creation. She cannot help but laugh and neither can I. The lights over her vanity mirror flicker and I see Ginger’s face freeze. “Sheep, you just like me, you know.” “But I’m ugly.” I hear the words seep out of my mouth. I feel ashamed and relived at the same time. “Don’t say that. Not anymore, you are. Not anymore,” she says, smiling. And I don’t know what to say. “I wish I had someone tell me that when I was your age.” She brushes my feather bangs from my eyes. “You got a daddy?” She asks as she combs my hair softly. “No.” “You a lucky girl … They ain’t all cracked up to what you think.” There’s a long spell of silence before she grabs my wrist and skips into the living room. “Come on, let me teach you a dance.” I watch her recreate the hurricane from her days on the stoop. Hands in the air, her feet prancing around in semi-circles. I can barely keep up. I am out of breath when we walk toward her front door. My red knapsack loops around my arm as I drag it by my side. She opens the door and I turn to face her and say thank you, but I watch her face transform. First, warm and gentle, then the sparrows seem to attack, then something that looks like pure worry pours over her. Her eyes dart from my face and then up over me. And when I turn I see my mother with her white stationary shoes in her hands. Her face is frozen and I am convinced she walked up the steps just in time for Ginger’s door to open. The shoes splat to the ground and I feel my heart slow down into rough thumps. I see her examining my face and she runs her hands through my hair before her voice explodes. “What the hell is my child doing in your apartment? Becca, what the hell are you doing in her apartment?” I am speechless and feel like time and reality have just caught up with me. “Look Ma’am, it’s not what you think.” Ginger’s voice wavers. 87 Be l l a Am a z o n

“Oh it isn’t? You damn tramp!” I’ve never heard my mother use those words off the phone. “What makes you think you can go around putting your nasty, diseased makeup on other people’s children!” Ginger starts to fidget and rocks from side to side. Her cat-eyes look wet and I feel sorry for her. “It’s just that … She thinks she’s ugly … and I was just trying to … I tried to show her how to fix it.” My heart sinks and a wave of embarrassment sweeps over me. She told my secret. My mother’s eyes bulge out of her face and her whole mouth trembles. She grabs me by the arm and pushes me toward the stairs. She turns around to Ginger and her voice sounds like death when she speaks. “Keep your dirty hands off my child.” I hear Ginger slam her door. And my mother’s hand falls flat across my bare neck. “And you! You should know better than to walk in a stranger’s house. And that stranger’s house of all people,” her voice strains. She grabs me by both arms and stomps up the stairs. I know what to expect. She is mumbling under breath. “Hurry!” she yells. When she yanks me I fall flat on my knees but she keeps tugging. I feel each step knock against my bare legs and I want to cry, but I’m too scared she’ll force me to stop. When we reach the top floor I cannot move. I look down and see that there is blood running from my knees down my legs. My mother’s eyes narrow in on my hair. “You a woman now, huh?” her voice bellows through the halls. I feel tears welling up in my eyes and I want to explain, but I can’t. When we get inside my mother immediately tells me to take a shower. “I want that gook off your face. And make sure you wash your hair real good.” I make sure to take a nice long bath. Because I’ve known her many times to order this as pre- ritual bath before she “skinned my backside.” When I am done and step through my bedroom door I cannot believe what I am seeing. She is limp and curled over. I am at a loss for words. There is no belt in her hands and her face rests softly on one of my limp pillows. Her eyes are red and I can see that she has been crying. When she finally speaks her voice is surprisingly soft. “Come here, baby.” I walk over and sit on her lap. She twists me so that we both stare at the mirror over my dresser. She grabs a comb and runs through my hair. It has completely dried out and the bird feathers have turned back into corkscrews. She roughly combs it out so that it spreads around my face like a lion’s mane — my mother sees me. She grabs my chin before she speaks. “Baby, you are beautiful, just the way you are. You don’t need all that crap on your face.” I shake my head up and down. “I know I’ve been busy at work … and don’t have the time to tell you these things. I should, but I don’t and I …” Her voice trails off and she seems to search for the right words. “I don’t want you turning out like some common whore, you hear.” I shake my head yes. “You are perfect just the way you are. Nobody ever told me these things, you know ….” Her eyes drift off toward the pile of clothes in the corner. “Wait here.” She leaves and when she returns she has a figurine in her hands; the one from the 88 art fictionpoetry bookshelf. It is a figurine I had glanced at before — but never stopped to see. “You see this? This is beautiful.” Her hands rest akimbo on her waist and I imagine she is telling tornado winds to be easy. Her shoulder bones arch forward and trees and galaxies are probably below her. There are tight ripples running through her hair and I see she is a lioness like me. The whole figurine is black, everything from the crown of her head down to her flowing dress. On the bottom of the figurine are the gold words “Bella Amazon.” My mother rests her face next to mine. “Hold on to this,” she whispers. I quickly squeeze the figurine close to my chest and keep it there. When I look back up, my mother studies me, her round eyes mystical and inquiring, like the sight of colorful things bloomed in deserts. News about Ginger’s beat down got around quickly. I heard my mother and Mrs. Mattie talking about it over the phone. The man “split her face wide open and gave her two black eyes.” “Serves her right.” “They say he did it with a broom stick.” That night police lights flashed outside our building and everybody spilled out of their apartments to watch. I peaked through the living room window but could not find Ginger. I saw Toffee awkwardly leaned up against the cop car, cuffs around his thick wrists. It was two weeks from that day that we began to pack to move into an apartment in Queens. My mother had secretly been planning a move for months now. “Right on time if you ask me,” my mother said. “It’s like we living in a damn circus,” followed Mrs. Mattie.

