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Each original is also photographed in one exposure and is included in reduced form at the back of the book. Photographs included in the original manuscript have been reproduced xerographically in this copy. Higher quality 6” x 9” black and white photographic prints are available for any photographs or illustrations appearing in this copy for an additional charge. Contact UMI directly to order. UMI A Bell & Howell Information Company 300 North Zeeb Road, Ann Arbor MI 48106-1346 USA 313/761-4700 800/521-0600 Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Reproduced with with permission permission of the of copyright the copyright owner. owner.Further reproductionFurther reproduction prohibited without prohibited permission. without permission. AARDVARK: A COLLECTION OF THINGS by P. Michael Mastroffancesco submitted to the Faculty of the College of Arts and Sciences of American University in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Chair: fooy Kermit Moyer Barbara Esstman _________ Hehig^ TaVlor Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences / 6 Date 1996 7t4u> The American University Washington. D.C. 20016 THE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY LIBRARY Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. UMI Number: 1381756 Copyright 1996 by Mastrofrancesco, P. Michael All rights reserved. UMI Microform 1381756 Copyright 1996, by UMI Company. All rights reserved. This microform edition is protected against unauthorized copying under Title 17, United States Code. UMI 300 North Zeeb Road Ann Arbor, MI 48103 Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. © COPYRIGHT by P. Michael Mastrofrancesco 1996 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. For my father Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. AARDVARK: A COLLECTION OF THINGS by P. Michael Mastrofrancesco ABSTRACT This collection of short stories and poems focuses on the complexities of relationships, primarily family relationships, which are loaded with false expectations. Although these off-beat, unpredictable characters live in towns on the borderline of the American landscape, they somehow manage to hold their place in the world, a world a bit off-center. Anything and nothing happens here. Seconds become hours and days repeat themselves. Yet life continues. ii Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. TABLE OF CONTENTS ABSTRACT.................................................................................................................ii SELF-SERVICE........................................................................................................... 1 BACKWASH...............................................................................................................6 A QUARTER TURN................................................................................................. 10 CHRYSANTHEMUM............................................................................................... 16 EYEGLASS................................................................................................................ 17 STREET SMART...................................................................................................... 24 FIFTEEN MINUTES.................................................................................................25 TEASE........................................................................................................................ 32 PEARL DIVE..............................................................................................................33 CAMPFIRE GIRL...................................................................................................... 35 STILL LIFE.................................................................................................................43 WHIP-SMART........................................................................................................... 51 OPENED DOORS...................................................................................................... 52 iii Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. SELF-SERVICE Wingless, wearing pink underwear and a yellow umbrella hat, a guardian angel appears before me. The outfit's fabric is a cross-stitch pattern: tone on tone. No bright light or thunderclap sounds her entrance; she just materializes, as always. Everything about her is oversized: the flame of the blue birthday candle she holds in her hand, the loose white skin hanging from the bone, the long ringlets of orange hair framing her body, and the mosaic brooch clipped to a bra strap — a portrait of a Byzantine Madonna with a hickey on her neck, holding castanets. She stands a few feet from my bed, rubbing her bloodshot eyes with the back of her hand. I try to apologize for waking her, but no words, no sound, comes out. Her eyebrow arcs as she reads my mind. She knows why I have done what I have done, why I have taken this plunge, and why I want to her to preoccupied, to keep me from drifting. "What weather," she squeaks, “this two-day rain.” My thoughts exactly. She goes into an odd dance, a little jig, twisting her body, flailing her arms as if she were trying to rip free from her own skin. I try to mimic her movement, to follow along, but my arms are dead asleep. A raindrop falls from the ceiling and sprinkles my face, coats my eyes. Everything glistens. I stare at her awash in vibrant colors, mesmerized, unable to blink. Through this pool of water she floats as effortlessly as a 1 Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. mermaid but without a cumbersome tail, that scaly thing that can cut your skin if rubbed against the grain. "Did you think this through?" she asks, her question open-ended, as if I have a second chance, a return route back to this hand-me-down room. She looks around in a half-daze at the posters, leftovers from my brother, which cover the faded wallpaper and draw the room in closer: blown-up mouths with large gaps in the teeth, demolished cars, cans of pesticide in mid spray. With her finger, she spins my open journal lying on top of the desk, the last entry penned within the margins, no smudges, no misspelled words, no words of wisdom, just thoughts, feelings. "To whom it may concern," she reads as I replay it from memory. "This is all I have. This is all I leave: my handwriting that bends and curves around and over a straight blue line, the flat line that will soon mark my pulse; and you. I’ve often dreamed of this moment: lying in wait, waiting to see you crack.” Angel taps a pumpkin-head Pez dispenser across the page and drops it in the empty prescription bottle: a gift from a family friend who no longer had the need and now the vacant home to hot-pink capsules that were a little bitter on the way down. "Well done," she remarks. This time I try hissing with my tongue, my mouth already open, but no sound, no breath, comes out. And I wonder how much longer before everything goes black. Timing is everything. "Soon," she says, nodding. Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. The water drains from my eyes and the crystal coating, the one that made everything look so new, is gone. Angel is again on land, grounded as when she first appeared. A rap on the door, three distinct beats, brings a smile to her face. "John," my mother calls from the other side of the door. "Are you up? I didn't hear your alarm. John?" "Don't you think you should get that?" Angel laughs like a spent hyena. Her abdominal muscles grow firm and quake around her navel, a California tremor moments before the earthquake. I hope my mother can hear her laugh. "No," Angel answers. "I doubt it." My mother walks down the hall, cursing me in familiar words, pet names I could spell from birth and which all the neighbors know. Bastard. Fucker. Little Nothing. "She'll be back," Angel says. We listen to the rain hit the slatted roof. Each drop maps out the dimensions of the room, reminding us that we are under something, surrounded by something. Angel hears rustling behind the door and starts the countdown: "One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand."