Reptile House Rosalyn H

University of Massachusetts Amherst ScholarWorks@UMass Amherst Masters Theses 1911 - February 2014 2011 Reptile House Rosalyn H. Mclean University of Massachusetts Amherst Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.umass.edu/theses Part of the Modern Literature Commons Mclean, Rosalyn H., "Reptile House" (2011). Masters Theses 1911 - February 2014. 628. Retrieved from https://scholarworks.umass.edu/theses/628 This thesis is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks@UMass Amherst. It has been accepted for inclusion in Masters Theses 1911 - February 2014 by an authorized administrator of ScholarWorks@UMass Amherst. For more information, please contact [email protected]. REPTILE HOUSE A Thesis Presented by Rosalyn Hopkins McLean Submitted to the Graduate School of the University of Massachusetts Amherst in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of MASTER OF FINE ARTS May 2011 M.F.A. Program for Poets and Writers Department of English © Copyright by Rosalyn McLean 2011 All Rights Reserved REPTILE HOUSE A Thesis Presented By Rosalyn Hopkins McLean Approved as to style and content by: ______________________________ Chris Bachelder, Chair ______________________________ Sabina Murray, Member ______________________________ Noy Holland, Member _______________________________ Sabina Murray, Director M.F.A. Program for Poets and Writers ______________________________ Joseph Bartolomeo, Chair Department of English For Mac and Cindy ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS First, I must thank Chris Bachelder, my committee chair, who has guided me so precisely and generously through this manuscript. It is rare to encounter a genius. It is more unusual to encounter a genius who pushes you to make something of yourself. I’d like to thank Sabina Murray and Noy Holland, both for serving on my committee, and Noy especially for shocking me into a new way of hearing words. I am indebted to many others: Rachel Glaser, the Priestess of the Modern, Debbie McLean, whose behind-the-scenes scheming brought me to UMass, and Scott Salus, my faithful reader and editor, who will never be rid of me. Thanks to Gloria Barragan for allowing me to tell her saddest sorry, John Vinduska, the greatest storyteller I know, from whom I have pirated a tale or two, Michael Miller, Michael Carolan, Ana Rona, Nancy Wainwright, Sinead Ruane, Nadia Alahmed, Betsy Hopkins, Chris Sweetapple, and Tim Sutton, all my patient teachers and co-conspirators. I’m very grateful also to Kim McLean and Betsy Vielhaber, sisters and clutch readers, to Boone Shear, the courageous, who has taught me about strength in times of trouble, and Margaret Eagleton, who, from 6000 miles, is the most steadfast friend I will ever know. One needs comfort and fun and for that I must especially acknowledge Debbie, Marshall and Carlyn McLean O’Leary and the Peter Corbett family, who have kept me safe and warm with Pearl, Sebastian, and Eska, who all still walk beside me. Last but most, I thank my parents who taught me everything I know about being a good person, though we all falter in this work, and Chris Rose who parted with me so I could write the following. v ABSTRACT REPTILE HOUSE MAY 2011 ROSALYN HOPKINS MCLEAN, B.A., MOUNT HOLYOKE COLLEGE J.D., UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS M.F.A., UNIVERISTY OF MASSACHUSETTS AMHERST Directed by: Chris Bachelder My thesis consists of a collection of ten stories. Keywords: 1. 1900s-Carlsbad Caverns-Southwest- Fiction 2.Korean War, 1950’s- General Enlisted-Fiction 3. Skin disease-Insanity- Science Fiction. vi CONTENTS Page ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS.................................................................................................v ABSTRACT....................................................................................................................... vi The Amazing Discovery and Natural History of Carlsbad Caverns ...................................1 Reptile House.....................................................................................................................33 Yellow Dock ......................................................................................................................47 Cliff Ordeal ........................................................................................................................51 Rabbit’s Foot......................................................................................................................88 No Name Creek ...............................................................................................................100 Black Russian...................................................................................................................118 Subtracted Man ................................................................................................................133 For Swimmers..................................................................................................................148 Blue Nevus.......................................................................................................................163 vii The Amazing Discovery and Natural History of Carlsbad Caverns That was Mike hanging in the brass chandelier. He was Tarzan with a crew cut and farm boy grin turned upside down, swinging. Hilarious. Mel could get Mike to do anything. It was too tight and warm in the Bombardier. The women were laughing their heads off at Mike, mostly South of the Border girls, in their reds, blues, and pinks. They pointed pretty painted fingers up at Mike. They smiled with big teeth and red lips. The men were laughing their heads off too, clean, starched, tall and white, taller by a head than the local girls. The men were shipped in from their Chicagos, Maines, and Pasadenas to Fort Bliss to be trained up and ready, waiting to ship out. They dabbed their brows with handkerchiefs someone stitched for them on some back porch. Those who 1 had mislaid their hankies wiped sweat with the back of bare thick arms, or the tail of a damp shirt, or licked the upper lip and swallowed with a chaser, hot as Hades sure, but if a big black hand had flown in from downtown Hong Kong or Taiwan or Ching Chong to pry at the rafters with black hairy fingers, had pulled off the roof purlin by purlin, had let in some air, then things might have been different. Mike poured beer on the crowd. The crowd laughed and twirled. Mike twirled his trousers like a lasso. Mel blew a kiss at Mike and handed him up another, which Mike poured on the crowd, which laughed more and leaned, so on. The chandelier would hang there till 1987 when the place burned down. The girls would marry and have children with other men than these, and one of the children’s children would fly to Mars on the first manned mission. It was a wonderful night. The rest of the town, the mothers, fathers, and children, were tucked in their beds and dreaming. Mel was from McAllen so was used to the heat. A boy was walking in the crowd with a pretty pistol on a yellow velvet pillow, and was talking Espanol. He wore a sombrero. The pistol grip was mother-of-pearl, a beauty, made for a female or a duel, someone said the boy said that. On price there was no mistake and Mel ended up with the sombrero too. Someone called, “Enough hanky panky. Let’s get back to Base.” Someone else yelled, “Reveille’s at six.” One man whistled at his pals and the pals herded up. They laughed at something someone said. Mike swung down with one arm. He scratched his armpit and howled like a monkey might. “What a card,” someone said as the men moved to the street. They rubbed their arms in the chill. The Border was like that, hot after dark till cold of a sudden. Someone called a cab. 2 In the street, Mike hopped into his pants. He zipped up, “where’s my goddamn belt” but the belt was gone forever. It had been kicked under the bar by a girl’s pink heel, and although a long handled broom almost grabbed it in 1971, it was never discovered by anyone ever, so burned up, even the brass buckle, with the rest in ’87. Mike bunched his pants with one hand. He stood on the curb and cracked the seal of a bottle and drank. The sombrero was huge on Mel’s head and Mike said, “I like that hat. I sure do like it,” and others agreed, nodded. Time passed, a few minutes, a quarter hour, a cab came and took some men, another cab came, so on. The sombrero had red balls around the rim like a toy. They swung in unison and glowed when any car drove by. “Let me try it,” said Mike. “Get back,” said Mel, and he slapped his friend’s hand, but nice. It was a trick of the eye, but the sombrero looked like a crown in the headlights. The city was dim and the crowd smoked on the street. Nearby the river flowed dry and someone said, “Does it ever rain?” “God forsaken desert,” said else someone. The rooftops were flat and poor. Flags and clouds strayed in the small breeze, and drooped. The moon was up, but hidden. It haloed the corniced peak of El Banco. Three jets banked in a slot of sky. The men leaned on brick and saluted with bottles when the jets roared over then disappeared north, to home and hangar. “Let me try it on,” said Mike. “You always want what I got,” said Mel. “I’ve noticed your habit,” but he let Mike try the hat. The crowd laughed at Mike. They passed a bottle between them then Mike set the hat back on Mel’s head. Happiness is so small a thing, and they had it on the street for a while, just like that, happiness, till Mike stumbled into Mel, who had grabbed a girl in an orange dress just come out the door. They all three swayed together

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