1 Class Anthology EN205

Home , You Take for Granted

Class Anthology

EN205: Introduction to Creative Writing

John Cabot University

Fall Term 2009

Instructor:

Dr. Carlos Dews

10 December 2009

Students:

Maxime di Giacinto Chloe Esposito Katherine Magnuson Diana Mastrodomenico Henry L. Miller Cassandra Panasuk Alexandra Quintanilla Gina Susino

Table of Contents

Fiction

Diana Mastrodomenico “The Atoning Geisha” 6 Henry Miller “On Being a Carcass” 8 Gina Susino “Observations” 13

Creative Nonfiction

Maxime di Giacinto “My Pantheon” 17 Chloe Esposito “Spring Cleaning” 23 Henry Miller “The Demon Train Story” 30

Drama

Henry Miller “The Befuddled Human Being” 37 Cassandra Panasuk “Unheard” 52

COPYRIGHT STATEMENT The copyright for the selections in this anthology is retained by the authors. Do not republish, reprint, or duplicate in any manner without the written permission of the author.

FICTION

Diana Mastrodomenico

“The Atoning Geisha”

According to an old legend, since their births lovers are bound to each other by a thin red thread, tied to their little fingers. This is written in one of her books, disorderly stacked on the shelf. Yet, she doesn’t know this. Her mortality holds her to the ground, where her mirror lies. Staring at her reflected self, she can’t think. While the bony socket of her knee gathers the dust from the bathroom’s floor, she is unaware. While her lips part and her lashes turn back, she is helpless, oblivious to a world that swallowed her long ago. She doesn’t know that some female insects devour their mates during sex. She doesn’t know that the female mantis cuts off the head of her mate during coitus and goes alone toward pleasure. She doesn’t know that what we call habit is nothing but chaos. After 1920 QWERTY keyboards were pointless, yet today we still use them. She doesn’t know that sometimes there are two fetuses in a mother’s womb, but one is absorbed by the other, leaving no traces. We may have eaten our brother in his sleep. While she is covering her skin with pink powder, she doesn’t know that she’ll hurt more people, having used fewer words. She doesn’t know beauty is a weapon forged by nature, but she keeps painting her lips to make them more luscious. She doesn’t know that everything she does is. Wanted. Chosen. Packed. Only for her. She doesn’t know the hardest chain to get rid of is freedom. While she’s wearing her shirt and her fingertips follow the sign of her abs vanishing under the skirt, she doesn’t know yet. That she will die. That she will forget him. That she will betray. That she will make the trade for less than a pound of flesh. That she’ll have nothing to regret when the wings will get burned on the lamp. That she will miss the first words of her son, yet he will never forget hers. That she will have less, having asked for more. But wait now. She has sensed us. Reading our thoughts, she has seized a sense of what she had forgotten. Fearful, she follows her shadow around the bathroom. She listens, but doesn’t hear us; looks, but doesn’t see us. She springs up; her make-up falls to the ground. Something’s broken. She’s a lizard in a glass; she can’t touch what she sees. She runs, and we, behind. She’s in the kitchen now, surrounded by glass and reflected light. If the room were turned upside-down, there would be snow falling from the ceiling. She’s blind, and deaf, but grabs a sharp knife. Her life is inscribed on a hope-stained blade. We keep our eyes on her; every creature is miserable if seen from above. If there were air in the room, the knife would resound in its cut. The blade pierces her skin; enchantment is

6 over. Breathe. She can’t see us anymore. She’s back in the bathroom and tidies her hair, and removes a smudge of mascara escaped from terror. Later today, when she’s home again, she will clean all the mess. But the blood keeps on gushing, there where her little finger was.

Henry L. Miller

“On Being a Carcass”

Oh boy, oh boy.

I am going to seep through the cracks in this street one day, I will become all slick and wormy, and I am going to slide down the rain gutter. My feeble legs depend on my withering desire to get anywhere. Every third Wednesday, at precisely two-twenty-two in the winter, and at precisely four-thirty-one in the summer, I hobble down to La Casa Fuentes for the special dinner offer. If I get there before five o’clock, I get a full dinner with a coupon that I pluck out of the local paper. I leave earlier in the winter because it gets too cold for my body to move after four o’clock. I have always been a man to plan ahead. It is winter now; it always feels like winter to me. The chill throws my throat into an orchestra of convulsions.

Hack, wheeze, huff.

Good Christ I hate my being; it used to be only my body that bothered me, way back decades ago, now my brain is a malfunctioning mess too. It sputters and putt-putts, like those wonderful old go-carts they used to have by the river, they might still have by the river. How would I ever know? I falter in between consciousness and clarity. Tiny little burps of stomach acid rise in my esophagus and I cough again, walking down this street can be a terror to my body. I can finally hear myself creaking and croaking… I cannot help but to listen. Goddamn why will I not cease to be? The vino inside me has not gotten better with age, it has become salty and stagnant, and the bread of my bones has gone stale and flaky. I sniffle a lot. I huff and puff but I am incapable of blowing down even a single domino.

Sputter, hack.

I used to glide down this street, then the glide became a shuffle as a scared maturing boy, which became a stumble as I grew into my body, which became a strut as I felt the world beneath me, then it gave way to a trudge as I felt swallowed by the universe, and now I am working the wander. I am moving with hopeless delay in every step I take. All my life I have

8 known of this street. At varying points it has grown and shrunk in the size of its significance. Bits and pieces of it have changed in time, but the brittle broken sidewalk has remained the same. As I look about me I see the buildings of the modern age, which will go out of fashion in a few years and be torn down for a new modern age. I see patios full of plants, I see lamps covered in beads, and I see beds full of people. I am unsurprised. Only ten years ago I was in one of those beds, warm and ripe with desire, but now I am resigned to sleep alone.

Oh boy, oh boy. What a mess I am. What a mound of meat I am.

The slickness of the cement warns me to tread cautiously, or I will have to buy a new hip. The biting breeze tells me to wrap myself, or I will be frozen stiff. I wish I could smile, I wish I could stomach a laugh for the tragedy of it all. The lips on my scarred and peeling face relinquish no more than a grin. After a grand journey of seven blocks, I step into La Casa Fuentes. No table at first, but I am old enough that a summoned waiting chair appears before me.

Sputter, wheeze.

How old must I be to wonder why I must wait to be fed? How feeble must I be to not be able to feed myself? My fragility scares a little child standing in front of me; she is attached to her mother’s hip who stares into the distance. The little girl’s face is unblemished and glowing. One of these days she will have to let go of her mother’s hip, I know, and I tell her so. I tell her that one day she will not want to be close to her mother, she might shiver at the very thought of it, she will want to be attached to some punk kid who has but one interest in her. I leave the interest out of the conversation.

To be young. Hack, sputter, croak, wheeze, huff.

My convulsions scare the poor child and she runs to the other side of her clueless mother. She looks around the hip at the ancient monster that had just roared at her, seeing if it had finally given its last breath and died.

What a mess I am, oh boy, oh boy. What a big fat useless carcass I have become.

A young man of about sixty years my junior comes to take me to my table, in the corner, by the kitchen, where nobody will hear me shudder and shake if my throat decides to spasm again. Not a bad kid though, making minimum wage cleaning tables and dishing out chips and salsa. I remember being a bus boy myself, at Harriet’s Club downtown, it’s probably gone by now. How would I ever know? La Casa Fuentes is covered with streamers and maracas and ponchos and everything else that could possibly make it more authentic. What an awful disease this place must have to make it become so Goddamn cheerful and gay.

Huff, wheeze.

I sit at my little table with a little candle in the center. I tell the boy that I have a coupon and I point at the clock. That is all I ever need to do to get what I want, they always bring the same food. He tells me that my coupons have expired since Thanksgiving, that my free meal will not be coming today. What a punk. What a bastard. What a…

Hack, wheeze, croak, sputter, huff.

