1359 lines
71 KiB
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1359 lines
71 KiB
Plaintext
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|___|___| | | | | | |__|__| | | | |___|
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An electronic literary magazine striving for the very best in
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contemporary fiction, poetry, and essays.
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Editor: Sung J. Woo (WHIRLEDS@delphi.com)
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VOLUME II NUMBER 1 JANUARY 1995
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Table of Contents
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The Real World..........................................................xx
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_Fiction_
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"The Perpetual Temporal Man," by David S. Dadekian......................xx
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"The Girl Was Six...," by Jamie Hollabaugh..............................xx
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The Works of Martin Zurla
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"Fred," a monologue................................................xx
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"Sandy," a monologue...............................................xx
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"Fishing," a short story...........................................xx
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_Poetry_
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"After Five at the Office," by Len Edgerly..............................xx
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"Life, the Universe, and Everything," by Marc A. Leckstein..............xx
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"XY," by Anthony Fox....................................................xx
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"Perceptions," by Laura D. Turk.........................................xx
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Whirlwind cannot continue without submissions from established and amateur
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writers on the net. If you or anyone you know is looking to publish
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contemporary fiction, poetry, or essays, please don't hesistate to get a
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copy of the work to us. Mail submissions to: WHIRLEDS@delphi.com.
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Whirlwind Vol. 2, No. 1. Whirlwind is published electronically on a
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bi-monthly basis. Reproduction of this magazine is permitted as long as
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the magazine is not sold and the entire text of the issue remains intact.
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Copyright (C) 1995, authors. All further rights to stories belong to the
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authors. Whirlwind is produced using Aldus PageMaker 5.0 and WordPerfect
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5.1 on an IBM-compatible computer and is converted into PostScript format
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for distribution. PostScript is a registered trademark of Adobe Systems,
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Inc. For back issue and other info, see our back page. Send questions to:
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WHIRLEDS@delphi.com.
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THE REAL WORLD
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Folks, it's been a tough couple of months for me. Frankly, I'm amazed that
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this issue is out and about. Let me tell you what's been going on (since
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I'm sure you're all dying to know).
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The year 1994 has been a very, very busy one for me. I graduated from
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college this past May; then in August, I went to South Korea to land a job
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as a conversational English teacher. I returned after two weeks, looked
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for jobs here in the States, and was, to my surprise, hired.
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TV Guide offered me a position as a Text Writer for their National
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Programming Department, so I grabbed it. After the completion of my first
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week at TV Guide, I pumped out my first blurb -- which also turned out to
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be my last.
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That's because I got a more lucrative job offer from IEEE, a name which I'm
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sure some of you netfolk recognize (for those who do not, it stands for The
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Institute of Electrical and Electronics Engineers). So, for the past
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month, I've been working as an Assistant Editor for IEEE's
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Transactions/Journals Department.
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Because of these massive fluctuations in my life, I was unsure whether I
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could continue to publish Whirlwind. You know, it seems like I go through
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this "doubtful phase" before each issue, so maybe it's becoming a ritual
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more than an actual threat. In any case, my life is settling down
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somewhat, so at the very least, expect to see the March issue.
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As for this one, check out some fantastic stuff from Martin Zurla; three of
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his works are presented in this issue. We also have works from as far as
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Australia, so please treat yourselves to a global feast of letters.
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Lastly, there is exciting news I would like to share with you. Stewart
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O'Nan, who gave us an excerpt from his current novel Kissing the Dead in
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the premiere issue of Whirlwind, has published his first novel with
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Doubleday. It is titled Snow Angels, and I urge everyone to read this
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wonderful book--it's a good, solid work by an established writer. The
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book's been out since November 1994, so your local bookstore or your
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library should have a copy of it.
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That's it. I look forward in seeing you all again in March. Enjoy.
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Sung J. Woo
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Editor
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FICTION
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THE PERPETUAL TEMPORAL MAN
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by David S. Dadekian
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Robert Ford was a perpetual temporal man. He was never sure exactly when
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it happened to him, though he is fully aware of exactly when it happened.
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He was twenty-five when he realized he was fifteen when it happened.
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And he was eighty-two when he died. Every moment in time became available
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to Robert on the day he turned fifteen, though it took him ten years to
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realize it. Or maybe he was still fifteen and just wanted to be ten years
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older. Or maybe he was eighty-two and crazy.
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Robert Ford didn't move through time. He wasn't a time traveler like
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he read about in the comic books he kept in his closet, which he
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immediately realized would become valuable only if he sold them before his
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thirty-fourth year, when all of the world's reading material -- past and
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present -- would become universally available.
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Robert constantly lived in all moments of his life, from fifteen to
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eighty-two. And when he became aware of his ability, he realized how to
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use it for his own benefit.
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At first Robert tried to tell others about his seeming omniscience.
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But he couldn't do anything to prove he wasn't just a lunatic. If he told
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someone about a major future event, that would always change the future.
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And if he tried to prove his ability to someone through some minor example
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of future-telling, it would be considered coincidence. It took him forever
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until his best friend Kathy finally believed him. This conversation took
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place at a diner, roughly during the twenty-fifth year, third month,
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seventeenth day, and thirteenth hour of Rob's life.
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"So let me get this straight, Rob," Kathy said. "You're telling me
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you are living now, a minute from now, ten years from now, ten years ago,
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and so on?"
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"Exactly, Kat," replied Robert.
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"So what I am going to say next?"
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"It doesn't work that way. I know what you will say next, but as soon
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as I tell you, you'll change what you are going to say."
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"O.K. So predict the future."
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"I can't talk about the future without changing the future," Rob said
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as he took a sip of his coffee.
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"So how do you know it's the future?"
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"Because I'm living in the future, and I saw the change the last time
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I told someone the future."
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"Don't you mean you will see the change?"
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"I try to use the past tense. It makes things easier on my mind.
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I've already died, but I'm still here with you, and I'm still sitting in
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World History when I'm a sophomore in high school."
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"I see how it can get confusing. Stick with the past tense. And tell
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me about changing the future."
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"You think I'm crazy!" Rob exclaimed.
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"Not just yet."
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"Oh great," Rob said putting his head in his hands.
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"What?"
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"My telling you this gets me put away."
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"I'm still listening to you."
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"Well listen to this. Do you remember the crash of the space shuttle
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Challenger?"
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"The Challenger never crashed, Rob."
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"Exactly, I did that. I didn't mean to, though I'm not sorry about
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changing it, so I left it changed."
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"That's in the past."
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"Not when I'm fifteen."
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"Not when you were fifteen you mean?"
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"Right."
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"I'm getting confused." Kathy took out a cigarette and lighter.
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"You're going to die of lung cancer you know."
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Kathy looked at Rob with her mouth open and put the cigarette down.
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"I'm sorry, Kathy. I didn't mean that as fact, just as a crack about
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your smoking."
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"So how do I die?"
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"I can't tell you that, it'll change things."
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"What if you've got this ability so you can change things?"
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"I've thought of that."
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"So what about the space shuttle Challenger?" Kathy asked.
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"When I became aware of my power, I told a science teacher in high
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school about the Challenger's future problem with the o-rings."
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"Oh my God!" Kathy said loudly, almost spilling her coffee.
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"So you remember Mr. Newborn revealing his study of the shuttle
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program to NASA, and his being awarded a commendation for the probable
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prevention of a disaster."
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"Yes! That was you?"
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"Remember how he always evaded the question of how he knew to examine
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the o-rings? What was he going to say? One of his students told him about
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two years before it happened."
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"I am overwhelmed if this is completely true."
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"Apparently you believe me."
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"How can you be sure?"
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"I'm not being committed now."
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"You know I would never commit my best friend."
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"But if we had stopped this conversation five minutes ago in your
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life, you would have," Rob picked up Kathy's cigarette and lighter.
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"So your future still changes?"
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"Yes," Rob began as he lit the cigarette. "Now I smoke for the rest
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of my life."
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"Just from that one?"
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"If I allow myself to continue the habit. However, I still live until
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I am eighty-two." Rob put out the cigarette and handed the lighter back to
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Kathy.
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"And now?"
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"Now I have tried a cigarette when I was sixteen, and yet I will still
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live until I'm eighty-two."
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"What about suicide?"
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"I tried to shoot myself when I was forty. The gun wouldn't work at
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all. Blew my car up when I was forty-three. Lived with third degree burns
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until I was eighty-two. I changed that future pretty quickly. Like I said
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changing my life is pretty easy, and I guess since you know about my
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ability, your life can be pretty malleable from now on too. But changing
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big events is difficult."
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"What do you mean?"
