Issue I Autumn 2020 Omaha, Ne

ISSUE I AUTUMN 2020 OMAHA, NE

ISSUE ONE MASTHEAD

Editor-in-Chief Edward Vogel

Managing Editor Shyla Shehan The Good Life Review is an online literary Copyeditor journal independently operated by grad- Edward Vogel uates and candidates of the MFA in Writ- ing program at the University of Nebraska Arts & Crafts Omaha. Michelle Quick

Our group of writers, editors, and designers Soundbites came together to craft a space intended to Trelana Daniel shine a light on the diversity that exists in Fiction Editors the Midwest. Michelle Quick Trelana Daniel Based out of Omaha, Nebraska—astride the M.A. Boswell often unnoticed—we recognize there are a myriad of voices that call the regions sur- Nonfiction Editors rounding us home. The Good Life Review is Suzanne Guess committed to exploring the overlooked. Our Kelsey Bee mission is to lift up the strange, the daring, and the underrepresented and reveal com- Poetry Editors Cat Dixon plexities hidden in the Heartland and be- Stepha Vesper yond. We seek to elevate writing that takes Allison Guenette risks and challenges perceptions; writing that haunts long after the last line. Flash Fiction Editors Joel Clay THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 To our contributing writers, thank you for Mike Keller-Wilson trusting us with your valuable words. To our readers, thank you for supporting indepen- Flash Nonfiction Editors dent journals and believing in the literary Erin Owen Annie Barker arts. Translations Pamela Brodman Luna Blue 01 THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 02 Extra-Large for the Lord Extra-Large a Bitch to Be How Cohesion Forces in an Avalanche Better Off 45 FLASH NONFICTION 35 FLASH FICTION Baiza Tomas Brown Najla Tomlinson Rabelais Tim Stam Kathryn Penha James in this issue this in Flash

Blue Heron at the Lake Blue Heron at Uprooting a Tree Stolen The Man Whose Face Was In the Packed Auditorium Criminy Sakes Alive Alice and Juno in Hell

Matt Mason Matt Sosin Kim Wendt Jamie Mason Cliff

and 23 POETRY Jody Rae Jody Mary Duquette Mary 15 NONFICTION

05 FICTION 03 EDITOR FROM THE THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 03 Annie, Joel, Erin, Mike, Pame- Special Michelle thanks to Quick, Special Daniel, thanks also to Trelana We also owe bit a fair of gratitude Given that, we could have halted that, we Given our la, Allison, Suzanne, Stepha, Cat, Tre, Mimi, Kelsey, and Michelle,Luna, each played an line finish the to us getting in role important with this first issue. We’re grateful for you, your decision to join us on this journey, and your dedication!! whose talents as a designer, writer, and extend of what the to every corner maker GLR has to offer. Her work on design and branding has been incredible, and her keen aesthetic eye invaluable throughout the pro- our team. cess. We’re lucky to have her on for her vision and follow-through in creating a podcast to supplement the content we have to offer readers. A weekly podcast was not part of our original plan, and she not only pitched the idea of the but also did ALL work to make it grateful a reality. We’re for her contribution, skills, and for her amazing Tre has also taken on the task of be- voice. social media manager which, as we ing our came to realize, is vital to our success. to the people who provided guidance, di- advice, and promotional support rection, throughout this process: Tom Paine, faculty mentor for the MFA program at the Univer- sity of Nebraska Omaha; Kevin Clouther, have piled progress; we could on our plans the or canceled back burner altogether. But we that’s not who are. The team decided to press on, fueled by the notion that art and literary celebration is so valuable in these difficult times. Passion for our craft is what brought us together, and we wanted to continue to contribute to the conversation by connecting writers and readers. The team, our friends:

- - - from the editor the from As autumn unfurls As autumn unfurls its bounty of col- At the time we did not know what we We envisioned creating a space that What we could not have imagined, or here Omaha, it in is hard to believe that ago we were nine short months sitting at a table at the Lodge Lied City, in Nebraska low-residencyhome of the of University entertain- Nebraska Omah MFA program, ing the idea of starting a literary magazine. were The seed in for. was planted by faculty mentor Tom Paine, and the idea sparked excitement around the Of course Lodge. we would need a solid crew who were just as passionate about the idea. Of course we would need to establish our presence and somehow get the word out. And of course, a risk and we would need people to take trust us with their precious words. would showcase the writing of everyday people, who live and work among us. Writ ers whose stories lives and are often overlooked. As it is written in our mission state ment: We are committed the to exploring overlooked. We recognize the diversity of voices that exist in the Midwest and know that great a many have something extraor- dinary to share. We were excited about the prospect of reading those remarkable works, and we imagined creating a good home for those poems, essays, and stories. was that in the in those early conversations, weeks and months to follow, the world would spin into a swirling vortex of doom--escalat ing racial injustice, riots, protesting, natu- and unnatural disasters have all been in ral ample supply Not to in 2020. mention, the onset of a global pandemic.

Hello, Friends. Hello, Friends. THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 04 from the editor the from v To our contributing authors, thank To our contributing authors, you And to our readers, thank for That’s it for Issue #1. Shyla and Ed

Peace, Love, and Tacos, Program Coordinator for the MFA program Kate of Nebraska Omaha; at University Gale, faculty for the MFA program mentor of Nebraska Omaha and at the University Editor of Los Angeles Review. A final thank Re- and Harper, Tobi O’Brien, you to Sarah beccah for theirSanhueza wise words about operating and producing a literary journal. Thank you! you for taking leap a of faith with us and being a part of our inaugural issue, which would not exist without you! supporting and believing in the arts. We hope you find something you love in this issue. And we hope you decide to return for more.

B THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 20 01 editor’s note editor’s FICTION B

MARY DUQUETTE ALICE AND JUNO IN HELL

Mary Duquette holds an MFA in Writing from the University of New Hamp- shire. Her short story, “Masterpieces,” was published in the anthology, Mur- der Ink 3, and poems, “My Affair with the Early Morning” and “Untitled” were published in Ginosko Literary Magazine. She has recently completed two nov- els, a short story collection, and a poetry collection. Mary is currently at work on another novel. THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 07 *** “Yes. That’s good.” “I’m about to dinner,” Alice make and clothes your all off take you “Can Alice paused. down at her She looked A week later, he called a second go- she “The mushrooms,” said. “I’m “How indecent? Really indecent?” “Yes. So they’ve surrendered. white black stockings t-shirt under, and with green thesneakers, lace-up kind. Oh, cotton un- a pair of pink and under that, white derwear, and a bra that fastens in the front.” She leaned further back in the chair. “I added the last part especially. I thought that.” you’d appreciate said. “I was thinking a meatball Stromboli. I might put a red apron for that. It’s on an apron, with ruffles at the bottom.” just wear the apron?” into the tan jumper, which had absorbed tan blandness blending the chair’s chair, into the beige carpet almost seamlessly, as if illu- an – mass flat one were carpet and chair sion she hadn’t noticed before. “It might get She splattery,” she said slowly.“But, okay.” stood up and took off her coat and slipped off her shoes and stockings and underwear. She put the phone on speaker. time. She stood at the stove with the phone on speaker, naked except for a neat pinafore-type with the words, “Kiss the apron Cook,” scrawled on the front. The pinafore made her feel somewhat like a sexy French back, a had it but – duster feather sans maid, which really didn’t seem French-maid-ish at all. ing to slice them until they’re indecent. Strip them down.” So they’re laid out, ready but not ready, alice and juno in hell in juno and alice The first call came on Thursday over “Hi, Alicia.” The voice was low and “My coat,” Alice said, fingering her “What else, Alicia?” “Why…why do you keep calling me “That’s your name, isn’t it?” “No. It’s Alice.” “Alice?” The voice sounded puzzled. “Yes. Like, in Wonderland.” “Oh. I…” “You wrong number,” must have the “Is this 328-5446?” “Yes, it is.” got the name know how I “I don’t “How did you get this number?” “The white pages.” “You just called a random number “Yes. I know that sounds…” “Well. Yes.” “It’s okay,” Alice said after a moment. “Sure.” The voice brightened. at her Alice looked down “Okay.” ten minutes after Alice rang the landline. It her new job as Kitchen got home from As- sistant She Jacque’s. at apartment sat in her in front of the television set with her coat on and her feet stretched out over the ottoman phoneand picked up the ring. on the second seductive - a kind of sepia tone, if it could have been a color, she thought. are “What you wearing?” collar. Alicia?” Alice said. wrong. I was so sure it said Alicia.” The voice sounded forlorn and flattened. from the white pages? To any old Alicia?” “Desperate?” “Listen, maybe you want to know what else I’m wearing, or something.” wearing my tan jumper with a clothes. “I’m THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 08 - - *** She waited until breathing her be- “Sure. What will it be?” “I think soufflé,” she said, and wiped The calls came weekly, sometimes “So, why Alicia?” she asked. “Alicia is a trigger name for me.” “What’s a trigger name?” “A name that gets me horny.” “Oh.” Alice felt oddly hurt. “Don’t “I do now.” “What’s your name?” rath- “I’d He was silent for a moment. “But I should call you something. He paused. “Call me Juno.”

top, pressing her hips into it, opening her hips into it, top, pressing her legs. She was as earthy as the mushrooms in the pan at that moment, rubbing herself against it, spread handle, into the cabinet the light from the hallway chandelier lumi- nescent of dirt and sweetness and the scent and salt filled her as the motion of her hips quickened and dissolved. “Alice?” came regulated. “Yes. time Same next week?” her hands on her apron. twice a week.Alice found herself falling into a routine with him like he’d always been her lover, had always been the the voice on other end, but she still had no idea why he called her in the firstplace - why he had tried to call a girl named After three ‘Alicia.’ sepa rate instances where she cooked cassoulet, a and a pot-au-feua gratin, in the nude with aprons of various colors and styles, she fi nally brought it up. you like Alice?” er not,” he said. “If you don’t mind.” What should I call you?” - alice and juno in hell in juno and alice “A slap of butter is sizzling in a pan. A a pan. “A slap of butter is sizzling in “Tell me about the butter.” Creamy and yellow creamy. and “It’s “You’re going to spread them?” them going to spread them, lay “I’m “Dripping nectar...” “It’s going to drip all over the sides Alice dipped her finger in the bowl tion that she’d rather do without. pulled She her shoulders back, shaking offthat had a mushroom-spell taken her over, the spell causing her to forget the steps for the Bour- guignon. She melted a pat of butter in a sau- té pan and added the chopped mushrooms, them vigorously. She placed stirring the phone in front of her. firm slap.” sopping drenching the mushrooms. They’re wet going to take the with it. Next, I’m Cla- foutis out of the oven and spread cherries on top.” so the juice drips down the sides. So they’re lush and peaking, debased. Like nectar, like honeycomb. Bees buzzing around.” and probably on the floor. It’s going to be a complete disaster. A five-star, ten alarm.” of cherries and sucked it, the juice running down a corner of her mouth. The thought of him entered her head, his voice soft over the phone like his edges were smoothed over, and she lingered on the headiness of the smells, on the sweet liquor of cherry juice, breath caught and her as she held onto the edge of the kitchen island. She melted into the thickness of the hard laminate counter- submitting. So they’re helpless. Do you like that?” She was becoming irrepressibly not what she aroused. It was had expected or intended but there she was. It occurred being to her that she was losing her mind, seduced was a kind of despera by fungus. It THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 09 “Why are you doing this?” he asked “Why are you talking to me?” “What do you mean?” don’t you have a life? Don’t “I mean, “I had a husband.” “Oh.” He was silent for a moment. “Separated. But, yes. Divorce is im- “What happened?” “Oh, you know. Things.” “No, I don’t. What things?” Alice tied and untied her apron. “It’s “I think it does.” She picked up a wooden spoon from “What are you talking about?” “Too many questions,” she said. “I’m just “I’m trying to connect with you,” “Aha,” she said. “But, you see, I just She told him what kind of apron she had on, of apron kind She told him what covered it if ruffles, had it if back, in tied it if her breasts in front, if it tied at the waist, or if it fell below her nipples – which hazardous, particularly if she was cooking was bacon. He liked it when her nipples were she uncovered, so managed as much as it possible, but sometimes she said they were showing even when they so weren’t, he’d be happy. Coq au vin. one day while she simmered a you have a boyfriend?” “Divorced?” minent.” of no consequence,” she said. “It doesn’t concern you.” “And that,” a bowl. the counter and set it in come to an “is why trysts like this she said, end.” not happy with that. I don’t do questions like that.” he said. “I want to know you.” want to have an orgasm.” *** alice and juno in hell in juno and alice “Juno. Okay. You can call me Alicia.” “Juno. Okay. You “That’s generous of you. But you “Oh…” She didn’t know what to say, He breathed out. “What are you cook- cooking,” she not said, and fell “I’m Alice often ate alone. Since Billy left, flicker, a had she though, Juno, Since “Really?” “Sure.” call you Alice.” know, I’d rather so she pulled off her shirt, topless,” “I’m she said. “I have no her bra. and unhooked top on.” ing?” on the bed. she’d eat in the kitchen, standing at the counter. Eating was irrelevant – necessary but trivial, a waste of when a moment, she could instead be Most watching “America’s Hilarious Bloopers,” or sleeping, or playing “Crossword Madness” on her phone. Eating of relentless brought a kind like annoyance, a whiny toddler pulling at her pant leg. It was petulant. She would have liked to kick it away. a sudden luminosity - in ways she’d never guessed. She cooked in nothing but aprons and sometimes her tall black boots, if she felt peppy. She braised, poached, roasted, sautéed, flambéed. She chopped, julienned, blended, pureed, whipped – appetizers, en- trees, cocktails, desserts, the amuse bouche. Juno’s soothing voice blos- off-the-cuff somed over the speaker on her phone, and she picked up a knife and slid it into celery stalks and sweet potatoes and plump, ripe olives stuffed with juicy garlic cloves.inserted She large Apple-Cinnamon Bostock into her mouth. forkfuls of crispy, tender THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 10 *** “I want to see “Send you,” Juno said. “You She brushed back her hair. “Try me.” “I’m too skinny.” “I doubt it.” “It’s too soon.” “We’ve been doing this for almost “No,” she said. “I don’t.” nev- “I think I love you,” he said. “I’ve The butter in the pan turned dark He texted her a picture - a sort of far- “I want you to have this,” he texted. She looked at the picture. He was couldn’t escape couldn’t escape this did it to her again, and he time without the belt but with name-calling (the usual unimaginative diatribe he liked, bitch, slut) and tugging of hair and grab- bing and pushing around – and after, further tears and she and assertions of remorse closed her mouth firmly against her teeth and her bones hardenedonce against him more. me a picture.” wouldn’t like it.” see me?” two months. Don’t you want to er felt this way.” a nutty navigating the brown, fragrance “The room. butter is burning,” she said. She didn’t turn down the heat. away shot of him sitting at a table, his arms crossed, smiling but not looking directly at the camera. He looked as if he had just seen someone enter the room and was pleasantly surprised. It was a dreamy expression, but also unsettled, like he was unprepared for something. “This is me at Humphrey’s Diner. I thought you’d like it, since I’m eating a cassoulet.” straight, white smiling, teeth. Mouth turned - *** alice and juno in hell in juno and alice Billy’s “way” was to take out a belt wept “Yes, you do,” she said, and he a You’re “Baby,” he said. “Baby. He called her Missy Chicken Legs. It power, the amazing non-blinking woman. non-blinking power, the amazing But she had about as much control over that as sheanything, as it turned out. did over She ended up being human, with and self-protective devices such as eyelids reflexes that opened and closed. and hit her with it. She hated belt nights. Af- ter, he cried and held he so sorry,” her. “I’m you. I don’t said. “I don’t know why I hurt want to hurt you.” harder against rigid shoulder, her her raw bones, which felt brittle and unsubstantial. He fingered her hair and wove it between his knuckles, and she a gigan- was numb, tic nobody, his body like a on hers heavy child. He fell asleep, and she maneuvered arms his under from out ducked her, off him the edgeand curled up on of the bed so he He laughed couldn’t touch her. in his sleep, and reached for her, and she skirted further away but he found her and pulled to him her again. baby. You’re just a girl.” And he rolled his arms around her so tightly she couldn’t think about moving away and she felt his erection and prayed for an escape, even though she wasn’t sure if there was a god listening, or if there was even a god at all, and anyway, it didn’t matter because she was true she had skinny legs – but even so, the words hurt. He’d flick ice chips face. “Don’t blink,” he said. “I dare you not at her to If you blink. blink,” he said, “we do it my She forced her way.” She tried not to blink. eyes open. She imagined it was her super

THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 11 *** “The only thing it means,” she said, “The only thing “I like your aprons.” “You’ve never even seen my aprons!” “I don’t think you’re eighty years “That’s not the point.” “I don’t care if you’re eighty years “I’m not eighty years old!” “I knew it.” She put her head in her hands. “I “Please don’t say that.” “I have to go.” “Don’t go.” She hung up. He didn’t call back. A month went by, and he call. didn’t sniffed.“You’re the only It means something.” chance. You know? one who took a might be a supreme a idiot. With “is that I cataclysmic assortment of And too aprons. hands.” much time on my she yelled. “I could be wearing sweatpants, for all you I could be know. a ski wearing evening gown with a feather or an parka, boa and combat boots. I could be wearing a woolen nightie and a ratty beige cardigan, could be eighty and beans. I cooking franks years old, for Christ’s sake!” old.” old. I love you.” can’t do this anymore.” She sat by the window out, and looked maybe peeking in he was near, imagining Maybe her. maybe stalking her windows, trying to figure out a way to break found herself She wanting him to stalk her. in. She watched for signs of him up and down the street, but the only thing she saw was Mr. cat, Hercules, Jansson’s trot across the front and a delivery man yard and up the stairs, near the corner and lift three park packages alice and juno in hell in juno and alice She texted back, “Thanks.” She texted back, He called hour later. “‘Thanks?’” an “What do you want me to say?” like I picture, the love – know don’t “I “The cassoulet was nice.” He laughed in a non-humorous, sar- “All right.” “Question. How many women did “Why does that matter?” Do you “Because it does. How many? as an He was silent, which she took “Why do you do it, Juno?” “Do what?” “Why do you call women you don’t His voice altered “I don’t know.” in “So, you call women you don’t know “Yes. No. You’re making it sound up at the corners. His hair was wavy and His hair up at the corners. tucked looked behind his ears. He to be in his late twenties, early thirties. He maybe if he needed did not look as to have phone sex. He looked as if he could real have had sex. is ‘thanks?’” he said. “That’s all you can say, your smile, great hair, nice cassoulet….” castic way. “Okay.” “Okay.” you call before Fourteen?” me? Two? Three? one?” still call them? Or am I the only implication. Why what they’re wearing? know and ask do you do that?” tone, as if somehow released. “I’ve never been really close to anyone. I’ve never felt like I belonged anywhere. No one has ever really seen me. Not really. Is that what you wanted to hear? My sad story?” because no one’s ever really seen you?” so…” He breathed out, an intimate sound she the imagined “Look, fact on her skin. is, to me.” He want to talk most women don’t THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 12 - The next day, she texted him a photo The phone rang five minutes later. he thing first the was you?” see I “Can “Maybe. I don’t know.” “Why not? Why?” She cursed herself. She didn’t know telling “I’m you right now that I “You probably will.” your address. You’re listed know in “I She felt a lurch in her chest at the re- “I could come over right now. Do you birches and sycamore - long black coat and birches and sycamore hair - and she black boots, wavy hurried ahead, almost to his side. He turned, glanc- ing back at her in profile, white beard and glasses, and she slowed and stopped. She found it difficult to breathe, curled bench, her hands lap. under on her and sat on a any- She wasn’t sure she would know him, The picture he sent way, if she saw him. He could have could have been of anyone. a white beard. He could have straight hair and a pinched, closed face. He could have back. one long braid trailing down his find could she shot best the was It herself. of – a sunshiny picture on her cousin’s She had a hat and sunglasses last summer. boat she was smiling. Her legs and were on, covered with a white a rain caftan. She had on why was that – happy looked She scarf. bow she chose it. She closed her eyes briefly and hit Send. She let it ring twice before answering. said. why she had sent him the picture. It was a misrepresentation. She should have just dropped the whole thing. “You’ll be disap- pointed.” won’t.” the white pages.” alization.

- alice and juno in hell in juno and alice She didn’t know his real name. She dreamed about touching him. She walked to one Jacque’s mid-af- She went to sleep,he didn’t call, and man, who was a shut-in and visited man, by her daughter once a month, and he didn’t call. She picked up the phone to call him zillions of times, and zillions of times she hung up. ternoon, down Wentworth Avenue, and crossed at the The man ahead park. of her strolled between the muted lampposts on either side of the walkway, through the from his truck, carrying them to the Wal- lace’s door, number 38. She felt like the scrutinizing movie, that Hitchcock guy in the goings comings and of everyone on the block - except he had witnessed a murder, whereas surveying the festival she was just of life daily that she did not partake in, a pa- rade of errant felines and men in delivery boxes and uniforms with brown rectangular trucks that thundered like awakening mon- sters when the keys were turned. and she woke up and went to work and came call, and she home for lunch, and he didn’t watched - Funniest Dating Mo “America’s she went ments,” and he didn’t call, and to see a movie – “Grand Flats,” about a Vegas died tycoon in the 40s who lived and alone - and sat by herself in the second to last row and ate popcorn with neon yellow butter, and he didn’t call, and two days went by and she walked through the grocery store searching he didn’t call, for Thai red chili paste, and and she cooked a whole chicken and some mashed potatoes, naked except for a purple that she had purchased with apron online, big fuchsia pockets and appliqued daisies, She ate a piece call. of chick- and he didn’t en and one helping of potatoes, and gave the rest to her upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Harri THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 13 She was silent, her fingers grazing “Does he?” “Does he what?” “Does he look back at her?” “Does she turn to stone? Does she “She goes back to hell.” “And what does he do?” “He has to leave her behind.” “Ah.” She smiled, but it wasn’t real- “I haven’t looked at you yet.” “But you She gazed want to.” down chick- “I don’t mind,” he said. “I like She laughed and pressed her cheek “Because sometimes you have to She counted the seconds, measured “What if it doesn’t?” Hades. The stipulation is, she has to walk turn around to and he can’t behind him, lose her forever.” look at her or he’ll the buzzer. “Alice?” “Yes.” die?” ly a smile. “You see? Meeting in person is a hap- will things Terrible bad. Very idea. bad pen. Rotten, terrible things.” at her slipper-socked toes.too “I’m skinny,” a chicken.” she said softly. “I’m sort of like en.” against the did wall. “Why you tell me that story? About Orpheus? Why did you mention it, if whatshername ends up in hell? If he leaves her? What’s the point?” take a chance. You might end up in hell, or you might escape hell, but you don’t really to hell, do you? And if you do go back know, at least you lived, at one point. At least you did something. You had your feet in the dirt. You felt a feeling. The sun shone hot on the top of your head. You did something.” and fleeting. “What if it hurts?” *** alice and juno in hell in juno and alice She pressed her fingers together in in person.” “I want to see it pockets. I’ll “It’s purple, with Wait, “I’ll come over and see it.” “If you hold on a minute, I’ll bring the “Shh. I’m coming over.” “I’ll be gone.” She hung up and The buzzer to the lobby rang. She had “I’m here. Please let me in.” She leaned on the wall. “Go home.” “It’s just me. You know me.” the “That’s she said. don’t,” “No, I “You’re pretty uninhibited on the “The phone is safe. It’s detached. It’s “Have you heard of Orpheus and Eu- Do they sell sectionals don’t know. “I the “No. So, goes, Orpheus story I won’t?” her lap. “I have a new apron,” she said. Her tinny and off-pitch. voice sounded put it on.” phone in the kitchen and make an etouffee. I’m going to sauté the onions until they’re…” sobbed briefly and ran to the window and looked It was and the out. raining, drops shingled down the glass in tiers. put on the purple and wore apron her blue and white and It rang again, slipper-socks. she stared at the “talk” button the on panel it. in the kitchen before pressing point. And anyway, if you knew me, you’d not I’m not happy. I’m hard. know that I’m a fossil. I said sunshiny. I’m I was eighty. I meant it.” phone. On the phone, you’re not a fossil.” Switzerland.” rydice?” on TV?” comes to release his love, Eurydice, from alice and juno in hell

Her finger hovered over the buzzer. “You can’t look at me. If you do, I’ll shrink to nothing. I’ll disappear.” “I’ll close my eyes.” “Until I say.”

