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VOL. L FALL, 1986

STAFF Editor Mary Erbach Assistant Editors Patricia Portee Juan Cabrera Kathleen Erbach Graphics Editor Christopher Peruzzi Editorial Staff Michael Portee Susan Loud Kari Larsen Steven Foster

©Copy Rights 1987 by authors and artists Cover Photo by Al Grosman. Leaves Fall, Love Rises

A young woman and her son walked through the park observing nature’s last remnant in the smooth grey city. Their relaxed strides enabled them to digest the beauty wasted by others. Hand in hand, their partnership emitted trust exclusive to mother and son. The tree tops formed a natural sieve, through which the sun slipped, blanketing them in a yellow hue. Illuminated by the casual rays, they were truly beauty in microcosm. The squirrels, ducks, geese, and birds, being new to the young boy’s world, puzzled him into an interrogative stupor. Unfamiliar with many denizens of the unfenced zoo, he spouted forth question after question with a rambling uncertainty. He listened as his mother solved, with the ease of a philosopher, his every problem. She explained with the limitless knowledge only a mother can possess, where the birds go during the winter, what squirrels eat, and why the trees change color. He looked up at his mother, and kissed her hand. She tasseled his hair and smiled. The feelings he had for her transcended far beyond any comprehensible limits he knew himself to have. He loved her with an innocent vengeance that convinced him he could not exist if she were gone. But she never would be; his love would make her stay with him, forever. If not, he reasoned, he would end up like one of the brittle leaves being shattered under his sneakers. Why had he just kissed her hand? She felt comfort in believing he loved her as much as she loved him. It was not an unusual maternal love she had for him, but it was slightly more intense than the average mother. If anything ever happened to him she would. . . nothing ever would. She would see to that. They stood a few feet from the mushy edge of the lake, feeding the geese and ducks bite size morsels of white bread. His pudgy hand flipped the white hunk into a crowd, and he watched them scuffle, bump, and squirm, until one clipped the piece between his bill. He felt sorry for the ducks because the geese kept pushing them away. He began throwing the bread in between the webbed feet of the smaller animals, so they could get to it before the selfish members of the gaggle gobbled it up. A strangely temperate wind, that both silently and invisibly betrayed the inevitable approach of fall, tossed his bangs down into his eyes. He cleared them away with the same chubby hand he had used to pitch the bread to the deprived ducks. She had long ago, it seemed like twenty years, forgotten how to enjoy the simple beauty of a park. However, the scrutiny with which her son looked around gave her insight. He helped her to find beauty in the naturally pure things she had come to take for granted. She did not, of course, realize this; she was instead baffled by the mixture of love and happiness she felt Late Afternoon on the Roof of the Bellarmino swimming around in her chest. They halted occasionally, to chase a bird, or to rest on the harmless blades of grass. Bathed in the afternoon’s warm sun, Lying on their backs, in a clearing, they played the cloud game. The act of The spires and domes of Rome stretch out before me looking for faces and figures in the ambiguous forms is probably as old as A rich carpet of antiquity, the clouds themselves, but he thought she had invented it that afternoon, for A tapestry of art and worship. him. She showed him the shape of a horse, a dog, and an almost perfect visage of George Washington. He laughed, and pointing to a cloud that had II just drifted into their field of vision, said, “That one looks like daddy.” The curling smoke from nearby chimneys “Yes, it does, a little. Look at that blue-jay, honey.” She pointed to the bird Seem wisps of incense and wondered how he could have recognized his father in a cloud, for he Drifting upward in the sunlit sky. had only seen him in pictures. Nevertheless, her son had identified his III absent father in a fleeting mass of white nothing cruising above them. At six, the bells chime out in mellow choirs, She thought, looking into his wide eyes, how much he looked like his Echoing and answering each others’ peals, father, wherever he was. But she refused to let herself start wondering, for he With slow civility. had left her four year ago, a child bearing a child, and she could not allow herself to care if he was alive or dead. Iv She knew that the doomed relationship, however tragic and painful, had For levity, the swallow swoop and climb, left one small piece of happiness in its wake. Her son, even if he resembled With gay abandon in the gentle breeze. the irresponsible whimp she had once loved, represented the only good A counterpart of swift black wings remnant of a past she tried desperately to forget. Against the afternoon’s bright cloth of gold. On that beautiful day in the park, with the shedding trees shriveling up to V face the coming chill, mother and son were each intoxicated by a new love. Here Caesar’s legions marched, and Dante wrote A unique love that had come on as unexpectedly, and as subtly as the story And made marble speake. book day they were lying in. Here to, a fisherman from Galilee was crucified. Head downwards for a faith he was thrice denied. — Bob Anderson Their ghosts gather round me in the Roman air. —Richard Cronin S.j View to a Kill