Jesus I loathe my existence. Now I am lost, without the free meal I will have no sustenance, without the sustenance I will never make it back to my home. I will die either on the street or sitting at this little table next to the kitchen, surrounded by authentic Mexican decoration. What a Goddamn tragedy. I tell him I have no money, he says he can’t give free food except for the chips and salsa. I ask him for some water.

Oh boy, oh boy. This might be the end of the line. The last road to cross.

The final breathe of this mound of meat.

When he comes back with my water I sip it gently. I savor that which has given me life, that which has kept me alive for all my existence. Then I ask the boy if he would listen to a poem I once read years ago. It was a poem about an old man at the end of his line. It haunted me as a boy, in my dreams I felt the terror of age that lay ahead of me. I didn’t learn of the author, I don’t remember there being an author. I thought it was simply spewed forth by the human consciousness eons ago. Now I feel that the poem is all that I am, it is my memory, my structure, and my soul. It is the sum up of my existence, it is my deliverance; it tells me of my insignificance. I make him agree to listen to the poem by telling him that I will call on his manager if he doesn’t, he doesn’t know that I am about to die. Poor kid.

Hack, wheeze, huff, gargle, choke, sputter, croak.

I start,

O’Brien falls down the road, a drunk In a place that doesn’t have room for another Drunk. He doesn’t belong, clearly. He sings the wrong songs Between each burp. We stare At the man in the wrong clothing, In the wrong city. He is more than alone, Nobody wants to be near him. We watch the cat get lost In a city of dogs. That sly, lying liar. He bumps into everything That falls in his path. What is he doing here?

Unwelcome. Uninvited. Unwanted. Unmistakable. He will disappear down and around the corners And reappear in the morning news. AN UNWANTED MAN MEETS AN UNTIMELY END That’s what they will say. And we will forget that there was a forgetful in our Paradise city. And I will forget. And we will talk and sing Between each burp. The right songs to the wrong tune. But we belong, we are unmistakably Right.

Oh boy, oh boy Hack, wheeze, sputter, croak, huff.

So the boy gets his manager, who calls an ambulance, which comes in seven minutes, but for this pathetic, putrid little carcass, it is too late.

Gina Susino

Observations.

You wake up.

Your eyes shoot open; the way a bullet is shot from a gun. After your eyes adjust to the darkness, you look around. You’re not familiar with this place at all; everything is new to you. You smell a stench that is so strong you can almost taste its pungence. You feel your eyes burn, like when you wake up after a rough, almost sleepless night, when the morning sun is harsh on your dilated pupils. You’re disoriented, confused, scared, yet excited. Confused because you can’t put your finger on where you are and how you got there; excited because you want to find out.

You try to get up.

You can’t. Gravity pulls you down to the earth, like you weigh 5000 pounds. Your body feels heavier than your eyelids feel. Your entire body is aches. And as you try to get up you let out a few soft whimpers. But when you finally decide to give up, you lie on your back and stare up into the darkness. Black. Damp. Painful.

You think.

As you stare into the colorless bliss above you, you try to think about anything before this strange day. Nothing, like the darkness. Your mind is on pause and your remote is broken. You can’t hit rewind. You lay there, wherever you are, and wait, for someone to come and answer all your questions. You wait for what seems like hours but could only be minutes. You feel the back of your eyeballs pinch, the way they do before you cry. The tears run races against each other down your cheeks, getting better and better with each practice run. You feel stupid, and angry at yourself. So...

You listen.

All your good feelings are gone, just like every memory you had before you woke up. You want answers. Now. Hello? No one answers you. You call out again, louder this time. Still nothing. The silence rings in your ears. It might be your imagination but you think you hear laughing. You listen closer and hear slight footsteps that echo. You don’t know which direction there going or to whom they belong to. The only thing you can do is scream. You scream so loud your vocal cords tremble. You feel your face turn a deep shade of purple and you continue until you can’t breathe.

You panic.

You pant and gasp for air but it seems to slip from you, as if there were holes in your throat. Your heart rate beats out of control. You start to feel dizzy. Your body doesn’t feel like your own, it’s foreign, just like the room you’re in. You hear the footsteps again, but they’re right outside the door now. The door creeks open and a boot steps in. You start to cry, What’s going on? Why are you doing this to me?

Light from behind the door allows you to see my knife, and your face turns white. I begin to laugh at how pathetic you are, and you don’t know what else to do. So the last thing you think is nothing.

You cease.

CREATIVE NONFICTION

Maxime Di Giacinto

“My Pantheon”

M·AGRIPPA·L·F·COS·TERTIUM·FECIT

"Marcus Agrippa, son of Lucius, consul for the third time, built this."

Sixteen Corinthian columns divided into three rows. A sea of marble, granite, porphyry and travertine surround an immense hall based on the shape of a sphere, the most perfect of all shapes. The Pantheon was built in 27 B.C. under the Roman Empire, during the third consulship of Marco Vespasiano Agrippa, who dedicated it to all the gods. Agrippa's

Pantheon was then destroyed by a fire in 80 A.D. during the reign of Emperor Hadrian and was consequently rebuilt. It has stood motionless in the Piazza della Rotonda, in the center of

Rome, for almost two thousand years, and it has been the view from my bedroom window for nineteen. It remains static, veiled with a feeling of anticipation, as if it is expecting someone to take it away, to free it or to snatch some of its marble, once again.

I can't look at the Pantheon without hearing its cry for attention, like an underestimated housewife doing her best to be noticed. I don't look at it unless I must, except for those freezing cold days, when I pull my curtain back and imagine that if I stare at the clouds I just might make it snow. It has never worked. It barely ever snows in Rome, and the last time the city was covered in snow and slates of perfect white concealed the sampietrini on the streets was in Nineteen eighty five.

Nineteen eighty five was the year my mother visited Rome for the very first time, when she met my father and her plans began to unravel. She used to tell me that during her stay she started disliking the city. Because of the snow, stores and bars were closed and the

17 streets were empty, giving the feeling of solitude that only ghost towns can convey. However, as soon as she walked into the Piazza, and saw the greatness of the Pantheon she'd heard so much about, she froze in disbelief. That's when she fell in love with Rome. I always wanted to live in a postcard is what she would tell me. After hearing those words, my heart would fill with hope, like any small child who was just told that dreams come true even outside of fairytales.

Hadrian wrote about the Pantheon he had reconstructed: “My intentions had been that this sanctuary of All Gods should reproduce the likeness of the terrestrial globe and of the stellar sphere...The cupola...revealed the sky through a great hole at the center, showing alternately dark and blue. This temple, both open and mysteriously enclosed, was conceived as a solar quadrant. The hours would make their round on that caissoned ceiling so carefully polished by Greek artisans; the disk of daylight would rest suspended there like a shield of gold; rain would form its clear pool on the pavement below, prayers would rise like smoke toward that void where we place the gods.” Lord Byron, while describing the building in

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, called it the “Pride of Rome.”

My life has always revolved around the Pantheon. My apartment on one side, my father's bar on the other and, behind it, the grammar school I attended. During recess, I would wish that I could make it disappear; thinking that if it hadn't been there I would have been able to see my mother wave at me from her window. My father's bar was called Bar della

Rotonda, and it was managed by his father before him, since Nineteen thirty nine.

One year before my grandfather began managing the bar, in Nineteen thirty eight,

Hitler came to Rome to meet Mussolini. During his week-long stay, all businesses were required to display the German Nazi flag along with the Italian one. Years later, right after the liberation of Rome, the city was occupied by the allied forces, and a drunk Italian-

American soldier walked into the cafe' and was directed to the downstairs bathroom. After a

18 few minutes, having seen an old Nazi flag forgotten in the back room for years, he walked up the stairs, aimed a gun at my grandfather behind the cash register, and shot after yelling

"traitor!"