*****

All of our boxes are completely loaded on to a big truck on the last day of our move. The smaller personal stuff goes into the car with my mother. We bring out the last few items. When I open the front door, Ginger is on the stoop for the first time in a long while. I scurry down the steps gripping Bella Amazon in my hands, like I always do. “Bye sheep,” I hear a weak voice say from behind me. When I turn, my eyes widen. She has a cast around one of her arms. A walking aid rests by her leg. Both of her eyes have dark blue-purple rings around them. Her burgundy hair looks dirty and matted. The face is old, lifeless — and I feel for her. Her skinny legs are crossed and deep brown scars ride up her thigh to who knows where. I cannot figure out what that one something was that kept people watching. I cannot look anymore and I do not answer her. My mother brushes by her quickly on the way to the car. She straps on her seatbelt in the front seat of our blue station wagon. I lean back in the passenger seat. The engine chokes. I look out at her. She smiles quickly and waves. I wave back with the hand holding Bella Amazon in it, for her own sake. The glass figurine scratches and screeches across the car window by accident. When I look up again I see her shoulders sunken, her dead eyes wander and glisten like a blind woman.

89 A Re g u l a r Cu s t o m e r Marc Atkins

Simon’s building was coming up on the right and there wasn’t really enough rain for the umbrella so he put it down. He walked carefully in the new shoes, shiny and black, down the very clean sidewalk of Simon’s very white neighborhood. Coming up to the heavy glass doors, he saw Ricky. His uniform still seemed big, like something he might eventually grow into. Ricky was around his age, maybe a little older and it had taken some time for him to stop giving Omar little dirty looks whenever he came into the building without Simon. In his business, Omar was used to looks like that from people who did not know better. Doormen don’t ask questions, or at least they shouldn’t. Eventually, Ricky knew better. It had been three or four years since he had started delivering. First it had been to that guy and his wife. She was crazy. Not in a bad way, but she must have been a lot to deal with, for the husband. She had lots of hair, long and dark. She kept trying to speak Spanish to Omar, which he resisted, mostly because he didn’t want to be too involved with her on that level. The husband always did the money and they always got 40s. Two 40s instead of one 80. It’s possible that they fought over it, but Omar didn’t think so. They were okay, as people. He was less judgmental about his customers now than he used to be. Back then, they were all just fucked up cokeheads. “Hey, how you doin’? Alright,” said Ricky on a type of autopilot he had adopted towards Omar. He did not wait for Omar to say anything or reply. He held open the door and looked a little away. It was a customary greeting and very acceptable street etiquette, as Simon had called it. He had pointed it out to him. Simon was a smart ass. But more than that, he was just plain smart and Omar admitted that he liked to hear him talk sometimes. “Watch,” Simon had said, the second or third time they came into the building together. Omar was playing with the strings of his hoodie and watching Ricky through squinting eyes. “Good evening, Mr. Werner,” Ricky said and smiled broadly. His teeth were straight and big, like an old time Latin movie star and all Omar thought of were his own slightly crooked bottom teeth. Ricky nodded to Omar, being friendlier than he would if Simon were not around. As they walked to the elevator and Simon knew that Ricky was no longer looking, he said, “Now what about that?” “What about what?” said Omar, poking the elevator button as though he were in a hurry. “That’s not going to make it come any faster,” Simon’s voice always sounded bored and soothing. “Do you see what I mean?” Omar looked at him in the same way he had regarded Ricky. “See what?” he asked. “He talks to you differently,” said Simon and moved to the side to let a large busted older woman get off the elevator. “So?” said Omar. Omar looked at the old woman, made an exaggerated face at 90 art fictionpoetry

Simon and gestured with his hands in front of his chest. “Stop that,” Simon said, gently slapping Omar’s hands down as they got on the elevator. “Fuck him,” Omar pretended to be annoyed. “I’d like to,” Simon said and gave Omar a look. “Yeah, I’m gonna tell him you said that.” “I’m sure he knows.” “For real?” asked Omar. “Probably,” Simon shrugged. “That’s probably why he’s not so nice to you.” “What?” Omar said and made an even more twisted face at Simon. “Naw, that just how niggers do”. Simon sighed but quickly recovered. “Really? Maybe you’re right. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just street etiquette.” Omar smiled and was quiet. They got off the elevator and walked down to Simon’s apartment door and Omar caught a glimpse of the two of them in the hallway mirror. Simon looked so old and white. No, not old, Omar thought. He’s not real old. But he’s old enough. He ain’t young. Simon’s clothes were very pressed and tailored. His black blazer had shiny gold buttons that upstaged Omar’s white hoodie sweatshirt with a glittery logo that had seemed the height of fashion just a few train stops ago. “Man, fuck him,” said Omar. “He’s nice to you because you’re a regular customer.” Omar’s smile was broad the way it was when he knew he had Simon’s full attention. “He knows where that Christmas tip is coming from.” Simon laughed a little, opening the door and looked at Omar. As they entered the darkness Omar added, “It ain’t coming from me.” As he approached that door again, he realized that it would probably be the last time. It was slightly ajar and Omar pushed it gently, as if to not disturb what was on the other side. No one immediately turned to look at him. They were standing around with drinks in their hands, talking. Some quietly, others acting a little more like it was a regular cocktail party. For just a second, he just knew Simon was going to come and greet him, but he shook the idea away and looked around the room. A slender woman, slightly tall, with an expensive-looking black dress with a little black jacket over it was stirring the ice in a short glass of either scotch or apple juice with her little finger. She was family. Omar knew it. She looked a little like Simon the way Omar looked like his sister, Dani. She caught him in her sight and straightened to attention, steadily gazing at Omar as if she expected him to greet her, so he did. “Hello,” Omar said. Her face remained unchanged and she did not look away from him but behind her faint smile Omar could see ‘what do you want?’ “I’m Omar,” he shook her hand, thin and passive, pale and soft. “I’m a friend of Simon’s.” The woman seemed to become slightly more awake. “I’m Patty,” she said. Her voice was a little bored, like Simon’s. Or maybe, Omar thought, she’s just sad. “I’m Simon’s sister,” said Patty. “I knew it,” said Omar, smiling, then trying to smile less loudly. Simon had said that to him once, ‘You can smile so loudly.’ “You look like Simon,” he offered. 91 A Re g u l a r Cu s t o m e r

