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This is to certify that the

thesis entitled
THE SMALL BLACK BOX
presented by

Michael W. McCarthy

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THE SMALL BLACK BOX

By

Michael W. McCarthy

A THESIS

Submitted to
Michigan State University
in partial fulfillment of the requirements
for the degree of

MASTER OF ARTS

Department of English
1 990

ABSTRACT

THE SMALL BLACK BOX

By

Michael W. McCarthy

W is a collection of six short stories which can
be compared to a small box secured with black electrical tape and
string. This metaphor is the idea which holds them together. Will
the characters go along with what everyone else says is inside the
black box? Or will they ignore the pressures of influence and decide
for themselves? Each story shows the character flipping the box
over, checking out different views, listening for noise and trying to

decide.

DEDICATION

To Theresa
For being there when these stories poked their ugly heads into the
world, still glistening with placenta. Thanks for not smashing their

little skulls.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The assistance of Professor Penn and Professor Drake has been
valuable in the completion of this collection. Their help, criticism
and workshops have been greatly appreciated.

I would also like to thank my family for being family. Without

them, I wouldn't be here at all. ERIN GO BRAGH!

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dance of Shiva .......................................... 1
Chuck’s Reflection ...................................... 2 5
Escape ................................................. 3 7
Desecration ............................................ 6 6
Tangled Strings ......................................... 8 3
Nostalgia .............................................. 9 8

DANCE OF SHIVA

When Tony Gonzalez was six he went with his family to
Washington DC. It was an event that became memorable only after
it happened. Such is the magic of cameras and stories. It seems
that one of the photographs taken during the trip was of Tony
standing within the Lincoln Memorial. He had been scared to stand
before the looming figure of Lincoln alone with all the strange
people circling about, carrying cameras and shooting pictures.
Somehow, his father had waited patiently until Tony was the only

one on the steps before Lincoln and snapped the photo.

2

“Why were other people taking my picture when I stood there?"
asked confused little Tony.

“Because,” said his father. “One day you will be famous.”

And as soon as the picture had been developed, he was. Tony’s
father entered the photo in the local newspaper’s summer vacation
contest and it took second place! Tony and his family were thrilled
that his picture had been printed in the paper for all their friends
and neighbors to see.

Local fame gave way to national fame one day when Jerry
Gonzalez told his son that his picture had been put on the penny.

“Let me see,” said Tony excitedly. Jerry handed his son the
penny. “That’s Lincoln," said the boy.

“Yes, on the front that is Lincoln,” agreed his father. “But, look
on the back."

“It’s a building,” said Tony.

“Do you know what building?” asked Jerry.

“No,” said Tony.

“It’s the Lincoln Memorial and do you know who’s inside?"

“No,” said Tony.

“You are!” said Jerry. “Remember the picture we took of you on
vacation? The president saw it and thought you were so cute that he

decided to put your image on the back of the penny. Look closely at

3

the middle of the building between the poles. It’s you standing
there.”

“It is me,” said Tony. “It’s me!” he screamed.

When he was old enough, Tony attended the afternoon session of
kindergarten. He made new friends and didn’t mind the learning even
though it sometimes got in the way of playing. One of his favorite
activities was when Mrs. Black would play the piano and teach the
children songs. Among the first ones they were taught was Meridian
A_ij_e_Lamn, Despite not being sure of the words, Tony sang
energetically and with great enthusiasm.

One day, his fear that he had been singing the words incorrectly
seemed justified when Mrs. Black suddenly stopped playing the piano
and walked, searching among the children. She circled among the
cluster seated near Tony and asked a few of them to sing solo.
Finally, she pointed to Tony and he sang, “Mary had a little lamb,
little lamb, little lamb. Mary had a little lamb....”

“Yes!” said Mrs. Black. “It was your voice that had sounded so
beautiful, Tony. Please sing the rest of the song for us.” Tony did,
but somehow it did not seem as fun singing without Mrs. Black

playing and the other children singing along. He was proud that she

4

had called his voice “beautiful,” so he sang as well as he could, but
he felt nervous and was sure that he didn't sing as nicely as before.
He thought that Mrs. Black had returned to the piano with a puzzled

look upon her face, as if to say, “Had it really been Tony’s voice that
had sounded so wonderful?”

“It followed her to school one day, school one day, school one
day. It followed her to school one day, breaking all the rules....”
sang Tony along with the rest of the children as Mrs. Black swayed
back and forth to the music once again. Tony felt self-conscious and
was certain that the rest of the children were still watching and

listening to him because he had been singled out.

In first grade, Tony’s teacher was Miss King. She was a big
black woman who claimed to have “eyes in the back of her head.”
Tony was convinced that she had them, but was not certain that they
were very useful.

If she really had eyes in the back of her head why didn’t she
notice that Sam, the kid who Tony shared a table with (the desks
were rectangular tables divided in half underneath the common table
top for book storage) was smearing boogers all over the place? Not

only underneath. Not only on his own side. But, on top of the table

5

and on Tony’s side as well. When they were wet, they were simply
too disgusting to touch so Tony left them. And when they were dry,
they were almost impossible to scrape off, even when using a pencil.
The pencil was better than using his bare hand, but still Tony found
it disgusting to touch a snot and then write with it. He tried to
make sure that he didn’t put the pencil near his mouth. However,
even with the utmost care, he still found himself absentmindedly
chewing on the pencil and then becoming nauseated once he realized
what he was doing.

Finally, one day he became so disgusted that he had to retaliate.
He began picking his nose for the first time in his life in order to
supply himself with ammunition. And then when Sam wasn’t looking,
Tony wiped the snot not only on Sam’s side of the desk, but on his
books and papers as well. His favorite thing was to place the booger
on the edge of Sam’s desk and then watch, hoping that Sam would
lean forward and rub the snot onto his shirt. Why hadn't he thought
of this sooner? Tony considered it a victory with each stain upon
his neighbor’s clothing. It was the funniest thing in the world to
outdo Sam at his own game. Tony had a hard time suppressing his
laughter and several times coughed in order to conceal his delight.

Friday, Tony had a cold, but went to school anyway. It allowed
him to take advantage of some monstrously hideous boogers and he

considered it a chance to complete his revenge. Two of them he

believed to be his crown jewels. After deliberating over their
placement, he put one on Sam’s lunch box, near the clasp which
opened it. The other he placed strategically on the edge of the desk.
What better use for the ultimate? They were large, multi-colored
and the one on Sam’s lunch box had a tint of blood. They even
disgusted Tony and this made him eager to observe Sam’s reaction
which up until now had been rather disappointing. For the past week,
Sam had been nonchalant, probably assuming that it was still only
his own excretions that populated the desk. As he wrote didn’t he
notice that his paper was bumpy from the textured surface below?
But, thought Tony, these were different, these Sam would notice.
Throughout the day, however, business was as usual for Sam. He
simply continued adding his own handiwork to the desk and did not
notice a thing. When lunch passed without incident Tony realized
that he had underestimated the situation. He was dealing with a
hardened veteran and more drastic measures would be necessary. He
took a blue kleenex from his pocket and blew a mucousy stream into
it, until he collected a runny, dense blob. He folded the sides so that
the kleenex became a kind of pouch, like a paper bag with a wet wad
of noodles soaking through the bottom. Nonchalantly, he held it in
his hand on Sam’s side of the desk and squeezed. Tony was surprised
by the rather loud squishing noise and impressive stream that issued

from the blue tissue.

7

“Miss King!” screamed Sammy.

Tony was not even given a chance to explain. He was guilty as
charged and had to stay after school in order to clean his entire
desk. When he was finished cleaning the disgusting mess, Miss King
had news for him. “Tony,” she said. “I don’t understand why you
were treating Sammy so badly, but I think you should know that
there’s no excuse for behavior like that and it will not be tolerated
in this classroom. As of Monday, you will no longer sit here, I’ll find
you a new seat. And mind you, I’ll be watching. I have eyes in the
back of my head you know and I expect your best behavior from now
on.”

Monday, Tony was given a new seat and desk partner. If there
was anyone in the first grade class more repulsive than Sam, it was
his twin sister, Helen. She was the class tattle-tale and goody-
goody. At least she didn’t pick her nose but, like most things, there
was a trade off. She was cross-eyed and it was kind of creepy when
she looked at you. Her other distinguishing feature was her hair that
she always wore in pig tails, pulled back and braided so tightly that

her white, flaky scalp was visible in clear rows.

IV

Tony’s family moved to a new city and he began third grade at
Our Lady of Good Counsel, the town's Catholic grade school. The
other kids began to call him “Baby Face Gonzalez” and the name
stuck. Tony hated the name and wished that he was not so pudgy. It
was hard enough to be a new kid in school even without carrying
around a nickname, especially if the name was something like “Baby
Face.” Oddly enough, Tony was not carrying baby fat everywhere on
his body, the rounded, oversized look was limited to only his head,
giving him the appearance of a cartoon character.

Tony’s best friend was the only other kid in the class with a
nickname, “Eats Johnson.” “Eats” was also a victim of baby fat,
however, in his case the problem was not localized. His voracious
appetite earned him the name. He was the only kid in the third grade
who drank two milks every day for lunch. And on Tuesday, the one
special day when lunch was served by volunteer “hotdog mothers,”
Eats was the only student in class who ordered two hot dogs and two
bags of chips. Furthermore, after finishing his own lunch, Eats
accepted donations and became a legend by scarfing down the class’
leftovers.

One cold and winter day on the playground, “Eats” and “Baby

9

Face” were walking around, looking for something warm to do. In
their pockets were erasers which had been modified into Chinese
throwing stars by pushing pins through in all directions. Afraid of
being caught, but ovenlvhelmingly curious, they decided to try
throwing them against a telephone pole to see if their plan was
successful. The pins were too weak to penetrate the cold wood. It
was useless, but they kept whipping them as hard as they could until
both their arms were sore.

“I know something I can show you,” said Tony. “Do you have a
penny?”

Eats Johnson always had change. He handed Tony a penny. “Look
at the tail side,” said Tony handing it back. “What do you see?”

“A building,” said Eats.

“Look closely. What else?” asked Tony.

“E PLURIBUS UNUM,” said Eats.

“Not that,” said Tony. “In the middle of the building between
the pillars.”

“It’s a person,” said Eats.

“No,” said Tony. “Not just any person. It’s me. It’s me there!”