The deer stood in the distance, darkness disrupted by the shadow of a blue moon. In the distance its snarling teeth glistened with hunger. The wolf approached for the kill. The silence of the meadow echoed the sound of our hearts pounding from fear, guilt, and the drive to survive. The wolf closed in, saliva dripping from its crippling jaws of death. The deer trembling with fear stood frozen. Do it now I thought, the moon beginning to fade. The wolf bolted toward the deer which made a dash for the woods darkness. The rifle fired, dropping the wolf to its knees. He lay silent, frozen, as the deer stood moments before. The moon faded, the wolf destroyed; the deer to live in fear, me to live in guilt.

— Michael Gilsenan A Visit to a Master of Words

A great poet lived not too far from me. I had read his poems in various periodicals and collections and was always fascinated by his wonderful use of his extended symbolism and imagery. His poems always had such deep meanings, that it would sometimes take me weeks to figure them out. I’ll confess, there were some that I’ve never been able to make heads or tails of. Having not yet reached the age where one becomes too much of an adult to stop asking questions, I got the poet’s address by calling his publisher on the pretense of researching an article for a feature on the lifestyle of modern poets. I assured the publisher that his firm would be mentioned prominently in my piece, which would appear in the Sunday section of an upstate newspaper. I had seen my hero’s picture on the back cover of his collected works. He was a distinguished looking man, striking a reflective pose with pipe in hand. I couldn’t believe that very soon he would be discussing his classic works with ME. He received me with some suspicion. I guess it was only natural, considering that it was late in the evening, and he was nearly eighty years old now. He hardly resembled his jacket photo as he stood there with the door half open, wearing a sleeveless undershirt, gray pajama bottoms and slippers. Still, he let me into his apartment. There I was, face to face with a legend, a genius, a veritable god of the English language, a... “You want a beer?” he asked. “I’m watching the Love Boat. Charo is guest starring. Sit down over on the sofa, but watch out for the cat, huh?” I took the seat and decided not to waste any time. Who knows? I may have been interrupting the thought process of a work which could be remembered for centuries. I wondered, secretly whether he noticed that I was wearing almost the exact same Tweed jacket and ascot that he had worn in that jacket photo. I began to light my pipe (as close a replica that I could find) when he snapped at me. “Do you have to smoke that pipe in here? Jesus, I hate those things.” Flustered, but not intimidated, I hastily stuffed the pipe in my pocket and got down to business. First off, I praised him generously and told him that he had been a great influence on me. This seemed to please him, though it was hard to tell, as he was staring intently at the TV screen. Strange that this genius could watch such.. such.. trash. “So what do you want, kid? Haa, I’m tired.” I got straight to the point. “What was the meaning of your classic poem, ‘I Nailed My Hand to the ~l1arj’ail1l A. Zitlueta Door’?” I asked. “The meaning?” “Yes, I always felt that you were making a comment on the way the Indian Hunger has been exploited while showing man’s general inhumanity in a world which is ruled by lust.” Cries of pain are he~rd throughout the falling walls, “That’s what you think the meaning is?” he asked. no one to hear and always the fear of receiving unheeded calls. “Well, either that or the ultimate death of God,” I said. Days have passed and lasted in the memory of those within, He shook his head. “It’s about an accident I had while adding a room to only the light of the morning sky has helped erase the impoverished sin. my bother Ben’s summer house.” Many a night is spent in thoughts of meat and grain, I was dumbfounded. He had to be joking, but dreams are but specs of salt quickly washed away by a morning’s rain. “If that’s true,” I said, “how do you explain the use of the terms ‘God blast Children cry, their needs denied, their lives full of sorrow and pain, ye!’, ‘Hellfire!’, and the repeating of ‘Jesus Christ!’?” and their dreams of food are but specs of salt, quickly washed away by “I was upset,” he replied. “How do you think you’d feel if you nailed your a morning’s rain. hand to the door? It’s no picnic, lemme tell you.” “Okay,” I said, “how about the poem ‘My Red Truck Runs Well’?” The day will come, however, when the poor will rise from shame, “It did.” for in the hearts of those deprived, lurks the beast which no one can tame. “But didn’t you mean to symbolize the male genetalia and the Oedipus He is the one who drives them on, like wild dogs on the prowl, complex through the use of the truck and its grinding wheels?” dogs whose hunger shall only cease when empty bellies have no need to “It was about a red truck I owned back in ‘42,” he said matter-of-factly. His growl. eyes never left the screen. Then and only then will the fiery beast be hushed, There was a silence between us for a while as I contemplated what he had for meat is the universal cure of that which cannot be crushed. just told me, and he contemplated Charo dancing across the deck of the That which remains nameless and faceless, lurks the streets of every town, Pacific Princess. hoping to capture the meek and the poor, in an attempt to bring them “Look kid,” he finally sighed, “for years people have been asking me what down. I meant by this, and what I meant by that. I’ve heard of college professors telling their students to read behind every word I’ve written. After a while, I — Albert Rodriguez just started agreeing with every stupid meaning they wanted to put on my works. People read what they want to read.” “You can’t mean that!” I exclaimed. He took his attention from the screen and turned to face me. “Kid, if I actually put symbolism and hidden meanings into every word that I wrote, I’d never have finished one poem. It just doesn’t work that way.” I left his apartment heartbroken. My dreams had been shattered. I took off my jacket and looked at it in disgust. As I walked down the street thinking about what he said, I stopped suddenly and thought to myself, “I wonder what he REALLY meant by that?” —Liam Lamfada SPINELLI AWAP~SD