“Is that good?” Patty asked. Omar could tell she’d had a couple. Omar smiled, more quietly this time, and said, in a slightly shy voice, “Yeah.” He looked away and felt as if he had seen her naked. When he looked back, her smile was more genuine and true. “Robert’s here,” she said, as if Omar should know who she was talking about. Who the fuck is Robert? Omar thought, but he nodded a little and tried to not look confused. Patty’s slender finger pointed away from the glass she was holding and she gestured slightly toward a table a little to the right, a few feet behind Omar. “Do you want a Il l u s i o n s o f Re a l i t y drink?” Patty’s voice told Roman Matveyev Omar for sure that she was drunk. “I could make you one.” She started toward the table with its bottles and glasses. Omar hadn’t had a chance to say anything. He watched her walk, just a little unsteady, and followed her. At the table she looked confused. Omar stood just behind her while she studied the bottles, looking from left to right, searching for something. “What do you want?” she asked, but it came out wrong. It sounded as though Omar had just come up to her and she wanted him to go away. Her voice was light and thin, like her hand and when she turned to look at him, their eyes met. She looked less tall than when he first walked in, and very thin. Omar was no taller than she was, but something about her looked small to him now. Her face seemed soft and the little frown she wore made her look like a baby, a little girl who had all of a sudden been made into someone old. Or perhaps worse … someone who would be old soon enough and was young just a little while ago. Omar helped her make his drink. He poured vodka into a glass and she put ice in it. When Omar poured in some soda, she said, “Ha! Teamwork! See?” She was just a little bit loud, but that was okay. Omar had been loud in this apartment sometimes. 92 art fictionpoetry

“I have to go talk to somebody,” she said and smiled her old woman baby smile. She walked away and Omar was left alone. He sipped the drink and felt funny just standing around. He didn’t see anyone he knew, not that he expected to. For a moment, he thought about getting as drunk as Patty. He hadn’t gotten really drunk in a long time. Not since all that stuff was going on. First, his mother had started coughing because of her smoking and then she had to go to the hospital, which had truly scared Omar. It was the only time when he would really admit to being scared. Seeing his mother that sick made it okay to say it. Then he had the argument with Tony. It was just over little nonsense. Then Tony started showing off with his gun. It was an accident. He knew that, but still …. It felt like a sharp pinch, just below the right ass cheek, but it seemed like so much blood. It was like a dream. It didn’t seem real. He was so mad. And scared. Sitting in the emergency room, making up stories to doctors, Simon was the last person he was thinking about. Then he called, looking for a delivery. Omar still didn’t know why he felt like he had to tell Simon the whole story, but he did. Before he knew it, Simon was there. Slender and waspy, with his shoulders slightly stooped. He hadn’t realized how close this hospital was to Simon’s place. “Ow, ow, ow, ow,” Omar said with every step, refusing to use the cane. “Here, lean on me,” said Simon. And Omar did. They hobbled and hopped out of the emergency room and onto the street. Omar suddenly felt aware of how close he was to Simon, physically. He could smell cologne. We look queer, he thought, but a taxicab was already approaching at Simon’s signal, so he said nothing. Without asking, Simon took him back to his place. When they walked into the apartment, it struck Omar how at ease he felt. It was about his tenth time here, but only the second time when he had no business to conduct. The first time, he had delivered some stuff to a party and Simon was just leaving. Simon had some friends with him, close to 12 people and he wasn’t sure if they’d need something later, so Omar hung out. He had nothing better to do, just yet. Simon’s friends sat around, drinking and soon very few of them seemed sober enough to decide yes or no about anything. Omar prepared to go but Simon said, “stay.” Then he paused, and looked at Omar. “You’re welcome here. Come on. I like you a lot better than some of these people,” he said with a smile. Omar opened his mouth to say, ‘No I gotta go,’ but the words wouldn’t come. He stayed and he and Simon passed the time making fun of his drunken friends, especially Harry, who was short and fat and smacking his lips. He looked like a duck. When most of Simon’s friends had either left or laid down in another room, Omar and Simon sat on the sofa, talking. Simon listened enthusiastically to what he had to say and Omar enjoyed the attention more than he might have liked. Finally, he left. Walking toward the subway, with the city waking itself around him, he felt that something had changed. Some invisible thing was different. He thought about Simon. He wasn’t a friend, exactly. Not really. He’s alright, Omar had thought. Then he got shot by that stupid motherfucker and there was Simon at the hospital, someone to lean on. Simon had a spare bedroom that he always kept nice. He made it up with clean 93 A Re g u l a r Cu s t o m e r