Eats Johnson laughed, put the penny back in his pocket and pulled
his mittens back on. “That’s pretty neat, Baby Face,” he said. “It
kinda looks like the person is in a cage or in jail or something.”

Tony grabbed Eats’ arm and spun around, picked his weight up on

10

his shoulder and flipped him, a move he’d learned in Judo class. Eats
fell with a thump to the frozen parking lot that the Catholic kids
used for a playground.

“That’s for calling me Baby Face,” said Tony.

Somebody in the fourth grade was going to be in big trouble.
Dawn Caterall raised her hand and Sister Dorothy called on her.
“Sister, somebody did something to my desk,” she said.

“What did they do?” asked Sister Dorothy. Sister was a
conservative looking woman in her fifties. She was stout with short
brown hair and glasses.

“I can’t say,” said Dawn. “I think you should come see.”

Sister Dorothy walked to the desk and peered inside like a
mechanic looking under the hood of a car. Two “Planet of the Apes”
ape dolls were wrapped together in an embrace implying a sexual
position. Sister let out a low chuckle before she was able to stifle
it. She covered quickly. “This sort of perverted behavior is not
amusing,” she said. She reached into the desk and separated the
lovestruck monkeys and believing the problem to be resolved, she
handed them to Dawn.

“But, Sister,” said Dawn. “Somebody stole their clothes.

11

TheyWe sfiH naked“

Tony had done nothing to Dawn Caterall’s “Planet of the Apes”
dolls. However, this did not prevent him from being accused. He was
the closest boy sitting near her desk. This and his developing
reputation as a mischief maker caused him to become the primary
suspect and the first child interrogated by Sister Dorothy.

“Tony,” she began. “Was it you that stole the clothing from
Dawn’s dolls?”

“No,” said Tony.

His answer did not satisfy her. Because a week ago, she had
caught him wiping his boogers on the floor. He had thought it funny
to see peOple walk down the aisle and unaware, step on snot. When
Sister had caught him in the act, Tony had claimed unsuccessfully
that he had actually been removing the boogers from the floor, not
placing them there. He had sneezed and forgot to place his hand over
his nose and mouth and inadvertently let out a spray. He, Tony,
putting them on the floor? No, of course not, he was wiping them up.
See? He had then proceeded to wipe them up.

“Are you certain that you didn’t do anything to the dolls?” asked
Sister.

He maintained that he hadn’t touched the dolls. In fact, he liked
the movies and insisted it would have been hypocritical for him to

vandalize the characters.

12

“Well,” said Sister Dorothy. “I think perhaps you should pull
your desk up to the front row. It's probably time to rearrange the
room a little anyway.” She instructed a few other boys to move as
well.

Tony pulled his desk into the aisle and proceeded to push it
toward the front of the room. The vibrations shook the contents of
the desk and a small, leather case fell to the ground. Sister Dorothy
scooped it up and examined it.

“Are these yours?” she asked Tony. She removed a pair of
glasses from the case.

“Yes,” said Tony.

“Why don’t you wear them?”

Tony claimed they really didn’t help him to see any better and
they were irritating to wear.

“Your parents worked hard to earn the money to buy these,” she
said. “I’ll bet they don’t know that you’ve been hiding them in your
desk, do they?”

Tony shook his head no.

For the rest of the school year, Tony was obligated to wear his
glasses in Sister Dorothy’s class. They made him feel self-
conscious and awkward. He felt like a freak and thought everyone
was staring at him because he looked so goofy. However, even

though it was a bad situation he still considered himself lucky for

13

two reasons. His metal orthodontic head gear and strap had not
fallen out of his desk and besides, there were only two more weeks

until summer vacation.

VI

Why did Tony hate him? He was the only fifth grader who wore
striped “old man pants.” Perhaps it wasn’t actually Paul Cyburt’s
pants. Maybe it was the fact that he was the only kid in the fifth
grade who referred to his pants as “slacks.” Certainly the use of the
word “slacks” had drawn the other kids’ attention to the pants and
made their out dated style even more visible.

Slacks! Tony thought the word too stiff and adult-like. Was
Paul Cyburt raised by a colony of grandmothers? “Be careful and
don’t get your slacks dirty at school,” were the words that Tony
imagined Paul to last hear upon leaving his house each morning. And
when he got home, he probably hung them neatly in his closet
without being told.

When they went shopping for school clothes, did Paul Cyburt’s
mother force him to get slacks? Or did he prefer them and pick them
out on his own? Tony imagined the latter to be true, thus considered
his dislike justified. If only Paul Cyburt had somehow showed signs

of rebellion. If he had only let it be known that he wasn’t

14

completely content with his slacks, perhaps then the children at Our
Lady of Good Counsel would have been somewhat more understanding
and merciful toward him.

However, as it was, he appeared smug and did not object to his
slacks. Not only that, but he wore sweaters as well that were just
dying for a name equivalent to slacks. They were pastel-colored
cardigans which he always wore buttoned. He was not a fifth grader.
No, to Tony he was a juvenile Fred Rogers. He was an old man and
the fact that Paul Cyburt dressed like a grandfather caused Tony to
feel sympathy rather than contempt. Tony imagined his own
grandfather having always dressed like an old man, even in grade
school and he felt guilty because he imagined the children at his
grandfather’s school all those years ago laughing and mocking the
man for his clothing.

As contradictory as it sounds, perhaps the only way to explain
his feelings would be to say that Tony did not dislike his
grandfather because of what he wore since his grandfather was
actually an old man and the style of clothing suited him. His
grandfather was a likable man with a sense of mischief who enjoyed
a good laugh. Tony could not imagine his grandfather as an outsider
in grade school, old man clothing or not. Tony believed that
somehow, his grandfather had fit in. Paul Cyburt on the other hand

was not one of the kids. He was destined to be an outsider and this

15

was never more apparent than the day he had found his leather
briefcase filled with curses. Upon finding them, it had not taken him
long to inform Sister Jean.

There must have been fifty of them. Fifty carefully hand made
curses patterned after various Wadcharacters. The
hand written message on each was unique, but a theme was easily
recognizable:

“Paul Cyburt is a fag and he must die!” said Alice.

“Paul Cyburt wears slacks and that means pain and suffering
will visit him and terrorize his sleep!” declared the Mad Hatter.

“Off with his albino head!” screamed the Queen of Hearts.

One by one Paul Cyburt pulled the gruesome cartoons from his
bag. At first, he read the captions aloud, but he soon realized that
this was a mistake. Despite the embarrassment of having their
artistry viewed without their consent, Tony and his friends
privately delighted in having the class laugh and jeer at Paul Cyburt.

Like a magician he pulled the curses from his bag, until his face
grew red with humiliation. He awkwardly dumped the briefcase on
its side, spilling the curses, overflowing onto his desk. Some
fluttered to the floor.

“Who is responsible for this?” demanded Sister Jean. She yelled
it again, louder over the roaring laughter. Hands on hips she stalked

the room. Shaking, Paul Cyburt sat down.

16

VII

Tony was an excellent speller and reader. In fact, he won the
first two spelling bees that were held in his homeroom class. Tony
was amazed that he was actually the best at anything in the class.
It was especially pleasing to him to win the first two of the year, it
established him as the class expert. Not known to be the best
athlete or artist, funniest or cutest, he had at last distinguished
himself.

Tony looked forward to the third spelling bee for days. The idea
of defending his weekly spelling championship thrilled him. He
thought how great it would be to become the first sixth grader at
Our Lady Of Good Counsel to win every spelling bee for a whole year.

At one o’clock, Mrs. Hoke told the class to stand against the
walls of the classroom and get ready to begin. Tony rushed over to
the same part of the room where he had previously stood. As
students misspelled words, they sat down in their seats. The square
of competitors grew smaller and smaller until finally it got down to
the final two: Tony and a girl named Ann Lukens.

Ann had a bad skin condition, eczema or something. She always
had a red rash on her arms and legs. As she spelled words, she

rubbed at her arms vigorously, picking at the scabs which had

17

formed from previous irritation. “Blistered, b-l-i-s-t-e-r-e-d,”
spelled Ann.

“Correct,” said Mrs. Hoke. “Tony, spell foreseeable.”

“Foreseeable,” spelled Tony, “f-o-r-s-e—e-a-b-l-e.” He began
to feel excited, thinking that he had spelled it correctly.

“Incorrect,” said Mrs. Hoke. “Ann, foreseeable.”

“That’s easy,” said Ann. “It was on last week’s list.
Foreseeable, f—o-r-e-s-e-e-a-b-l-e.” She lifted her green checked
skirt and scratched her leg.

“That is correct! We have a new spelling bee champion.” said
Mrs. Hoke. A cheer arose from the class and they applauded. Tony,
being too young to understand the appealing nature of the underdog,
took it personally. Dejected, he sat down in his desk chair and
bravely held back the tears. Why did they hate him? “You can’t win

’em all, Tony,” said Mrs. Hoke. “Are you all right?”

VIII

In art class, they were being taught the process of making
rubbings. The children were allowed to choose whatever they
wished and then they placed paper over it, rubbed with a pencil and a
phantom image of the object appeared upon the paper. Some chose

fabric, keys, leaves, Tony decided to rub a penny.

18

First, he rubbed the head side and the words, “In God We Trust”
magically appeared. He followed the circular edge of the coin,
tracing the entire outline before moving inward toward the middle.
His pencil poked through the edge where the coin stopped and ripped
the paper. It was for this reason that Tony found art class
frustrating. He felt that he had the creative imagination for it. And
he generally had a unique or different approach to the assignments.
However, he was unable to execute his ideas with the craft
necessary to depart from the mediocre. Or possibly, it was his
inability to overlook slight technical problems that forced him to
remain mediocre. Where Tony cursed the ripped paper, perhaps a
Picasso would have somehow incorporated it into the art.

With the tail side of the penny he rubbed the edges delicately, so
that it hardly left an image. This method left the paper unripped. In
the center of the coin, Tony rubbed harder and produced a dark image
of the Lincoln Memorial. The contrast between the light gray center
and the darker edge was striking. Carefully, he erased the stray,
overlapping marks that had left the penny’s border.

What remained was a crisp, clean image that was spectacular
and quite different from the other children’s work which emphasized
rougher textures and ignored finer detail. Sister Mary Pat thought
that Tony’s work was “excellent” and “fantastic.” Tony, however,

was very unhappy with the rubbing. There was something missing.