~~44;t ~~ the back of my mind

A place in the back of my mind, Ten-cent Philosophy an open space where one will find memories of a typical youth. “Tragedy. That’s all I been hearin’ about lately is tragedies.” The words Of baseball cards and bubble gum seeped into my brain as I sat down. and saturday afternoons The fat lady behind the counter had been giving me her ten cent spent with my best friend John. philosophy on the state of the world. Her analysis was sparked by a car How we’d go on and on accident down the street from the Mom and Pop coffee shop I was in. As I about how much we knew came up the street I noticed her outside observing with the same morbid and when older we grew curiosity that makes people slow down to look at accidents on the highway. he’d be another Bobby Murcer, She followed me inside to wait on me, and it started. the Yankee’s centerfielder. As she got my coffee she began a discourse on the terrible condition of And I, I’d be the next Thurman Munson, the world. She leaned back against the wall and lit a cigarette. A Benson and the league’s most valuable in “76”. Hedges menthol 100. She never bothered to remove it, it just hung from her mouth. The filter quickly became saturated with her cheap pastey lipstick. Our heroes then, With her physical appearance, no wonder her pessimistic attitude. in a yesterday when She compelled my scrutiny. Her polyester K-Mart stretch pants could his was a star stretch no further; indeed they were expanded so far that I could see the and mine was alive. whiteness of her flesh coming through. Her blouse, an Andy Warhol Of all this what remains today nightmare. I don’t say she smelled, but she made one automatically exhale, is but a memory slowly fading away. as if by instinct, when she walked by. And what obesity. Some people had a spare tire, but this girl was an eighteen wheeler. Her stomach made her look As these words attempt to draw it near, eternally pregnant. Her complexion looked like a perfect site for a lunar comes the realization, expedition. Crater after crater, a visage that gave new meaning to the term I’ve not seen John in many a year. eye-sore. As my younger brother would say, “She’s a beast.” Thus to a childhood friend My first reaction to her talk was to ask her if she could remember a time I send a poem as a token of a friendship when things were any different. Could she remember a time without now at an end. murder, rape, and wife-beating? Was there ever a time when children—on C’est la vie. drugs or not, did not cause parents nightmares? I answered my own Such is life. question: no there was not. The specifics may have changed, but the How can it be? problems were, in essence, the same. She dwelled on the dark side of I fail to comprehend society, forever remembering the bad things and forgetting the good ones. why the future exploits of two children Not that I considered myself any different, except that our level of concerns should be only so much pretend. were not the same. “This Aids thing has really got me worried you know. They say it’s startin’ C’hristopher Dasaro to spread into the regular community.” She was also one of those people who made constant references to the almighty source of information, “they”. No one actually knew who “they” were, but millions of people relied on “them” for most of their information about everything. By the time I began listening again the subject had changed. South Africa