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"In twenty-two years a major software company was integrated into
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ninety-nine percent of the world's computers. The irate, brilliant, former
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owner of the company unleashes a virus that virtually immobilizes the
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planet. I've already tried thousands of different ways to alert people to
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this guy without making myself look crazy. Unfortunately, nothing has
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worked so far. I'm working on it now as we speak. I just finished working
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on getting you to go to the senior prom with me."
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"We went to the senior prom together."
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"Exactly."
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"Robert, that's really creepy."
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"I haven't really done anything major. Even if we hadn't gone to the
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prom together, we'd still be sitting here. You just would have gone with
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Tony Simpson."
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"Tony Simpson! What was I thinking? He got drunk and puked all over
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his date."
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"He would have done the same to you."
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"Thank you very much, I had a great time with you."
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"I did it, Kathy."
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"Did what?"
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"I just stopped the computer virus, but now another problem's coming
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up."
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"Rob, all this is a bit too much for me."
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"Damn, my stopping the infection leads to a splitting of the world's
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computer systems. We're completely unprepared when we make contact with
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life from another planet."
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"Rob?"
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"Just a second, Kathy. Sometimes this really taxes my mind."
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"I'm going, Rob," Kathy gathered her things and took a dollar out of
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her purse. She put it on the table and stood to leave.
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"No, wait a minute. I'm sorry, Kathy, I didn't mean to freak you
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out."
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"It's O.K., Rob. I'm fine. And don't worry, I'm not going to have
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you committed. Though you must already know that."
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"I should have never told you, Kathy. In fact, I'm not going to tell
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you."
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________________________________________
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David S. Dadekian's <dadekiad@egr.uri.edu> story "It Was a Dimly Lit...,"
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appeared in the May 1994 issue (Vol. 1, No. 2).
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THE GIRL WAS SIX...
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by Jamie Hollabaugh
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The girl was six. Snookie. That was her nickname, she got it because of
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the troublemaking girl on the radio played by Fannie Bryce happened to
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remind Evelyn's brother of her. Evelyn was tough. She was little compared
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to many of her classmates, but she had that toughness that just told people
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to leave her alone. Her grandfather was sitting in the yard, sunning
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himself in his wheelchair.
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(Skinny was sitting in the chair in the den, looking blankly out the
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window. Evelyn called him Skinny because he was so thin. He smiled as he
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thought of her.)
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Snookie laughed as she snuck up behind the old man.
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(Skinny could feel the pressure build in his chest.)
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She hit him on the back of the head and ran as the old man cried out.
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(Skinny couldn't utter a whisper as the pain struck him.)
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His glass eye, the one that covered the empty hole left by the Battle of
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Antietam was lying on the ground. Snookie laughed with glee as he felt
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around, confused, looking for the thing.
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(Skinny reached desparately in his pocket, searching for his nitro glycerin
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tablets.)
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The old man, after retrieving his glass eye and putting it safely into
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place began to chase Snookie, yelling at her "You damn rascal, I'll get
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you..."
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(Skinny whispered, "Evelyn." Only to have the word frozen on his lips
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forever by death.)
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Snookie was laughing and nearly dancing as her long dark hair flowed behind
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her. She ran into the house.
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(Evelyn walked to the window outside.)
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Snookie peered out the window.
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(And looked in the window.)
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She saw her grandfather reaching in his pocket for his handkerchief.
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(Saw Skinny, hand in pocket, reaching for his nitro glycerin, frozen
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forever in time.)
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She was panting and laughing.
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(She couldn't breathe as she sobbed.)
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She was screaming in laughter.
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(At the pain.)
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I look at my grandmother as she tells me the story of the days when she was
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young, and playing with her grandfather. She never speaks of the pains in
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her life, when she found my grandfather dead, only the joy.
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I can, however, read between the lines.
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________________________________________
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Jamie Hollabaugh <ag4e+@andrew.cmu.edu> is an eighteen year old college
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student who enjoys her sometimes melodramatic life. In her senior year of
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high school, she was given first place nationally in a writing contest.
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Outside of her writing awards, she was given many music awards for her
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clarinet playing, which included a scholarship.
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THE WORKS OF MARTIN ZURLA
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-------------------------
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FRED
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by Martin Zurla
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AT RISE: It's late at night in some small bar located on the upper West
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Side of Manhattan. The lights are dim, and the sound of a Charlie Parker
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record plays from the bar tape machine. Fred is behind the bar cleaing up.
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There is one last unseen patron having her nightcap.
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God damnit! Nothin' works in this joint. It's that damn kid of a day
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bartender that screws everything up.
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(pause)
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I go and bring in my own stuff: the stereo, this stupid t.v., my good
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tapes; all this stuff and he goes and screws it all up. Well, no more. He
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can shove it 'cause I'm takin' it all back.
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(pause)
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You come in here during the day, right?
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(does not wait for a response)
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You see any action in here? No action. Ya think the kid was so busy all day
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that he couldn't breathe. All he's gotta do is watch soap operas and play
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my tapes. So his old man owns the joint, so big deal. I mean, good Christ,
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ya think because his old fart of a father owned this dump he'd care a
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little more, be concerned and all. Don't ya think so? Nah, he don't give a
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rat's ass.
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(pause)
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But I mean, what's right is right. That kid of a day bartender has never
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come into a messy bar. And I do mean NEVER! A human person can take only so
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much, have patience for just so long livin' and workin' in squalor, don't
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ya think. Seven years a five, maybe six nights a week I gotta come into
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squalor. I come into his mess, clean that, do my shift and gotta start
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cleaning all over again. That just ain't fair.
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(pause)
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Heck, I could work one of those plush, pushy upper East Side dives anytime
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if I want. But who wants that kinda action? I mean, a person's gotta be
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nuts to work those joints. What with young kids fallin' all over each
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other, fallin' all over the bar. Young -- yoyos, or whatever they're
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called these days -- sittin' for hours in their three piece suits, yellow
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ties, whatever, clutchin' on to a Diet Coke or a flat gingerale. These
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young kids -- most of which is probably pullin' in a mill a year, dressed
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to the balls -- excuse the expression -- dressed ta knock your socks off,
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flirtin' and tryin' ta pick up some broad from Mineola or Flushing, who
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probably makes as much if nor more than that poor store manikin from
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Barney's. It pisses me off to see how these persons act. The older ones,
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hell, that's their business, but the kids, Christ, you'd never catch no kid
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a mine in those dumps. And probably, deep down inside their hearts, they
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don't have any idea why they're in this dump on the East Side in the first
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place. I know from where I speak on these matters, I been. I seen their
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action. Enough to know better. A friend a mine works this place on First
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Avenue in the high seventies, all brass and mirrors this place. You should
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hear the horror stories he tells.
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(pause)
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Yeah, well, I guess not ALL those East Side places is bad. I guess some
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persons get lonesome and all, need ta meet up with persons a their own ilk.
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But I mean, who's gonna marry somebody who they find in an East Side
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singles bar? Ya gotta know why they're there and all. I mean, they must be
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there to meet somebody, and if they're there to meet somebody it means that
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they ain't met somebody somewhere's else, which means they ain't had all
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that much luck in that department; findin' other persons which means that
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there are probably reasons why they ain't met somebody already which
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necessarily means ta me there's probably somethin' wrong. Ya follow? So, if
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there's somethin' wrong with them, like maybe they're ugly or somethin',
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fat or too tall or too short, how can they hope to pawn off their
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affliction or disability on somebody who's probably got their own problem,
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especially in a bar. So they couldn't find nobody, say in school, at a
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dance, wherever, when they was at the age for findin' somebody. Or if they
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did find somebody and it was the wrong somebody, at least for that time in
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their lives, so now they're gettin' up there, maybe in their thirties,
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maybe more, and they still got their affliction, they end up goin' to a
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bar. They think they can go to an East Side place, a place that peddles
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more flesh than you can shake a broom handle at, more flesh than booze,
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with the hopes that maybe, 'cause the lighting is so poor and everybody is
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gettin' half in the bag and there are nothin' but mirrors all over the
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joint...99 percent a these places is mirror...they go there with these
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expectations and all, never stoppin' to think a who they are gonna find.
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They are gonna find other persons who are just as ugly or just as deformed
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as themselves, with just as many problems, if not more. And these other
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persons are also lookin' to pawn themselves off on anybody who wants the
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takin'. Ya know what I mean? So ya got nothin' but a bunch a defects
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lookin' to hook up with more defects. That's what so odd about those
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places, one cripple bumpin' into another cripple, both a whom is pretendin'
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they ain't cripple, makin' believe they're Fred Astaire or Gingie Rogers,
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or whoever, anybody but themselves, who they really are. That's the sad
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part, pretendin' ya somebody ya ain't. And they're only gonna get somebody
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else who thinks they gotta pretend too. Hell, when the play actin's over,
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when ya wake up in the mornin', whatta do then? There ain't nothin' wrong
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with bein' a cripple, or bein' ugly. Hell, I got a bum leg but I ain't
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goin' around pretendin' it ain't there. Sometimes, maybe it's better to
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wear your affliction like a medal, ya know, be proud that maybe ya
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different form all the rest, stand out, ya know.