19

No matter how hard he looked, he could not make out the image of
the person between the pillars. He tried rubbing harder, but it didn’t
matter, still no image appeared. The figure on the penny was not
defined enough to be reproduced upon the paper. Angrily he examined
the back of the penny, rubbing with his finger to see if he could feel
any texture to the man. He couldn’t tell.

He decided to draw it in free-hand and sharpened his pencil to a
fine point in order to get the small detail necessary. Carefully, he
began to draw. The pencil tip broke, left a lead blob and he cursed
his lack of skill. He tried to erase the blob, but ended up smearing
and erasing the pillars as well, ruining the whole thing. He tried to
start a new one, but the hour ended and he had to turn in the
mutilated version. Once again, his work was not quite good enough

to go out in the hall to be displayed with the week’s best work.

IX

Tony’s eighth grade teacher, Mrs. Phyllis Lenhardt was a nervous
woman who drank a great deal of coffee and smoked cigarettes. She
was the new breed of teacher at Good Counsel, replacing the
dwindling ranks of the nuns. Among other things, religion class was
not quite the same when it was taught by someone named Mrs.

Lenhardt. The simple change of referring to her as Sister Phyllis

20

would have been all that was necessary to complete a
metamorphosis and alleviate her deficiencies. But no such action
was taken.

One day she was reprimanding the class for not taking their
rosary seriously enough. How could they expect to be confirmed if
they did not know the basics such as the rosary? She stalked in
front of the room, nervously blinking her eyes and beseeching them
to “try just a little harder for Jesus.” Suddenly her ankle twisted
and she lost her footing, falling to the tile in a crumple. The kids
laughed uproariously. They laughed and hooted as if they were
sitting ringside in Vegas and the fighter they bet against had been
sent to the canvas. They were jubilant and festive as she remained
seated on the floor, massaging her ankle and in serious pain. One
thought passed through Tony’s mind as he laughed along with the
others until tears streamed down his cheeks. What if she’s really
hurt and dies because nobody offered to help her?

It was years before Tony Gonzalez ever heard students in a
classroom enjoying themselves as much as they had the day Phyllis
Lenhardt had fallen. But, on the first day of each term in college,

the laughter would return.

21

No longer a student, he had become a teacher. However, this was
a statement that Tony would have adamantly disagreed with.
Instead he would argue, “If we are good at one, certainly then, we
are the other.” How could a teacher not be a student? How could a
student not be a teacher? Despite being a professor of English at
the University of Michigan, considered to be the Harvard of the
Midwest, Tony believed that he still had a great deal to learn.

Perhaps his favorite question was, “What is art?” It was a
question he would frequently repeat throughout the term, but never
really pin down. Tony’s distrust of answers could perhaps be traced
to Mr. Leech, his high school chemistry teacher. When Tony had
stayed after lab and said he didn’t understand how scientists could
be so exact with their formulas and theories, Mr. Leech had handed
him a small rectangular box that was completely covered with black
electrical tape. “This is the magical box that explains all theories,”
said Mr. Leech reverently.” Tony held it respectfully.

“Do you know what’s inside it?”

“No,” said Tony.

“Well, go ahead,” said Mr. Leech. “Do whatever you want to it.

You can squeeze it. You can shake it. You can toss it across the

22

room. You can weigh it. You can do electrical tests on it. Whatever
you want, except you can’t open it.”

Tony shook the box and heard a familiar rattle. “It sounds like
coins,” he said.

“Exactly right!” said Mr. Leech.

Tony smiled.

“But, are you sure it’s coins? Couldn’t it be something else?”

“I guess it could be something else,” said Tony. “It could be a
lot of things that sound like coins.”

“Exactly right!” said Mr. Leech. “That’s exactly what all
scientist are doing with their theories. The world is just like that
black box and all any of us can do is to try whatever tests are
available and then make our best guesses. None of us knows what
the hell is in the box, but we keep trying to figure it out. And we
change our mind a lot, but we never know for sure.”

“What is art?” was Tony’s version of “What’s in the black box?”

In part, his difficult reputation was fostered by the first class
of the term. It was here that he established the tone of the course
and partially revealed his professional aesthetic. Absolutely no
cameras were allowed.

He would be sure to arrive late. A striking figure, he was six
foot three and couldn’t have weighed over 150 pounds (at least when

he first began teaching); he resembled a silly putty figure who had

23

been stretched thin--almost to the point of breaking.

Standing tall on his toes, he craned his neck to see if any
stragglers were coming down the hall toward the room. Satisfied,
he slowly began to clap his hands. The students sat and watched.
His hand clapping was incredibly loud.

Loud, but not rhythmical at first, not musical; more or less
random. He stared at them as his hands picked up speed. CLAP CLAP
CLAPCLAP....His inhibitions lowered and he began to approach a sort
of frenzy. Then the whooping started. It was a wheezing, cough-like
high-pitched bark. As he clapped, whooped and cackled in a shrill
voice, his gangly limbs fanned out and he began to jump.

Slowly he lifted his legs, hopped about, spun, clapped, whooped.
He became airborne. He was like the Indian dancers on public
television, high on mushrooms for a religious ceremony. He was like
a little kid jumping off the family picnic table, trying to fly as
mother screamed, “No!” While father captured it on film.

He was a street entertainer participating willingly and joyfully
in the passing sorrows of the world. The class laughed uproariously,
losing control and laughing as hard as they had ever laughed in their
lives. Tony fed on the approval and became even more unrestrained.
He jumped and kicked the walls, he bounced around the room;
suddenly it was too small as he went from wall to wall jumping

higher and higher. A madman before them, kicking, clapping and

24

whooping.

Suddenly it stopped and he stood before them, swaying slightly.
“That is me acting normal,” he said matter-of-factly, still
breathing hard.

“And this is me acting abnormal again.” He sat unmoving,
staring, waiting for their reaction. “Well,” he said. “I have to get
going. I’ll see you again next class.” Then he would exit, leaving the

class to try to make sense of it.

25

CHUCK’S REFLECTION

There are certain things that stand out in my memory. For.
instance I can remember my mother yelling and screaming, "Chuck!
Quit clowning around dammit! You're always clowning around! You
clown around too much. Can't you just stOp? Just for a little
while?” If I was foolish enough to reply in my typical smart assed
fashion, she would continue, “Knockitofforl’llknockyouintothemid-
dleofnextweek!” The word was long and ugly, however, it was to be
respected; the arch enemy of childhood fun and foolishness. I don't
want to cast my mother as the bad guy. She wasn't the only one that
thought I was a clown, I also heard it from father, other family,

teachers, psychiatrists, barbers, psychics, friends and eventually

26

the media. No, I take that back. Never father.

Standing in line at the A&P, I considered the oddities of fate.
How can small events, subtle things over which we have no control,
shape our lives? I’m not sure, I've never been an answer man. I just
know that they can. Take my name for example. I wonder how things
would have been if I had not been named Chuck. That's right, Chuck
and not Charles. It says Chuck right on my birth certificate. lt’s
legitimate all right, just not desirable. Somewhat like our current
political system.

When I got to the front of the line with my groceries, I filled out
a check, signed it and handed it to the clerk. He was a young kid
with a greasy face and black razor stubble for eyebrows. He stared
at my name on the check and grinned ainf I had told him the world’s
funniest joke. He laughed as if he had seen my fly down. It wasn't,
but the smart ass didn't care.

"Thanks for the check, Chuck.” He said it unusually loud and I
heard the other customers in line chuckle as I snatched my bag of
Tootsie Rolls and left. And all because my name is Chuck. If my
name were anything else, John for instance, there would have been
no joke, no giggles and no humiliation. The impact of my name is
something that l have understood more clearly as I've grown older.
Like a person whose eyes are adjusting to a dark room, I've become

increasingly aware of my situation.

27

I spend a lot of time trying to figure things out. I think I'm
quite reflective, a sort of philosopher; I like to keep track of
thoughts and events by writing them down. Thus, I gain the ability
to read and reread myself. I must confess that I got the idea from
literature. Whenever I read a book just once, I didn't seem to
understand it. Only by reading a text for the second or third time
was I able to discover the subtle nuances. Foreshadowing! Parallels!
Juxtaposition! Others tell me that I think too much. That I’m
reading into it; trying to see things which can't be seen or aren’t
really there.

My barber George agrees. He tells me that I'm trying to spice up
an otherwise boring and banal existence. He says it's the curse of
modernism. My imagination has tried to transform my life into good
literature or at least bad fiction, according to George. When I
informed George that he was making me feel like the bastard child
of Don Quixote and Madame Bovary he had no response. Oddly enough,
the lull in the conversation and the babble of George's black and
white television in the background seemed to offer a damning
criticism.

Maybe I'm just too hard on myself. Like the other day, when my
reflection caught my fancy. I must have spent well over an hour
standing in front of the bathroom mirror looking myself dead in the

eye. The longer I stared, the less familiar I looked. It was like

28

looking at a stranger and trying to decide if he was trustworthy or
not just in the time you happened to see him at the bus station or
the mall.

I would not make a good security guard, for the aesthetics of
appearance have often eluded me. Desirable or undesirable is just
too fine of a line. Even my red hair, the hair that has become my
trademark. Where it once was bright, it was fading into a dirty gray,
mostly at the edges. It was bizarre. I came into this world bald,
grew red hair, hated it, got used to it and now it was leaving me and
turning gray. I had no choice what hair color I was born with and
now forty seven years later, I would still have no choice as to what
color my hair would be. I have no control. I stood there looking at
my dying hair with scissors in hand and debated the gray tips. To
cut or not to cut? The realization that mine was not a face to
trigger the launching of a thousand ships made the question
somewhat ridiculous.

It's not easy being forty seven years old. No sir, it seems to be
a time for feeling quite ridiculous. Despite my current feelings, I
haven’t always thought that forty seven was the worst age. I used to
believe that turning thirty was the worst time of my life. And
before that it was twenty. Twenty three! Thirty eight! I suppose
it's kind of funny now that I think of it, my least favorite number

has always been my age. It's a curse that has followed me

29

throughout my life like a black cat that I made the mistake of

feeding.