“Okay.” “Promise.” “I promise.” “I made vichyssoise.” she said. “My name is Julian,” he said. She pressed the buzzer. v

THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020

B THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 20 01 editor’s note editor’s NONFICTION CRIMINY SAKES ALIVE CRIMINY SAKES Jody Rae earned her B.A. in Literature - Creative Writing from UC Santa Cruz. in Literature - Creative Writing from UC Santa Cruz. Jody Rae earned her B.A. Her essay, “Crumble to the Sea” won the nonfiction contest in The Climax Issue prize winner of the 2019 (2020) of From Whispers to Roars. She was the first for her poem, “Failure Winning Writers Wergle Flomp Humor Poetry Contest to Triangulate”. She lives in Colorado. B JODY RAE THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 17 Family lore suggestsfather Juanita’s kids Grandma Juanita raised her Fort Worth, Texas from Poland, she begat through one of her my grandma Juanita five marriages. Honey forced everyone to call her “Honey” when her first grandchild came along because shebelieved she was too young to be given a grandmother. Her name was Edna, but Texas in most parts of one simply does not address elders by their first names. We found a photo of Honey in stole, pearls, her silver years wearing a fur and big salt-and-pepperstyled Texas hair like a U.S. Senator’s. was a bit of a womanizer who had a thing be with, so for a Mexican woman he couldn’t he named his daughter after her. Grandma has a half-sisterJuanita somewhere, also named Juanita. Catholic, even though she was divorced and held a reputation for being the life of the party. And then she I have started drinking. to imagine being a single four, di- mother of vorced twice, and without a family estate to draw from would be an extremely stressful and desperate But situation. she muddled through, every weekend sauntering into the parlor or having liquid dinners with friends and relatives, yelling, “Down the hatch!” almost before the needle fell on the record, and then rolling up the carpets to make anyone dance with her. She was a winning personality, a budget stylist, a strict mother. She wore a scarf and sunglasses like movie stars in convertibles, but was never late to as a telephone work However, she operator. once out hurried the door and hopped into the car, slamming the door before realizing she was sitting in the back seat. “And I was stone cold sober!” she later recounted to howls of laughter among her friends. Here, I - criminy sakes alive sakes criminy My mom’s mother became an alco- Discussions about our genealogy side of my chemi- But it’s my mom’s Details foggy, His- are like a Drunk nant with us when nant with us when she at the joined my dad We nudged altar. lemon her sugar-rimmed drop an inch closer and demanded more Likewise, Dad and I were sit- information. ting side by side racism being at a bar and, no less corrosive when filtered through rum our mean, you do “What gasped, I Pepsi, and relatives destroyed evidence of our Ameri- can Indian bloodline?” relatives My mom’s did, too, it turns out. that Grandma holic late in life, so it’s ironic Juanita died from non-alcohol-related cir- rhosis of the liver while my mom was away at college As a result, Mom never in Idaho. kept house. Dad only drank alcohol in her Coors in his house while watching TV after hammering on lakeside all day. mansions Shielded from the atomic cloud of booze, evolved my understanding of our diaspora winter. through all the clarity of a nuclear weren’t taboo, but of more an oversight or an afterthought. Dad didn’t learn of our an- cestral heritage until his own folks aged well into their eighties and conversationally revealed that our family tree’s European roots and Ireland. Scotland extend into Germany, recall them mus- “Someone was Jewish,” I ing one afternoon,in their air-conditioned assisted living apartment. “You’ll have to go back and look.” Look where, my dad and I wondered later, over pints of heavy IPA’s. cal equation that has almost literally haunt- ed me since birth. After my great-grandmother Honey and her family emigrated to tory: Family Secrets Edition, but it was over learned when my sister and I frilly cocktails “maybe just a little that Mom was preg bit” THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 18 - Recently over wine, Mom revealed the Her hands shook as she aimed Her boyfriend paused at the end of out and smoke cigarettes all day. out and smoke that she dated a guy in Moscow, - Idaho af ter she graduated college. He heard about They moved with friends to work in Alaska. what sounds like a genuine in the commune Yukon so he could work on the pipeline or something. After living in Alaska with her boyfriend in a tiny trailer for six months, one day and Mom stayed he went to work behind in, again, what I suspect was a commune disguised she as a work camp. While hungry enormous, an was reading a novel, Grizzly bear came sniffing around thecamp and nosed way it’s towards Mom’s tiny trailer - the kind on wheels. It smelled something it liked inside and got up on its hind legs to rock the trailer to and fro with my Mom inside, alone, as she fumbled with a pistol - the only firearm she has ever touched - as if a single shooter would so much as spook a hungry Grizzly in the wild. gun in the direction of the narrow door that somehow stayed a bear claw intact under until the thedistracted bear got bored or and let the trailer drop back to the ground. work When her boyfriend came home from she was still shaken and retold the story through tears. her story, and then doubled a hoarse, over in knee-slapping laugh if the as very prospect of coming home to find his girlfriend’s remains strewn throughout the camp would be theThe next morn funniest thing ever. ing, Mom packed up and went back to Ida- ho, where she lived with friends in Orofino and soon met my dad in a backcountry bar. Born and raised in McCall, Dad was once the thein United best downhill skier States, and criminy sakes alive sakes criminy From the sound of it, much of the A few weeks later money went miss- Aunt Carole broke up with that always imagined her draped her mother’s in hand-me-down jewels furs and and perhaps a tiny tiara. I began to think of her as Ma- dame Juanita. to my Aunt Carole, who was housework fell also struggling as a high schooler. My mom remembers being home alone one night when she was only about eight She or nine. someone when dark the in TV watching was pounded on the door and then the window, and when she recognized the voice of Car- ole’s boyfriend, she reluctantly let him inside so he could through rummage Carole’s he kept hid- bedroom to retrieve a handgun den in her dresser. ing from Juanita’s purse, so she sat her kids at the table and forced them to drink baking confessed. soda and water until one of them Even though Mom was the youngest, she wanted to selflessly relieve her siblings, so she confessed, “It was me! I did it, okay? It was a goody-two-shoes was me!” My mom who had never done anything bad in her entire life. sneered Juanita said, “Like hell and it was you.” gun-toting purse snatcher. But not long after school ask- got a call from the that, Juanita ing if Carole was feeling better. They wanted to know how Carole’s leukemia treatments were coming along, as she hadn’t been in Carole had Aunt school for nearly a month. a twenty-something gal pal, the real loser type that hangs out with high schoolers and forges notes pretending or calls in sick, to be their mother. Juanita started personally morning, each school at off Carole dropping but Carole would walk around the corner and get in her loser friend’s car to go hang THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 19 - My parents called my aunt Carole Instead of Big Christopher, it was Sherda drove Aunt Carole back to- ever performed a C-section. Before hospital McCall’s two-room didn’t have an 1981, ultrasound machine, so based on the size peopleof her belly, most my mom assumed ten- brawny lumberjack boy, a was carrying tatively But when named Christopher. my mom went weeks into labor six early on a warm summer day, she was a hundred miles from a NICU. in California to tell her they needed her to expected. come visit much earlier than She quickly packed a suitcase bought and a one- airport. way ticket to Boise at the Oakland borrowed Sherda, a friend of my parents’, my mom’s VW Beetle and drove down the the canyon to pick Carole up from airport. By the time Carole’s plane landed, the mountain doctors had a better idea of what was actually going on. now quite obvious for the there were actually two little babies in there. first time that When her obstetrician felt around for a heartbeat, ours must have been in sync, because he never heard a third heartbeat. My dad called his and parents in Washington told them he was having twins. My grandpa, who ordered had nursery furniture for one, called Sears and told them to double the or- der. Word got around our tiny town, and because my dad was so well known for living there all his life, it was a matter of days before the entire second bedroom of our house was stacked, floor to ceiling, withand supplies. diapers wards McCall, but as they gained altitude through the trees along the narrow swath of Highway 55 that cuts along the Payette Riv er, the beetle’s headlights started to flicker - criminy sakes alive sakes criminy When he quit college, following a Stranded at the McCall, Idaho hos-

ed to Columbia University but declined and instead. enrolled at the University of Idaho and soon con- Dad is a master craftsman, more money vinced himself he could make as a carpenter than as a math major, which is perhaps the only miscalculation he has ever made in life and he will tell you he still regrets dropping out of college. It proved to make a hard living. handful of public arguments with his pro- fessors, home Dad moved to McCall. When he wasn’t working construction he drove an he refuses ambulance for years, which to talk about other than to admit he still has nightmares, decades later. Like my mom, he was in a bit of a wandering phase when he entered that fateful bar in Yellowpine. The thing about my parents is that they are very amazing people from one apart another, but incompatible in almost every way. But since they were also the two most at- tractive people in Idaho’s backcountry it was probably inevitable that they would end up together. They saw each other across the bar in Yellowpine and fell madly in love. pital with a team of every doctor within a fifty-mile radius, it was immediately clear to my parents that no one in the room had I know this because everyone I meet from his his fellowyouth, including Ski Team- U.S. mates tell it. But even though me about his dad was the head sawyer at the sawmill, his France to him send to afford couldn’t family to compete, and they wouldn’t accept chari- ty from the townspeople who really wanted their local boy to win. It was heartbreaking and he became depressed.Then the sawmill where he his dad and both worked burned down and closed for good. He was accept THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 20 - - The medical text didn’t provide all Mom didn’t feel a thing. My dad is But when the doctors, surgeons When my mom woke up she was