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(pause)
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Sorry 'bout goin' on like this. Had a rough night last night. Seems like
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lately it's gettin' rougher. Ah, but who needs that kinda talk these days.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Ya must look a little bit like somebody I know. So, what's your opinion a
|
|
West Side? Ya don't have no opinion? Me, people say I got an opinion on
|
|
everythin'. Take this jerk of a kid that works days, the one who's old man
|
|
owns the place, he don't have an opinion on nothin'. Except maybe that he
|
|
should leave a messy bar. But ask that thickhead about somethin', about
|
|
anythin', and all he says is, "I don't know". Or, "Who cares". Now that
|
|
ain't no way to go through life, is it? A person's gotta be able to feel
|
|
somethin', stick-up for somethin', have ideals and maybe some values thrown
|
|
in. Ya know, ta have values a what's right and maybe wrong. Don't ya think
|
|
so? Take my wife...I mean my ex-wife...she had opinions comin' outta her
|
|
ears. I mean, there wasn't a day that went by when she didn't develop a new
|
|
opinion 'bout me, a what I did or didn't do. She was full a feelings. I'd
|
|
pick my nose, she had an opinion. Maybe I didn't agree with all
|
|
her opinions, but at least she made life interestin'. Sometimes my wife
|
|
made life so interestin' that all I wanted to do was crawl under a rock and
|
|
be bored. Life can be just so interestin' 'til it gets to be a pain in the
|
|
ass. Ya know of what I speak? So I usta tell her, I got my own opinions
|
|
too. That I got feelin's and all 'bout certain things. Ah, I shouldn't go
|
|
talkin' 'bout her, especially when she ain't here to defend herself. It
|
|
ain't good for me to go runnin' people down when they're somewhere's else
|
|
and not here to speak for themselves. But it's okay to go speakin' 'bout
|
|
the kid, he wouldn't know how to defend himself even if he were here. I
|
|
guess he's a good kid at rock bottom. So, 'bout my wife, she was an okay
|
|
lady after all is said and done. She had her values I guess and I had mine,
|
|
most of which had to do with how to raise our kid. Yup, now do I look like
|
|
I had a boy who'd a been thirty-seven years old this year? A course I
|
|
don't. Well, that's right, I was a child-bride. I reached puberty at about
|
|
the age a six, maybe seven. No kiddin', I was old for my age. Had to grow
|
|
up fast in the Bronx. So we had a kid. It was the first time in my life
|
|
when I didn't have a real opinion on somethin'. It just happened.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Most a the problem with me and the wife was about the kid. If it was a
|
|
girl, it would been different. She woulda been in charge. But with a son,
|
|
that's a father's responsibility, right? A son's growin'up is up to the
|
|
father, a girl's growin' up is up to the mother. It's that simple. My son,
|
|
he ain't around no more. He got hurt back in sixty-nine and died.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
He comes home one day and says right outta the blue that he wants ta join
|
|
up. I says, join what? The Army, he says. I laughed and told 'em he was too
|
|
damn young. Said he could join if I signed the papers. When his old lady
|
|
heard that she went through the roof. She started screamin' that he was
|
|
bein' a fool, and that I was a bigger fool for even listenin' ta such talk.
|
|
It took me a hellava long time to calm her down.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Hell, this could be a real nice joint. Ya know how many times I told the
|
|
old man ta do somethin' ta fix it up? A hundred, maybe more. But no sir,
|
|
not that cheap son-of-a-bitch. He don't wanna improve nothin', not even his
|
|
own kid for Christsakes. Hell, if he were my kid, he'd be spendin' his time
|
|
makin' some kinda contribution.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
But he ain't my kid, it's that simple.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
I don't know why I'm sayin' all this about his kid, Christ, I went and
|
|
signed those damn papers so my boy could join up.
|
|
(pause, then softly)
|
|
I sent him over there. I mean, hell, he wanted to go and make somethin' of
|
|
himself. But I did wait 'til he was seventeen. His mom hated me for that,
|
|
signin' those papers and lettin' 'em go off like that. But ya gotta do what
|
|
ya believe in, what ya believe is the right thing and all, make decisions
|
|
in life. I mean, we was at war. I woulda gone ta Korea if I coulda. I
|
|
wanted. I ustta think that's what a man's suppose ta do, isn't it? If your
|
|
country calls for help, ya gotta respond to that call, right? I told 'em
|
|
that he was a real man goin' off like that. Just like so many other guys
|
|
had done before 'em. So he goes and gets killed like that. So, a lot a
|
|
other fellas got killed. They sent us a really nice letter and all. Said he
|
|
died fightin' the enemy, defendin' freedom, a real hero. I was proud. And I
|
|
believed that for a long time. Right up until Tony Conti came home and I
|
|
ran into 'em one day in the street. Tony was in the same unit as the kid
|
|
when they went over there. So I took Tony for a couple a pops, ya know, ta
|
|
celebrate and all. Well, Tony and me was talkin' and drinkin' and I knew,
|
|
had this funny feelin' all along about that letter and the way the kid
|
|
bought it and all. So I up and asked Tony just how it happened. He told me
|
|
that the kid...that the kid...ah...the kid went and stumbled on somethin'
|
|
and fell outta a truck and another truck that was followin' ran 'em over,
|
|
crushed his head with the front wheel. Tony said that they hadn't seen no
|
|
combat or nothin' like that, just bein' transported from one place to
|
|
another. A lousy accident. Now ain't that funny. It coulda happened right
|
|
here on Broadway and 72nd street.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
I guess the reason that I'm bringin' all this up ta you is that I've been
|
|
thinkin' a lot about it lately, especially 'bout the kid bartender and all.
|
|
Ya gotta talk things out once in awhile, clear up your thinkin', make
|
|
decisions 'bout doin' certain things, bounce it off other people. And
|
|
you're one hellava listener.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Maybe I should say somethin' to the kid's old man, make 'em wake the hell
|
|
up. Tell 'em he should teach his kid somethin'. Before, ya know, brfore
|
|
it's maybe too late. When he ain't around no more ta talk with, be with. Ta
|
|
maybe grow up with. Yeah, I should talk to the old man. Yeah, I think I
|
|
will.
|
|
|
|
FADE TO BLACK
|
|
|
|
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
|
|
|
|
SANDY
|
|
|
|
by Martin Zurla
|
|
|
|
|
|
AT RISE: It's a Saturday night, the present. A small, one-bedroom
|
|
apartment. Sandy is entertaining a "new" friend.
|
|
|
|
|
|
I'm always trying to deal with this...this... (a smile) How do you think I
|
|
felt when I woke up one day and realized my name was Sandy, Sandy Beaches?
|
|
Huh? Tell me. No, you don't have to tell me, I know what I felt. I felt
|
|
absolutely ridiculous. Wouldn't you? Sure you would. My parents had what
|
|
you might call poetic sensibilities. It wasn't all that bad when I was
|
|
maybe nine, ten, even into my teens. But, my goodness, I'm a fifty year
|
|
old woman and I still have that name. Why don't you sit down.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
That chair isn't the most comfortable. You'd probably be better on the
|
|
sofa.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Suit yourself. Anyway, my parents had some sense of humor, right? I
|
|
always wanted to ask them why they named me that. Never did. Hell, I sure
|
|
hinted around enough times. I would do things like ask them, "What's in a
|
|
name," or "a thing by any other name is just any other name," I started
|
|
bringing home these stray animals just to see what my parents would name
|
|
them. They came up with things like: our cat was called, Steven; our dog,
|
|
Phyllis; our bird, who died two days after I brought him home, was called
|
|
Napoleon. I even brought home a gold fish one day and asked them to name
|
|
it. They didn't even ask whether it was male or female. They named it,
|
|
Warren. Warren! Warren was a fish and it had a normal name! I was a
|
|
human being and was named after a geographic
|
|
terrain. Thank God our last name wasn't "range," they might have called me
|
|
"Home On The," -- my father liked westerns -- or thanks be to God it wasn't
|
|
"Forest," or "Mudd. We did know some people from Framingham, Mass, called
|
|
Mudd. Ethel and Fenton Mudd. Maybe Sandy Beaches isn't all that bad when
|
|
compared to Fenton Mudd. But I never had the guts to come right out and
|
|
ask why they named me what they named me.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
You're sure you're comfortable? Something to drink?