Of course I didn’t I couldn't cut the gray tips. Changing
myself, even in simple ways has always been hard for me to do, even
though I've often wanted to. It just doesn't seem right for some
reason. After all, forces more powerful than myself have caused
things to be as they are. How could I presume to think I know better
than they? There are natural rhythms to the universe. There are
opposites such as life and death, but they are not necessarily clearly
defined good and evil. All of our judgments on things are based upon
our subjective interpretation of what we believe that we have
observed and consequently judged. These thoughts have grown out of
my understanding of the Chinese philosophy concept of The Tao. The
Tao is ”The Way". This has brought me comfort as I grow older.
Things just are and there’s not much that I can do to change them.
However, I haven't always been this accepting of my circumstances.
When I was nine years old, I came up with a scheme. I thought that I
could put an end to my suffering by changing my name. I didn't want
to be Chuck anymore. I wanted to be John.

I always thought John was a distinguished name; the kind of
name that inspires greatness. Undoubtedly, great men have to have

great names. Johns are powerful. John's are admired. John's are

30

famous. Johns get all the women. Just think of it! There's John
Hancock, John Wayne, John F. Kennedy, Johnny Unitas and Johnny
Carson to name but a few off the top of my head.

Chuck, on the other hand does not have the same qualities. When
I think of guys named Chuck, I become puzzled and mildly distressed.

Put it this way, not many guys in the Bible are named Chuck.

”Chuck, you're clowning around too much!" I was nine years old
and my mother, a stout woman came toward me wagging her finger
and tongue in unison. ”You're ruining the sugar putting grapefruit
seeds in it. I want you to stop. Just what are you trying to prove
anyway?” Angrily, she dumped the bowl of sugar into the kitchen
sink and plopped the bowl down on the counter with a rattle. “What
puts these foolish ideas into your head? Honestly, it's got to be
from your father, nobody on my side of the family acts this way."

She no longer remembered, but the week before, she had
answered my question about reproduction by telling me that women
had to be careful because they could get pregnant by accidentally
swallowing seeds. She explained that if the conditions were just
right, the seed would grow and a baby would develop.

At nine I was an only child and terribly lonely. That's why I had
diligently collected the seeds and hid them strategically in various

foods. I used grapefruit seeds because they were larger than orange

31

or apple seeds and I thought they would produce a companion quicker.
Using this logic, I also used plum pits, but they were not as easy to
conceal in the sugar, butter, cottage cheese--anything that would
hide them from her view.

I was entirely possessed with the idea of having a younger
brother. To me, each seed represented an exact duplicate of myself
and I delighted in hiding the seeds like a perverse Easter Bunny. She
would swallow at least one of them dammit! However, the fun
abruptly ended one day when mother nearly choked on a plum pit and
immediately accused me of conspiring to kill her.

About the same time that all this was going on, I had also
approached my parents about changing my name legally to John. They
had both responded with mocking laughter, but they must have liked
the name because when my brother was born less than a year later,
that’s what they named him. At first I had been excited and happy. I
thought that the bald and wrinkled baby was OK despite being ugly,
boring and crying all the time. However, my mother's baby never
became my friend as I had expected. He became my enemy because
he had stolen my name. It was not by his doing, but I hated little
John. He was a bad seed.

The other day, I went to my barber George. Why couldn't I have
been named George? George Washington, George Burns, George Bush

and George the barber. People named George seem to do all right.

32

Now that I think of it, it wasn't the other day, it must have been a
year or two ago. It was when I first began to understand my
problem, before the big break.

I remember that I sat down in George's hydraulic chair just like
I always do and said, ”George, I just don't know what the hell’s the
matter with me...."

George must not have been in a good mood that day. It might have
been because the place was so crowded, every seat was filled.
Anyway, George cut me off and said, ”Dammit, Chuck, it's about time
I did you a big favor. I'm surprised you haven't figured this out by
now, but it's about time you did.”

I noticed the other customers looking at me over the top of their
newspapers, eavesdropping and grinning. George continued, ”You
come in here all the time pissing and moaning about your God damn
name. You blame everything on the name! It's not the world's best,
but it's not the reason why people aren't taking you seriously. I don't
have to look very far to see what's wrong. It’s easy to see.” He spun
the chair wildly around to face the large mirror. ”Look at yourself,
Chuck. Haven't you ever taken a good look at the mirror? Your
complexion is pale white. Your eyes are big, your nose bulbous and
your hair.... Your hair is bright red. Almost orange! No one takes you
seriously Chuck, and don’t take this the wrong way, because you

resemble a circus clown. Nobody takes clowns seriously. Bozo,

33

Ronald McDonald, Clarabelle, they're all laughed at, none of 'em are
taken seriously. Looking like that, what the hell do you expect?”
Even though George was only half done cutting my hair and

delivering the sermon, I jumped up out of the chair. As I fumbled
around in my pockets for some money to pay him I heard the other
patrons laughing and snickering. Even the children! I couldn't see
their faces and my head felt like it was going to explode as I headed
for the door. Realizing that I still had the bib around my neck, I tore

at it, flung it dramatically and stormed out the door.

Grandmother is a craggy old lady with a weird gap-toothed grin.
When I entered her little, old house, she was sitting at the dining
room table smoking a cigarette and rubbing her arms until the skin
flaked off and fell onto the dining room table.

”Why hello, Chuckie,” said grandmother.

”Hi, grandma,” I said.

She hobbled over to me with the help of her cane and took my
hands in hers and pulled herself up to peck my cheek. Her lips were
like steel wool. "How have you been, honey?” she asked.

"l’m horrible, grandmother. George the barber just told me that I
look like a clown and that's why....The whole place laughed at
me....Everyone did. Even the children. I felt like a freak....l felt like

John Merrick in the scene from there he says, ‘I

34

am not an animal, I am a human being.”

'ALLELUIAI” shouted grandmother. "I was haping that this day
would come before I died. Your mother had me promise not to tell,
but I knew it was just a matter of time. Cream always rises to the
top. George is right, Chuck, you do look like a circus clown. You look
like a circus clown because you are a circus clown. You came from a
long line of clowns. Your grandfather was one and before him your
great grandfather. It wasn’t until your father married your mother
and sold out, turned his back on the family that the honor was
interrupted. Chuck, you've spent over forty years denying your
essence, rejecting the obvious. You look like a clown, because you
are a clown. What's wrong with that?”

I tried to maintain my calm. No reason to get out of control. It
was just the way things were. My voice quivered, ”A clown?" l was
about to cry and grandmother must have sensed it because she
slapped me hard across the face.

”Chuckie! You've done enough crying. All of life doesn't have to
be suffering. The crying is over. As a preacher your father did
enough crying for this family for generations to come. All that sin
and repentance bullshit. Nonsense! It's time for you to prance about.
To laugh and act silly. lt’s laughter that makes life worth living.
Chuckie, what better living than to give people laughter?

"I don't want to be Chuck anymore!” I screamed. ”I want to be

35

John. Like John Wayne, or Kennedy, Unitas, or Carson.”

”That’s another thing,” she shook her head sadly. “You've always
been obsessed with the name John. Ever since your little brother
was born and everybody took him seriously. lt bothered you that you
were the oldest and yet he was given more 'respect.’ Let me tell you
something Chuck, sometimes respect is just another word for boring.
That weasely little accountant would cut off his right arm to be able
to make his family and clients laugh. He is stiff and stuffy and he
pisses and moans about his job more than you'll ever know. He's
worse than you are. The happiest times in John's life were all back
when the two of you were growing up and he was laughing at you.
And by the way, about this John thing. Johnny Carson is the only one
you mentioned that was worth a damn. He's still alive, rich and last
I heard a pretty good clown.”

I had never heard anyone speak as wisely as she was. It was as
if I were hearing the truth for the first time in my life. The fact
that my name was Chuck seemed suddenly funny to me. Funny as
hell. I began to laugh and grandmother joined in. We laughed and we
laughed. She began to choke and cough on her laughter. Despite her
senile appearance, I had to admit, not only was Johnny rich, he got

the women too.

Fate is funny, I thought as I walked out of the A&P. How can

36

small events, subtle things over which we have no control shape our
lives? I tore open the bag and got myself a Tootsie Roll.

”Chuck! There’s Chuck! Hey Chuck!” A group of kids ran toward
me from across the grocery store parking lot. They skidded up to me
breathless and panting. One of the smaller ones handed me a
newspaper. On it was my picture with the headline, IN TOWN-~THE
WORLD’S MOST LOVABLE CLOWN.

”Excuse me, Mr. Chuck, could you please sign this?”

”Sure, sure,” I said as I handed the kids a couple Tootsie Rolls
apiece. What’s your name, son?“

”John," he said nervously. “Jonathan Shevlin, the second.”

The newspaper photo showed me at the town’s city hall at a
banquet with the mayor and other local big shots. I carefully signed
my name and a short message next to my photo. I couldn't help but
laugh at the memory of meeting the local stuffed shirts yesterday.
There were worse things in the world than not being taken seriously.
I was doing something that some of them perhaps would never be
able to do with their children: I was enjoying spending time with
them and laughing like a madman. Maybe being a clown wasn't so
damn bad. After all, Shakespeare himself had realized the

intelligence of the fool.

37

ESCAPE

William Murphy was an old man about to fly. Standing in line
waiting to purchase his airline ticket, trying to decide where to go,
he believed that his advanced age and deteriorating body were at
least partially the result of spending so much of his life waiting in
lines like this one. He tilted his gray old man’s hat back on his head
and craned his neck upward to see the flight schedule. He kept
thinking, south, south, let’s see. Where’s a good place to go that’s
south? Hell! Should I even go south? Maybe I should go north. East?
West? William Murphy began to feel foolish standing in line not
realizing where he wanted to go. Inspired by the migratory flight of

birds, Murphy decided that south would probably be his best bet.

38

He stared at the flight schedule, his lips moved and he read
almost silently, “Miami, St. Petersburg, Tampa, Orlando,
Jacksonville...” The line moved fonrvard and he felt pressured to
hurry and choose his destination. Florida cities, he thought. No, I
can’t go to any Florida city. All the old people go to Florida cities.
Going to Florida and waiting to die is not what I want to do.

Each city had something wrong with it. Miami had too many boat
people and too much crime. New Orleans was too loud and as for
New Mexico, William Murphy figured that he may as well go to
Mexico if he went to New Mexico. Why settle for an imitation?