Aunt Carole shaken, but arrived, alive, she walked past the operating room window covered in my dad’s tears that was already and sweaty she saw the and handprints, medical team flipping through the book to- was terrified. gether. Aunt Carole the answers, so they got on the phone with make it to a surgeon in Boise, who couldn’t McCall by the time they knew he was need ed. With a spiral phone cord bisecting the head and they curtained my mom’s O.R., shoulders several at- from view and made tempts incision at her lower abdomen. at an I usually stop here and ask why someone They didn’t just call the local veterinarian. do C-sections on livestock all the time, and you would think, during an emergency such Usually my is a mammal. a mammal as this, family rolls their eyes at that, but I bet nobody even thought of it. Allen, her anes- still good friends with Dr. thesiologist. themselves now, opened her up they pulled re- my sister out and the last thing my mom members before she blacked out was a doctor standing over her and shouting, “Some- body come get this othershe’s gonna kid, die!” And that’s how I came into, and almost left, the world. pretty sure one of her babies was dead. I was fine, sort of, once they ordered me to stay inside an incubator for at least a week and achieve a goal of four pounds before leaving the hospital. My sister was five pounds, so she got to go home right away. Our mom got stitched up after the doctors reconstruct ed her abdomen. Her scars don’t resemble - - criminy sakes alive sakes criminy Finally they heard a motor and saw “We’ve only been out a few hours! In a panic, the doctors kicked my They waited in the dark for cars to

ings. She was nervous and chatty about local wildlife until Aunt Carole stopped hyper ventilating long enough to tell her to shut up about it. headlights appear around the bend coming from the south. They waved the flashlight their and arms while shouting. The car pulled hard to look over and they It’s got in. scruffy two the but mouth, the in horse gift a congratulated men, in their early thirties, and then the men Carole on being an aunt, quickly, unapologetically, revealed they were both ex-convicts, sprung from prison. to the if either We’re headin’ bars, of you la- guess I Well, No? us. dies would like to join you gotta go see your sister. Hey, either of you a hit a this want joint?” Aunt Carole counted her blessings every time they suc- cessfully rounded a corner or corrected the wheel if they drifted out of the lane. dad out of the operating room, while nurses treated my mom’s pain and frantically searched the building for a C-Sections for Sure enough, by the time Dummies manual. and then the car died. It was pitch black. There were no other on that cars stretch of road. They searched the car for a flashlight and when Carole one found in the glove switched compartment and she it on, real- mere inches from a ized she was standing ended in Class V rapids. steep drop that come along, preserving the flashlight’s bat- tery. The the roar of whitewater failed to the woods. Sherda re- mute the sounds in called there had been a recent wolf sighting, occurrence in that area during the a rare But 80’s. there were hundreds of bear sight THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 21 - - And yet, at seven, I could not be “Criminy sakes alive! If you could I would level my eyes with hers and It’s true that projecting Madame Even though my aunts and uncles trusted with the knowledge that I might over anyone. have nominal authority would Juanita your Grandma only hear what say about your messy room, or how lazy you for school every morning,” are to get ready my mom would say as she manually dressed in bed. me while I was still half asleep solemnly say, “I am Juanita.” And apparently creepiestthe child in Amer- ica. restricted Juanita my personal identity, but my address to confidence the me gave also it own mother by her first name, and at times make demands. There was a tendril of eccen tricity that desperately needed to be nipped in the bud. When I was home alone at age eight or nine, I pulled garments vaguely re- sembling capes and gowns from my moth- her Masters er’s ample closet. Mom acquired Science in Library when we were toddlers, so her wardrobe consisted mainly of tweed, polyester, and pantyhose. I used her cheap jewelry, layers of flowy scarves, and librar ian-grade Payless pumps to approximate a costume worthy of Madame Juanita. swear up and down that Grandma Juanita was a strict, Southern, somewhat chemically with strong opinions imbalanced matriarch on proper etiquette, I always suspected she might have a soft spot for me underneath Just her like hard knock armor. she never would have allowed her slip to show in real life, I nevertheless imagined her as a lounge singer, draped across a grand piano, one shoulder strap playing chicken with gravity. I don’t know how old I was when I realized I - - criminy sakes alive sakes criminy I stayed in the hospital longer than Suspecting that you might be your The day after we were born, the Mc- Mom was certain that I wasn’t going Mom named my sister. Dad named

names. My sister was christened “Princess”. christened was sister My names. I was called Bird Butt. they but my dad would had hoped, come to the hospital to visit my incubator every day, and he would tap on the case, saying, Gonna. Live.” “You’re. Gonna. Live. You’re. she time, first the for me held mom my When blinked twice at my face and said, “Mom? Is that you?” own reincarnated grandmother is a much bigger responsibility than you might imagine. I bore the mantle as if I possessed or de veloped a superpower that I could not quite fathom, yet understood it should not be misused. My mom encouraged this notion, wondering aloud how I knew that particu- lar song her mother used to love so much (it was now used as a commercial jingle), or certain phrases I used or facial expressions. Mom was going through a spiritual explora- tion herself, no longer a Catholic, and that meant all bets were on the table, including reincarnation. other C-section scars at all. But those doc- other C-sectionscars at all. never gave up on us. tors and nurses Call hospital ordered an ultrasound machine. So I like to tell anyone born in Valley County after July of 1981 that their parents for that. have me to thank to make it, considering my weight and the level of medical expertise available to us. She just need told my dad, “We to let go, her Mike.” me after the babysitter he grew up with in his childhood neighborhood who he always had a thing for. He also gave us both nick THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 22

- criminy sakes alive sakes criminy By the time I was in my late twenties “Oh, that’s so interesting,” Mom said

sary. and still on the fence about kids of having my own, I mentioned over highball 7 and 7’s I have always loved the with Mom that name Amelia. and if I my absolute name, “It’s favorite were have a daughter to ever or a heroine in a best-selling novel, or a pet turtle, her name I said. would be Amelia, no arguments,” between sips tiny straw. through her skinny “Your went Grandma Juanita by her middle name all her life. Her first name was Ame- lia.” v am not my own grandmother, reincarnated, am not my own much older than neces but it was probably

B THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 20 01 editor’s note editor’s POETRY FLASH IN THE PACKED AUDITORIUM IN THE PACKED Matt Mason is the Nebraska State Poet and Executive Director of the Nebraska Matt Mason is the Nebraska State Poet and Executive the State Department in Writers Collective. He has run poetry programs for the recipient of a Pushcart Nepal, Romania, Botswana and Belarus. Mason is anthologies including Ted Prize and his work can be found in magazines and I Have a Poem the Size Kooser’s American Life in Poetry. Mason’s 3rd book, Press in late 2020. of the Moon, is due out from Stephen F. Austin University Sarah McKinstry-Brown, Matt is based out of Omaha with his wife, the poet and daughters Sophia and Lucia. B MASON MATT THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 25

Warren Buffett eats peanut brittle Warren Buffett live on stage thousand faces, he in front of forty makes it look easy, chip, picks up a golden mid-sentence, a point to life, uses that same hand to gesture punctuates with a crunch. screen, You crane your neck for the video hoping to see the slo-mo replay, but, no, it’s just some monologue about picking stocks, making money. v in the packed auditorium packed the in THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 26 flash —from an inch-long news story in the Omaha World-Herald news story in the Omaha —from an inch-long In such a Funkytown spectacle, dancers, you’d think the officers would move more like the YMCA leap like antelope, prowl like panthers instead of such highlight clumsy choreography where they fall on this slickfish naked Not a soul notices of light beams, how beautiful the Capitol building looks in this rain, confetti orange pickup spinning on the green, tires spraying mud across the cosmos. Mary just smiles. Jesus doesn’t even turn his head. meditating on the pair of candles far away as stars before the scene ignites, the aisle, before a choir of rubber and internal combustion blazes up slows like genuflection, the side doors like a sea. screeches left at the altar, tips the holy birdbath, and parts Too much is the surprise of it, brewing coffee after bedtime that, otherwise, would keep you halfway to dawn, so you could sneak to the church everybody here, the Presbyterians sit with the whole neighborhood; the Baptists from the red house, everybody squeezed in the balcony You can’t publicize a show like this. You can’t publicize a show like he’s wearing nothing but rain and spotlights, his skin he’s wearing nothing but rain grass, a living glitter ball across the stepped out a superstar, breakneck beats blue-red paparazzi pulses flashing around the streetlight city. 3am, naked man in Nebraska 3am, naked man through a church, drives his truck sideswipes a school, on the State Capitol’s lawn; ends up spinning

THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 27 flash v

and beat his chin into the muck; they lie to the rain, saying: into the muck; they lie to the and beat his chin show, that’s it for the here, nothing to see home. get yourselves KIM SOSIN BLUE HERON AT THE LAKE Kim McNealy Sosin is an Emerita Professor of Economics at the University of Nebraska Omaha. Her post-retirement interests include writing and photogra- phy. Her poems and photographs have appeared in Fine Lines, Failed Haiku, Daily Haiga, Voices from the Plains, Landscape Magazine, The Heron’s Nest, Wanderlust Journal, Raw Art Review, and Sandcutters.

THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 29 v blue heron at the lake the at heron blue That last day before moving on That last day before of the lake. I fish the shallows I stand regally, neck. stretch my long ice fountain I see myself, a sculpted surface, reflected in the blue than the lake, sleek feathers more rushes. stiletto beak more gold than the In the soft smell of recent rain ducks kiss fertile lake beds. light I spot an underwater flash of and strike, shattering my reflection. I pull out a silvery minnow, marveling at my fishing prowess and savor spring’s bounty. A cacophony of nasal quacks warns me! I hunker down, leap, plumes, open azure wings, grab air in remember rise with warm currents, but then the minnow-rich slate pool the whisper of rippling water. I circle, splash home on feather parachutes. This shallow fertile lake is my sojourn. Tomorrow will be time to move on.

JAMIE WENDT UPROOTING A TREE

Jamie Wendt is the author of the poetry collection Fruit of the Earth (2018) and winner of the 2019 National Federation of Press Women Book Award. Her poetry, essays, and book reviews have been published in various literary journals and anthologies, including Feminine Rising: Voices of Power and Invisi- bility, Lilith, Literary Mama, the Forward, Third Wednesday, and Saranac Re- view. She holds an MFA from the University of Nebraska Omaha. She teaches high school English and lives in Chicago with her husband and two children.

THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 31 v uprooting a tree uprooting There is always risk There is always a tree. when uprooting generation, Generation after the earth, we yank roots from recall and no one can the place a root the first seed, names a new species splits. My tongue that my sons can never understand. I kiss their foreheads at night and they grow into strangers, laughing in their sleep. Guberdnia I remember the lanky boy in Kove parents’ wallet who ate copper coins from his to America. rather than be forced on a ship He ate half of their fortune. like dirt. His fingers were orange, smelled He swung from trees, a monkey-snake, road rushed to me one day across the where I often dug, pat soil, grabbed weeds, planted flowers. in my face. He shoved his splintered hand mother to sons. I already sensed I would be a my black nails, I tweezed out the tiny wood with licked his red wound slow and hot, prophesied he would remain a boy forever running from himself without guilt in his chest, without pages between his lips, without an ocean to hold him steady. – Mena “Minnie” Pretcovitz, 1905

CLIF MASON THE MAN WHOSE FACE WAS STOLEN Clif Mason lives in Bellevue, Nebraska, with his wife, a visual artist. He is the author of one collection, Knocking the Stars Senseless (Stephen F. Austin State University Press), and three chapbooks: The Book of Night & Waking (won the Cathexis Northwest Press Chapbook Prize), Self-portraits in Which I Do Not Appear (Finishing Line Press), and From the Dead Before (Lone Willow Press). His work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and he has been the recipient of a Fulbright Fellowship to Rwanda, Africa. He also writes magical realist and fantasy fiction

THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 33 was stolen was palterings & got married on a gold doubloon, & woodpecker to return his face, of dream & contempt, changed & dissemblings, of human subterfuge, & had children, & misgivings. of woodchuck with the brilliantly elastic tongue, like a window blind. the quail, each a guileless opportunist, & broke his hands. the man whose face face whose man the & then it was his no more, & then it was his & of the toad not one with a shred of human obliquity. they bruised his chest To get what it must The snail, Everyone knew the man’s stolen face & when he begged them Other people went to work & pursued their ever- in a white water river but was exchanged touched it each person who by the long trail of barterings was the first & foremost urge rolled up in its mouth the town’s thousand feral cats: not one with an ounce but no one knew him. retreating dreams, A man woke to find his face A man woke to THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 34 was stolen was thinner, among them. v & unchanging. they told stories of it. the most incredible in moments of quiet clarity, in moments of & mathematicians, His face came back to him. could not see him at all. admitting, more transparent, they saw its gleaming silver face. & parents passed it without thinking & see it in the mirror. the man whose face face whose man the their grand goals were becoming their grand goals homeless printers & magicians. to their children. His life was fixed Soon no one remembered him. Yet everyone wanted When friends gathered, When lovers met, Children dreamt of it. Old men & women spoke of it It inspired poets Inmates held it in their hearts One night the man dreamed He could feel it When he woke, He had completely ceased to exist & unlikely. more improbable the coin bearing his face. with their dying breaths. & time during their long ordeal of crime & extravagant of dreams: the rest of the world

B THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 20 01 editor’s note editor’s

FICTION FLASH - - EXTRA-LARGE FOR THE LORD EXTRA-LARGE se, Idaho, where he is currently studying creative writing at Boise State Univer se, Idaho, where he is currently in Parhelion, Writers In The sity. Tomas’s work has appeared or is forthcoming Meadow, Peatsmoke, Attic, Obelus, In Parentheses, Meniscus, [PANK], The Good Life Review, and elsewhere. Tomas Baiza was born and raised in San José, California, and now lives in Boi Tomas Baiza was born and B BAIZA TOMAS THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 37 - Joey shrugs. “If you say so, Luís.” you say so, Joey shrugs. “If “Keep it up, dickweed.” button, the flicks mic, the to leans He “JEEZ-us, your pizza’s ready! - Ex Joey says JEEZ-us like one of those The crowded dining room falls silent, “You ignorant-ass bolillo,” I say. My That’s how “Je-SÚS, bro. you pro- Joey scratches that his head. “Isn’t At the back of the next dining room, that it glows I think about how like charcoal. I could be washing dishes Gar- at Bangkok den the across street. It’s not as hot—and I’d get a bowl of and Thai iced kai tom kha tea on my break. sounds like “Louise.” From him, it always and side-eyes me, like See what ‘bout I’m to do? tra-large pepperoniJEEZ-us, for JEEZ-us. come on up and get your pizza!” flabby-jowled t.v. preachers, the ones who convulse, white-knuckled, over the pul faith and eyes pit, armpits soaked from the wild with grace, amphetamines, and all the tax-deductible donations. the families frozen in wonder at outside chance they’ll get to see the one and only Son of God collect dinner his 3,000-calorie on a busy Friday night. head spins from the smoke billowing from the oven, but I can’t bring myself to get back to avert my stinging eyes, to miss to work, the closest thing to an honest-to-God Ad- I mumble, ever witness. “Jesús,” vent I’ll stepping with the up to the cutting counter burnt medium anchovy. “Huh?” nounce it.” just Mexican for JEEZ-us?” to the massive flatscreen broadcasting the Angels tied-up Devil Rays in the with the - -

–C.S. Lewis

Joey, tragically Joey, tragically White clueless. and super-heat say, “Hurry up, dude,” I

Joey’s frown sinks in deeper. in “This Joey’s frown sinks Crowding the gas oven are hulking Joey’s frown morphs into resistance. “The fuck can’t you do?” I say. “Call extra-large for the lord the for extra-large the presence of God. The world is crowded the presence of with Him. He walks everywhere incognito. with Him. He walks We may ignore, but we can nowhere evade We may ignore, Joey who’s in my English and P.E. classes, Health, God not Trigonometry or but thank well, homeboy yanks the half-burnt or- der ticket from under the sizzling pizza. He squints at it and twists up his face, pale fingers wrapped round the intercomof Fri- a packed dining room Beyond him, mic. day-night customers. ed past my face, each time pizzas rotating around smokier than the last. name…” fifteen pizzas on dual rotating decks. I have zero doubt that Dante Alighieri’s editor where made him remove the chapter he de clared the kitchen of a strip mall cramped restaurant as one of the lowest pizza levels sigh and slide I the wood-handled of Hell. peel under one particularly abused victim, its face deformed by angry welts of bubbled dough and curling anchovies. “Call it out, pendejo!” I heft the pizza on the peel and can’t decide whether to catapult it at Joey’s face or lay it on the cutting table next to the perfect pepperoni he has sliced and placed under the angry orange heat lamps. “But, I can’t—” the name or I swear to man.” Dripping God, in the oven’s heat, I choke on the smoking essence of incinerated bell peppers and crumbled linguiça so close to combustion THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 38 - v “Esto es para usted,” and I croak “Muchas he gracias, jovenazo,” says. stutter. It occurs to me, I “¿S-Señor?” Jesús pauses, the steam rising from “¿Mande?” he says. His smile is

of the pick-up counter. He flicks the brim of at the his hat and smiles pepper extra-large oni set out before His him. broad white teeth own, teeth remind me of my my welfare in- surance orthodontist once called “Indian teeth” before complaining to his assistant that he should charge my mother more for the it would extra hardware take to wrestle them half-way straight. nudge the platter towards him. Strong, calloused hands lift the aluminum The hands of a hands. platter. Laborer’s carpintero. with the suddenness of the ring of a bell, that Señor also means Lord. smoke. the pizza hazes his face like incense pools peace, of millen- Dark his voice love. nia-old eyes pull me “¿En qué in. puedo ser- virle, mi hijo?” -