sheets and made Omar lie down. He wasn’t sleepy, just tired and Simon sat on the edge of the bed talking to him. First about a book he was reading and then about a TV show that Omar should watch. Simon liked so many things; sometimes Omar could just listen to him and other times he couldn’t. Just then, he couldn’t. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” Simon asked. The room was dark except for the light coming in from the hallway. The door was half-closed and Omar felt something he couldn’t describe. There was an intimacy to the room. It felt like being in confession. Omar started to tell him about Tony and how the shooting was really an accident but he was still mad at Tony for being so fucking stupid. He was going to change suppliers. He knew somebody. He didn’t have to take a whole lot of shit. Fuck Tony. Simon put his elbows on his knees and frowned a little. He looked concerned but like he was trying to hide it. “You’re in a tough business,” he said. It was one of the few times he didn’t sound sarcastic. “Yeah,” Omar looked around in the darkness moving only his eyes. He sniffed deeply and breathed through his mouth. “Why don’t you blow your nose?” said Simon. “You’re such a kid.” Omar said nothing and crossed his legs at the ankles, put his hand behind his head and adjusted his neck. “You should get out of it.” “Yeah?” said Omar, mentally dismissing the idea. “Yes. I’m serious. You take a lot of risks,” Simon said. “I don’t use,” Omar shook his head a little and, for some reason, wanted Simon to know it was true. He didn’t do drugs. Ever. He just sold them, to people like Simon. “I know,” said Simon. His expression was serious. “But all this crap you go through.” “Like what?” As soon as he said it, Omar knew it sounded stupid and exactly what Simon was going to say. “Uh, hello, you’ve got a butt bullet.” Omar laughed a little and hesitated before he said anything. He didn’t want Simon to take what he was thinking the wrong way. He knew Simon was gay, but he had never said anything before. He wanted it to be okay to tease him. “Yeah, you’d like a butt bullet,” Omar said and froze. There was an awkward silence. He felt uncomfortable now and maybe, he thought, Simon did too. “Come on! Take it as a joke, take it as a joke,” Omar said quickly when it registered to him that Simon was smiling at him. Maybe Simon, at his age, took everything Omar said as a joke. Omar felt relieved and just like that morning walking to the subway, he knew things had changed just a little. Simon put his hand on Omar’s head and rubbed it like he was a little boy. “Why don’t you go to sleep?” Simon asked. “Why don’t you roll over?” “Roll over?” Omar said. For a moment, he was genuinely suspicious. Did Simon want to do something? I’m not like that, he thought. Should he say it? “Yes. So you can get off of your injury. Doesn’t that hurt?” Simon asked. “Nah. It’s okay. I’m not leaning on it too much.” Omar twisted a little to 94 art fictionpoetry demonstrate. “I’m all right.” Maybe it was to relieve the tension, but Omar started talking about himself again and about his mother. Before he knew what he was doing, he was telling Simon how worried he was and how she had to quit smoking. He stopped and looked at Simon and saw that he was listening. It occurred to Omar how seldom people listened to him. Really listened, like Simon was doing. He felt like he should just keep going, so he did. When he felt drained of words and energy, he finally stopped. He had been staring up at the ceiling in the dark and now shot a look over to Simon. He looked tired. “Why don’t you get some sleep,” Simon said. “Yeah,” said Omar. Simon got up and started for the door. “You don’t have to let me stay here,” Omar said. He felt as though he should say it, even though he really wanted to stay. “I don’t want to put you out.” He wondered if Simon could see him in the dark from the hallway. Simon held the doorknob, shaking his head, half-smiling, “Shut up Omar. Go to sleep,” he said and closed the door. And that was it, the real beginning of it. But what? He was still not sure. Not really. Someone was playing with the blinds, trying to get them to open a little bit more. Little snatches of muted conversations hit Omar’s ears. Everyone was, for the most part, speaking quietly. Omar felt alone. His thoughts were interrupted by the feeling of being watched. He looked to his left but noticed no one in particular. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw him. Omar stopped his head from turning more in that person’s direction as he tried to pretend not to notice. His drink was still a little too strong but he didn’t want to turn around and catch this man’s attention. Omar felt self-conscious, in a way he had not felt in a long time in Simon’s apartment. He turned his head slightly, searching mostly with his eyes. It was him. It was Harry. Omar became uncomfortable. Harry was staring, but not at Omar. He was in fact looking past him, immersed in his own thoughts. He was the only person there he knew, but the last thing Omar wanted to do was to have to deal with Harry. He had come to Simon’s once to deliver and Harry was there. He looked drunk now, a little, but not like he was that night. When Omar had gotten to the door and was about to knock, Simon abruptly opened it, slightly glassy eyed. “Hey,” Simon said, pulling Omar into the room. “What’s up?” said Omar. Then he saw Harry. He sat on the couch like an emperor. His face was a mix of drunken distain and questioning. Right away, Omar braced himself for whatever this squat little man was going to say. “Who’s that?” Harry’s voice was harsh and cut through the awkward silence. “That’s Harry,” said Simon, standing close to Omar as if to either shield him from Harry or protect Harry from him. “I’m Harry!” Harry exclaimed, not understanding Simon wasn’t addressing him. “I know, I’m talking to him.” Simon was just a little tipsy. “Oh,” said Harry and stared into space. After a few seconds he turned back to where the two of them were standing and said, “I’m Harry!” as though he were introducing himself. He stuck out his hand in a stiff, aggressive manner. Omar 95 A Re g u l a r Cu s t o m e r