The line ahead of him shortened once again and Murphy came
closer to being forced into a choice. Suddenly he got a brilliant idea,
what he liked to call a “damn straight” idea. If I go to Mexico,
there’s tequila, margaritas, pinatas, hat dances and muchachas.
Murphy was pleased with himself. Maybe this trip would work out
after all.

Murphy scrutinized the airline’s chart of Mexican cities more
closely. However, this time as he thought of Mexico, he was not
considering margaritas and muchachas. His mind was on Montezuma
as in Montezuma’s revenge. He thought he recalled reading a
newspaper travel article on Mexico and decided that dirty shacks,
crowds, jails and the shits were not high on his list of needs. He

envisioned himself locked in a dingy Mexican jail cell being forced to

39

eat spicy tortillas with nothing other than a corroded pitcher of
amoeba infested water to wash it down. Murphy shook his head
sadly. It couldn’t be Mexico either.

As he stared at the schedule, the name Rio de Janeiro caught his
attention. He believed that he had heard of people going there to
escape. Perhaps that would be a good place to go. He quickly decided
against it thought, because he was certain that the place would be
full of criminals and deadbeats. Besides, he wasn’t quite sure how
to pronounce the name. How would he request a ticket without
sounding like a fool?

Since he believed that Rio de Janeiro was a haven for escaped
convicts he continued to read the names of places and decided
against them for one reason or another. In Colombia, there was too
much dope and crack. The place was likely to be infested with
hallucinating drug addicts. Peru was too backwards. Hadn’t he seen
a show on television in which half-naked natives walked about
carrying laundry baskets on their heads? As for Bolivia, he didn’t
know exactly, but he was sure that there was something wrong with
it.

Something clicked. He did know about Bolivia. Someone he had
known went there once. Murphy was now next in line; time was
running out. He tried desperately to remember who had gone to

Bolivia. Damn! Forget who, had they at least liked it? He wasn’t

40

sure. He couldn’t remember anything and the red airport carpet
offered no clues. He stared intently at the woman in front of him.
She wore a red dress with a low cut back. Backwards, thought
Murphy. She gathered her tickets off the counter and turned to leave.
Who the hell went to Bolivia?

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid!

Murphy remembered now, two outlaws from a movie he had seen
years ago. Butch and Sundance left the United States and went to
Bolivia to escape relentless bounty hunters. Murphy stepped up to
the counter and said, “A one way ticket to Bolivia please.” He had
always liked Butch and Sundance; except for the end, it was one of
his favorite movies.

“Excuse me, sir, Bolivia is a country, did you have a particular
city in mind?”

“Oh,” Murphy glanced again at the list quickly as if he were
cheating on a test and didn’t want to get caught stealing answers;
then said, “I’m sorry, Trinidad. I’d like a one way ticket to Trinidad,
Bolivia please.” Murphy felt good about his decision because
Trinidad somehow sounded Irish to him. The ticket lady handled the
paperwork quickly and efficiently. He noticed that her hands were
well kept and rather pretty; she handled the papers as if she were a
dealer in Vegas. How much money had he blown in Vegas? He wasn’t

really sure, but the way he figured it--if you kept track of all the

41

money he had ever won or lost in his entire life, he at least broke
even; probably came out a little ahead. Things have a way of evening
out over time. Luck goes in streaks and it never stays the same.
Money, thought Murphy, was a lot like love, you only missed it if you
lost it.

She was beautiful (at least she was the type that appealed to
Murphy), young looking with long, full hair that came down to her
shoulders; red highlights mixed with brown like leaves in autumn.
He liked the way her hair framed her delicate face. Above her high
cheekbones, she had blue eyes which were bright and lively.

She looked up, caught Murphy’s stare and said, “Sir, I’m afraid
that the best way to route a Trinidad trip would be to detour through
Brazil near the Amazon and take a land route from there.”

“There’s no direct flight?” he asked.

“No, I’m sorry....”

“Well,” he said, thinking of Amazonian natives with bad
attitudes, the jungle, mosquitoes the size of birds and rain. Shaking
his head no, he looked into her eyes. “That sounds great, Miss. I’ve
heard a lot of good things about the Amazon.”

Smiling at Murphy’s agreeable nature she finished the
transaction and collected the money from him (in a manner quite
similar to Vegas). When she pushed the ticket to him, Murphy’s hand

touched hers lightly. He looked up, saw she was looking right back

42

into his eyes, smiling; he felt hot, embarrassed, foolish and young.
What would his wife, Ellen have thought if she had been there to see
him? “Thank you,” he said as he blushed.
“Thank you, sir,” she replied, “and I hope you have a nice trip.”
“I’m sure I will,” he said as he looked at her one last time,
trying to focus on her beauty so that he would not forget. As he did

this, he straightened his tie and let out an old man’s cough.

Airplanes scared the hell out of Murphy; he believed that they
were no better than “flying coffins.” If something went wrong,
what were the possibilities? Ultimately a plane would fall to earth,
crash and then burn. His wife, Ellen had argued with him for years
regarding “his stupidity.” “Honestly, William,” she would say,
“everyone knows that it’s more dangerous to drive your car than it is
to fly nowadays.” They had argued back and forth for years and
Murphy’s favorite rebuttal was to read the death count from the
newspaper to Ellen whenever a major plane crash occurred. As a
result they had always driven even if it was simply because “my
husband’s a senile son-of-a-bitch who likes to spend his life driving

around lost on vacations.”

Murphy boarded the plane that would take him to Brazil. So far

only half the seats had been claimed. This was good since Murphy

43

didn’t want to sit next to an undesirable and empty seats improved
his chances. Perhaps he’d even get lucky and get one of the
neighborless window seats. He looked at his ticket, but couldn’t see
the seat number without his glasses. “Damn,” he said softly,
squinting. Giving up, he handed his ticket to a stewardess. She led
him toward the back of the plane. Murphy followed her, looking
anxiously about, hoping that he wouldn’t get stuck with anyone
strange. With regret, he passed an attractive blond seated on the
left. Why couldn’t he be forced to sit next to her? He’d even let her
have the damn window seat. He removed his hat and ran his wrinkled
hand through his short, gray hair. Finally, the stewardess stopped
and said, “This is your seat right here, sir.”

Murphy saw that the window seat was already occupied by a
Latin-American man. He was small boned with a little head; his hair
was very short and curly. Despite his stature, the man seemed
somehow rugged. He wore a slightly wrinkled, tan safari shirt with
khaki pants; appeared well suited to what Murphy had imagined South
America to be like. Murphy thought that he would have at least
preferred the window seat.

He stood silently for a moment considering his bad luck in
getting stuck with the seat. In slow motion, Murphy put his black
leather suitcase overhead in storage and placed his hat on top of it.

Sitting stiffly, he stared forward.

44

He watched the other passengers settle in around him, keeping
careful inventory of the window seats; hoping that one would go
unclaimed allowing him to move. However, the surrounding seats
were filling up with foreign looking people. Murphy felt strange and
overdressed in comparison. He was wearing his favorite suit, the
dark one and resembled neither vacationer or native. Despite the
undesirable conditions about him--the seating arrangement and the
strange passengers--his mood lightened and he began to feel the
freedom of travel. He, Murphy was on his way to Bolivia!

He considered it to be the beginning of perhaps the boldest
adventure of his life. He was about to fly to a place where he had
never been. His mood was almost festive as he considered the
different world he was about to enter. He didn’t know exactly what
their traditions and customs would be, he just had a vague idea that
they would be much different than he had grown accustomed to in
the United States. What the hell! The specifics couldn’t be very
important could they? Whatever had been in Bolivia had been good
enough for Butch and Sundance.

For some reason though, his goodwill and open mind did not
extend to his neighbor. Instead of asking questions about South
America, Murphy continued to sit quietly and watch the other
passengers.

He heard coughing and noticed that there was an old lady seated

45

four rows ahead. She coughed again and again, then cleared her
throat loudly. It sounded to Murphy like she was dying. He wondered
why she was on this flight instead of going to Miami. Suddenly a
horrible thought occurred to him: What if Bolivia was the South
American version of Florida? Nervously, he checked out the other
passengers and guessed their ages. To his relief, he and the coughing
woman were probably among the oldest of the few gray haired people
aboard.

The seat belt sign lit up and the captain announced in a
monotone, “Ladies and gentleman, this is your captain speaking. We
are now preparing for take off, we ask you to please not smoke
during the flight...” Murphy saw the old lady with the cough take out
a cigarette and light it. He tried to look out the window and see the
ground in Detroit one last time. However, the little safari man was
in the way; he could see hardly anything.

The plane taxied down the runway and Murphy wondered why the
hell he was going to South America. Bolivia! Bolivia? What the hell
did he know about Bolivia? As the plane lifted off, his stomach
rolled over and he considered all the things that he should have
thought about before getting on the plane; even before buying his
ticket. He was foreign and would not understand the native language.
He didn’t know anybody there. No relatives. No friends. He had no

reservations, no plan; no idea what to expect once the plane landed.

46

They approached flying altitude and Murphy’s mind raced. He
wasn’t exactly sure why he was on the plane, he just knew that he
was and there would be no turning back. Bolivia? Damn! Sure, it had
been good enough for Butch and Sundance, but they were probably
better looking and definitely younger.

Feeling gray and somewhat senile, he looked around at the other
passengers and reaffirmed that besides the old lady who chain
smoked while she waited at death’s door, he was probably the oldest
damn fool on the plane. Looking at the other passengers, he realized
that despite his attempts to escape loneliness, he was still William
Murphy and he was still alone. The only difference, the only change
that he could see, was that instead of being home in Detroit, he
would be in Brazil.

Murphy’s thoughts drifted back to the beautiful ticket lady. He
closed his eyes tightly, trying to remember her. At first he couldn’t
get a picture of her at all; then he thought of just her blue eyes.
They were young eyes, somehow deep and when she looked at you,
you knew that she was looking at you. Gradually he pieced her
together in his mind. He saw her auburn hair, chiseled cheekbones
and smile. He remembered everything except for her voice. What had
she said to him as he was leaving the airline counter? He
concentrated. Have a nice day? No.... “I hope you have a nice trip.”

He smiled at the memory and because he was able to remember. He

47

began to feel better about the trip again, maybe he would have a nice
one.