The bullet grazed my grandfather's forehead and, other than a slight scar, the only permanent damage caused by the experience was his extreme dislike of Americans. That's why, forty years later, he would call my mother l'avventuriera dell'oltreoceano- "the overseas adventurer.” I am sorry I never met him; he surely had many stories to tell.

Growing up, I spent most of my afternoons at the bar, helping out with dishes or at the cash register. The waiters would waste their time teaching me how to use the espresso machine, and fluff foam up the correct way to make the perfect cappuccino. When my father retired and handed the bar back to its original owners, I hated not being able to work there, not being in the piazza every afternoon, stealing chips and peanuts from the kitchen and sipping on perfect cappuccinos.

One evening, as we sat at one of the tables of the bar, my mother told me to look at the sky over the Pantheon, a sky I'd seen before, but never noticed. "Isn't that the prettiest shade of blue you've ever seen?" she said. It was. Though the night was falling and the city lights muted the stars, that cobalt blue was enough to brighten the entire sky.

In Six-hundred and nine, when the Byzantine emperor Phocas gave the building to

Pope Boniface IV, the Pantheon was reconsecrated as a Christian church. The Church turned into that of Santa Maria ad Martyres - “Mary and the Martyrs,” which title it retains. The transformation of the building into a church saved it from the abandonment that affected the majority of ancient Rome's buildings, during early medieval times. The only loss that the consecration entailed was that of the external sculptures, which decorated the pediment above

Agrippa's inscription on the portico.

The Pantheon's dome is the world's largest unreinforced concrete dome. Since the

Renaissance, it has been used as a tomb, holding those of the Italian kings Vittorio Emanuele

II and Umberto I and of the artist Raffaello. During Emperor Constantine's era, major changes occurred in Rome and to the Pantheon. In the coffers, panels placed above the ceiling, were rows of bronze roses that were used as ornaments. Such decorations matched the large bronze doors that led into the dome. During the Renaissance, the Barberini family had all of the bronze roses melted down to be used in St. Peter's Cathedral. However, one of the most significant features that was changed at the Pantheon, was Bernini's addition of two bell towers. Until they were removed in Eighteen eighty three, Romans called these towers

“donkey ears.”

The atmosphere that surrounds the temple is magical. When Michelangelo first saw the Pantheon in the early Sixteenth Century, he described it as an “angelic and not human design.” The Pantheon has witnessed centuries of wars, yet it still fights to stand. It quietly awaits the next foreigners to gasp at its sight, to run under its entrance portico for shelter when it rains, and it stands patiently as people secretly capture its greatness in pictures.

My favorite time to look at the Pantheon is just before dawn. When its columns shine, reflecting the glossy yellow street lights, when the only noise that can be heard is that of the water falling into the fountain before it, when the only thing moving in the Piazza are the seagulls circling the dome. On those insomniac nights, when I look outside my window and try to breathe the air of Rome before anyone else can, is when I suddenly remember that I live in the Eternal City.

The columns that support the portico are thirty-nine feet tall. Five feet in diameter and sixty tons in weight, each Corinthian column was quarried in Egypt. They were then put on vessels to travel across the Mediterranean, until they reached the port of Ostia. From there, the columns were transported up the Tiber by barge. The weight of the columns seems to

20 press the Pantheon down; the ground level surrounding the building has visibly risen since ancient times, giving the illusion that the whole structure will someday be absorbed by the earth.

Today, the Pantheon still holds masses and solemn celebrations such as the Pentecost.

On that particular day, every year, fire fighters park their trucks by the entrance of the building. Some of them reach the top of the dome, by its central oculus, and while the Veni

Sancte Spiritus is chanted, rose petals are poured into the temple. The delicate red droplets, falling into the circular stream of light of the oculus, are the prettiest things I've ever seen.

My mother took me to see the celebration of the Pentecost several times, and I would always return home with my pockets filled with red rose petals I gathered off the marble floor.

My parents bought our apartment on Via del Seminario in Nineteen eighty nine because of its position in the Piazza, strategically close to both the Bar and the Pantheon.

When they got the chance, they purchased a parallel apartment with an entrance on Via della

Minerva, which was right around the corner. Above the apartment's door, was a piece of marble engraved with a quote from an epigram written by Virgil, Sic vos non vobis – “Thus do ye, but not for yourselves.”

I remember when the apartment was bare and dusty and my mother would spend her days staring at blueprints, while it was being rebuilt. She would think of every single detail and price, trying to distract herself from a marriage that was anything but a fairytale, and would eventually fall apart. I remember all of the things we came across during the reconstruction, pieces of ancient urns and chunks of marble. Also, I remember how excited my mother was when a wall was knocked down in what became our living room and she found a wide hole directly leading to Rome's main sewage system, which used to be a toilet.

The central oculus in the dome, also called the Great Eye, is the only source of light inside the Pantheon. Sunlight streams through it and on June 21st the light beam is perfectly

21 aligned with the front doors. When it rains, water does fall into the roof, but the gradual slope of the floor allows it to reach the central drain.

On her first visit to Rome, my mother was invited, by one of the guards of the monument, to see the view from the top of the building. She climbed the stairs until she reached a flat area over the portico. The view from there was mesmerizing. She could see the off-white fabric of the umbrellas outside of bars and the frosty windows of apartments on Via della Minerva. The dome was like a crystal ball; in it, she could see her future.

Chloe Esposito

“Spring Cleaning”

Growing up, Forest Gump was my favorite movie. As I look back, I am not sure if it was because I was severely, and still am, addicted to chocolate or if I actually thought the recipe to life could be found in cocoa beans, sugar and milk. "Life is lyk a box of Chalkolits," I wrote, "You never no witch one you are going to git." As I moved a large cardboard box out of the shadows of my closet, these words held my attention. Since winter would be around for two more weeks, I decided to put a hold on spring-cleaning and explore what I knew to be the first journal I ever wrote. "Life is lyk a box of Chalkolits, You never no witch one you are going to git." How could this phrase have meant so much to a five year old? I thought, staring into the black ink that moved up and down like a roller coaster, looping with every l and i I sounded out. This could not have possibly made any sense to me at the time. The famous words were sloppily written across the top of the blue book, covering the peace signs, smiley faces and yin-yangs that filled the entire cover. Its pages were feeble, containing faded lead and jagged bindings; bindings that barely held together the secrets of a five-year-old's mind. Like an archeologist who found the little toe of a greater being, I dug deeper into the box, eventually finding the past 15 years of my life. So here's where it all went, I thought, wide-eyed and full of exploration, Here's what I seemed to forget. As over a decade of dust evaporated into the air, I flipped open the first page. I am in Nu Jerzey Shore. I love Shana. I love Stephanie. Grampa makes the corn. I want to beet him in powker. These written words served as the key to my memory. I was sitting on the front porch of the upside down eight house my mother's side of the family rented every summer at the Jersey Shore when I scribbled these

23 short sentences. It earned its name from the metal eight that was mistakenly glued upside down to the side of the house. I remember the sand that stuck to my thighs and feeling burnt from long hours my sister Julia and our three other cousins spent in the sun; digging, sculpting, and throwing the sand that saved us from boredom. I remember Stephanie bossing us all around. I remember Cori talking back. I remember my sister being wrapped from head to toe in tin foil and displayed to the family in a play we called Julia the Martian Strikes Back. I remember the day Shana, the oldest cousin, rescued me from a huge wave that gobbled me up when my father was nowhere to be found. I lost my bathing suit. She let me take hers and she ran out naked. I remember receiving the cootie shot and promising Stephanie to never speak to boys. I listened because I always wanted to be like Stephanie. I remember my cousin Michael watching the five girls play, as he quietly sat under one of the many multicolored umbrellas, petrified we would throw sand in his face. I remember the tiny beads of sweat building on the top of my Uncle Rudy's forehead, as he worked relentlessly in front of an audience to create castles, pyramids, Egyptian sphinxes, and mermaids in the sand. I remember my sister and me exchanging whispers and mischievous glances as we locked fingers and cannon balled into Uncle Rudy's masterpiece. I further remembered my Grandfather peeling the corn and carving the meat in the upside down eight house's kitchen that was always yellow from the bad lighting that hung overhead. His hands were steady and strong, while his heart remained gentle and humble. I remember how much my grandmother yelled at my grandfather, yet kept the flame in her eye that sparked sixty-five years before. Grandpa taught me how to play powker. He taught me how to see humor in the daunting situations that fail to match our expectations. As I closed the little blue book, I could only think of how everything has changed since then. During a time when my life could have been explained in less than twenty words, there was much more going on than I had thought. Shana, my beloved cousin who ran across the beach naked for me, taught me life's lessons, and whom I saw solely for who she was, suffered throughout most her life. She wasn't sick, nor was she broken hearted. She was gay.