looked at Simon then moved to shake Harry’s hand. His chubby hands were strong and Omar felt a little wary and a little reassured. But he did not know of what. He stood there, not knowing what to say next. The truth was, he had wanted to see Simon, and unless someone called, he wanted to stay a little while. “Do you want to sit down?” Simon asked. “You know what I want, the usual. I’ll get the money, okay?” He went into his bedroom, leaving Omar alone with Harry. Harry’s gaze was steady on him. Omar turned and looked back at Harry. “Where’d he find you?” Harry was working at not slurring his words. “What?” Omar wasn’t sure how to respond. Most of Simon’s friends that he had met didn’t ask questions. But he knew why Omar was here, so Omar wouldn’t need to be too secretive. He decided to feel Harry out a little. “Through a friend,” Omar said confidently. “Oh,” said Harry as he went back into space. Just when Omar turned his attention away, Harry spoke again, loudly. “You sleep with him yet?” “What?” Harry started to say it again when Omar cut in. “I don’t do that, yo,” said Omar. Omar could hear Simon fumbling around looking for something, opening and closing drawers. “Really!” Harry persisted. “No,” Omar’s voice went flat. He felt uncomfortable and wished Simon would hurry up and get back. For a moment, he thought maybe he should call out to him. “Really!” repeated Harry. “Not ever?” “No.” “Not for money?” Omar was silent. He smiled a little at how mad he was getting and how annoying Harry was. Then he realized Harry would take that as a sign to keep going. He abruptly made his face severe. Too late. “Come on,” Harry leaned in a little closer to Omar. “How much?” Omar wasn’t mad suddenly. Harry seemed harmless now. Just a fat little man who wanted to do some business. Not that he was in that particular business. “I’m not like that,” Omar said quietly, trying to look serious. “A hundred?” Harry was drunk and sloppy. Omar could hardly be mad at him. He didn’t know why, but he felt a little sorry for him. He was pathetic and stupid now. “Two?” Harry said. “Come on.” Harry shifted his weight and moved closer to Omar. Omar smiled, not sure if he was laughing at the situation or the fat little man. Omar put up his hand as if to say, “stop.” “Yo,” said Omar. “What?” Harry was persistent. He grinned at Omar playfully. “Yo!” Omar was laughing a little more. “I told you I don’t do that.” By now Omar wished he could stop laughing and smiling. Harry was taking it the wrong way. Omar felt embarrassed. 96 art fictionpoetry

“Come on. Come on,” Harry was whispering close to his ear. He put his hand on Omar’s leg and squeezed. Omar almost laughed outright. “Yo! Oh my god!” said Omar. He looked at Harry and then turned toward the bedroom door. “Uh … Simon!” “What does he give you?” Harry whispered. “What? I don’t know. What does he give me? Nothing. What?” Omar didn’t know what to say but the whole thing was funny to him and embarrassing. “Simon!” “He gives you nothing? Come on! Come on!” Harry spaced out again for a moment, then he came back. “Come on!” “No, nothing,” said Omar, waving his hand to show Harry his breath was strong. “I could give you something,” Harry said. His eyes were droopy. “He gives you nothing?” “No he’s just ….” “What?” Harry was listening but looking away, about to fade out again. “You know,” Omar said. He still felt the need to be discrete for Simon, “A regular customer.” Harry retreated a bit and sat looking in Omar’s direction but not focused on him. “He only buys drugs,” he said. Omar said nothing. It was a strange position to be in, not knowing what was okay to say and what wasn’t. The uncertainty made him more uncomfortable. He sat and felt aware of Harry’s presence. Harry seemed to loom larger in a distant corner, even though he was less than a foot away. Now it was Omar who felt dazed and disconnected, as he imagined Harry felt. He stared straight ahead and tried to think. The mood had shifted slightly, and now Harry was not so funny anymore. Omar felt more embarrassed and a little more angry. Something had shifted for Harry, too. Almost snarling, he stared at Omar. “I want to be a regular customer.” His tone of voice made Omar feel dirty and he could feel the place where Harry’s hand had been on his leg. He moved to stand up. “Come here,” Harry whispered hoarsely, reaching for Omar. Omar stood a little bit away and felt the tips of Harry’s pudgy little fingers touch him just under his ass, the opposite leg of where the bullet had grazed him and left a small scar. Omar sucked his teeth. “Hey. Hey! Hey!” Harry was calling, too drunk to move much closer. Harry sucked his teeth and mumbled something Omar couldn’t understand when Simon came in. “What’s the matter?” Simon sounded like he was talking to a child. He was looking at Omar’s face and saw that he was agitated. “I don’t like him,” Harry slurred from the couch. “I don’t like him.” Simon looked at Omar and shook his head a little bit. Omar knew this meant please don’t pay Harry much attention. “I don’t like any of them,” Harry was half mumbling and looked up at Omar from the couch with a look of dejection that had little to do with Omar. Omar’s anger subsided a little, looking at Simon. Frustrated, he looked away. “Just give me the money.” He didn’t mean to sound so sharp. He wasn’t mad 97 A Re g u l a r Cu s t o m e r