“...this new drug Crack, boy there’s a real doosy for ya. They say people My dearest darling, how are you? become addicted to it immediately. They sure are gonna have trouble It was raining here today, getting that under control. Sometimes I think it’s a sign from God tellin’ gloom seems to cover the city. everyone the end is near and we’d better shape up.” Oh no! She’s religious While out shopping, no one smiled. on top of everything else. I bet she even watched Jim Bakker. Today’s your birthday; “You ought to know, what do you think?” I didn’t forget. I gave her my standard answer to such a question. I told her a lot of good There was more shooting in Soweto. existed in the world. In other words, I lied. We shot five or six, no real reason “Yeah, I suppose, but these things just stick with me. I think God is God, Why? definitely warning us, not that you’d worry. I guess you got nothin’ to worry about.” If I must fight for this madness She continued to ramble about the problems of our country abroad. Libya, called Apartheid terrorism, and other international incidents became the objects of her latest then it is my duty. analysis. I finished my coffee, and she refilled it without asking. I lit another We have been tried and condemned. cigarette and decided to stay for some more meaningless conversation. As if You’ll never understand. in acknowledgement she lit another high society cigarette and eased it Today’s your birthday; between her smudged lips. I didn’t forget. For the next ten minutes or so she continued to talk in the same fashion Rain and gloom cover this city. as before. I listened, nodded occasionally, and tried to learn something from While out shopping, no one smiled. her. I wanted to relate her dialouge to what was going on in my head. When she said she found some solace in the preachings of Robert Schuller and, —John O’Donnell Rosales you guessed it, Jim Bakker, I knew it was time to leave. I said good-bye and left two-dollars next to the cup. She walked parallel to me behind the counter. As she thudded she reached inside her blouse and pulled out a crucifix. Primitial Encounter She said, “Excuse me Father, but I just bought this and I wonder if you would bless it?” In the original rhythm of your words I gave her my best priestly smile and said, “Of course my child.” the smell of fire, I took the crucifix in one hand, made a sign of the cross over it with the the engaging of two worlds other, and mumbled something in Latin. She looked at me and thanked me. in an ocean of mirrors I did not believe in the crucifix or the blessing anymore. She did, and that and like a rocket your lips in my life is what counted. But the charade I had just performed for this girl made me vibrating the center uneasy. I headed back to my parish to hear confessions. I knew, however, where the wind occults its lines. that my mind would not be on absolution. It would be on the fat waitress Come, breaking the next mornings heat, and myself; and who really had the ten cent philosophy. drink little pieces of earth, —MA Baldassare like the moon in early light I await you.

— Rafael Roman Martel The Basement

went to a basement in the village, She i ‘ it was like an old kept reading. awoke woke up and the opium den. She and found my basement Eveivone was from ui~o~ friend was emp~. • . . rightnexttome was sitting in a circie, . Mv • Soc with a smoking grass , •. friend s • was I1CIi. needle and taking I body was

pills. She • gone. was beautiful. a Fhey n My made some room for me tO I g skull was sit amongst them. hated her. ThRoBBiNg.

A Rich Girl I fl sat in the center inhaled g left and went reading lyrics the cloud from his home. from the sleeve of a of pot smoke arm. — Billy Hogan Pink Floyd album. floating, He floating, was It was weird floating, dead. to near past my face. the words No one without I seemed to the music. listened to the care. Words Someone I she read, passed me and let them pushed a ~11 seeI~, his body SO I took it. away. seep reai cieep I into my A New Girl looked around brain, was reading for my My the book of friend eyelids GENESIS who lived in the became from basement, heavy THE BIBLE. but he was and they lost somewhere. began to c tired The pill I hitmeancithegirls i voice I d begantocome e a o i nwaves. w i-I k~(LLEEN AWA~t’ ~~Z44J~

I Promised You a Miracle

In reply to last night’s question, j Every day I go out looking “Does my castle still stand high?” but no girl I seem to find Let me add with upmost pleasure, that can fill the two glass slippers, that its turrets touch the sky, Yet again there was a time, and its banners flutter strongly when the castle swayed with laughter in the sun and while it rains and the hands of all our guests, for atop the castle’s entrance would be velvet red in color, etched in stone there is your name. just from clapping at your jests. Then you found me in disfavor Yes, One day I’m sure you’ll see it and you left me.most alone, though not now, in a castle made of friendship it’s much to soon, that’s turned now to solid stone. all the guards atop the towers, and the many myriad rooms. Now our day shall come again some say no There in darkness stands a figure yet it’s now near of a lad that use to be, when my queen will find her castle once the prince of all the realm, and those dreams that disappeared, and a man of chivalry. then you’ll never have to worry That’s before he lost his princess, and you’ll never have to cry though he knows down in his heart, Because I’ll hold you all the things that they once cherished like forever now forgotten will depart. and I’ll never say goodbye So it’s lonely in the castle So to answer last night’s question, there’s a place where no one goes, “Does my castle still stand high?”, it’s the room of my fair princess, If I promised you a castle where the roses seldom grow, Do you think by the bed there in the corner a prince would lie? there’s two slippers made of glass and a crown for my dear princess —John O’Donnell Rosales of fine jewels and native brass. Myths and Truths

There are suddenly leaves on the lawn, Masses of yellow fluttering on streets. Each October 1 am startled by this. I know the struggle that December brings, When there is no necessity to conjure Up images of desolate, grey corners. A gaze out my front window will suffice. Each year, about this time, that single branch Points bare fingers above me, and I stare In surprise at the speed in which its leaves / Have fled. April is now the myth, Long gone, maybe never to come again. But this branch, this October, this yellow Convinces me that December will soon arrive.