I remember the first time she told me. It was after ten years of my family hiding it from me, ten years after she broke down to her mother and was kicked out of her house that very night. It was ten years since Shana drove all the way from New Jersey to my house in Connecticut since she had no place else to go. Ten years passed since my mother lied to me and told me Shana wanted to surprise you. It has been one year since Shana's been happily married to a woman she loves and one year since our family has been divided based on who supports Shana and who does not. Life is lyk a box of Chalkolits. You never no witch one you are going to git. My attention refocuses on the scribbled lettering on the front of the journal. Curious to know more, I opened the little book to another page. It was dated 1998. I am so in love with Antonie. He loves Chelsie thou. I want Antonie to be my fist kiss! I remember his strong shoulders, even at the young age of nine. I remember butterflies stirring in my stomach when I saw him. I remember the thick golden mop of hair he wore on his head that to this day, grows outward rather than downward. I remember the two freckles under his piercing blue eyes that aligned perfectly with his pupils. I remember the crookedness of his nose, which he broke three times in one year due to his awful temper combined with little league football. I remember calling his mother Aunt Gloria and his father Uncle Anthony. They joked how one day I would marry little Anthony because I was a sweet girl and Anthony needed a sweet girl to straighten him out. I remember blushing and secretly wishing it were true. I remember the strength of his pull and the tightness of his grip when he dragged me away from the girls during recess to play monster trucks and Legos with the boys. I remember one of the boys trying to lift up my skirt. I remember Anthony getting sent home from school because he gave the poor kid a black eye. Anthony was the brother I never had. However, as I grew older my compassion and admiration for Anthony transformed from a sisterly love to a romantic love. I remember growing furious when the third grade girls doodled his name on their notebooks and asked me to play with them. I knew they only wanted me to bring Anthony along.

I remember introducing him to one of the girls named Chelsea. I remember the first time he told me he wanted to ask her to be his girlfriend. I remember feeling arthritic and suffocated, anxious yet hopeless. It was the first feeling of heartache; a whirlwind of emotion that was conducted and stimulated by a glance, a half mooned smile, and touch. I remember hating the control he had over me. I remember not having any control. I remember wanting to be Chelsea so Anthony would still skip rocks with me after school, teach me how to beat Mario Cart, and more importantly, make me feel as if I was still his favorite girl. I remember when he told me Chelsea agreed to be his girlfriend. I remember telling him she smelled bad, picked her nose, and had incurable diseases. I remember the astonished look in his eyes. It was the first time I had lied to get what I wanted. I remember he broke up with her the next day. There was, however, an awful side to Anthony that I could never forget; a side that slowly emerged as he grew older. I could not help but remember the times he beat up the boys in class for no reason, cursed at his mother, vandalized the bathrooms, and stole from local stores. It was summer and our families' were on our annual summer trip to Hermosa Beach, California. I remembered the basketball sized jawbreaker displayed in our favorite candy shop's window; the forbidden jawbreaker our parents refused to buy for us. I remember Anthony asking me to steal it with him and I remember wanting him to love me back. It wasn't long before I transformed into his evil sidekick after years of being his sweet girl. It wasn't long before Anthony's parents had enough of his mischievous behavior and sent him away to boarding school before he got worse. I remember flooding my pillow with tears the night before he left, tears I tried so hard to keep behind my eyes throughout his going away party. I remember feeling regret for the first time and wishing I had told Anthony no. I could have prevented this from happening. I could have made him stay. It would be twelve years until I saw him next. I then thought about this past December, where I saw Anthony again. If I had known twelve years later we would find each other at the same beach in California with our families-older, less naïve, and comfortable with who we became, I would not have cried myself to sleep that night. If I had known twelve years

26 earlier he loved me the same way I loved him throughout my younger years, I would not have shut him out of my life for more than a decade. If I had known he continued to get into trouble with the police throughout his teenage years, I would have called him, sent him letters, or at least emailed him to straighten him out, as his parents would always say. If I would have known he would kiss me twelve years later in the same place we said good-bye, I would not have cared if he kissed Chelsea in third grade. If I knew he would remain mine since that one night on the beach in California, I would not have cared about his name engraved in every girl's notebook. Life is lyk a box of Chalkolits. You never no witch one you are going to git. I decided to open the little blue journal one last time to see what few words would hold the key to my memory next. As I flipped to a page at the end of the book, I realized I was still in 1998. When I grow up, I can't wait to win the Olympic Gold Metal in Figure Skating. Suddenly a whirlwind of nostalgia overcame me. I thought to myself how can such a dream be forgotten? I remember the first light of day spilling onto my bedroom floor and my alarm clock reacting to the brutal hour of four thirty. I remember lying in bed until I heard my mother's footsteps enter the room followed by the sound of the whisper It's time to make the doughnuts! I remember the stiff feeling of danskin tights, the elasticity in my leotard and the stickiness from the pound of hairspray it took to hold up my hair. I remember walking into Playland Ice Casino at 5:30 as the birds sang good morning. I remember calluses forming on the outsides of my pinkies from lacing and pulling, lacing and pulling five times a day. I remember the aching of my muscles and the dryness of my skin. I remember being told over and over again that there is no such thing as pain. The only thing that exists is getting stronger. I remember jumping, spinning, falling, bruising, jumping, spinning, falling bruising until it was seven thirty. I remember having to go to school with globs of hairspray in my hair, rosy cheeks, and a runny nose. I felt important when I was pursuing this rigorous yet agile sport. Especially when it came to designing my skating costumes, molding my body to the sound of

27 music, and most of all, celebrating my training through competing. I remember taking the ice after months of practice and existing in the deafening silence that stood still three seconds before the music began. I loved how much possibility lay within those three seconds. I remember receiving a phone call from an Olympic judge. I remember being on an airplane one month later and competing in countries that I did not even know how to pronounce. I remember representing something greater than myself. I remember representing my country. I remember standing on the podium while our national anthem played. My mother looked proud. If it were not for her I would not have been there. I could not have done it by myself. As I closed the little blue book for the last time I had no choice but to wonder why I stopped. "She's the sumo wrestler of figure skating!" the bug eyed 4'11, 250 lb figure skating mom said about me, "With a girl that size I don't know how she gets off the ice! The only thing she can do is seduce her audience with breasts like that!" I remember standing behind her. I remember the clown-like grin that slowly fell from her face as she saw me quivering in disbelief behind her. I remember my body changing and how I could not stand at five foot five inches and weigh ninety pounds. I remember I was insecure and heartbroken that figure skating was becoming more and more difficult. I remember growing frustrated with the fact that I went to high school part time. I remember the conversations that filled the lunch tables as I slowly made my way out the door and to the ice rink. I remember never having a drink of alcohol in my life. I remember not knowing how to smoke a cigarette. I remember crying in the bathroom stall; doing anything I possibly could to skip my lessons. I was tired of the spotlight. I was tired of my name being chewed up and spit out. I officially quit figure skating the second semester of my junior year. I remember falling into the wrong crowd because they offered me everything I was missing. I remember being a new face in a sea of people who were familiar. I remember being elected homecoming queen and slowly filling the time I spent ice- skating with alcohol, boys, parties, and new friends. I remember throwing a party and getting arrested. I remember for the first time in my life making mistakes and

28 creating the character I wanted to be. I was not on a schedule, nor was I constantly being critiqued. I remember living my life. My attention refocused on the scribbled lettering on the front of the journal. Life is lyk a box of Chalkolits. You never no witch one you are going to git. I pressed the bindings together, hoping to keep the pages intact for the next time I decided to have a peek. I then put it back in the cardboard box and continued my spring-cleaning to make room for a new season.