Someone was watching him. The smile left his face and he
opened his eyes cautiously. It was his neighbor who had taken his
window seat. For a second, their eyes met, but both men quickly
averted their attention. What luck! Murphy felt it was the story of
his life. If there was a slow line at the bank, he would pick it. If he
washed his car, it would rain; if there was a nut on the plane, he
would end up sitting next to him. The man looked back out the
window and Murphy fonrvard.

A few minutes later the man leaned toward Murphy, touched his
sleeve and asked, “Excuse me, you seem to be an American, is this
rig ht?”

Startled, Murphy replied, “That’s right.”

“And what do you do? Your job, I mean.”

“I’m retired,” said Murphy.

An awkward silence lagged on until the man realized that
Murphy was through speaking. “How long have you been retired sir?”

“A few years now,” said Murphy.

“And what did you do before?”

“I sold insurance,” replied Murphy.

“Insurance! What kind?” asked the man.

“All kinds, life, home, fire, automobile....All kinds,” said Murphy.

48

“You?”

The man smiled brightly, “I’m a zoologist. I’ve just come to
Detroit from Chicago. The zoos contract me to supply and advise
them with certain animals. Are you from Detroit, sir?”

“A little town just outside the city.”

“Ah Detroit!” said the man. “Your zoo in Detroit is very strange.
They wanted me to capture a Black Mamba, the most deadly snake on
the earth. Can you imagine such a thing? Such disregard! l, of
course, had to turn them down, there is no sum of money that would
be worth the risk.”

Murphy began to chuckle, not only was the man a nut, he was a
melodramatic nut. The chuckle became a laugh, he tried to speak,
choked, and just continued laughing.

“What is it that you find so funny? Certainly you are not
laughing because I would not risk my life by chasing after death.
Think of it in terms of insurance....lt is a high risk. Chances of death
are great when attempting to capture the Black Mamba.”

“High risk, eh?” Murphy laughed even harder. His eyes watered
and tears blurred his vision. It was obscene. He was retired. He
was a thousand feet in the air. He would soon be in a different
continent and still the jargon of his former occupation haunted him.
When he calmed down, he continued, “No, I suppose I can’t fault you

for not wanting to catch that by the tail.” Murphy imagined the man

49

chasing a large snake with a small butterfly net through the jungle.

“Perhaps you do not understand. The Black Mamba is no laughing
matter; death is no laughing matter. Even the most skilled snake
handler will have his luck run out if he toys with the Black Mamba.”

Murphy was confused, wasn’t the cobra supposed to be the most
dangerous snake of all? On television he had seen a guy with a towel
on his head sitting cross legged in front of a basket playing a flute.
The snake charmer, unafraid of the cobra as it twisted and swayed
up from the basket towards him, had even kissed the snake before
pushing it back down into the basket and covering it with the wicker
lid. Maybe this man wasn’t really a zoologist. Any zoologist worth a
damn wouldn’t be afraid of a snake. Yes, this man was either a nut
or having a joke with him.

Murphy said, “You know, I’ve seen cobras and pythons at the zoo
and as far as I know, they haven’t killed many of the paying
customers....Aren’t they the most dangerous snakes?”

The man blew out his breath with disgust and lowered his head
to his hands. He then slowly shook his head and watched Murphy
carefully as he spoke, “The three deadliest snakes in the world rank
in this order: The Black Mamba, The Black Mamba and The Black
Mamba. It is not the cobra or the python that I am speaking of.
Although I wish I were, they are child’s play compared to the Black

Mamba. I have been around animals my entire life and I’ve never seen

50

anything like it. The only thing that I can think to compare it to is
the reputation of the shark. Why is it easy for people to believe that
the shark is a dangerous killer? When really, sharks are generally
harmless to man. Perhaps it is not so much the shark, but rather the
water which stirs our fear. The ocean is large and mysterious. Since
it is dark and unknown, it allows our imaginations to play upon our
fear of the sharks. Well, those that know the jungle understand that
it is no different.

“The Black Mamba is the most dangerous of the reptiles, perhaps
of all animals. It is the only snake that will go out of its way to kill
a man. A cobra will strike a man if he gets too close or provokes it,
as is the case with most other snakes. No one is sure exactly what
provokes them, or how they choose their victims. But, once they do,
the Black Mamba is not likely to rest until it kills them.”

Murphy was not laughing anymore. He was feeling old, lonely and
stupid as hell. Why was he in an airplane flying to South America?
Of all the places in the world, why South America? It had been a
whim, a decision based on a movie; a decision based on Butch and
Sundance. What an ass! Murphy was mad at himself for being there.
Flying made it worse. In a plane, there was no turning back. He
began to feel claustrophobic. He was trapped. He began to feel like
he did on Easter Sunday when the church was over filled and the hot,

stale air smelled of thick incense. At least there he could walk out

51

to his car, even though it was trapped in the parking lot, he could sit
with the window rolled down and breath the cool spring air. He
pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed his face. “Why the hell am I on
this plane?” mumbled Murphy.

The man laughed gently, “You needn't worry, the snake is
common only to the densest parts of the Amazon. Perhaps the only
thing that the Black Mamba hates more than man is man’s
technologY; they avoid the cities.”

“They avoid the cities, but some damn fool was going to pay you
to go out and catch one and bring it to the zoo? From what you've
said, the creature has a piss poor disposition that a cage wouldn’t
improve upon. Why would anyone want one?” asked Murphy.

“For the same reasons we build huge roller coasters, watch
horror films and perhaps bring any animal to the circus or zoo,”
sighed the man. “We are willing to pay for excitement. As I get
older, I realize more and more that everything’s value can be
translated to dollars. There are men who value dollars more than
life. They think nothing of challenging the laws of nature. They
disregard all common sense as long as it is profitable. They chop
down tree after tree, build building on top of building and when
they’ve destroyed nature for the animals, they realize that there’s
money to be made by building zoos to keep them in. I became a

zoologist because I loved animals and believed that it would be a

52

way to work with them and help. What better way to spend my life?
Rather than working in an office and wearing a suit, I could earn a
living doing something that really mattered to me; something that
made me happy. Money! It figures into everything we do. Am I really
any better than they are? I sit here and complain to you about the
way animals are mistreated and made miserable, yet when I see an
elephant chained to the walls of a room that’s too small, what part
did I play in getting him there?”

As the man spoke, Murphy considered the insurance business and
how he had decided to become an insurance man. When he and Ellen
had first gotten married, he had been a butcher at Krogers and had
made decent money. But, when they had three kids and a fourth on
the way, he had worried about security. What about the future?
Even though the money was good, the job security seemed low.
Looking around, he had realized that there were not a lot of old
timers at the store. For some reason, it was not the kind of job that
allowed for growing old and retiring. By asking the right people the
right questions, he had eventually discovered that Krogers forced
early retirement and reduced benefits on its workers in order to hire
a cheaper labor force.

Forced to make a decision, Murphy had eventually settled on the
idea of selling insurance for a living. At first it would be risky, it

was always hard to get started and establish a clientele, but through

53

honesty and hard work he had pulled it off. He became an active
member of the church. He went to mass with his family every
Sunday. He volunteered to work the parish luncheons with the help
of his wife and kids afterwards. Volunteering became a big part of
his life and he was regularly seen at community sporting events,
fund raisers and the like doing whatever he could to help out. As a
result, he established contacts and developed a broadening base of
insurance sales within the community. The whole thing had taught
him a great deal about public relations, reputation, sales and the
reality of earning a living. The reward was a comfortable, although
not extravagant lifestyle. The price was long hours and the
awkwardness of forced smiles, handshakes and friendships with the
thought of a sale always nagging at him; forcing him on.

“For too long now,” continued the man, “men have denied
responsibility and consequence. There are some things that can not
be denied. I would say to you that the Black Mamba is one of those
things. It is the deadliest of snakes and should be treated with
respect, not sold to the highest bidder.”

Murphy could no longer recall what he had considered funny
about the Black Mamba earlier. Thinking about what had just been
said, he closed his eyes and saw a very young and beautiful woman.
She had reddish hair that came down to her shoulders and framed her

delicate face. Above her chiseled cheekbones were deep blue eyes

54

which were bright and lively; they would flash just before she
smiled, giving her mock-anger away. It was that ability, being able
to smile through her anger that had first attracted Murphy to Ellen.
Perhaps for the first week or so after meeting one another they had
been polite, but after that they had always been willing to voice
their disagreement. It seemed like they would argue about nearly
everything, the trivial--that black was white practically, whether
planes were safer than cars and an unlimited number of life’s other
oddities.

Perhaps it was because of this that their marriage had been so
good. They had been able to get through the weeks with a sense of
challenging adventure. Their debates evoked the spark of Lincoln-
Douglas and allowed them to avoid becoming dragged down by the
mundane. They were usually able to twist the kaleidoscope,
transforming the world about them by playing devil’s advocate and
seeing something new.

Murphy felt a hand on his shoulder; he slowly opened his eyes,
recalled where he was and wondered if he had been sleeping for long.
It was the man. “I’ll show you exactly what I mean about denying
responsibility,” he said as he pulled a folded newspaper from his
side. He refolded the paper so it framed one particular article;

handed it to Murphy. “This was in this morning’s paper,” he said.

55

Chimp Drowns After Leaping Into Moat

BY THERESA THOMAS

Free Fall Staff Writer

The Detroit Zoo's 7.5 million dollar outdoor
habitat, which opened last week, led to the
death of a female chimpanzee around noon on
Sunday. Dozens of visitors watched while the
chimp jumped into the moat surrounding the
Chimps of Harambee exhibit.

Zoo Director, Steve Graham, helped a
zookeeper retrieve the chimp from the moat and
administer cardiopulmonary and mouth-to-
mouth resuscitation. The chimp, who had been
at the bottom of the moat for about five minutes,

did not survive.

After twenty minutes of resuscitation
attempts. they took the chimp away in a golf
cart.

Workers at the zoo believe the chimp saw
something familiar in the crowd, like an ice
cream cone or face, that would make her want
to cross the moat. Chimps normally avoid the
water. They cannot swim because they have
too little body fat to float.

A speculation of why this chimp was not
fearful of water is that she was handled
extensively and bathed when she was young.
Thus, she would not have the instinct to avoid

the water.

“This is horrible!” said Murphy.

“It is very sad,” agreed the man.