— George P. Casteiitto, Ph.D.

Peace To Florence I closed the door behind me I shut my weary eyes the voices within were silent Cradled in a howl of Tuscan hills, much to my surprise Fair Florence lies. Lady of the flowers, Sounds of dripping water Yuu have bewitched me totally. filled the shallow air No one left to understand II my hidden sense of despair I)ante, Brunelleschi, Donatello... , Leonardo, Michelangelo... Numb and cold, my body tense Long is the list of those who love you, I breathed deep the morning dew And who wove in words, and stone, and paint, I reached inside for traces of sanity A tiara of beauty for your golden hair. but found confusion; nothing new III Maybe pain or bitter memories Regally still you hold your head in age, helped me to decide A queen sans pareil, I rose above my waiting wrist Nobility in every vein. and let the razor slide When tomorrow I must leave you, Signorina, Amidst the fog of frustration One parting gift, I pray, scarlet swirls of blood surround me Max’ the proud! Lily of Firenze Waiting for the pain to cease Always gladden my heart peace had finally found me In memory’s warm recall. —Jeannie O’Connell —Richard Cronin SJ. The Confession

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.” “Bless you my son.” “How long has it been since your last confession?” He made it to the bottom of the church stairs before the enthusiasm drifted “Many years.” away. He knew the bible was just a bunch of stories used to scare school “What are your sins?” children. Discouraged to a new low, he turned his face into the cold wind “I cannot believe.” and pounded down the sidewalk. “In what?” Bob Anderson “In God.” “1 see.” “Can you help me?” “I will try.” “Thank you.” “Would you consider yourself an atheist?” “No.” “An agnostic?” “No.” “Then you must be a nihilist.” “Please, I am not interested in such labels.” “Of course, I’m sorry. How long have you had this crisis of faith?” Old Woman in the Attic “On and off since I was a child.” “So it comes and goes?” Chloe spent the morning yesterday “Not any more. Now I rarely feel any belief in God. I cannot explain why I Separating trinkets from a trunk have suffered a total lost of faith. I was an altarboy and everything, but now it In the corner. One by one, all seems meaningless.” Each memory was subtly fIled away. “Have you suffered any tragedies recently?” Only old objects, she muttered, although “My life has never been better, except for this.” Each evoked a distinct remembrance: “First, you must want to believe.” The last touch of a finger, a June night “I do. I lie in bed at night and I cry because I cannot summon up any When leaves were suspended beneath the moon, faith. It hurts, I want so badly to believe.” Her husband’s final gaze before he died, “You have already tried prayer?” The evening that she learned not to cry. “Yes. I say them slowly, I think of each word, each idea. I want for them to mean something to me, but they are just empty words no matter how hard I Only old things, she whispered, now just dust try. I cannot believe in such an abstract concept as God.” In a dusty thing tucked in a dusty place. “But he is not abstract. We witness his glory everywhere. Every child and She felt the letters, inhaled the gathering every new day sing praise to his grandeur.” Dust, folded bits of lace, brushed away “I know, but I cannot believe.” The interfering specks, and quietly sighed. “I see.” Chloe, you are a fool, she said, and stared “Perhaps I will try reading the bible, it has been a while.” At the several objects lying there “Good idea.” While the dust and gloom enclosed her kneeling form. “I think that will help.” —George P. casteiitto, Ph.D. “Yes! The bible has great power.” “Yes! I think that may really stir some faith in me.” “My son you must try it! It may be your salvation!” “Yes, I will Father! Right away! Thank you!” The Last Reunion

The last reunion, with a laugh and a tear, They were all there, all I held dear. Isn’t it odd how the years go so fast? What once was the present, now is the past. As I think of the familiar faces, I think of the good times, and all the places. The last reunion, you need to ask why? Side Street Sooner or later, we all must say ‘bye. Two bums sit in the shadow The depression I have, my memory will soften, Of a door step A scene of my friends, gathered ‘round my coffin. Viewing the aftermath Of night life — Billy Hogan Their lives For the moment DAMN! Are less gloomy In the pit. After the unrehearsed Fighting to break on up Performance Like a boiling storm-cloud from below They applaud loudly Only a thin veneer of ego keeps it trapped and yell Encore from letting loose on mother and love peverted. but the two sets Only what IS of lovers barely Above can save us all notice the laughter A light piercing to our very depths Blinded by passion and drink Revealing the horrible truth about ourselves. In the diminishing darkness —Stephen Foster Of the evening into the early morning hours It adds only to the dim sound Of the distant city traffic Friendship Lost On a side street with few parked cars I tried to be a good friend to you, —Susan I. Lesser But you wouldn’t let your real self through. I loved you once, but now I don’t know, Do you really care? Whatever happened to the best friends then? We haven’t been true since I don’t know when. Oh can’t you see, That I’m desperately, Trying to reach out to you!