at Simon. He wasn’t sure he was mad at Harry. He just wanted to go. As Simon discretely passed him the neatly folded twenty-dollar bills, he realized that Harry had fucked up his visit. He passed Simon his bag, slyly, as though they were in public and had to play it off. The transaction complete, Simon and Omar stood looking at each other. “Okay?” said Simon, still reading Omar’s mood. Omar started slowly for the door. Abruptly he turned to Simon. He shoved his hands in his pockets and started poking his lips out and twisting them. “What’s up with that?” he said. “What?” Simon asked. “Why you have friends like that?” Omar pointed in Harry’s direction using only his nose and lips, then made a face like something smelled. Simon glanced at Harry in his drunken stupor and smiled just a little. “I know,” he said, looking back at Omar. “You can’t choose your friends.” Omar opened the door and started to leave, then stopped. “Yes, you can,” he said. “No, you can’t.” “Yes, you can. You can choose your friends. Shit.” Omar walked out and started to zip up his jacket. “No,” said Simon. His voice was low. “You’re lucky.” Omar turned to see Simon who looked like he was daydreaming. He started to say something when Simon raised his eyes from the floor to meet his. “Lucky?” said Omar. Simon held his gaze. “Yes,” his voice was gentle and soothing and Omar listened closely. “I don’t have friends to throw away.” Simon paused as though he was thinking of what to say or whether he should say it. “He’s a mess, I know, but he’s not bad, really. But you know that, right? Besides, he cares about me. He’s a good friend.” He paused again. “People who love you deserve respect.” “Respect?” Omar had not meant for his voice to come out so softly. “I’ll see you next time,” said Simon. “Be safe.” Simon closed the door and Omar turned to go. And now, these shoes were starting to be tight. Omar felt the buzz of his overly strong drink and half decided that it was good this way. Someone passed in front of him. A tall lady. That’s a lady, right? Omar thought. Someone in the corner was laughing, telling a story. What’s so funny? Omar wondered. It occurred to him that someone must have been telling a story about Simon, remembering him. He thought to himself that this was an odd wake. Maybe it was the kind that people like Simon had. He took another sip to let it sink in that this would be Simon’s last party ever. Omar looked at Harry again. His chubby face was reddening and his eyes were glassy. He looked up and saw Omar looking at him. Harry gave Omar a short, hopeless smile and shrugged his shoulders. The people in the corner were raising their glasses and toasting. “To Simon,” someone said. Omar sipped his drink again. He nodded his head at Harry and, with a sigh, took a step in his direction.

98 art fictionpoetry Si l e n t Ja m e s Do l a n Bhuwen Gadtaula

His father was Dandy Johnny Dolan, a respected street brawler, loft burglar, sneak thief and master of the sartorial arts. He invented a copper pin that was worn underneath the thumb to gouge out eyes with great efficiency and cleanliness. The pin was highly praised and was adopted by the criminal brotherhood of the Whyos with much success. He never walked the streets without his hair immaculate, the forelock curled to the fashionable degree, and he never walked the streets without his carved cane, marked for the skull of the unfortunate victim. At any given time, his father could have been involved in a duel over the proper cravat, the size of a gentleman’s cufflinks or collections after the crowd had passed. On April 21, 1876 he was hanged in public under the honest light of the morning sun in the courtyard of the Tombs. Although the actual number of people who attended the hanging was never recorded, going by some local accounts, mourners flooded the four blocks in equal directions. It lasted well into the evening and ended in a riot over the deeds or misdeeds of Dandy Johnny Dolan. James Dolan’s mother was English, willing, modestly pretty and had endured a small scandal over a much older man and a necklace. At age ten, Anne Godwin Dolan had run off with a mustached bootlegger who carried homemade whiskey from the Canadian border. The bootlegger had passed bad checks and committed several other crimes of faith including procuring, handling stolen goods and forgery. Feverish with thoughts of gold, he left her behind, traveling to Alaska joining the multitudes on the Chilkoot Trail. The bootlegger died alone on the wanting streets of the Klondike, his last words, untranslatable and frenzied, lost to syphilis. Nothing further was heard of James Dolan’s mother. It was often rumored that she had joined a convent or started an orphanage house in California, leading a life of atonement. Often these rumors were ridiculously paradoxical to the nature of the woman and revealed only the pious desires of the repeater of the rumors. James Dolan passed from indistinct relative after relative before settling in at a bar on Hudson and thirteenth Street. It was under the control of the Hudson Dusters and was most frequented by prostitutes, poets and other characters. The first noteworthy incidence was when James Dolan was thirteen and a customer demanded service. James Dolan replied, “Sir, if I serve you I will be no better than a prostitute and a lot less cleaner,” and received a sincere beating. But, those present in the bar regarded that as the mark of a weaker man and so it only added to the infamy of James Dolan. By the age of sixteen he was indisputably ugly. His face had set into such position as to bring out the utmost contempt from whoever crossed his way. Of the conspiring features, these are most mentioned: the eyebrows were arched and doubtful; the eyes were like slits, accusing all onlookers; the nose was quite English, sharp and hawkish; the lips were curled, resembling a hooked scar that forever mocked. He met a prostitute and after the night, she demanded a ten dollar tip. James 99 Si l e n t Ja m e s Do l a n

Dolan replied, “I’ll give twenty dollars if you can give me back the last ten minutes.” She pulled out a pocketknife and tried to relieve him of his ability to use the bathroom. He ran out of the brothel almost intact, but barefoot. When he returned the next day to complain and recover his shoes, the Madam of the house responded, “You cheap, cheap man. Don’t you have any shame?” She had sold the shoes in the morning and had pocketed two dollars and twenty-five cents. James Dolan replied curtly, “You dirty, old cow. The only shame is in you meeting my expectations.” The rest of the exchange was interrupted by a brickbat to James Dolan’s head by one of the older prostitutes who took offense to the descriptive. She was the sister of the Madam, and familial ties took precedence over the truth. He awoke in the gutter of the Five Points, covered in filth, half naked and hungry. He went to work without a word; no one dared to say a word to him or attempt an insult. Jousting with James Dolan had roused a great fear of walking away with one of his retorts. The Bowery dives, the liquor houses of the Five Points and the brothels lining Sixth and Seventh Avenues between the Twenties and Thirties, had grown accustomed to repeating the many retorts that James Dolan had given throughout the years. The gangsters of the time, although vicious, superstitious, classically uneducated and underhanded as they were in all dealings, feared a verbal exchange over all else. It was not uncommon for them to carry brickbats, black jacks, brass knuckles, dirks and even revolvers, but none could swing a weapon at James Dolan. At age twenty he had mastered the satanic art of ridicule and few would even dare to speak to him. The last known encounter James Dolan had was with a member of the Eastman gang at a dive on Chrystie Street. He was sitting in the front, drinking a twelve cent beer when the gangster demanded the chair James Dolan occupied. What was said between the two was unrecorded; the history of