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Am I hogging the conversation? (the unseen Harry smiles) I know that I can
|
|
change it. My name, I mean. Make it legally something else. But the
|
|
thought of doing that always bothered me for some reason. It's like hiding
|
|
out or something akin to that. A name is a person, right? It kind of
|
|
defines us in a strange sort of way.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Take your name, for example. Harry. HAA-RRRRRRR-YYYY. Harry! Harry.
|
|
Harry is a nice name. It doesn't scream out at you. It's just what it is
|
|
-- Harry. And Harry's a good name for a guy just breaking forty years old.
|
|
Funny, but some people have to grow into a name. Like seeing a young kid
|
|
who's called Seymour. It doesn't look right. "Hey Seymour," somebody
|
|
yells and a small, two foot tall, blond headed kid turns around and says,
|
|
"Yes, mother. He would never say, Mom, or Mommy. Seymours all say,
|
|
mother, mother or father. But like Jane, Janes always say -- in a very
|
|
ladylike way, "Yes, Ma'am, no Ma'am, why yes Sir, why no Sir. And Billys,
|
|
oh yeah, you can always tell a Billy or a Hank. A Hank would never say,
|
|
"Mother, would you please pass the butter," or "Why Father, what a nice
|
|
pipe you're smoking. Hell, Hank would probably say -- no matter how old,
|
|
"Pass the Goddamn spinach, will ya! or "Move the hell over, buddy.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Sure you're comfortable? You have a nice smile.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
You see what I mean, Harry? A name sort of defines who you are. The name
|
|
Harry kind of defines you. You're not too tall. And you're not too short.
|
|
In between. And you want to know something else, thinning hair becomes
|
|
you, is very becoming to a man named Harry. And your hands, they're kind
|
|
of small, delicate. That'd be the only aspect of you that I would say
|
|
doesn't really fit.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Harry and Sandy. Sandy and Harry. Kind of has a ring to it, don't you
|
|
think. Sure you wouldn't like a drink? I think there's vodka. A Diet
|
|
Coke?
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Listen, ah, Harry, I'm really glad I invited you over tonight. Really.
|
|
You go to that place often? I mean, you hang out at that particular bar?
|
|
Me, it was my first time. This friend of mine, Crystal -- a girl I work
|
|
with -- she goes there. Told me I should stop by and check it out. (laughs
|
|
a little) Never thought I'd ever ask a fellah back to my place. Especially
|
|
a fellah who ... never mind. So, how do you like my "digs" as they say?
|
|
It's a real bargain in this day and age. It's truly difficult to find a
|
|
large studio apartment like this for under a thousand dollars in this day
|
|
and age. Great location, right? Upper East side is so much nicer than
|
|
say, the West Side with all those joggers and dog walkers. The only damn
|
|
thing that's killing this neighborhood are the lousy condos and co-ops.
|
|
These Godawful real estate people, these developers. All they do is make
|
|
it ugly. I mean, just how greedy can you get. Oh, that picture there,
|
|
that's my parents, their fiftieth wedding anniversary. I know, a lot a
|
|
photographs, right? I guess there's over a hundred in this room along.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
I don't know, I guess I just like good memories from when I was small.
|
|
They help remind me. And my parents, as you can see, were very photogenic.
|
|
That one is when they were on a trip to Las Vegas. Here they where in
|
|
Florida -- Disney World. Oh, I guess you guessed that from the large
|
|
Mickey Mouse guy standing next to them. (another nervous laugh) Can I get
|
|
you something, a gingerale, something? You're the first fellah I ever had
|
|
back to my apartment. Most of the time we end up...ah. Geez, never
|
|
expected to have somebody stop by. Hope you don't mind the mess. Now come
|
|
on, sit on the sofa. I can see that you're uncomfortable. That's it.
|
|
Better, right?
|
|
(pause)
|
|
So, ah, you sell insurance? Must be...that's right, you don't sell
|
|
insurance. I get confused. You sell real estate! How could I ever get
|
|
those two professions mixed up. Oh, by the way, what I said before about
|
|
developers and all, there are probably a lot of real estate people who
|
|
truly care. How's business? Must be pretty good in this day and age.
|
|
Especially in a city like New York. A lot of people. And they all need a
|
|
place to live. I guess you must feel that you're doing something very
|
|
important with your life; you know, providing people with shelter and all.
|
|
Must make you feel good inside. Me, heck, all I do is sell jewelry at
|
|
Macy's. "Yes Ma'am. "No, Ma'am. " "How about this, Ma'am? Oh darling,
|
|
it was made for you! Well, one has to do something in life, right? Do
|
|
something to fill the time.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Mind if I sit next to you? It's the only real comfortable sit in the
|
|
entire house.
|
|
(long pause)
|
|
Listen Harry, why beat around the bush. You mind If I just reach over here
|
|
and put my hand ... I know it might be acting a little forward and
|
|
all...but...I never minded a man's penis and... (she watches the unseen
|
|
Harry stand) Did I say something wrong? You don't have to leave. I'm
|
|
sorry. I really didn't think it would bother you. Hey wait, I was only
|
|
joking. The whole thing was a joke. I'm a real comedian. You have to
|
|
know that about me. Harry? (it's obvious she is now alone) So, ah, it was
|
|
real nice talking to you. Never even got his last name. Can you imagine
|
|
that. Any other guy half his age would've jumped at the chance. Maybe I
|
|
should have eased into it.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Damnit, isn't that the way it's suppose to be done these days! You play
|
|
hard to get and they never call again. You say, okay, let's do it and
|
|
they're out of here like a shot from a canon. What's the damn answer!
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Maybe I should've worn the other dress; the low cut one. And these flats,
|
|
should've worn heels. Hell, I thought modern men were suppose to like
|
|
aggressive women these days.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Maybe he didn't like the way I said his name.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Guess I can't go back to that bar. Harry will certainly fill them in on
|
|
good old Sandy Beaches, the over-the-hill broad who likes penises.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
Oh my God, did I make a fool of myself.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
What'd he come back here for: tennis, a little pin the tail on the donkey,
|
|
scrabble, what! If he wanted something else, why didn't he just say it!
|
|
He should've been up front, told me right off I was too old, said right
|
|
away that he wanted a "younger" woman. (she starts to softly cry) This is
|
|
it. Here it is. Nothing. I have maybe ten, twenty years left before I
|
|
die and I'm going to spend them alone. That's it. Not a damn thing to do
|
|
about it. My whole life by myself. Damn. Sandy Beaches, you are a loser,
|
|
an old lady who'll die and no one will know the difference. Funny in a
|
|
way. Men. Who do they think they are. And all these photos. Look at
|
|
them. (she smiles and wipes away the tears. As if she were talking to
|
|
someone in the room) Remember this picture, that trip we all took to
|
|
Niagara Falls in fifty-three? What a time. And that Godawful motel with
|
|
the bugs and leaking shower. Remember? Harry and I could've driven up
|
|
there next year. We'd stay at the same place, remember the time in
|
|
fifty-three. Oh, and Harry and I would make love twice, maybe three times
|
|
a day like it was our second honeymoon. And the kids, our kids, would laugh
|
|
when we told them of our adventure. And that summer we'd go to Disney
|
|
World, maybe Coral Gardens. And buy that house we always wanted in Vermont.
|
|
Harry's good that way. Always was a big spender with a huge heart, a giving
|
|
nature. Harry and Sandy, Sandy and Harry.
|
|
(pause)
|
|
I like the way you hold me, Harry. Your arms always feel so good around
|
|
me, holding me so I don't fall into a million pieces and be blown away by
|
|
the wind, blown higher and higher 'till Sandy is no more, 'till Sandy is
|
|
part of the sky, part of the sun, part of everything, part of nothing.
|
|
Hold me Harry so I don't blow away and disappear.
|
|
|
|
FADE TO BLACK
|
|
|
|
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
|
|
|
|
FISHING
|
|
|
|
by Martin Zurla
|
|
|
|
|
|
There was this murder and my Dad got himself involved.
|
|
|
|
Dad is taking me fishing at the pier. The parking lot is sparse for four
|
|
in the afternoon on a weekend in early September. Dad tries to get as
|
|
close to the entrance as possible. He hates walking far, say more than ten
|
|
feet. He curses as an old man beats him to the nearest parking spot. We
|
|
park the beat up Chevy twenty feet from the entrance and Dad curses some
|
|
more.
|
|
He is big, my Dad, big compared to a small kid like me. I'm short for
|
|
my age. But I keep my hair long like the older kids. Not that it matters
|
|
all that much. But I'm cool. Hair done up nice, D.A. tucked clean behind
|
|
my ears.