Henry L. Miller

“Little Bubbles Are Growing In Me and My Hallucinations Take Control As the West Goes By”

The demon-clouds flourish and spread their thick smoggy fingers across the realm of East Los Angeles. We are heading out, we are on the move, and we are going to go far. Sitting within my steel ground rocket I watch the L.A. ghetto slide by. The colorful graffiti and faces of the slums turn to blurs and I can tell that the drugs are beginning to take hold. Soon I will be unreliable. I will transform into a whirling steam-pot of imagination and hallucinations. My mind twirls, my body quivers, and I fling myself chest-first into the unknown mind oblivion. I watch Henry from above as he slips into a state of beautiful and unfathomable amusements. He sits in his lounging assigned seat aboard the train whose engine name is “Empire Builder” and dreams with his eyes open. I am his alter ego, his soul’s invention. When he shuts down, I take over. My name is Shrewd Pancropheliac, and I am an invisible shape shifting solution that is constantly flowing in and through Henry Miller. I am not always a ghostly whiff; sometimes I take shape of things that associate themselves with my creator. And my name has not always been, and will not always be Shrewd Pancropheliac. At this moment, I am placed upon the luggage rack beside his withering backpack. I am watching him, observing him, checking to make sure he is indeed experiencing what he desired to experience. The other Eight of his crowd are mingling with each other comparing similar induced results. At this moment I am in the shape of a wry cat that he met some months ago named Haole. Haole is not only the name of a cat; it is also a derogatory term for white people used by Hawaiians. It means “no breath.” This is how the ancient Hawaiians saw the newest generation of explorers, without the breath of life, without the human spirit. I lick my cat-like lips and let out a sly purr, so that my master knows I am there for him. I recount my dear Henry’s associates one by one to make sure no one has been left behind, each one is present and bouncing with adventure in their blood- tubes. Each one has an aura that wraps around them; the more experienced ones let

30 their auras drift around further from their meaty bodies. Of the Nine total, five have consumed a medium dose of hallucinogenic mushrooms, three of those have also smoked marijuana out of a hand carved corn cob pipe, one has eaten a cookie baked with marijuana butter, and three have restrained themselves from any substance except for Chocolate Kisses. Interesting lives they all lead indeed. Across the plains and back-mountains of California we speed, at around thirty miles-per-hour. Boys were being boys in the back, and the two girls sit up front pretending that they weren’t part of that crowd. They are both face down in some philosopher’s scribblings, trying to come up with arguments about why someone shouldn’t do mushrooms on a public transport vehicle. Way back at my school they were at the top of the pole in every commitment they had made. They were the shiny brass buttons on every teacher’s blouse. When the rest of the crowd had told them that the point of the whole adventure was to relax and let loose the crazy beasts of a teenage mind, they stared back with vacant, calculating, and befuddled eyes. My fingers leading my arms that lead my body, I step like Frankenstein’s monster down the aisle towards the lounge cabin. The train swaying beneath my feet, the little curls of the carpet fibers scratching the rubber of the underside of my Chuck Taylor’s. My mind is lucid, accepting some things and rejecting others, acknowledging some natural laws, and blatantly ignoring others. My world appears like a shape shifter, always bending and meshing, it slides by me as I make my monster steps. Entering the cabin, I am eyeballed. I am scrutinized. Little vibrant marbles of different colors have replaced all of the proper eyes in all of the strangers around me. The stare horribly well, pinching my temples and breezing my eyelashes with menacing thoughts. I rush through and plop my skinny useless butt on one of the lounge care benches. The soft resistance of the seat cushion embraces me. I am enveloped by tickles. My friends around me, real rebels through and through I think to my silly self. We try to contain our giggles, suppress the laughing man screaming inside us, but we fail. We talk about the empowering feeling of being able to do whatever we wanted, the absence of fear of getting expelled. Even the thought of being arrested seemed to drift away like the storm clouds of Los Angeles falling behind us. By leaving California, we were leaving all of the darkness and

31 suppression and heaviness behind. We were entering the Wonderland of the rest of our lives. I had trailed my creator through the corridor, giving him an occasional nudge to keep his legs moving, rubbing his ankle and whipping my tail about to make sure he knew I was there. I get very little attention as a cat, poor Shrewd. When he entered the lounge I pushed his hands down to his side and tugged him towards his comrade’s table. Once he sat down, I alit myself onto the nearest non-existent tree branch growing out of the table behind him. Now I am watching him play, watching him interact. He is stupid and clumsy. His friends rattle on and on about how they feel, reminiscing the many instances in which they avoided trouble. Although it wasn’t trouble they avoided, it was just consequences. They never engaged themselves in real danger; they just overlooked the stupidity of their decisions. I wonder why they do it? Why do they engage themselves with such hazardous material? Why, when asked, do they instantly swear by their association with such substances? They advance themselves in some ways, but destroy themselves in others. That must simply be the feeling of suicidal euphoria that they are looking for. On through the deserts of Arizona we fly, stopping only occasionally in the little nothing cities. This is to let travelers off so they can smoke their dirty little cigarettes; some of my friends are smokers themselves. Frisby is a constant smoker; he can blow smoke rings and watch them drift away. Johnny-Mac is a social smoker; he smokes cigarettes when all other options are lost. Nathan is a vengeful smoker; he hates the establishments that told him not to. Scola is a party smoker; he is from Las Vegas. Dahle holds a reserved concern for smokers. Raffi is a generational smoker; he smokes because every member of his family smokes. Raffi smokes Pall Malls, they declare themselves to always be smoked “Wherever Particular People Congregate.” Pall Malls used to be my cigarettes too. I smoked them filterless to be like a cowboy or some James Dean character. Kurt Vonnegut declared that they were “a classy way to commit suicide.” Well that was an interesting notion to me, so I tested the idea. On their package it says “Per aspera ad Astra.” In English it is written like this, “Through hardships to the Stars.” Speeding through most of New Mexico in the night, dreaming the dreams that psychopaths might, until we come upon Texas. It is called The Lone Star State, it simply described as where everything is bigger. It is more beautiful than any self-