Graham said experts throughout the world
were consulted regarding the design of the
exhibition and the moat included a barrier which
was supposed to prevent chimps from wading
into the water, which is five feet at its deepest

pout. .
“Workers at the zoo
believe the chimp saw
something familiar in the
crowd, like an ice cream
cone or face that would
make her want to cross
the moat.”

According to Graham, most chimps are no
taller than four feet.

While the death of the 25,000 dollar chimp
was rare, similar chimp drownings have
occurred at other zoos with moat bordered
exhibits. A zoo in the Netherlands has lost four
chimps to drowning.

Zoo policy calls for no rescue action if a
chimp begins to drown in the moat. Chimps are
extremely dangerous, and one in panic is likely
to attack a person, Graham said.

“While I was there regarding

the Black Mamba, they mentioned that they would like me to look

into obtaining another chimp to replace her. No safeguards will be

implemented to prevent future drownings. Instead, they simply

order another to take her place and if necessary, perhaps later on

another.”

“If most chimps are under four feet tall, why was the moat five

feet deep?” asked Murphy.

56

“As the article said, the moat is meant to be a deterrent
because chimps are afraid of water. However, in my opinion the
moat is just as much death trap as deterrent. In other words, if a
chimp does try to cross the moat, the zoo wants to be sure that
there is no chance it will survive."

“Wouldn't it be better to let the chimp make it across, then
recapture it?"

“It all breaks down to a matter of risk and probability, but most
importantly, the decision is economic. A chimp costs approximately
25,000 dollars. Insurance coverage protecting against liability in
case a chimp escaped would be much more than that over the years,”
said the man.

“Would a chimp that got loose be dangerous to people in the
zoo?” asked Murphy.

“No, probably not. Anything is possible of course, but it seems
unlikely that a chimp would attack anyone or do anything malicious.
But, as you know, insurance is based on the one percent chance of
tragedy. The administration just feels that it’s better to play it
safe.”

“It seems strange that they would even consider putting a Black
Mamba on display,” said Murphy.

“Yes!” replied the man. “It is just another contradiction. Safety

is not the primary issue. A dangerous snake such as the Black Mamba

57

has the potential of becoming a star attraction. It is no different
than Hollywood. A celebrity name insures success at the box office.
It is a concern for marketing, not nature. Grabbing headlines,
getting exposure and generating revenue are the goals of the zoo.
They didn’t spend 7.5 million on a chimp exhibit out of concern for
the comfort and well being of the animals. Their motivation was
profit. The zoo and its administrators portray themselves as being
‘zoo people’ and while some of them are, the fact remains that it is
a job for them; a source of money and security. They need to portray
an image to the public and the government which makes them popular
and guarantees funding to maintain their programs and salaries. It
is like everything else a business.”

A voice announced that they would be landing in approximately
half an hour. As he removed and cleaned his glasses, Murphy spoke,
“We land in half an hour eh? I suppose it’ll be good to stand on firm
ground again, even if I don’t know where the hell I’m going.”

“You don’t know your destination?” laughed the man.

“All I know is the name: Trinidad, Bolivia.”

“Bolivia from Brazil?”

“Yes,” said Murphy.

“I also,” said the man. “Perhaps we could go together, Mr.
ahhhun”

“The name is Murphy.”

58

“And I am Tassos,” he said. “It is my pleasure to meet you.” As
Tassos said this, he tilted his head to one side, smiled broadly and
extended his hand. “Shall we travel together, Mr. Murphy?”

Oddly enough, Murphy smiled and replied, “Sure, I would like

that.”

The green was everywhere. It was as if some child had spilled
his jar of paint in art class. The sun was barely visible through the
canopy of leaves and vines. Even though it was noon, it looked and
felt more like dusk; the jeep’s headlights were on. “This is much
different than your expressways in Detroit, is it not?” asked Tassos.

“It’s a different kind of jungle,” said Murphy laughing. There
was silence for a few moments until Murphy said, “I don’t know
what’s worse, your Black Mamba or the number of places that he
could be hiding.” Tassos replied with a small grin which quickly
vanished. For some reason, Murphy was reminded of the trips that he
had taken with Ellen to the Appalachian mountains. Occasionally the
road led into tunnels, burrowing right into the mountain side. The
jungle offered a similar feeling of enclosure.

Murphy glanced at Tassos. In the plane he had seemed little.
Now, he seemed larger and Murphy considered how comfortable and

at home Tassos appeared. Overhead several colorful birds noisily

59

took flight, wings flapping; squawking. Yes, he thought, Tassos
belonged here; in the middle of nature, he was at home. Considering
his own black suit coat and tie, he eyed Tassos’ khakis. Perhaps he
would do some shopping when they reached Trinidad. This wasn’t
Florida! Not a place for the old and shuffling. Murphy felt like Ponce
de Leon searching for the fountain of youth. This was a place for
adventure and travel; a place for jeeps. Murphy was glad that he had
acquiesced back at the car rental. Originally he wanted an
Oldsmobile with air conditioning. Tassos had fortunately pointed
out the advantages of the four wheel drive jeep with its top down.
Among other things it was better equipped for the jungle terrain.
Removing his gray hat, Murphy ran his hand over his short hair and
felt the breeze on his head.

Tassos began to whistle, stopped and then asked, “Tell me, Mr.
Murphy, how does it feel to see nature on her own terms?”

“Damn Straight!” said Murphy. “It feels right.”

“It’s much different than the zoo, is it not?”

Murphy nodded his head and bounced his dark old man’s hat on his
knee. “Yes, seeing everything like this firsthand--the trees, the
greenery, the birds, makes the zoo seem somewhat useless and
foolish.” The sound of the jeep’s engine and the rolling tires on the
pavement blended with the different noises of the insects and birds.

Murphy had always liked driving, especially on an empty country road

60

with Ellen. The jungle seemed to offer a similar, but somehow
intensified; purer sense of peace and introspection.

Tassos spoke, “When I was younger, I planned on one day making
zoos which would allow people to feel as if they were here, as we
are now, even though they were in New York, Chicago, Boston or
Detroit. I wanted to create an escape from the city and at the same
time preserve nature. Even though it's my job, I realize now that
there are some things which can not be duplicated and controlled.
For some reason there is a gap between nature and man that is too
wide to cross.”

Gradually, the canopy of green overhead became more and more
sparse, the sun began to shine through and warmed them. Murphy
loosened his tie and unbuttoned his top button. He said, “Seems to
be getting warmer.”

Tassos nodded and said, Yes, we’ll reach the city soon, it’s
always much warmer there with the direct sunlight.”

They reached a flat clearing and Murphy could see the city
vaguely in the distance. What was it that Tassos had said earlier
about the Black Mamba? They avoid the cities. This thought was
comforting to Murphy. For some reason, his thoughts turned once
again to the beautiful woman. He closed his eyes, trying to
remember her. He recalled her brownish, red hair, blue eyes and her

voice. And he heard her say once again, “My husband’s a senile son of

61

a bitch who likes to spend his life driving around lost on vacations.”
Murphy smiled. Had he ever before been more lost?

Sensing that something was wrong, Murphy opened his eyes and
was reminded of a childhood image. When he was a youngster, he had
often spent part of the summer at his cousin’s house in the country.
He remembered being in the fields and watching a cloud’s shadow
creep across the ground like a dark wave as the sun passed behind.
He thought of the dark, rolling shadows of his childhood as the grass
ahead, to the left of the road swayed, parted and turned black. Was
it just a trick of the shadows? A tree branch? A mirage? As the
tunnel-like shadow reached the edge of the overgrowth and spilled
out onto the road, he was certain that it wasn’t a mirage or even a
shadow. Something was coming. Elusively slithering. Undeniable.
He turned toward Tassos who was within spitting distance and
screamed, “Look out, Tassos! It’s the Black Mamba there!”

Eyes wide, Tassos looked to where Murphy was pointing and saw
the snake. A good four feet long, black and as thick as his arm, it
writhed on the border between the road and the grass. Panicking,
Tassos pumped the brakes of the jeep and they fish-tailed to a stop,
kicking up clouds of dust and loose gravel.

Why was the damn fool stopping? If anything, Murphy had
wanted him to accelerate. The safety of the city was only a few

minutes off and the Black Mamba wasn’t going to catch a jeep

62

moving at sixty-five-plus miles an hour. As soon as the jeep spun
crazily to a stop, Murphy jumped out with his fists clenched and an
insane scowl which meant business. Quickly, he scrambled over to
the ditch and picked up a rock about the size of a child’s head.

Tassos had realized that it was not a Black Mamba at about the
same time they had stopped. If Murphy hadn’t shouted with such
fear, Tassos doubted that he would have stopped at all. He was
already near where the snake was swaying weakly when Murphy
came running up with the rock yelling, “Get the hell back!”

“It’s already dying and it’s a harmless snake, Mr. Murphy!”
Together they walked the short distance to where the snake
was. There was a disgusting trail of fluid leading from the road to
the underbrush. “It looks as if he’d been hit by a car earlier today
and our sound must have startled him,” said Tassos. “I think you
have the right idea to put him out of his misery with that rock of

yours.”

Hesitating awkwardly, Murphy stepped forward.

“Would you like me to do it?” asked Tassos.

The snake was lying flat once again, hardly moving. “No,” said
Murphy. He brought the rock down on the snake’s head solidly and he
could hear and feel the crush of its skull beneath the weight. The
tail end of the snake, flicked wildly, struck Murphy’s leg, then

dropped. Murphy spun around.

63

“Just a reflex,” said Tassos.

“Oh,” said Murphy. Ellen would have loved it. In rebuttal to his
reading the airline casualty numbers from the newspaper, she was
fond of mentioning highway death tolls, especially during the peak
season of the holidays. And even during their peaceful country
drives she had found evidence illustrating the danger of automobiles
in the form of various road kill. “A plane doesn’t leave so many
little creatures scattered about with their bones crushed,” she
would joke.

“How do you know?” he would reply. “I’ll bet planes grind up
lots of birds and they turn ‘em into down pillows.”

He missed their arguments, he missed their drives, he missed
going to bed and waking up together. He missed everything about
her, even if he could watch the ball game whenever he wanted to on
television now. He had worked his whole life and saved up for
retirement. As they both promised, they had raised a family, grown
old together and had few regrets. The only problem was that after
she was gone, he had continued to grow old, alone. It just wasn’t
fair, damn it. He was supposed to retire and they’d finally enjoy
traveling and free time together. They were supposed to drive
across the United States and see the things they hadn’t when the
kids tied them down. Hell, he would even be willing to fly. He’d do

whatever she wanted as long as he didn’t have to do it alone.