|
|
Dad parks the Chevy and we get out. I'm standing in the asphalt
|
|
parking lot watching the heat flare up from the bubbling tar and feeling
|
|
silly. My Keds are melting from the heat. I can smell the burning rubber.
|
|
Dad opens the trunk and we start to unload our gear. I turn and ask
|
|
him why he keeps so much junk in the car trunk: two empty grape jelly jars,
|
|
a broken bedroom clock, some pieces of non-matching floor linoleum, three
|
|
empty cans of cat food (we never owned a cat), a toy pistol, four dead
|
|
azalea plants, assorted Christmas decorations, a tube of roll on deodorant,
|
|
unopened, and, "Ya never know when ya might need somethin', Bobby boy," he
|
|
answers in a low tone, his scratchy, smoke stained voice bouncing back at
|
|
me from inside the car trunk.
|
|
He hands me a fishing rod and reel. Dad's never fished once in his
|
|
life. We just moved to the Gulf coast of Florida several months ago; his
|
|
wife, my Mom, has been dead these past two years. We now live in a small
|
|
silver trailer with huge rust spots. Bought it last month from an old lady
|
|
who's husband just walked out for a pack of Camels and never came back. I
|
|
sleep in the kitchen/dinning room/living room area on a pull down sofa.
|
|
He's in the bedroom five feet away.
|
|
The northeast finally got to Dad. "Who needs the ice, I ask ya? I
|
|
sure as hell don't," he said over corn flakes last February in our one
|
|
bedroom on East 17th Street. The place just reminded him of his wife my
|
|
Mom, I think. I heard him crying the night he told me we were, "Headin'
|
|
south, Bobby boy. Headin' to the sun and sand, to the beach parties and
|
|
palm trees. Goin' ta where a man can spread out, stretch his achin' bones.
|
|
Listen kid, it's a place where ya can hear _good_ country music and ya
|
|
don't have ta dress up all the damn time!" I liked the idea of not gettin'
|
|
dressed up.
|
|
When we got to sunny Florida after four hundred years on a train that
|
|
stopped in every one horse town, village, and hamlet this side of the
|
|
Mississippi, it rained for two days straight and Dad got a job at the
|
|
Seven/Eleven on 49th Street. I started school and selling papers in the
|
|
afternoon to help out.
|
|
"See boy, this present situation of ours is only a temporary affair.
|
|
Things'll break open for us when these here Floridians realize what they
|
|
got in me and you." Dad was what one calls an unskilled laborer. Me, I
|
|
was an unskilled kid with bad feet.
|
|
The only thing I missed about the northeast was the mountains. The
|
|
mountains, me, Dad and Ma. We'd take day trips by bus to Bear Mountain,
|
|
eat Mom's chicken and drink Koolaide.
|
|
Once, not so long ago, when we where sitting on the red and blue
|
|
blanket under a big oak, we just finished the food, Dad started drinking
|
|
coffee from a thermos while Mom was cleaning up, I noticed a look in Dad's
|
|
pale blue-green eyes, a look I had never since before nor since. Mom
|
|
reached up and loosened her hair and let it fall to the base of her spin,
|
|
let it fall and get caught in the mountain breeze and the shallow sun; Mom
|
|
with her white, ever so clean china doll skin, with cheeks like small
|
|
Mackintosh apples, a nose thin and straight as an arrow; Mom with her voice
|
|
like a summer rain kissing a tall sun flower; Mom letting her hair tumble
|
|
down, its ends lifting, flowing gently with the wind. His eyes looked at
|
|
his wife, but what they saw deep inside him I don't know. He put his
|
|
coffee down and took his large callous hand and touched his wife's face.
|
|
She smiled that smile, a smile so intense, a smile that was a huge
|
|
searchlight, its beam that had shinned out over my horizon and over Dad's
|
|
heart. He left his hand touching her face for what seemed like hours. She
|
|
looked into his eyes, her eyes green with gold specks on the iris rim. She
|
|
put her hand on his, took it and gently folded her lips into his
|
|
cigarette-stained hand, those fingers bigger than a hammer, and kissed them
|
|
again and again. My Mom, his wife, would be cold and in her grave in six
|
|
months time.
|
|
But now, now in the land of tangerines and plastic-coated food, I
|
|
hear, "Watch that ya don't drop that rod inta the Gulf, or you'll go in
|
|
after it," Dad says sternly, and me knowing full well what an actor he can
|
|
be. I tell him I'll be careful.
|
|
Something's wrong. I look at Dad and don't know why I hadn't noticed
|
|
earlier when we left the trailer. He's standing, in the middle of this
|
|
smoldering parking lot, the smell of my rubber soles burning in the heat,
|
|
the sun unrelenting at four in the afternoon, standing there wearing a pair
|
|
of bright orange polyester Bermuda shorts, a shinny, yellow silk shirt with
|
|
a thousand Hula dancers in grass skirts prancing across his chest, white
|
|
socks, and a pair of black steel toed, thick rubber soled Knapp shoes.
|
|
Dad's always had this thing, this compulsion to fit in, to be one of the
|
|
fellahs, to be a part of something, never an outsider. He, my Dad, wanted
|
|
to be accepted that day, to be a full-time, big-time, real-time fishermen.
|
|
He sees my expression and says it's what all the fishermen are wearing
|
|
this year, and that it isn't polite to stare. I ask him about the suntan
|
|
lotion and he says he forgot it in the medicine cabinet. "We'll see if
|
|
they sell any inside. And besides, real men don't wear suntan lotion." And
|
|
this said to me by a full grown adult wearing bright orange Bermuda shorts.
|
|
I told him I don't need any knowing full well that, before that huge red
|
|
ball in the sky falls behind that postcard horizon, I'll look like a one
|
|
pound lobster ready for the table and Dad will have to smear Noxema all
|
|
over my body.
|
|
Me, with the new rod and reel, Dad with his yellow tackle box with his
|
|
name stenciled on the top, head up the board walk toward the bait house and
|
|
the murder.
|
|
|
|
The pier itself lurches out about three hundred yards into the Gulf of
|
|
Mexico. It's maybe ten feet wide at its thinnest and fifteen at its widest
|
|
where little covered areas with bright green plastic roofs intrude now and
|
|
then. The boardwalk starts in the parking lot, slops up and over the beach
|
|
which lies about ten feet below at the walk's highest point. A family of
|
|
four sit underneath shading themselves from the sun. The water sloshes up
|
|
against the pylons. The father drinks wine from a gallon jug, the mother
|
|
clips her toenails and the two kids throw sand at each other.
|
|
When the board walk reaches beyond the shoreline, tree-size pylons are
|
|
sunk deep into the sand and sea shell bottom holding up the major section
|
|
of the pier. I wonder to myself if I can see Texas or maybe Mexico. A few
|
|
large steamers sleek and romantic, glide across the horizon. Where are
|
|
they going and can I go too? Maybe someplace far away with dark skinned
|
|
women with exposed breasts and tight muscles, endless jet black hair down
|
|
to their small feet and white toe nails, their bodies moving like some
|
|
mysterious smoke cloud, like some machine made by someone greater than man,
|
|
like motion itself timed with the rhythm of the surging, undulating sea,
|
|
salt and clean, blue and crystal. Dad heads for the bait house with me
|
|
pulling up my pants and following, the rod and reel slipping and hitting
|
|
the tattered, weather beaten boards. I want to curse but I'm not old
|
|
enough. Maybe next month.
|
|
Dad walks up to a glass counter that displays all sorts of hooks, fish
|
|
line, knives-things I'd never seen before-sinkers and floaters, bobbers and
|
|
tin fish made to fool the real thing, small nets to catch something the
|
|
size of an adult gold fish, a thing with claws, weights made of lead with
|
|
holes, paper towels, a thing to take the hooks from the fish's mouth. Dad
|
|
smiles his 'howdy and how are ya today' smile. The thin man behind the
|
|
counter grunts. Dad says, "What did ya say, ma friend?" and I knew in an
|
|
instant that this man was anything but my Dad's friend. He grunts about
|
|
the same again. "Oh, yeah, sure," Dad grins that 'what the hell is going
|
|
on' grin. The thin man turns in slow motion and grabs a huge strainer,
|
|
dips it in a large water trough. I think I hear small voices screaming.
|
|
The man comes up with a stack of live shrimp, each one no bigger than my
|
|
pinkie. He opens a white cardboard container like the ones you get Chinese
|
|
take-out in, dumps the unsuspecting shrimp in, places it on a scale that
|
|
couldn't weight a truck and says, "That'll be fifty cents." Dad says sure,
|
|
like he agrees with the man, reaches in his pocket and pulls out two
|
|
quarters, a dime, a nickel, and some pennies. He pays the man and holds on
|
|
to the carton. The man behind the counter takes a long look at Dad and his
|
|
Hawaiian shirt and smiles.