32 respecting Oregonian would ever admit, so I won’t. We Nine came upon El Paso; a dusty town filled with dusty people and dusty fast food restaurants. This might have been where our massive undertaking ended; we told our parents otherwise, but we have not purchased tickets ahead of time on any passenger liner from here to New Orleans, our first big stop. My other subconscious half had begged me to buy the tickets months ago, but it had simply slipped my mind. Shrewd doesn’t have as much control as he wished over my body. I might gladly give it to him, although then my life wouldn’t be mine, and I would become subconscious and miss all the fantastic awesomeness that there is to experience. The girls are pissed though; oh boy they are certainly not pleased. Christine and Keeley are not amused at being stranded, they are not excited at finally being lost, they want bits of papers inked with numbers and letters. They needed to be told the plan. We boys simply have no idea what they were bugging about. We have just smoked that marijuana plant and most of us are trying to think of places where we should eat. That was where they are heading mindlessly without any specific plot on the brain. New Orleans. My poor Henry wishes to waste his mind in some cemetery, walking through the tombs of the Dead as the New Orleans mourners do. He wanted to float down the Mighty Mississippi as Huckleberry Finn did. He wanted to experience that mythical city. I feel that he is about to be greatly disappointed. But I will watch over him regardless, as always. I am not sure if I should be complaining though. In case you didn’t know, the more substances of suspicious content my poor Henry consumes, the stronger and more real I become. Along the tracks at night we march, counting the crossbeams of the rail and the stars in the sky. Six of us remain, sticking to our newly formed plan, Train- hopping. The two girls left with our seventh boy on a Greyhound 83 bus straight to New Orleans. That was the problem with Raffi, boy number seven, the generational smoker; he was engaged in a sexual relationship with Christine. Nathan called it a relationshit. She was constantly stealing him from us, so the six of us were always worried about number seven. So my creator and his gang trudge along the tracks, hunting for a very specific kind of game, the unlocked cargo hold heading east. They were a rare prey indeed. Four trains of at least thirty cars go by them without a single unlocked door. They feel odd at the thought of being hooligans out on the prowl for that steel forged

33 beast. They are lookers and searchers; they are observers. That is their generation’s title, the Observing Generation. Not the Generation X, not the Baby Boomers or the Beatniks, they were the Watchers. Always glued to a screen or attached to some wires, their generation is quietly watching all of you others. They know more about you than you do. Through little wires and lucid screens they take notes, they memorize, and they make copies. There is no special section of them that stands out; they were all declared the same since the day they were born, no more inequality in this bright future. Each one speaks in equally loud tongues all across the world, you other generations might not hear them though, because their breathless voices go “click tick-tick.” They are all Haole’s, they are breathless, but they will be heard regardless. At the intersection of Bonita Avenue and Indian Hill, they get what they are looking for. Hopping aboard my heart races, it aches, it fears. I numb the feeling with a cool deep breath from the Texas night air. We Six sit. We let our auras race around the room like mad headhunters. And now, as we ingest our substances, we see who and what our auras really are. So there we all are, squatting for the night in an empty cargo train. Never mind how lucky we were to find such a treasure. Fresh hay, dry wallboards and the desert smoothing out itself surrounded us. We light our little camp stove, the makeshift lamp shooting knives of thin light against the walls. Then Clint Eastwood appears, so does Stephen Kings It, an elderly ghost named Kurt with his Pall Malls, Jack Kerouac, Bobs’ Dylan and Marley, Hunter Thompson, Steve McQueen, Audrey Hepburn, Batman, Sacco and Vanzetti, a floating bar of soap with the words “FIGHT CLUB” stamped on it, the Marx Brothers, Sid Vicious and Johnny Rotten, George Orwell, Edgar Allan Poe, Iggy Pop, Mark Twain, Jimmy Page, and hyperactive Keith Moon. There was also a strange white cat. These shapes are changing themselves constantly, and new figures are appearing every minute. Each aura reflects what the real person is made up of. We have a party. Dancing and drinking and singing to each other, we mesh. After we reach New Orleans, we would dance up to New York, then mosey back to Chicago, then rocket through the deserts of the West, and finally settle in Portland. I am exhausted from dancing and singing, my feet slacking and dragging across the hay-spattered floorboards, so I sit next to the old man with the filterless Pall Malls.

“Howsy do Mr. Vonnegut?” Said I the young sprout. “All too well.” Said the wilted lily-petal. And then he spat in my face. He then quoted the other logo of his favorite cigarettes and said, “In hoc signo vinces.” Which in English means, “By this sign you shall conquer.” Of what strange mixture of delirium and imagination am I? Why do I always feel like there are more of me; older, younger, smarter, dumber, or whatever Henry’s seem to be everywhere. In my friends I see myself, in books and movies, in magazines and in obituaries, I see sprinkles of whatever I am made of. I feel so distantly connected to everything and everybody, like the spidery limbs of a family tree. I run into strangers expecting the warm embraces they would give me if they had any idea who I was. I am instead looked at with terrified eyes. So why would my imagination spit in my face? Why do I want some fictional character to pass me the torch? I suppose it to be simply that I want to be of worth. I want to matter to whomever I encounter. I want to manipulate and stimulate the human race, and I want to be appreciated. One of these days I will matter and the kids will go “click tick-tick” as they scream my name.

DRAMA

THE BEFUDDLED HUMAN BEING

A Play

Henry Miller

Characters MAN, A man in his mid-twenties who observes and narrates from the audience

BOY 1, A creative and curious teenager in his later years of High School

BOY 2, Another teenager and friend of BOY 1

GIRL, A gorgeous young woman in her early twenties who is attending a University

LOVER, A man in his late forties who has streaks of grayness in his hair and an unsatisfied look constantly riddled across his face

GEEZER, A very old man who cannot walk properly

FRIEND, An equally old man and friend of the GEEZER

Setting A place vacant of any real detail. The curtains draw back and the stage is completely empty. There are exits on both the back left and right of the stage, as well as the front left and right. It is the present.

The unknown young MAN in his early twenties leaps up from the left section of the audience and clambers on to the left side of the stage.

MAN

(Immediately after reaching the front of the stage, he speaks loudly) You are all welcome to watch the youth and the un- youth tell it like it is. That is, tell you what it feels like to be wrapped up in the illusion of time, (Pause) and to feel time trap you and ridicule your greatness.

(During this the MAN is walking from the left to the right of the stage facing the audience and speaking loudly, he then climbs off of the stage and seats himself invisibly amongst the audience. Two teenagers enter from the back left of the stage, walking aimlessly towards the right front of the stage.)

KID #1

You were listening to the old black guy right?

KID #2

Oh yeah, at the coffee place? That was crazy awesome.

KID #1

He was so weird, and his voice was so ridiculously deep.

KID #2

(Pause) He was pretty smart though, what he was saying about languages.

KID #1

Yeah that was cool, like the reason why we have to be taught grammar in school.

KID #2

Fucking Webster.

KID #1

Before him there was no organized spelling, you would just write what sounded right.

KID #2

What felt right I guess.

KID #1

Damn we missed out.

KID #2

(Pause) Also what he said about that Italian chick.

KID #1

(Quick) Totally, she sounded pretty cool too.

KID #2

I wonder how old she is.

KID #1

He said that she was from La Paz and spoke only Spanish up till she was about nine.

KID #2

(Affirming) And then she started learning English.

KID #1

Yeah and he said she told him how strange it was when she suddenly started thinking in English. Like a total brain switch; thinking in a different language than she was raised speaking.

KID #2

I wonder if her memories of her childhood are in Spanish? Maybe it completely wiped everything and she tells her stories to herself in her American tongue. Tongue... Tongue… Tongue… Shit that is one odd word. (Lengthy pause, during which boy number one sits on the right front of the stage with his feet dangling off it. He pulls out an apple from his pocket and starts to gobble.)

KID #1

You know when you keep saying a word and listening to it and you forget it’s meaning and suddenly it feels so foreign to your mouth.

KID #2

Yeah that just happened to me.

KID #1

(Uninterested) It happened to me earlier with “human.”

KID #2

Ooh that’s a good one.

(Unknown person leaps from the audience and walks along the front of the stage from right to left quickly.)

MAN

Oh the fascination of youth, the surprise of their wonder and fantastic desire. What lovely interest they show in the world around them!

(After finishing he leans against the front of the stage and looks over to watch the kids talk to each other. They are slightly disturbed by him and decide to ignore his existence, but every once in a while boy number one looks over anxiously.)

KID #1

(Slight stuttering) Yeah I was reading my Children’s Bible I found when I came across it.

KID #2

(Interested) I love the Children’s Bible! The pictures are straight up tight shit.