Ur b a n My t h o l o g y Mohamed Wann 100 art fictionpoetry the conversation has often been misquoted and so there is no record of the actual words. What is known is that the Eastman gangster left red faced and shaken, his face was the portrait of utter humiliation; all in attendance felt the unease of presence when they looked at James Dolan. The Eastman gangster returned within the hour with the notable leader Monk Eastman and ten of the strongest and most ruthless cutthroats of that gang, which numbered into the hundreds and was suggested to have been at its peak twelve hundred or more men. Monk Eastman had heard the rumors of James Dolan and feared an encounter would tarnish his esteemed reputation as a gangster. He feared a verbal exchange but also feared any cowardly act. Luckily, the compromise he came up with was considered both stunning and acceptable by the underworld rules. Monk Eastman took one look and ignored James Dolan completely. He then beat the humiliated gangster in front of the crowd. He was prone to violent acts and did not mind laying down his fists to do a dirty job. The beaten gangster stumbled out of the bar and Monk Eastman and all of the other grim members of the gang followed quickly. After this encounter, James Dolan’s reputation grew to such a degree that he could have walked through the boundaries of rival gangs without fear, some have said. It was also said that Paul Kelly, the symmetric opposite of Monk Eastman, even gave James Dolan safe passage and free beers at any of the bars under his influence. This was never confirmed, and it has the touch of exaggeration; no one could walk through the murderous streets of the Bowery or Five Points without risking the loss of blood, limb or purse. The mystery of the exchange between James Dolan and the Eastman gangster had grown in the literary medium of street lore. It is a field filled with characters that rival the works of all written literature; the conflicted Helen of Troy had her equivalent in Ida the Goose, a woman who had defected from the leader of the Gopher gang and caused the ruin of the Tricker gang’s empire. The ambition of Macbeth could be found within the most noted gangster after Monk Eastman, Big Jack Zelig; a man revered for his atrocities and now remembered mostly because of those atrocities. It was unfortunate that James Dolan’s reputation had become a celebrity among the underworld celebrities. In every bar, dance hall, brothel, bawdy house and burlesque show speculation was wild and given to criminal apocrypha. Some said the conversation was about a hold he had on the gangster; possibly allegorical, but utterly mystifying when one considers the logistical impossibilities of James Dolan’s age and movements. It involved some distant violation involving several states, a woman, stolen cash and a banker. Others claim he had uttered a single word, and not a laborious conversation, which was so terrible that it pierced the gangster’s very soul. Still there were some heretics who made fantastical claims about his lack of words and witchery. These tales were in fact experiments in that other neglected literary medium, exaggeration; unacknowledged by critics, but practiced by camphor drinkers, opium addicts and those near the borders of madness. There were the reports of accidental gangsters who veered too close to James Dolan in the dark beer halls; they would usually give him a nod and walk away, not risking an exchange. This story too became so prevalent that he sat alone wherever 101 Si l e n t Ja m e s Do l a n

he went. He ate alone and it was not known if he was even employed. No one dared exchange words with him and so he was as much silent as those that passed him by. He could not enter a place without the hush of silence; whole conversations would end in mid-sentence, as the speakers feared revealing themselves. Patrons would leave steadily, some moved by the urge to expel the bubbling rot gut, others by James Dolan’s presence. Once this occurred in a few beer halls, another layer of talk was added and soon he became universally infamous from the Five Points to Hell’s Kitchen to the neighborhoods of Harlem. When the drinkers started leaving, that was when James Dolan met his downfall. The owners could not stand to see any loss in cash, but could do nothing to him. No gangster, sneak thief or cutthroat killer in New York would take out a contract on James Dolan. The natural solution was to hire a killer from outside of New York. One arrived on the Nickel Plate Railroad from Chicago carrying a revolver and a commission of twenty-five hundred dollars under the iniquitous cover of night. The infinite points of convergences between James Dolan and his killer will never be known; the crafter of the weapon will never be found; the machine that cast the bullet will never be located; the ore of the metal, the mine of its origin, the movements of the trains that carried the load and the men who collected the dollars to pay his executioner remain nameless. What is known is that during that night he had entered a beer hall and sat alone and silent. A lone figure stood from the bar stool and was directed to James Dolan. It is unknown if either man spoke to the other. Although by some accounts there was a look of shock of both the killer and the murdered man; neither one was perhaps expecting much from the other. The killer offered these words, “Sir, I refute you!” and fired three shots. The body of James Dolan was found in Chinatown a few weeks later at No. 6 Doyers Street by the Chatham Club; the mouth was stomped out; the body stripped naked, left untouched except for the bullet holes.

I Th o u g h t Th i s Gu y Wa s De a d ! Dustin Winegar 102 biosstaff

Na t a l i a Di a z , Ed i t o r -in-Ch i e f

Natalia is on the home stretch of her college years and is very happy to lead a team of highly qualified art and literature aficionados. Though she is leaving, she will continue to save the world with her superhero and will never forget the countless hours spent in room 3-290.