Joey blinks wide-eyed at his ap- “Shut up,” I say. Behind us, a ruddy “But—” Joey starts to say and is Jesús scans the room, a hundred a hundred Jesús scans the room, extra-large for the lord the for extra-large ing, tough enough to withstand beer, grease, cigarette and the vomit, blood, mortal ash, sin of boxed His thumbs are locked wine. into a leather belt embossed with eagles clutching serpents And and beak. in talon perched over his crotch, a curved pewter buckle that shouts ¡100% Sinaloense! under each fluorescent light that he passes. proach. “What’s happening?” he whispers. flicker that might be the blinkingCrush sign at the Orange bar or the first tongues of brim- of whiff a catch I oven. the from flame stone—or maybe it’s just ignited dough. I don’t care anymore. cowed into silence when the steel caps of Jesús’s boot heels click on the tiles in front ninth, a man stands. Two hundred eyes stands. Two hundred eyes a man ninth, lock onto JEEZ-us—Jesús—as he edges past the woman he’s come with. I’d bet my entire week’s minimum-wage salary that name her be- Except this Mary is no virgin is María. cause infant on her breast there’s an and a toddler grinding cheap restau- on each side have crayons into waxy crumbs that I’ll rant to sweep up after closing. expectant faces turned He towards him. musses the of one of the hair toddlers and steps the end of the long table into around the aisle that leads to me and Joey. He is tall, barrel chested, with a clean white button-up stretched tight his over round belly and pushed into midnight blue jeans. The of his camel suede sloping brim cowboy hat is hidden obscures his eyes, and his mouth beneath a big broom bigote that would make my mother blush. Polished whisper over the dense commercial carpet brown boots NAJLA BROWN HOW TO BE A BITCH

Najla Brown traded in the oil pumpjacks of West Texas for the oil skyscrapers of Houston. She holds a Bachelor of Arts from Texas A&M in English and Polit- ical Science. She spends her days writing tag lines and her nights writing ev- erything else. You can find her work in Houstonia Magazine, Molotov Cocktail, Coffin Bell Journal, and elsewhere.

THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 40 - Wait until the night before a full Wait It’s difficult to say how a man will re- face. Use the brown paper as a napkin or don’t, but prepare yourself for how people on your stained mouth and will comment how it reminds them of lipstick. They’ll think you dressed up ac- for them. Don’t cept this. Set the record straight. Practice saying all the things you’ve held back in or- der to be seen you as amenable. Remember, “no” begins to are not a dog. Listen to how sound a howl like the times more it crawls out of your throat, so speak loud. Play with your range. People may misinterpret your body, but they will understand your snarl, so bare your teeth. If you white do it right, foam will begin to creep out of the corners of your mouth no one and will confuse it for a smile. It’s too late in the cycle to be smiling anyways, so pay attention to nature. When animals begin to flee upon your approach, you’ll know your time is near. every moon. Skip dinner. Download dating app. and only swipe right on the men who describe themselves as alpha. Size them up by their pictures. Focus more on the ones who take gym selfies or body shots in their poorly lit bathrooms shirtless. Imagine what it feels like to have them inside of you. That fullness that only comes with total satisfac tion. Invite your favorite over for tomorrow night. If you choose correctly, they’ll hit the at your place so their gym before arriving bodies pulse with just enough blood to make them look swollen in all the right places, like a berry just asking to be plucked. You’ll be able to smell them from down the street. That mix of machismo and Axe Body Spray will themmake easier to track if you need to. You may need to. act when he meets an actual bitch, so make how to be a bitch a to be how Having a fur coat is a requirement. It a fur coat is a requirement. Having Like the fur coat, you’ll want to get Remind yourself how strong your A well-done steak is okay the first doesn’t necessarily need the to match color but it makes of the you already have, hair the easier transition if it does. stop So shav- ing. Stop waxing. Stop Let your plucking. body hair be your first teacher.it makes your body its home like so many Watch as other things will try to. Follow its example. Make your body your home. Protect yourself, but stop hiding the wild parts of you. defiant. Grow wiry. Grow strong. Grow used to wearing it. To feeling it’s weight on your body and the way it wipes away your all a Sweat is a necessity. tears. It’s skin’s that blend part of your natural musk, of rust and fertile soil, and you need to smell un- tamable or people will mistake you for the the off up you pick to try They’ll dog. average street. Yell a mix of sweet and sour words from their car in an effort to coax you into bed. Keep their vehicle, their home, their walking, or better yet, start running. legs they’ll you wherever you are. How carry want to go and back if that’s where you want to be, and when you’re ready, learn how to walk on all fours. It will feel like trying on your first pair of high heels, but used all a matter of preparing your- to it. It’s you’ll get self for the big night, so use this time to establish your boundaries and protect them. Piss at their corners if you need to remind people that this is your territory and bite fact, get In apologize. when necessary. Don’t a taste for blood. Start eating red meat. day, but by the time a waning gibbous hangs over your head at night, you should be walking out of the butcher store with a full stomach and blood dripping down your THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 41 how to be a bitch a to be how He’ll know he’s come to the right He’ll know he’s come to the

him wait outside him wait outside he knocks. after your door there Let him stand until you hear him call under his breath before you by your name then throw the turning to leave, curtains open. Strip completely Let the naked. moon- light kiss every part of you as it readies you to answer the door. place your by the slobber dripping from muzzle. v TIM TOMLINSON RABELAIS Tim Tomlinson is the author of Requiem for the Tree Fort I Set on Fire (poetry) and This Is Not Happening to You (short fiction). His prize-winning story, “An- other Lydia Davis Story,” appears in Columbia Journal, August 2020. Other recent work appears in CHILLFiltr Review, Passengers Journal, Text (Austra- lia), Poet Sounds: An Anthology Inspired by the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds, and A Feast of Narrative: Stories by Italian-American Writers. He’s a co-founder of New York Writers Workshop, and a professor in NYU’s Global Liberal Studies.

THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 43 - rabelais tract of this really lovely girl who Barnard ever professed at that time hadn’t inter- an est time she in a career in psychiatry. At that ballet met her in wanted I be a dancer. to class, and in a way she resembled New York City Suzanne Farrell, everybody’s Ballet’s ingenue, and that’s probably half or more than half of the reason I was in bed with her with my finger circling around the tip of her shit. I saw this living Degas in a tutu, was attracted en haut. I en pointe, her arms to her external her tube grace, not digestif, the contents of which, I had to admit, took me moderately aback, and the fact that I was was I aback. taken aback took me further aback squared, and I flashed on the added Lawrence to Lady Chat- script D.H. post terley’s in which Lover, he dissects Jonathan divine Celia’s Swift’s lamentation about his some Swiftian re- I evacuatory habits. Was actionary, some delicate English toff recoil- facts? Was ing at reminders of life’s funkier I searching for the farts kind of woman who perfume and pisses But that’s champagne? not what I wanted to write about either, not even theof amazes part that still kind me of when I took out the finger and wiped it on the corner of the contour sheet cover- ing my mattress, which was on the floor in that way we had back then of signifying we were in college, or grad school, which was met the an- and where I the case with me, noying teacher who said I can’t or one can’t not vomit, farts or piss or write about shit or understanding that none of those things was even close to the point. And then later, once the girl had gone home Barnard and it was after four in the and my head was morning on the pillow maybe eighteen inches away shit, her off wiped had finger my where from how just I kept my head on the pillow maybe I once had a writing teacher who told me you can’t write about shit and piss and farts and vomit and I said oh yeah, why not? Gargantua let Didn’t Rabelais’s loose a tor- didn’t And Paris? of city the over piss of rent “two that piss drown and sixty hundred hundred and eighteen, thousand, four not counting the women and small children”? piss And, in fact, didn’t that gargantuan give the city of Paris its name? The City of and haute Lights, and the cuisine, Louvre, that was the and the ballet. But none of point, I told point this writing teacher. The was: what I wanted to write about had noth- farts or vomit. ing to do with shit or piss or Well, maybe shit somewhat, but only inci- dentally, because, I explained, what I want- was in bed I ed to write about was this time girl who would become later with a Barnard a famous She psychiatrist. made elaborate drawings of dragons and did extensive NSSI skin cutting up and down her forearms—she showed me thin their red, razor lines and it looked like a bunch of - railroad tracks link ing her wrist to her elbow. in bed, So we’re excuse and, the girl, me and this Barnard French, I have my fingerup her ass, I mean buried in her ass, but that, too, wasn’t what I wanted to write about, but it was an important detail because at one point the tip the like something encountered finger my of tip of another finger, only it couldn’t have been a finger, I realized, unless this future had been shrink eating hand sandwiches, a thought that led to the understanding that what was I feeling was the tapered tip of this afternoon’s lunch—the turd first in line for her next evacuation and that really twisted It was like the tip of a long carrot and me up. I didn’t like imagining, no less feeling, the formation of a shit carrot in the digestive THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 44 rabelais