— Denise Yelenovsky Frank’s Homeroom Magic Show

Every grammar school had one, and St. Mary’s was no different. It was as of terror went on and on, and there seemed to be no end in sight. common as recess, or a set of monkey-bars. I am talking about, of course, a One may wonder why I, the sole friend of such an adolescent pariah, was kid that the entire school picked on. There was an unwritten set of criteria never picked on. I had been delivered from such suffering by a rumor about that determined who it would be, and by a process of natural selection, one my older brother. He went to the junior high down the street from St. Mary’s, kid always stood out as the target. He became the dumping ground for and it was a common belief that he smoked Lucky Strikes and carried a everyone’s unwanted emotions. I know this to be true because I had the switchblade. Al became aware of this rumor fairly soon after he arrived. He dubious honor of being the best and only friend of St. Mary’s martyr: Francis went to trip me one day during recess, and Tommy Litten, (who was only Gallo. friends with Al because he did not want to get beaten up), stopped him and I think it had partly to do with his name. Anyone named “Francis” either related the incriminating facts about my much feared brother. Al just gave had to learn to fight, or to take unending abuse; he chose the latter. It may me a look as if to tell me, “You’re lucky,” and walked away. I feel obliged to have all started in the fourth grade, during religion class, but I can’t be sure take a moment to clear my brother’s good name. He did not smoke Lucky because it was so long ago. I remember we were learning about the saints, Strikes, hut he had been known to puff on a Marlboro occasionally. As for and unfortunately we came around to St. Francis of Assisi. Several child the switchblade, well as close as I can remember, all he ever had was a Swiss genius’s immediately transformed it, with a vicious brilliance only fourth army knife, complete with scissors and toothpick. For obvious reasons grade boys can employ, into St. Francis “the sissy.” From then on Francis concerning my own safety, I did nothing to discourage the rumors at the Gallo became Francis “the sissy.” As was natural occurrence with such an time. Just a side note: my older brother entered the seminary after high embarrassing nickname, it stuck. school, and he is now teaching at St. Mary’s. Things did not become unbearable for Frank, as I always called him, until Frank was saved, in a much more subtle way, by his older brother when the sixth grade. A new student named Al Strickland transferred into our he returned from the Navy. Petty Officer Second Class John Gallo returned school, and brought with him a plague on Francis “the sissy.” At first, Al was after four years, and he naturally had presents for every member of his picked on in keeping with the usual rite of initiation a new kid must face, family. All the gifts were thoughtful, but none was as welcome as the hut it stopped abruptly after he beat the living hell out of an eighth grader ventriloquist doll and instruction book he gave to Frank. He read the book named Lou Harkson. Lou had been the toughest kid in the school, until Al from cover to cover the first night he had it, and began to practice in his arrived. I cannot explain the feeling that ran through every student as the room every day after school. He named the dummy, “Al,” for reasons I word circulated around that a sixth-grader had beaten up an eighth-grader. would not frilly understand for several weeks. After this, unbeknownst to the priests and nuns, Al had the run of St. Mary’s. Christmas vacation came and Frank got a break from the nightmare of As grammar school luck would have it, his favorite punching bag became school, and worked, almost obsessively, on his ventriloquism. I went over to Frank. his house several times, and he demonstrated his progress, which truly Looking back, I cannot understand how the faculty could have been blind suiprised me. to the persecution of Frank, but then again these were the same people that About two days before we went back, he called me up and told me to never found the Playboy’s we had hidden on the shelves in the library. To come over because he had figured out a way to finish off Al. I was surprised the best of my knowledge, they were never found. In fact, I would not be to hear that Frank had even thought of revenge, so I rushed over to see if his surprised if my son, who is a seventh-grader at St. Mary’s, looks at the same plan had any chance of success. ones during recess. It seemed to me, both then and now, that they were so “Thanks for comin’ over.” obsessed with discipline, that they overlooked the greatest injustice the “No problem. Listen what’s your plan?” school had ever seen, that is, the daily attacks on Frank. “Well you know how when we get back, Father McGee will ask each and In any event Al, who was in our homeroom, set an abusive example on every one of us how our vacation was?” Frank, that the entire school followed. For instance, Frank could not walk “Yeah, so what?” down the hall without being tripped by an invisible foot. His lunch box had “Well, I’m gonna get to school early that day and sit right behind the seat been filled with dirt on more than one occasion, and his books were often Al always sat in, and...” covered with glue. Things seemed to be coming to a head, and I honestly He went on to amaze me with the cleverness of his plan. If it worked, Al expected Frank to pull a gun from his Roy Rogers lunch pail, and splatter Al might get in enough trouble to make him be left-back, and he would be rid all over the black board in front of the classroom. Frank, however, did of him, at least in homeroom. If it did not work, Frank would get beaten up nothing. I myself felt very bad for Frank during those dark months. Al’s reign by Al, which would happen anyway. Frank’s plan was more successful than After what seemed like an hour, he got to Al. “Mister Strickland, how was your Christmas vacation?’ “It sucked.” This response did not come from Al’s lips, but from the projecting mouth of Frank. Al became disoriented, and looked around nervously. Several kids stared at him, unable to believe what he had said. Father McGee rose silently, and slowly from his chair and walked over to Al’s desk. “What was that Mister Strickland?” There was less than four inches separating their noses. Al, who was still in a state of shock, answered, “It was fine, Father.” “Good.” Father McGee turned his back and started back toward the desk. “Hey, Father, did you get lucky with any of the nuns over the vacation?” Frank had clone it again, this time in an even more perfect emulation of Al’s voice. Father McGee halted so abruptly he looked as if he would topple over. He turned and looked at Al, whose eyes had begun to tear, and bellowed, “Strickland, go to the principal’s office.” Frank, in a moment of brilliance, decided he wanted Al to go out in a blaze of glory. He rubbed his throat to make sure the voice and the projection were perfect, and made Al say. “Why clont you go f yourself. Al was still looking around as Father McGee’s hand latched onto his ear. It looked as though Al’s ear would rip off his head as Father McGee dragged him from his desk, and into the hall. That was quite literally the last time we ever saw Al Strickland. Word eventually got back to us that he had been expelled. and his parents sent him to a boarding school somewhere. The important thing was that he would never again terrorize Frank. Both Frank and I went through our morning classes in a very happy mood, which was unusual. We met at recess, and although we had both been toilet trained for years, we laughed so hard we actually wet our pants. It did not, however, affect our hysteria. In fact, it intensified it. Most of the tough kids left Frank alone after that because he was considered dangerous. They believed if he wanted he could figure out a devious way to get them in trouble. We finished our time at St. Mary’s without incident. Frank and I have kept in contact with each other over the years, and he is still putting words in people’s mouths as a public defender for the city of New York. Last night I met him in a bar, and we drank and talked as if we were college roommates, not grammar school friends. We finally got around either of us ever thought it could be. to the incident with Al Strickland, and together we rememhered enough Frank and I never forgot the morning in early January, when he took his details to relate the story, through our hysteria, to the disinterested tong overdue vengeance, and five will get you ten, that Al Strickland never bartender. did either. As we shuffled into homeroom, I noticed a look of shock on It was strange, but sitting there with Frank, and thinking back, I got a more than one of my fellow students, when they saw Frank sitting behind Al. fleeting sense of how I felt, and what I thought about, back in St. Mary’s, Father McGee came in, and waited for the second bell to ring. After a short even though it seems like it was a hundred years ago. prayer, which we all mumbled, he went around the class randomly asking MA. Ba/c/assure how our vacations were. Eight Years Ago In Search of the 440 Bus I remember eight years ago, That dreadful evening My first encounter with the mysterious 440 bus came about quite by Four joyful people could not know. accident. For the last week or so I had nothing but glowing reports about a The danger that lay ahead film being heralded as the “number one movie in America” and decided to Out, in the darkness of the night see it one summer weekend when rain was predicted from dawn Saturday to Drove their car on virgin road. dusk Sunday. Much to my dismay, the nearest theatre playing the film was There, the sky opened its floodgate the Hudson Mall Cinema on route 440. Now I had heard, from whom I don’t To saving rain. remember, that a rather small independent line ferried passengers from Sip Roaring rising high Avenue to the mall on a regular basis. Believing this rumor, I arrived, armed The wheel sunk deep, as crossing by with an umbrella, and waited with a few others on a dismal stretch on Sip The muddy bottom, decided their fate Avenue marked out by a rusty sign that read BUS SROP. It was a long wait. Out with fear, swimming across. Slowly but surely, as the hours wore on, the small crowd trickled away. The Desire to live, arms stretched reaching Out wait became so long and tedious that I took to daydreaming, returning to “To life” and not to the shadow of death. earth only when I saw or heard something that might be a bus. No bus Two held on to a side pole, came. The first drops of rain put an end to my daydreaming. I suddenly One caught desperately to a tree, found myself alone on Sip Avenue around seven in the evening. Alas, the healthy man I was rather hungry, not having had a thing since lunchtime seven hours Went down the flooded stream. ago, and was eager to get out of the rain. I made my way as fast as I could to Then, peace and serenity reigned a diner about a block or so further down. No sooner had I gotten inside As the river devoured its prey. when a bus, whose markings were not those of the Transit Authority, came —Rachelle Harari barreling down Sip Avenue and rounded a corner. My initial reaction was to let loose with a stream of obscenities. “Hey Mac, this is a family place.” a gruff looking bartender hissed. ‘I know, I know,” I replied in an annoyed tone, “But if you knew how A Memory Forgotten long I waited for that bus.. “Don’t tell me you were waiting for that 440 bus?” Information coming in, “I was”. sent to stations found within. “That bus never comes around when you wait for it. ‘Round here, we call Stored in rooms with rubber walls, it the mystery bus.” held in place by a single call. “Why?’ Darkness holds these lonely souls, I am alone tonight He then went on to relate the history of this mysterious 440 bus. He told chained to walls by forgotten calls. No solace in her song me of the many who had ridden it to the mall only to be stranded there for Waiting for that special day, Lonely the light. the rest of their lives, and of the many who had boarded the bus never to be seen again. He spoke of an old man who died waiting for that bus and of when it will be brought out to play. How long has she been gone? another who grew so desperate to catch the bus that he leaped in front of it With another two or three, I Sit and stare when it finally showed up. it masquerades as a memory. Her shadow at the door, Intrigued by what the bartender told me, I decided to research the legend And when it finally sees the light, My empty thoughts in the air of the phantom bus of route 440. According to most accounts, there is no it beckons all within it’s sight. Memory for her no-more. way of catching the bus; one has to wait until the bus shows up on its own Once it’s free and in the air, accord. Far more common than those who have caught the bus are those no one knows exactly where. —Stephen Foster who have merely seen it. The numbers of these people are legion so I shall That soul will finally make its bed, cite only the most bizarre of the sightings. This occurred on October 8, 1975, somewhere deep inside your head. when Darryl Cretin, then a resident of the Happydale Home for the Mentally