Dm i t r y Om e l y a nen k o , Ma n a g i n g Ed i t o r

Drunk with his newfound power as a managing editor, Dmitry has gone off on many an editing rampage during this issue’s production. Fortunately, like this bio, most of what Dmitry tried to do has been, Overruled and edited out. - Natalia Diaz

Ma r i a Do r f m a n , Bu s i ne s s Ma n a g e r Maria is a senior who has been the Encounters business manager since her sophomore days. Together, Maria and Encounters have grown and only gotten better with time. And while maintaining the budget is fun and exciting, it’s the staff dinners and wine-filled receptions that keep her coming back.

Ed w a r d Dr a k h l i s , Cr e a t i v e Di r ec t o r Ed: he makes awkward moments more awkward, tells inappropriate jokes at inappropriate times, doesn’t know the first thing about pleasing a panda and claims that advertising is his life calling. Have you ever heard of a dumber life calling? But we keep him around because he’s easy and always puts out.

Du s t i n Wi ne g a r , Ju n i o r Cr e a t i v e Di r ec t o r The newest addition to the Encounters staff, Dustin has lent his creative passion and artistic expertise to the production of this semester’s astounding edition. His accolades as an artist could be listed but he has shamefully been given only 50 words for a bio. And he used all fifty … now.

103 Su s a n a Go m e z , Fiction Ed i t o r Susana studies English literature and Spanish. Before coming to Baruch last fall, she studied journalism and fiction in Quito, Ecuador, and in Salem, Oregon. She plans to make a living as a farmer after earning a terminal degree in comparative literature. She likes to observe trees and people.

Fr a n k Ma r z u l l o , Fiction Ed i t o r Frank can usually be found crunching numbers for the fine folks in the finance department. In his spare time, he covers theatre, art, music and dance for The Ticker. He is a Yankees fan for life. They will come back strong in the fall, as will the Hokies.

Ja c q u e l i ne Ch a nce r , Fiction Ed i t o r Jackie may appear to be your average Baruch student, but the blood of centuries of Liliputian royalty flows through her veins. In her spare time, while lounging lazily in the finest of cashmere, silk and pima cotton, she writes for and edits The Ticker and Encounters magazine as servants fan her with palm leaves.

Ma r i a Ba r d i n a , Fiction Ed i t o r

Maria would like you to know that she used to have the reddest hair of anyone on the third floor. She enjoys contributing to Encounters as much as anything else. She is still, however, trying to develop respect for deadlines. Did we mention she used to have very red hair?

Mo l l y Fe l t h , Po e t r y Ed i t o r Molly is an avid Star Trek fan whose writing style has been described as a troubling combination of F. Scott Fitzgerald and Anaïs Nin. She has garnered much acclaim for her autobiographical works, such as her poignant novella “My Cat Selina,” self-published in 1994.

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Ja n a Ka s pe r k e v i c , Po e t r y Ed i t o r

After being banished to the dark tower of Washington, DC, Jana was more than happy to once again be a poetry editor for Ecounters rather than resorting to needlepoint. Now she doesn’t have to prick her fingers while she waits for a rugged lumberjack to save her.

And y La w l e r , Po e t r y Ed i t o r

Andy has been a big fan of Encounters for several years. When he’s not frequenting open bars (because he’s cheap), he enjoys meditating to Gary Snyder poems with a tall glass of Scotch. As a senior majoring in English, he looks forward to living in a van down by the river after graduation.

Er i c a Sc h o o n m a k e r , Po e t r y Ed i t o r Erica is an upper-sophomore majoring in creative writing, and this is her second semester working for Encounters. She fancies herself a writer and an artist, thought hardly starving. She is adept at naming fonts off the top of her head and is known for doing her best work at the last minute possible.

Ad r i enne Ra y s k i , Po e t r y Ed i t o r This is Adrienne’s second term as a poetry editor. She is also the editor-in-chief of the outstanding piece of journalism that is The Ticker and a freelance writer for several special-interest magazines. Adrienne is (thankfully) graduating from Baruch this semester with a degree in journalism/creative writing and is taking on a full time position as an editor this June.

Da v i d de Le o n , Co p y Ed i t o r That’s right, kiddies: David is actually filled with delicious, delicious candy! Be on the lookout as you wander the halls — if you spot him, get out your sticks and bats chase him down! It’s a fiesta!

105 La u r en Lo e f f e l , Co p y Ed i t o r Not much has changed since Lauren last wrote a bio for Encounters the night before sending it to the printer. However, she has decided upon graduating to not enter this “real world” she so often hears of and will instead spend her summer waiting tables in the Hamptons and shamelessly self-promoting herself as a freelance copy editor.

Sh e l l e y Ng, Co p y Ed i t o r Shelley is a senior majoring in journalism. She is currently a contributing reporter and letters assistant for TIME for Kids Magazine. Shelley has also worked for DK Publishing and Money magazine. This is her third semester as a copy editor for Encounters.

He a t h e r Sc h u l t z , Co p y Ed i t o r Don’t let her German last name fool you. A twinkie to the core, Heather Schultz is more white than yellow. After making several attempts to convince Dov to join Encounters, she is ecstatic to finally be a part of the team thanks to Natalia. As a lower senior majoring in journalism and minoring in sociology, she also copy edits The Ticker and Dollars & $ense.

Do v Gi b o r , Ed i t o r -in-Ch i e f Em e r i t u s Dov continues editing for Encounters despite his lackluster attempts at graduating. This marks his fifth, and sadly final, semester. He’s had a good run, and he will miss the good times he has shared with the many staff members over the years. Good-bye good friends.

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