|
|
My embarrassment is beginning to increase. Dad looks like a small,
|
|
round Chinaman delivering a portion of Moo Goo Gai Pan or steamed
|
|
vegetables.
|
|
Dad says nothing, looks at me, smiles and is about to head out toward
|
|
the pier when he sees a group of three huge men looking more like
|
|
lumberjacks than fisherman standing by the soda machine; their beards long
|
|
and curly, strange particles of food popping out. They lean in toward one
|
|
another and giggle in their husky, beer belly voices, their eyes glancing
|
|
to the side at Dad. Can a kid hate his own father because of a pair of
|
|
orange polyester Bermuda shorts? I was feeling that it could be a definite
|
|
possibility. All I wanted was to be a shrimp swimming mindlessly in the
|
|
mildewed trough, or back on Second Avenue picking up Coke bottles.
|
|
Dad moves over to the group of men with the husky voices, "So guys,
|
|
how they runnin' today?" I never knew my Dad from New York City had a
|
|
southern drawl. I was learning more and more about my Dad who looked like
|
|
he belonged in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade rather than in a small,
|
|
white washed bait house somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico.
|
|
The husky voiced men grunt something and Dad smiles and slaps one of
|
|
them on the back. My eyes automatically slam shut fearing the sight of my
|
|
Dad's brains decorating the four clapboard walls of the bait house.
|
|
When I open them to a squint, Dad is tugging on my shirt sleeve with,
|
|
"Come on boy, let's do some serious fishin'." I was stunned into silence.
|
|
Had he, my Dad, been accepted by these foreigners? Had they given him
|
|
their approval? I held onto my new K-Mart rod and reel for dear life and
|
|
followed him out into the blazing southern sun expecting a harpoon to come
|
|
bursting through our chests. Nothing happened and the patient fish were
|
|
waiting.
|
|
There was something exotic about the sun, the mellow water lapping
|
|
against the pier, the smells of the salt breeze and flapping fish, the
|
|
comical sounds of the gulls gawking.
|
|
Heading out over the creaking boards toward the distant horizon and
|
|
the end of the pier, I hear some voices from behind me. A group of
|
|
children are splashing in the low surf, gaily colored rubber rafts bobbing
|
|
off the white caps, water glistening, speckled bright and sharp from the
|
|
slanting sun. An old couple hold hands under a peach-colored umbrella. A
|
|
handsome man looking much like an airline pilot sits alone sipping a drink,
|
|
his eyes looking beyond the natural horizon to places he knew years before.
|
|
We pass a tall, thin man, his overalls covered in sticky blood,
|
|
cleaning a fish. Chop and the head comes off. He tosses it over the side
|
|
to a flock of waiting gulls. The huge gray birds snap and peck at each
|
|
other. During the fight and confusion, a small, black crane swoops down
|
|
under the gulls very beaks and steals the fish head. The gulls go berserk.
|
|
I can see the fish head sticking in the crane's long, slender throat. He'll
|
|
surely gag to death, I think to myself. Dad reads my mind. "It'll
|
|
dissolve. Those little suckers can take a full grown fish in one gulp.
|
|
Read that in one of your Mom's _National Geographics_." I feel better.
|
|
We find a spot and set down our gear on a bench. While Dad fumbles
|
|
with opening his tackle box and putting hooks on our line, I half watch him
|
|
and half the other people on the pier. The first thing that grabs my
|
|
attention are the teenage girls, all about sixteen or so. They're giggling
|
|
and hovering around a group of hardened boys about the same age. The boys
|
|
are being heroic popping their sand colored hair back, their eyes eager,
|
|
shirtless skin soaking up the blazing sun. They pass out dripping cans of
|
|
Old Milwaukee from a large crate, baloney sandwiches squeezed to death,
|
|
mayonnaise oozing from the wax paper.
|
|
A feeling over takes me, a strange sense of the future. "My future?"
|
|
I whisper to myself. The feeling, the awful feeling that some of these boys
|
|
of summer, golden brown, now sixteen in nineteen fifty-nine, their high
|
|
school rings dangling on some girl's neck, car club jackets spanking new
|
|
and crisp, will some day put their club jackets in the attic smothered in
|
|
white crystal moth balls and head out to die on some other planet in
|
|
someone else's nightmare, in a jungle slashed by rice paddies and straw
|
|
huts, waking maybe one morning to find themselves lying in a pool of
|
|
stench, maybe blood you can see spilling, oozing from the hole that brings
|
|
the world's putrid yesterdays tumbling inside your belly.
|
|
And they'll remember as they lay dying wondering why, and seeing the
|
|
face of the girl who has forgotten where she ever put his high school ring;
|
|
the girl who might find it years later when she's a woman and her kids ask
|
|
her where that ring came from and she'll, in an instant see like a freeze
|
|
frame, the young boy's face lit by the dashboard light as she feels him
|
|
inside her, hurting her, bursting her liquid, her youthful purity, the
|
|
radio wafting the Five Satins In The Still Of The Night, the young boy's
|
|
eyes glaring from the dull dashboard light, his iris ablaze with passion,
|
|
with power, yet a little sadder now, confused and she can't, for the life
|
|
of her, remember his name. And the same boy's Mom will be cleaning out the
|
|
attic one fall day as the crisp, bone chilling air clips the brown leaves
|
|
from the elm out back and she'll find the jacket, its satin material
|
|
reeking of motor oil and moth balls, slowly hold it close to her frail,
|
|
bird-like chest and let a small shallow tear fill her eyes, feel it glide
|
|
down her deeply lined cheek; touch her short cropped gray hair and remember
|
|
the day the nurse brought in this small bundle, her husband, its father
|
|
joking about how ugly new born babies are. She'll give it a name making it
|
|
more than an it. And that same name she'll whisper now in the attic to the
|
|
rafters and the winter coats that need airing, the clothes she came to take
|
|
downstairs, downstairs where the boy's room stays empty, mellow memories of
|
|
laughter and dirty day dreams with its walls still holding football banners
|
|
and a life size color photo of Stan Musial. She hears her voice say the
|
|
young boy's name and notices that there's something hollow about it,
|
|
vacant, distant.
|
|
"My future?" I wonder again, this time louder. "What'd ya say, Bobby
|
|
Boy?" my Dad asks. "Nothin'." is all I can think of. I watch as the bad
|
|
boys chug-a-lug their tepid beer and the girls squirm, panties moist from
|
|
their thoughts, their wishes so youthful now.
|
|
"See, Bobby," as Dad holds up the fish line and hook, his hands cut
|
|
open like raw meat from the razor-like line. He opens his tackle box,
|
|
lifts up the top tray, takes out a liverwurst sandwich on Wonder bread and
|
|
hands me half. "Want a Coke?" he asks. I nod okay. He takes out some
|
|
coins from his bulging pockets and I wonder why he keeps his pockets like
|
|
his car trunk-filled with all sorts of junk. I don't ask but take the dime
|
|
and Indian head nickel he gives me. "Ya want one?" I ask. "Nah," and I'm
|
|
off toward the bait house.
|
|
The smells smack me in the face, my head reeling almost knocking me in
|
|
the Gulf of Mexico: the kicking fish in their white buckets, the sandwiches
|
|
and beer, the sand and salt, the clouds and the magic sun, the pier itself,
|
|
the very fabric of the worn, tattered seams splitting, the worms working
|
|
their way through the splinters, the nails rusted to almost nothing.
|
|
Music springs from the beach. A portable radio is playing "Where are
|
|
you Little Star," and some kids run through the surf laughing. A woman
|
|
bends over and picks up a sea shell and holds it to her ear. A single
|
|
engine piper cub glides overhead. I think I hear someone crying.
|
|
I look back toward my Dad. He's still fumbling with his rod and reel
|
|
trying to get the small shrimp on his large hook. Somehow he looks
|
|
different, smaller, older. I turn and walk into the bait house.
|
|
A teenage couple stand in a corner near the candy machine. He
|
|
whispers something in her ear and she smiles. She kisses him like a cousin
|
|
kisses her aunt. He touches her waist and she puts her hand on his like a
|
|
trap door.
|
|
I walk over to the soda machine and start to lift my coins when I see
|
|
the price: twenty-five cents. I freeze in place. I have fifteen cents.
|
|
With the two coins back in my pocket, I head out to the sun and Dad.
|
|
Dad's line is dangling over the railing, his back hunched, arms tense
|
|
when I walk up behind him. He turns his face towards me and smiles. I
|
|
smile back. He faces the water. "Where's your soda?"