KID #1

My dad used to read me the actual Bible when I was a kid. The Old Testament cus that’s the legit badass one with murders and the raping of wives and wine parties and wars and smiting. (Deep breath) Good stuff.

KID #2

Word.

KID #1

Man that stuff was so cool! I wanted to be in the Bible so I could kill Philistines and other evil people with my sword.

KID #2

Yeah the sequel was kinda boring, all preachy and no interesting plot twists. No rape.

KID #1

Totally! How can we get pumped about religion if we can’t relate to the stories?

KID #2

It’s kinda sad that the only thing that separates Christians from Jews is the most boring book ever.

KID #1

Did you ever read it?

KID #2

I tried. It does have some cool lines and prayers and stuff, but I need more than that.

KID #1

(Munching on his apple) We need sex and violent romps.

KID #2

Of the Biblical proportions.

KID #1

(Lengthy Pause) Speaking of Biblical proportions, how’s that deal with Wessley coming along?

KID#2

(Casual) Pretty good, he isn’t as reliable as I thought. But these are hallucinogens, so I assume they are harder to come by.

(Boy number one becomes very anxious at the mention of hallucinogens in front of the unknown MAN)

KID #1

Yeah I bet.

KID #2

As long as it’s cheap I don’t care how long it takes or where they come from.

KID #1

Great, let’s hope he doesn’t sprinkle meth on them.

KID #2

Methamphetamines. That is an awesome word.

KID #1

True dat Barnaby!

KID #2

Yessir indeed.

(They both exit at the back right of the stage, playful and happy. The MAN watches them leave and then hops back on the stage.)

MAN

So they are missing something, maybe some maturity, maybe common sense. Maybe they are lonely or simply just bored. One thing is for sure, and that is that they are more momentous than you take for granted.

(A cheesy old iron spring bed is rolled on the stage from the left to the center; it is covered with fluffy pillows and many comforters. In it there is a sad looking man in his forties, he is strong but weathered and streaks of grayness are in his hair. Next to him is a beautiful young woman in her early twenties.)

MAN

Jesus what a pathetic wimp of a man.

(MAN hops offstage and sits in the audience. The man is resting against the back of the iron bed, and he appears to be contemplating. The girl wakes up and does a very fake yawn. She then leans over and wraps herself around his body, he does not move to comfort her.)

GIRL

Mmm you are a man with muscles. Nice and strong and solid and consistent.

LOVER

(Lengthy pause) I don’t know if that is a compliment or what.

GIRL

It is, trust me.

LOVER

(Sarcastic) Well then thank you deary.

GIRL

You are most definitely welcome.

LOVER

(Pause) So how have you been? How’s school?

GIRL

(Oblivious) School is boring. It’s so dull and redundant. It’s like I am repeating the same boredom I had to deal with in high school. Just so useless, I’m thinking of dropping.

LOVER

Don’t do that sweetheart, what about law school?

GIRL

Oh what about it? I am a pretty girl; pretty girls don’t have to work for a living. We find rich boys with fast cars and we never leave the passenger seat.

LOVER

(Laughs in frustration) Ha! Well the best of luck to ya with that plan of yours. I am sure it will take you far.

GIRL

What is wrong with my plan?

LOVER

It’s just naïve that’s all. Where do you think you are going to find such a boy?

GIRL

I don’t really know. (Careful pause) Clubs and parties and other social gatherings.

LOVER

I bet you could find a perfectly wealthy boy at law school, I mean that’s where all of those yuppies start right?

GIRL

Oh honey you are so outdated, it’s adorable.

LOVER

What do you mean? I’m not that outdated, I watch T.V. all the time.

GIRL

Just don’t worry about it. I will stay in law school if you like, but you have to promise to help me with all the work.

LOVER

I don’t see how I could possibly help, I haven’t been in college for almost twenty years now, I am sure I have forgotten how to do everything.

GIRL

(Sexually) Well there’s one thing you are certainly still excel at…

LOVER

Babe please don’t get me started, I need to go home to my wife soon, I don’t want my head wrapped around you when I’m with her. It’s no fun.

GIRL

(Pause and her hand goes under the covers) No fun?

LOVER

No.

GIRL

(Leans back) Hmm… Sounds like when I used to go home high and had to talk to my parents… I wonder if they ever knew.

LOVER

I don’t want to hear that darling.

(The Girl reaches towards her pants at the edge of the bed and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. She begins to smoke arrogantly.)

LOVER

I wish you would stop doing that. I wonder how I could get you to quit.

GIRL

Don’t even bother. This addiction is here to stay and I am never going to try to fight it. Besides, it will kill all the bugs that crawled into my lungs while I was sleeping.

LOVER

That doesn’t make any sense and I am sorry you feel like that.

GIRL

(Oblivious) My parents probably did know I was high. My mom at least, she’s what they call a smart cookie. Why don’t you want to hear that? Is it because I am your precious innocent little college girl who stays out of trouble?

LOVER

(Negative) I don’t want to talk about it sweetie.

GIRL

(Arrogant) It is isn’t it? I’m not you know, I’ve been around, I’ve seen things. I know how the important things work.

LOVER

Only a girl as young as you would talk about that as if it is an accomplishment.

GIRL

Ahh a girl as young as me. I thought you liked that? How should I talk about it then? My lack of innocence? How I know what goes on?

LOVER

(Pause) If there is a word for it, then it is regret.

MAN

(From Audience) HA! As if you care!

GIRL

(Pause) You are being negative again.

LOVER

No I’m not, I am trying to warn you. The happiest old human is the one who knows the least about the world. Blissful ignorance.

GIRL

But unfortunately we befuddled human beings are addicted to obtaining more and more knowledge.

LOVER

(Frustrated) I wish there was some way we could see ahead of our stupid desires.

GIRL

(Vapid) Yeah I guess. But then wouldn’t our life together not exist?

(The bed is pushed off to the back right of the stage. Unknown Man hops onstage and pretends to chase it away. He then pauses, and turns back to face the audience.)

MAN

So you see! Time does not make us better people. We grow up to be adulterers and abandoners, liars and wretches! (Pause) Let’s see what the end looks like.

(Two very old men walk from the back left of the stage carrying wooden folding chairs. This goes slowly as they are too weak to walk properly. They sit at the front of the stage and gaze into the audience.)

GEEZER

(Clears Throat) I don’t know where she is anymore.

FRIEND

Maybe I can help; I have done a fair share of research on your wife.

GEEZER

(Pause) Really?

FRIEND

Well I have been following her for a long time.

GEEZER

You have been haven’t you; she is not even your wife to follow.

FRIEND

(Sheepish) I know, but I have always liked her.

GEEZER

I don’t really even want to find her; she’s not exactly my wife anymore anyway.

FRIEND

She used to be a fabulous wife.

GEEZER

(Bewildered) Was she?

FRIEND

Yes.

GEEZER

Well I wish she hadn’t left me; I really needed her.

FRIEND

No you didn’t, you had that pretty young girl and you had sex.

GEEZER

There is more to me than who I have sex with.

FRIEND

That’s not what your wife thought.

GEEZER

(Hurt) That’s not fair. She wasn’t fair. I am so tired of people seeing things different from me.

FRIEND

(Careful pause) Do you want to find her still? Even after you chose that girl over her?

GEEZER

I never did that; I could never choose someone over my wife.

FRIEND

But you did.

GEEZER

Maybe I don’t want to find her entirely. I just want to see her character, a fraction of a slice of her story.

FRIEND

That would satisfy you.

GEEZER

Yes you know it would. I can’t see too much, I already have enough stories in my life. You are right.

FRIEND

There is no more room; you would have to lose one of the happier stories.

GEEZER

(Lengthy Pause) I am so afraid of dying, but do I really want to live that long?

FRIEND

No. (Pause) Do you?

GEEZER

I am just wondering if after I have had my fill of time, would I still ask for more?