— Albert Rodriguez Upset, sighted a glowing purple bus floating over Sip Avenue. Less common, but more notable, in my opinion, were the attempts to A Protest capture or at least photograph the bus. The worst traffic jam in the city’s history is rooted in one of these attempts. Believing the bus to be part of a It is not profound, the silent sound communist conspiracy, city police blocked off every street in the Journal of a heart pounding in a chest Square area for three days in January 1952. The failure of this operation to quietly in protest catch the bus and the continued speculation as to its nature led the Journal against the ever approaching arrival of death. to offer a year’s reduced fare on the Path to anyone who could photograph The one, final gasped breath. the bus. In 1952, Daniel Mossy took up the offer. He camped out at various It is not profound, the silent sound places in Journal Square for several weeks before he succumbed to the fast of a heart’s beat being drowned food being sold in the area, dying from the shock when his normally fit in a sea of noise body went completely out of shape in ten minutes. where hate destroys. More recently a documentary crew kept watch over the reputed route of the bus in a special high-speed van designed to catch up with even the most And, where men invoke love modern of buses. For several days they waited. Then at 1 a.m. on July 3, they whilst they push and shove caught sight of the large bus, rushing past the State Theatre. They gave chase their way to the top for several blocks before realizing that their quarry was little more than a to throw themselves off. Number Nine being hijacked to San Francisco, believed by misinformed a spasm, terrorists to be a sovereign state independent of the U.S. a clasped chest, There have been many theories as to the nature of the 440 bus. Some say a choked cough, it is a secret bus line operating outside the law. Others say it is a ghost of a paifl..pain, regular bus that has merely gotten lost. I cannot tell. For me, the 440 bus eternal rest. remains a mystery to this day. It is not profound, the silenced sound — Sean Summers of a heart once beating in a chest. And alas, while alive it could have been if only we’d looked for the path Gone For Good from which all true lives begin.

— Christopher Dasaro I remember Jack bigger than life, hands like steel, gentle to the touch. Fears in the Night I remember the voice, in the shadows a bellows, longing for him. shouting commands, not to me. The mind is ripe with imagination Dreams, of yet to be. I remember the joy of a little girl, His cigarette still lingers, bouncing on his knee, a reminder he’s not gone. searching for a hidden Desire on hold. silver dollar. Fear in high gear. I remember... Empty arms... Darkness. missing him.

— Lynne S. Lamothe — Lnne S. Lamothe QcPEACOCK PUBLICATIONS