|
|
"Ah, had some water instead. Here." I hand him the two coins and he
|
|
looks into my eyes. I smile, but I'm a lousy actor. "Why don't you hold
|
|
onto the money. Ya might get thirsty later." I know he knows that the
|
|
soda is twenty-five cents. And he knows that I know he doesn't have the
|
|
extra dime and I lied so he wouldn't be embarrassed, but I know he's
|
|
embarrassed and he knows that I know it. We both look out across the green
|
|
deep and I ask him how it's goin'. He doesn't hear me, his eyes are
|
|
looking inside himself now.
|
|
I notice a young mother and her six year old daughter walking up the
|
|
pier. The mother is beautiful, the little girl a mirror image of her Mom.
|
|
The child wears two Mini Mouse berates in her golden brown hair, hair as
|
|
fine as silk, bright as the sun itself. The teenagers are getting louder
|
|
but Dad can't hear them either. The sun is burning a hole in my head. I
|
|
feel my skin hardening, cracking from the dryness. My mind wanders as the
|
|
teenage girls giggle and bend over.
|
|
And the girls of summer, hot and sticky, short-shorts tightly pressing
|
|
their round thighs, playing neatly on the rims of flesh bursting my
|
|
imagination, throwing me into a beyond place, nowhere I've ever been -- the
|
|
sun's heat pounding, rounding my brain to feel something deep inside, deep
|
|
inside.
|
|
The boys pass around a pack of Lucky Strikes, their belt buckles
|
|
reflecting in the sun, engineer boots spanking, new heels dug in, tattoos
|
|
of eagles and bleeding hearts, skulls, and Mom plaster their arms like
|
|
billboards.
|
|
And the girls of summer in fifty-nine, smoldering in their tight
|
|
short-shorts, hips hugging the railing, tough faces, eyes hard drawing deep
|
|
drags on their Kent cigarettes. My eyes strain, squinting from the sun,
|
|
the afternoon heat and the smell of my loins, fondling my rod and reel like
|
|
some precious thing from another world. And from the beach, a portable
|
|
radio blares Bill Haley and the Comets.
|
|
The girls dressed in strapless shoulders and short-shorts looking like
|
|
gasoline pumps with their hoses hot and squirting fire, their hands
|
|
flicking fast back and forth, their rubber skin encased in red and yellow
|
|
cotton, eyes made up like the Long Ranger, dark green holes, thick black
|
|
lashes fluttering, flab wrapped round in billowing profusion; crab apple
|
|
breasts cupped not too neatly in mini-mini halters pumping hard on a young
|
|
boy's endless imagination. I start to ache.
|
|
One girl with lips red as the fires of damnation; demon-like she
|
|
puckers pleasure beyond my wildest, a white Cadillac Eldorado on her mind,
|
|
sleek skirted Chevies, canvas top down cursing Main Street, mercilessly
|
|
squeezes her boyfriend's arm. Another thinner, tougher looking with almond
|
|
eyes, hair black as coal all her furnaces aglow with lush smells, sits with
|
|
her legs open. Good God, I can't take anymore. I turn to face the Gulf
|
|
but, like a magnet, I'm drawn back to the still frame of the legs
|
|
beckoning.
|
|
And all the while I think -- these are girls I would never date once I
|
|
grew up, yet girls that would haunt me constantly, forever filling me with
|
|
such tingling, the thought of their peach fur skin thrilling me.
|
|
And me picturing myself as I watch these girls; myself dark tanned,
|
|
leather tough by the white sand and melting sun, cutoff shorts and Foster
|
|
Grants-I always picture myself in sun glasses being sharp as a tack,
|
|
talking dirty, muscles snapping, hands moving like ice, crisp and true. I
|
|
smile at the girls as they eye my six feet up and down. I smile back with
|
|
a rough expression letting them know who's boss. They squirm in their
|
|
imaginations of me lying taut on top of them, our bodies moving with the in
|
|
and out surf.
|
|
I notice the man who looks like an airline pilot sitting on one of the
|
|
benches. He talks to the young mother and her little girl; all smiling as
|
|
the mother bursts out laughing, her voice chilling the sky and my skin.
|
|
The pilot touches the little girl's hair, golden brown, and all three laugh
|
|
at some intimate joke. They, all three, could be the picture of the happy
|
|
American family vacationing in the land of oranges and sea shells. But
|
|
something stirs inside me. I'm frightened and am not sure why.
|
|
I take my rod and reel and drop the line, shrimp dangling, squirming,
|
|
into the warm Gulf. Dad shows me how to hold the rod, release the catch,
|
|
take up the slack, then click the catch back again. We lean against the
|
|
railing and look out beyond our own thoughts at the pencil-like horizon and
|
|
Texas, maybe Mexico.
|
|
The airplane pilot is still talking to the young mother and her small
|
|
daughter. There's something about the three of them that strikes me as
|
|
odd. The handsome man seems to be paying more attention to the daughter
|
|
than the pretty mother.
|
|
The mother walks over to the group of giggling teenagers and asks them
|
|
for a smoke. The boys are eager and fumble for their packs stuck in the
|
|
t-shirt sleeves. The mother is lit and takes a deep drag on the Lucky.
|
|
She looks like a professional smoker. She reaches over and takes a can of
|
|
Old Milwaukee from one of the boys and chug-a-lugs the entire can. She
|
|
looks like a professional beer drinker. Her eyes snap onto one if the
|
|
older looking boys. Some of the teenage girls whisper to each other and
|
|
frown. The boy is not dumb. He likes to be looked at. He seems to get
|
|
taller. I notice that he has arched his body slightly and is on his toes.
|
|
She smiles a smile that says more than hello. He smiles back.
|
|
I take a quick look at the airplane pilot. He is now stroking the
|
|
little girl's hair. The little girl seems confused and somewhat
|
|
embarrassed, certainly uncomfortable.
|
|
Someone whacks me in the arm. I turn quickly to see my Dad's face, a
|
|
smile a mile long from ear to ear. He nods his head to the side. I follow
|
|
his eyes. There, coming down the board walk, rod and reel in toe, tackle
|
|
box and water bucket dragging behind, is a short, squat man dressed just
|
|
like Dad. He smiles at the sun and sea breeze. My eyes are like silver
|
|
dollars. The man approaches us, stops, looks at Dad and says, "Great
|
|
outfit, buddy." and moves on toward the end of the pier. Dad makes a humph
|
|
sound like he was some fashion mogul and sits with total self-indulgence,
|
|
his rod cast out into the green.
|
|
Loud laughter from the group of teenagers and the young mother gets my
|
|
attention. She's chugging another beer and the boys applaud and the
|
|
teenage girls sneer. Off to the side, the little girl wants to call out to
|
|
her mother but says nothing. The airplane pilot whispers something in the
|
|
child's ear and the child frowns.
|
|
The young mother is drinking more and more. One of the boys has his
|
|
arm around her. The teenage girls are now sitting on a bench, coats
|
|
wrapped around them, shivering from the mounting easterly, their eyes
|
|
hallow looking down at the planking floor, all looking into the fiery green
|
|
sea, all the time wishing the young mother with the golden child was down
|
|
there prancing and primping with the fishes, not their boy friends of
|
|
summer. The other boys are talking about cars and who's got the fastest
|
|
roadster shinning bright, glittering flat heads, tight torque.
|
|
All of a sudden I notice that the sun has gone down disappeared like
|
|
some ghost. I look over at my Dad who was looking into the briny, still
|
|
tightly clutching his rod and reel.
|
|
I turn back to look at the teenagers and the young mother. She is
|
|
gone, disappeared like the sun.
|
|
It was starting to get cold, my bones rattled from the chilling
|
|
breeze. A quiet descends upon the pier. It is an eerie stillness. The
|
|
only sound is the water gently slapping against the pylons.
|
|
Then, suddenly out of the dark, out of the dank, black darkness, a
|
|
voice screams, screams a sound so hideous, from such an inner depth. I
|
|
quickly spin toward it. And there, standing at the edge of the water,
|
|
standing deep in the wet sand is the young mother -- a snap shot black and
|
|
white frozen for ever and ever. In her arms is the lifeless form of her
|
|
daughter, her young hair, once golden and bright, now cruelly matted to her
|
|
bleeding skull.
|
|
"Look," someone shouts.
|
|
We all turn. There he is, the tall, neatly trimmed pilot running like
|
|
hell down the beach, running away.
|
|
"He's getting away," I shout at the top of my lungs. And than, like
|
|
in a dream, in slow motion, my Dad throws down his rod and reel, screaming,
|
|
"NOOOOOOOO!!!!" And, with one lunge, leaps from the pier into the water.
|
|
He swims so fast, faster than I had ever seen anyone swim. Like a shark, a
|
|
bullet streaking through the wet towards the fleeing pilot.