- v low, this dazzling yellow sunlight spilling low, this dazzling yellow sunlight down the hill from Broadway and I say fuck it and throw off the sheetswindow where, outside, I see a guy open the and go to the trunk of a Ford LTD and stare into the back of it. And I mean stare, like transfixed. At least that’s the way I remember that’s him, the way I see him in my mind’s eye: this guy transfixed, LTD the of trunk the into staring like he’s not moving, almost a picture, like he’s almost aware that’s he’s a picture not a real thing, just frozen in time and space, staring, staring, staring. And that’s what I want to write about: that guy, that that light, that paralysis. I mean, that morning, car, what in the world could he been have looking at for so long? eighteen inches away from where my finger had wiped off her shit, how I just kept my head on the pillow as if actual shit wasn’t less two feet than that sur- a way away. In prised me. In a way I learned something was the kind of mother- I about myself. fucker who would keep his head on a pillow eighteen inches away from shit. Not a pile of shit, a shit streak, shit residue, but shit nonetheless. If you did a chemical analysis of it, it would register as fecal matter, that’s the point, unless I was just compensating upon discovery of the for being taken aback shit’s existence. But that was still not the point I wanted to write Because about. what can you say of any interest about a callow graduate student with his head on a pillow eighteen inches away from the fecal residue of a pretty ballerina with his eyes half open half closed, halfway between sleep and un- consciousness, moderately on co- buzzed caine and gin and unable, therefore, fully to and the dawn drift off and then it’s sunrise is gray and blue then almost dazzlingly yel

B THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 20 01 editor’s note editor’s

NONFICTION FLASH - COHESION FORCES IN AN AVALANCHE COHESION FORCES Kathryn Stam is an anthropology professor and creative non-fiction writer Kathryn Stam is an anthropology

gees and teaches about cultural diversity. She has spent the past several years gees and teaches about cultural diversity. She has spent learning how to slay a few of her most pernicious enemies. who is obsessed with all things Himalayan. She volunteers with resettled refu who is obsessed with all things B STAM KATHRYN THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 47 At our community At our community center in Utica, was twenty-nine I years old When poultices glory, and wrap them of morning with soiled of plaidstrips blue and grey lun- gi There are people cloth. whose job it is to count the dead Karen as if those numbers mattered somewhere to someone. Whose stories? job is it to tell refugee NY, my job is to wash the dishes with a rag I make out of a flannel shirt from the signs that nations pile. And to laminate the do- says, “Don’t move the and, ping pong table,” “no spitting into the garbage, please.” As a writer, our job is something else though. Poet Nick Flynn tells us that “...this is the ultimate purpose of why we are here — to create that a scrim others can project onto, so they actively participate can in trying to make meaning out of this, out of every- take his words I 70). 2013, thing….” (Flynn, and rush to create a a ratan scrim, scrim, something I might be able to produce from of my silver Toy- the back the pile of crap in ota Yaris, with the betel nut candy wrap- bath- pers, a pink booster seat, Hemish’s ing suit, and a radish that rolled out of the recycle bag into the spare tire well where it waits for a sweltering day to fully realize its fusty essence. My job is to question ev- and wild claims, ery assumption and make trust you with this meandering tale. The forbidden to use is the only am one word I word my mind can muster, but seven-minute bursts into my subconscious and other- words emerge purple in pulses and thread- bare scraps of sound. and visiting a Nepali Swamiji told ashram, me upon first sight that I knew nothing of yoga. We would not do yoga poses because that’s just the superficial was to thing.sit here under the OurBodhi fig tree job on an avalanche - cohesion forces in in forces cohesion There are people whose job it is to There are people whose job it is to als. Pawsersoe hears they are coming and corn of ear smoldering a with fire the stokes to cook them some sticky rice and bamboo soup. She unrolls a ratan mat and hangs a mosquito net for them. They will sleep twenty-two who arrived Win, next to Tamla days ago but still hasn’t found his daughter Hainey yet. There are people whose job it is to wash wounds with stream water and model cohesion forces To in avalanches. build a snow chute in Switzerland, to freeze wet ice and simulate and dry snow, to cali- brate the to measure instruments, the cen- tripetal pressures of the avalanche’s head and tail, to graph molecular to bonding, ex- amine precisely how much stress can build before the skier is crushed in a tumbling ball of ice and stone, and any amount of dyna- her a dead mite prevention still makes skier. Did she do her job to bring a shovel, a probe, and a beacon, the newest model that would allow her to detect the heartbeats of buried un- the under location their flag and victims stable mass of ice and snow, branches and boulders? The people whose job it is to sell beacons caution that the plane of the anten- broadcast is crucial because na’s it is easiest to find thevictim if she is at thecorrect an- gle, lying down horizontally. force other people to carry rice for soldiers, or light the match that sets fire to a Karen village in Burma. To load the and chase Hser and BA72 Prikadi into the hills in rifles their pink plastic flip flops, where they hide all night hushed in tall brush, then sneak border where toward the Thai they will be told they cannot cross because they do not have papers. There are people whose job it is to wait at camp and console new arriv THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 48 - (2015). “Modelling “Modelling (2015). snow av cohesion in alanche flow.” Journal v (229), 837-850 of Glaciology, 61 an avalanche - cohesion forces in in forces cohesion --- “But don’t eat the- fatty things, Stam Swamiji’s job was to ease suffering. A few years later, my job was to being flaming jewels on their backs. ing flaming jewels Breath is all you You are too fatty already. ji. need. The rest is the shallow thing. We will sit here and I will teach you the and chakras the structure and secrets of the universe and will release God. You will not suffer. You baby whose your baby, your Thailand solid body expired after only three cleansing breaths. God goes Seed to God, goes to seed. Look around, this ashram with filth and rats but everyone is here is hap- overflowing py.” he would That morning, teach the me about four forces of life currents, the forces of life being, and the nineteen elements of the cos- disciple’s mic body. Swamiji’s orange-robed job was to flush his master’s deposits down the squat toilet before anyone else could smell or see it. come a mother again. A real mother who got to go home the from hospital with a real baby, a boy with adult-sized ears, big brown eyes, and flat farmer’s feet like is father’s, and whose loud, at the job it was to cry, top of his tiny little lungs, a beacon to tell the the before even here, was he that floor whole spectacular most A bell. baby their rang staff boy who grows and twenty-three years later is still spectacular. Chinese plastic chairs, to eat salted popcorn chai and gaze upon the and drink snow- capped foothills of the sacred mountain We breathed in the Gauri Shankar. prayers that of Shiva and Shakti would waft on can- wish-fulfill with lungta, horses, wind tering Inspired by: Bartelt, P., Valero, C.V., Feistl, Buser. and O. Y., Buhler, M., Christen, T., JAMES PENHA BETTER OFF

A native New Yorker, James Penha has lived for the past quarter-century in Indonesia. Nominated for Pushcart Prizes in fiction and poetry, his work has lately appeared in several anthologies: The View From Olympia (Half Moon Books, UK), Queers Who Don’t Quit (Queer Pack, EU), What We Talk About It When We Talk About It, (Darkhouse Books), Headcase, (Oxford UP), Lovejets (Squares and Rebels), and What Remains (Gelles-Cole). His essays have appeared in The New York Daily News and The New York Times. Penha edits The New Verse News, an online journal of current-events poetry.

THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 50 better off better

v My ninety-five-year-old aunt says

die at home. Not in a new she wants to place—a senior living place where she will know no one (though she knows almost no except the anymore... anywhere one living a fewcaregiver who cares per day at a hours handsome rate off the books... and the well- tipped building and the superintendent... old lady down the hall who complains about every noise my aunt’s apartment from but only my aunt wants, she wants what says, And so and that is for her to stay home.) I will continue, I know, to get emergency beeps and texts and calls at irregular hours regularly, and I think for the first time ever that my aunt would be better off, as she has ninety-five “because dead herself, said often is plenty I wonder for anyone.” if in twenty who as she is now, as old am when I years, besides me will wish me dead. THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW AUTUMN 2020 51 Poetry Alex Iby Alex Fiction Jon Tyson Nonfiction Velizar Ivanov Velizar Kelly Sikkema Flash Fiction IMAGES Cristian Newman Flash Nonfiction ISSUE ONE ISSUE issue two winter 2020

THE GOOD LIFE REVIEW IS NOW READING FOR ISSUE TWO. SEND US YOUR WILD AND WONDERFUL WORK THROUGH SUBMITTABLE.

The Good Life Review is a quarterly online literary journal committed to exploring the overlooked. Made with j from 41° 15’ 20.69” N, 96° 00’ 10.91” W. Subscribe at thegoodlifereview.com