FRIEND

You mean after you feel bloated and sweaty with it?

GEEZER

Yes. It is not suicide to decide you have had your fill, and are ready to move on.

FRIEND

Is it quitting though?

GEEZER

(Contemplates) No, it is acceptance.

(The Friend pulls out an apple, holds it out to look at it, wipes it on his collar, and begins to gobble.)

FRIEND

(Careful) So you would want to see your wife?

GEEZER

Just a frame, just one frame, then I could move on.

(There is a sudden burst of bright light that flashes on the stage and nearly absorbs them. Soon it dies down and the audience sees the men blink a little.)

GEEZER

(Vapid) I wonder what a quiet explosion would sound like.

FRIEND

(Loving) I am sure it is beautiful. (There is silence onstage. Both men continue to sit and the unknown MAN comes up from the audience slowly. He climbs the stage looking into the audience with a defeated stare, he then stands behind to the left of the men.)

MAN

(Demanding) So what is it? What is the burden of man? What is the big deal with this silly human race? (Pause) It must be the heavy weight of feeling time pass through us. Grabbing us like molasses and sick goo, we know it is constant, and we only wish we could control it. But it is unstoppable. It is a force that we can only slightly understand, we do not know time’s origin, and we cannot imagine an existence without it. What a beautiful thing it is to be blissfully ignorant about something so important.

UNHEARD

A Play

Cassandra Panasuk

Characters

RALPH, desperate husband

MARY, wife who has fallen out of love

UNHEARD CHILD, daughter of RALPH and MARY

Setting

Dinner table, two candles lit on each side of the table, three chairs are placed on each side, and a coat rack off to the right side of the stage with a rope hanging from it.

(UNHEARD CHILD walks on stage, sits down at the dinner table were RALPH and MARY are seated.)

UNHEARD CHILD Sorry I am late, I had to stay after class to talk to my teacher.

MARY

You couldn’t even bring the silverware to the table could you RALPH? I made this amazing meal and I ask you to do one thing and you couldn’t even manage to get off your lazy ass and do it.

RALPH

Amazing meal? Bullshit! You put some pasta into boiling water and opened up a jar of sauce. (Sarcastically) Not so hard if you ask me.

MARY

You ungrateful bastard! I don’t see you ever contributing to this household. I do everything myself.

UNHEARD CHILD

I got an A+ on my math test today.

RALPH

I make all the god damn money in this house, you haven’t had a job in over six months MARY.

MARY 53

Oh yeah you hard working man, what do you do again? (Beat) Oh yeah sit in your office in front of a computer screen watching porn all day bossing people around. You disgust me!

UNHEARD CHILD

Okay so I lied, I wasn’t late because I had to talk to my teacher I was late because some girl tried to steal my wallet. She punched me a few times but I didn’t back down. Daddy you would have been so proud!

Ralph

I disgust you? (Pause) Is that why you fucked that 30 year old guy from the supermarket?

Mary

Don’t you dare throw that in my face RALPH, that was over a year ago and you have made my life hell ever since. I should have divorced you when I had the chance. We would both be happy right now.

RALPH

Happy? You would be poor living in a box on the side of the road. If it wasn’t for me you would have nothing.

MARY

I would be happier in a box than I am right now with a man addicted to porn who doesn’t appreciate me.

UNHEARD CHILD

Mom, can you please pass me the cheese?

RALPH

I am addicted to porn? Or am I desperate because my wife hasn’t had sex with me in over a year?

MARY

I want to throw up just from looking at you. (Beat) Why the hell would I want to fuck you?

RALPH

You had no problem doing that with Billy the produce boy from the supermarket. What does Billy have that I don’t MARY? Want me to wear a name tag and get paid minimum wage? Maybe then you’ll want me.

UNHEARD CHILD

I started throwing up my food two months ago because I don’t like the way my body looks.

MARY

Don’t mock me you asshole, you don’t think I know about your new secretary Susan? She obviously jerks you off at least once a day, I can tell by the way she looks at you.

RALPH

Susan? Nice try, we strictly have a professional working relationship and nothing more. You are just jealous because her breasts and ass aren’t sagging to the floor.

MARY

Strictly professional? Is that what they call it these days? I came to bring you lunch last month and I saw you two going at it in the conference room. You are the biggest liar I have ever met.

(Silence)

RALPH

You made me do it MARY. You pushed me away, I had no choice I wanted to feel love again.

UNHEARD CHILD

I cut my wrists last night. I bled all over your favorite white towels Mom, I’m sorry. (Beat) I will try to wash the stains out tonight.

MARY

I made you do it? Be a man and take responsibility for your own disgusting actions. At least I told you when I cheated but you just tried to be sneaky and hide your affair.

RALPH

Affair? No, I was just having some fun. I just wanted that excitement back. I just wanted to feel wanted.

MARY

You wanted two women at one time, you wanted to feel powerful and conniving. You got off on the thought of cheating on me, I know you too well.

RALPH

You are my wife MARY. I never wanted to hurt you. Our wedding vows were shot to shit after you cheated on me, I just needed to get you back.

UNHEARD CHILD

I have sex with random boys around school because you never showed me enough love Dad. Can someone please pass the cheese?

MARY

(Begins to cry)

RALPH

Aw honey don’t cry. (Pause) What happened to us? Remember when you used to look at me with passion in your eyes? We were unstoppable you and I, I miss the way we use to be MARY.

MARY

(Wipes the tears from her face) I haven’t loved you in over three years, it’s too late for us. Besides me and Billy are in love! I’m sorry I haven’t told you, but I’ve have been with him ever since you found out that I cheated.

RALPH

(Shocked) You have been with him this whole time? Behind my back? How can you love him! He makes no money, how will he be able to support you?

UNHEARD CHILD

I tried heroine last weekend. I took the needle and shoved it in my arm because my friends told me that it would help me to

56 forget how fucked up my family is. (Screams and stands) Can someone pass the God damn cheese!

MARY

I am sorry RALPH. It’s over. I want a divorce!

RALPH

Don’t say that! I still love you. (Beat) I will fire Susan, I will get a new job, I will never look at porn again, please MARY stay with me, you are my everything.

MARY

(Screams) Did you not hear me? I am in love with another man! We are going to move to California and he is going to get a better job and we are going to be so happy.

RALPH

But what about our child? She needs us to stay together.

UNHEARD CHILD

What I need is the cheese! If someone doesn’t pass me the cheese right now I am going to kill myself tonight.

MARY

She is old enough now to understand what’s going on. Besides she has been living in a household of fighting her whole life. She will probably be happy that we are getting a divorce.

RALPH

I don’t think I can live without you MARY. All the cheating, all the lies, and I still love you with all my heart. There is nothing I can do to make you stay with me?

MARY

SHUT UP RALPH IT’S OVER. O .. V.. E..

RALPH

PLEASE JUST STAY WITH ME!

UNHEARD CHILD

(Stands up from her seat at the dinner table and grabs the cheese plate. She then slams it onto the floor and walks over to the rope hanging on the coat rack. She then walks off stage left.)

MARY

Now you are begging? You really are pathetic. Let’s just get through dinner as peacefully as we can. I am sorry RALPH there is nothing more you can do to change my mind.

RALPH

I will keep myself composed for when she gets home but don’t think this is over. After dinner I would like to talk about this some more and see if there is any way I can change your mind.

MARY

(Rolls her eyes) Where is that little booger anyways? Did she come home from school yet?

RALPH

I did not hear her come in, maybe she is in her room?

(Simultaneously)

RALPH MARY

Dinner’s ready come on down. Daughter,

Dinner is ready where are you?

(MARY stands up from her chair

and walks towards the

left side of the stage

where their child’s room is,

the sound of a door opening

plays and MARY screams and 58

falls to her knees.

(Curtain falls.)

END OF PLAY