|
|
The young mother's wailing bounces from the black stars above and
|
|
comes crashing down, back to earth, to my ears, my soul.
|
|
And in another flash, Dad is now on the shoreline running like hell.
|
|
The murderer is slowing, his breath spent.
|
|
Dad is on him, a full-body tackle.
|
|
They're both down in the sand, arms and fists flailing. My father is
|
|
screaming into the killer's face, spiting each word as if they were knives
|
|
slicing, cutting into the man.
|
|
|
|
Later, after they had pull my Dad from the killer, thank him and take the
|
|
battered and beaten criminal away, we walk alone along the beach, our heads
|
|
deeply bent. I could see the glimmer of blood dripping from his nose, his
|
|
left eye was nearly shut from the swelling.
|
|
"So...ah...yeah..."
|
|
I just couldn't find the words to say, the way to express myself.
|
|
I kicked the sand a couple of times.
|
|
We don't say a word about what happened. We walk for hours as I think
|
|
to myself I have never, ever felt such deep love, is my small heart so full
|
|
with such a true and honest caring as I do for my father today, the day he
|
|
took me fishing.
|
|
________________________________________
|
|
|
|
Martin Zurla <pecado@netcom.com; pecado@aol.com> is the founder and
|
|
Artistic Director of the Raft Theatre (Theatre Row, NYC). His stage play,
|
|
_Old Friends_, won the Forest A. Roberts Playwrights Award; his play,
|
|
_February, the Present_, won the Stanley Drama Award. Mr. Zurla's plays
|
|
won the Colorado University Playwrights Competition for two consecutive
|
|
years (1985 and 1986). Plus numerous other theatrical awards, Mr. Zurla
|
|
was twice awarded the prestigious Theatre of Renewal Awards for his
|
|
"Resplendent contribution to the development of American Theatre." Mr.
|
|
Zurla recently had a series of one act plays published by Open Passages of
|
|
NYC, _Aftermath: The Vietnam Experience_.
|
|
|
|
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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
|
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POETRY
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AFTER FIVE AT THE OFFICE
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by Len Edgerly
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mechanical flatulence
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the sound of a Harley
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outside my office window
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smooth optical whir
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of computer parts
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|
chipmunk sounds
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|
from the hard drive digesting
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|
a long file downloading from
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|
America Online in little gulps
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|
like a bird feeding
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|
from a modem
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|
purr of the Laserwriter
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|
revealed in the after-five
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emptiness of the company
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I make leather squeaks
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with my boot against
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the swivel chair
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secret smooth fan
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|
inside the Power Macintosh
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humming the almost note
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|
of pale music
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|
now heard now seen
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|
these quiet sentinels
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at the rest of the day
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beneath whispering
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|
their mechanical murmurs
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of perception
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________________________________________
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Len Edgerly <edgerly@ng.kne.com> has poetry published or forthcoming in
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_High Plains Literary Review_, _Owen Wister Review_, _Amelia_, _The Morpo
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Review_, and in a chapbook, _Disputed Territory_. A member of the Western
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States Arts Federation Board of Trustees and the Wyoming Arts Council, he
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makes his living as a natural gas company executive in Casper, Wyoming.
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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
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LIFE, THE UNIVERSE, AND EVERYTHING
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by Marc A. Leckstein
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Life, the Universe, and Everything.
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Why do these things mean so much to me?
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|
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I know that I am nothing but a man.
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|
My thoughts should be of current plans.
|
|
Instead, my mind is out there wandering.
|
|
It spends all its time wondering:
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|
|
Will I live or will I die?
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|
Will I love or will I cry?
|
|
Will I learn the truth of life?
|
|
Will that girl become my wife?
|
|
Is my job what I envisioned?
|
|
Did I ask for this division?
|
|
Is there a God, is there a Devil?
|
|
Must I live up to one of their levels?
|
|
Why am I confused? Why should I care?
|
|
Why did I write this poem? Is it too bare?
|
|
Does it show my naked heart?
|
|
Will it act to tear me apart?
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|
|
Life, the Universe, and Everything
|
|
Why do these things mean so such to me?
|
|
|
|
I know that I am nothing but a man.
|
|
Still, I need an answer to the plan.
|
|
I must find the blueprint to my soul,
|
|
Discover the truth behind it all.
|
|
I need to know the best I can,
|
|
What it means to be human.
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|
________________________________________
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|
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Marc A. Leckstein <s0053071@hawkmail.monmouth.edu> is a student at Monmouth
|
|
College who aspires to work in politics.
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|
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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
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XY
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by Anthony Fox
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|
The mystery of a man
|
|
the child, the killer
|
|
the hidden woman
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|
|
The real man behind
|
|
the social perception
|
|
|
|
Who I should be
|
|
what I should see
|
|
and in some dark hidden
|
|
closet, away from judging
|
|
|
|
eyes, the real man sits
|
|
with dried up tits
|
|
|
|
an X instead of
|
|
a Y
|
|
________________________________________
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|
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By Anthony Fox <afox@deakin.edu.au>.
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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
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PERCEPTIONS
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|
|
by Laura D. Turk
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|
|
in my dreams
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|
|
I am one of two lovers
|
|
gazing into each others' eyes
|
|
at a candlelight dinner
|
|
just for two.
|
|
|
|
one of two lovers
|
|
staying up half the night
|
|
discussing every little thing
|
|
under the sun.
|
|
|
|
one of two lovers
|
|
sitting lazily on the lawn
|
|
exchanging tender kisses
|
|
and quiet promises.
|
|
|
|
one of two lovers
|
|
lying on a beach
|
|
awakening each others' bodies
|
|
with soft caressess.
|
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|
|
|
|
the reality is
|
|
|
|
our dining is shared
|
|
by noisy children
|
|
who crowd our table
|
|
pushing and shoving.
|
|
|
|
we both work hard
|
|
and need our sleep
|
|
and talk centers mostly
|
|
around pragmatic things.
|
|
|
|
there's no time for laziness
|
|
and kisses are mostly
|
|
hello and goodbye
|
|
and promises shattered.
|
|
|
|
usually his caresses
|
|
mean he wants sex;
|
|
we're no longer lovers
|
|
just bed partners.
|
|
|
|
|
|
I wonder why
|
|
reality falls so far short
|
|
of our dreams.
|
|
________________________________________
|
|
|
|
Laura D. Turk <100335.3650@compuserve.com> was born and raised in
|
|
Philadelphia, PA. She has lived in Germany for the last ten years, first
|
|
as a military wife, and now as a civilian employee of the U.S. government.
|
|
|
|
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
|
|
|
|
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
|
|
OTHER MAGAZINES ON THE NET
|
|
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
|
|
|
|
_InterText_, a bi-monthly magazine publishing fiction of all types, edited
|
|
by Jason Snell. Back issues are available at ftp.etext.org, under the
|
|
/intertext directory.
|
|
___
|
|
|
|
_Quanta_, a science fiction magazine. Each issue contains fiction by
|
|
amateur authors and is published in ASCII and PostScript formats. Back
|
|
issues of Quanta are available from export.acs.cmu.edu in the pub/quanta
|
|
directory.
|
|
___
|
|
|
|
_Fiction-Online_ considers submissions of poetry, short-shorts, short
|
|
stories, and short plays. Mainstream and science fiction are the preferred
|
|
genres. Submissions should be made to the subscription address,
|
|
ngwazi@clark.net. Back issues may be obtained by anonymous FTP from
|
|
ftp.etext.org or at gopher.cic.net.
|
|
___
|
|
|
|
_Angst_ publishes prose, poetry, prose poetry, and postcard stories. They
|
|
also highlight other experimental forms of prose and poetry. Back issues
|
|
are available through anonymous FTP at ftp.etext.org. E-mail
|
|
uh186@freenet.victoria. bc.ca for info.
|
|
|
|
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
|
|
|
|
BACK ISSUES
|
|
|
|
Back issues are available at
|
|
|
|
ftp.etext.org
|
|
|
|
via anonymous FTP/Gopher under the directory
|
|
|
|
/pub/Zines/Whirlwind
|
|
|
|
|
|
SUBSCRIPTION
|
|
|
|
If you wish to be on the Whirlwind mailing list, all you need to do is send
|
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a message to WHIRLEDS@delphi.com with the subject of the message "SUBSCRIBE
|
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WHIRLWIND" and nothing else in the body of the message.
|
|
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FURTHER QUESTIONS
|
|
|
|
If you have any other questions, you can reach us at WHIRLEDS@delphi.com.
|
|
|
|
Whirlwind apologizes for any errors in this issue.
|
|
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
|
|
That's it! Thank you for reading.
|
|
|
|
NEXT ISSUE OF WHIRLWIND:
|
|
MARCH 1995
|
|
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|