64

Murphy liked being in the city with Tassos. At least the hotel
margaritas were damn straight if nothing else. And it did Murphy
good to be in the strange city with his friend. Everything seemed
new, and with the right precautions, a glass of water in a restaurant
in Bolivia was like a glass of water anywhere else in the world.
After spending two weeks with Tassos and having the most fun he’d
had in a while, Murphy considered staying longer. But, like Ponce de
Leon, Murphy had not found the fountain of youth. The margaritas and

even the muchachas were excellent. However, he was still old.

' Murphy sat on the plane in silence. He was leaving Bolivia and
was lucky enough to get the window seat this time. He looked out
the window at the darkness and grimly realized that he couldn’t see
anything. In the evening, the window acted more like a mirror.
Murphy bent closer to the window, squinting. It didn’t help. All he
could see was his own shadowy reflection looking eerily back at him.
He thought of the chimp that had drowned at the zoo. The article
made no mention of whether or not she had a mate. He wondered if
chimps were monogamous....His thoughts drifted and he considered
how foolish he had been to travel on a whim to South America. In an
airplane no less! Of course, if he hadn’t, he would have never met

Tassos. Sometimes things in life were funny that way; they had a

65

way of working out. Just when things were going bad and you’re
stuck with thirteen at the black jack table, you get lucky and your
next card turns up eight.

After all, he thought as he turned back to the window and saw
his weather-beaten, but smiling reflection: He was succeeding
where Butch and Sundance had failed. He was wearing khakis and he

was going home.

66

DESECRATION

Sister Gloria Shepard was old enough to be retired. However,
she took her marriage vows to Christ quite seriously and remained
active within the church. Despite her age and failing health, she
attended mass every Sunday morning at eight o'clock and taught
Sunday school to the third graders afterwards at nine fifteen.
Teaching young children ”The Way” was the thing in Sister Gloria’s
life that gave her the most satisfaction. What could be more
important than teaching children the message of virtue, love and
piety? f

Today would be special because she would teach them of the

”Golden Rule.” To Sister Gloria it was Christianity in a nutshell, ”Do

67

unto others as you would have them do unto you.” As usual she woke
up early, six thirty to be exact. After the ritual of showering and
dressing came the tradition of Sunday breakfast. It was a tradition
that remained from childhood with her father: well done bacon, two
fried eggs and one slice of toast. Leaving the dishes to dry she would
then walk reflectively to the parish cemetery which was less than a
block away.

During her walk, she would often consider her life and how she
had lived. In the past week had she been kind enough? Had she been
unjustly angry? Did she have any regrets? What could she have done
to improve upon things? She was generally convinced at the end of
these inventories that she was more good than evil. And with a few

adjustments, next week she would be even better.

The smooth rosary cross was plain and as she rubbed it with her
wrinkled fingers she considered the crucifixes of her childhood. Her
father had hung them all about the house. Each with the suffering
figure of Christ. There had even been one in Gloria's room and she
had hated it. She would lay awake at night, terrified by the way it
had seemingly transformed. Looking above her bed, she would see
Christ hanging there splashed with the moonlight; casting shadows.
The darkness caused his face to appear distorted and evil. No longer

a suffering savior, he was a scowling psychopath. Waiting for her to

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fall asleep. Or just close her eyes. Even looking away would be
enough. She imagined him ripping his hands free from the nails. She
listened for the tearing of skin and the crunching of small bones.
Once free he would spring down upon her, leaving smears of blood;
with revenge on his mind. After all, he had been killed to pay for her
sins, hadn't he?

Sister Gloria could still recall her father's voice. "Gloria,” he
had called. ”Gloria! I want you to take this to the rectory and give it
to Father Byrne.” Gloria, a fourth grader at Divine Savior elementary
school, was used to her father's requests. He was very active in the
church and would often ask her to deliver messages. He was driven
by a sense of religious obligation that the seminary had instilled in
him. Although he had never entered the priesthood, he still enjoyed
considering how different life would be if he had.

“Hurry up about it,“ he said. ”It's something quite serious, young
lady.”

Startled by her father's urgency, Gloria grabbed her jacket and
rushed out the front door. She held the envelope up to the sky, trying
to read the note. She squinted her eyes but could not make out the
words. Her father stuck his head out the door and shouted. ”Hurry!
It's very important that you don't waste time.” His voice had a way
of carrying. In fact, he was proud to be the only lector who didn't

use the microphone as he read at mass.

69

Looking back, Gloria saw her father's head sticking out from the
doorway. His mouth was open wide and his jabbering reminded her
of the parish fair. Once a year, the church parking lot was converted
into a small carnival. There were rides, a moonwalk, cotton candy,
popcorn and different games such as p0pping balloons with darts and
knocking milk bottles over with a small ball. Her father was a
regular in the dunk tank. He was good at catcalling and heckling
because of his voice. The line of people waiting for a chance to dunk
him was usually long and this made him feel important. ”Hurry up,”
he called. ”Hurry up!” As Gloria ran down the block, she thought she
still heard her father's voice carrying in the distance.

What was it all about? Her mother? It had seemed strange to
hear her mother's name mentioned in church. ”And let us pray for the
sick...." How many times had Gloria heard that before and not paid
attention? The phrase seemed so different when followed by her
mother's name. While she had been unable to respond, her father‘s
voice had been strong and comforted her, ”Lord her our prayer.” But
now, she was afraid. Was her mother getting worse?

Gloria approached the iron fence which surrounded the parish
house and stopped running. She leaned on the gate and looked through
the black evenly spaced bars. Still panting, she tried to catch her
breath. She noticed the way the fence separated the old house from

the rest of the town. The deep green grass was plush and carefully

70

cut. Old, but well kept, the house was white with tall pillars and a
large front porch. Lovely. Virtuous. Holy. She felt small as she
climbed the steps.

Once inside the house, Gloria was asked to wait for Father Byrne
in the narrow front hallway. A plain wooden cross was on the wall.
Gloria liked it because it looked like something she could have made
herself. Much nicer than her father's at home.

Father Byrne was an older priest. His skin was wrinkled and
looked wooden. Gloria always noticed his eyes which seemed too
small and sunk deep into his sockets. She thought that he resembled
a musical skeleton, his breath whistling from his nose. Since he had
been the priest when her grandfather and uncle had died, old father
Byrne represented death itself, dressed in dark vestments and
mumbling prayers in his monotone over the caskets.

Because of his dry nature, any attempt at humor usually went
over well during his homily. The slightest joke caused a wave of
laughter to roll through the church. Gloria had never understood the
jokes, but she would smile anyway.

Father Byrne reached for the envelope with an unsteady hand. ”I
just got off the phone with your father,” he said, using a long, bony
finger to tear the envelope open. ”He’s very upset and wanted me to
speak to you.”

Gloria's stomach jumped and she thought of her mother.

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"It seems that you’ve done something that is deeply troubling to
your father. To be honest, what you've done surprises me, Gloria, and
I'm afraid I can't understand it. Since I've known your family you've
always seemed like a nice, respectful girl. Would you care to
explain why you desecrated the Lord?"

Desecrated the Lord? What had she done? She was silent for a
long moment as the old priest stared at her. She didn’t know what to
answer. He leaned forward, rubbing his eye with his knuckle. The
silence was broken by the squishing noise his eye made. Finally, he
spoke. ”Please tell me why you vandalized the crucifix, Gloria.
Desecration of a religious symbol is a serious sin. Why did you do
it?”

The crucifix! Gloria felt sick like she did when she stood too
long in church and the air was too warm and stale. She saw little
black spots swimming and she became dizzy. Desecration?
Vandalism? Sin? She knew what Father Byrne was talking about,
but it didn’t make sense. What she had done didn’t seem wrong.

After looking at the scowling, sorrowful face of Christ above
her bed for so long she had finally grown tired of it. Determined to
make her nights more peaceful she had removed the crucifix from
the wall. She had noticed that Christ was fastened by only a single
brass screw and that's when she had gotten the idea. Using her

father's screwdriver, she had loosened, then removed the screw that

72

held Christ to the wooden cross. Not knowing what else to do with
his now free body, she had placed it in her underwear drawer. For
the first time, Christ looked jubilant. His arms were free and
stretched out, no longer pinned he resembled an acrobat or a dancer.
After covering him with her shroud-like panties she had returned the
cross to the wall. She thought it was much better, except for the

shadow of his body that the sun’s rays had failed to reach.

As Sister Gloria approached the parish cemetery, she
categorized this childhood memory as being one that she would
certainly like to change and improve upon. For some reason on this
cloudy, gray, chilly fall day her thoughts turned to the hereafter and
she was not afraid. She trusted that despite her mistakes when her
time came, the Good Lord would judge her fairly. She smiled at this
and the day didn't feel quite so gray and chilly. Her life seemed
justified.

The smile faded. What was hanging from the trees and fences
surrounding the cemetery? She quickened her step which regained
its almost forgotten purpose. However, when she realized that it
was toilet paper, she deflated. How could anyone think this was
funny? Where was their respect? Their discipline?

Sister was furious, she flung the gate open wide and it rattled

on rusty hinges. She walked slowly between the tombstones with

73

her hands on her hips. She squinted and it was as if she were back in
the classroom and one of the students had just thrown a paper wad.
And she was going to find out who.

The toilet paper blew in the wind almost happily. Streams rose,
fell and fluttered with the breeze. A harmless prank? She noticed
that a grave marker had been knocked down. As she got closer, she
saw beer cans, cigarette butts and on top of the marker were the
waxy remains of a candle. Had they come here to tell Halloween
stories? She tried to stand the marker back up, but couldn't. She
was too old and it was too heavy. She rubbed her scuffed palms on
her skirt.

At least she could take care of the toilet paper. She began to
pull it down from the bare trees and dropped it to the ground in
piles. As the piles got larger, she began to feel a little better.

However, when she came to Father Daniels’ shrine she shook her
head. It was almost completely covered with toilet paper. The
beautiful mums which she had recently planted around the building
were trampled. Dirt was stuck on the brick in grotesque splotches.
Father Daniels had been close to Sister Gloria and when he had died
two years ago, she had taken it badly.

The death of her friend had scared the hell out of her. A month
before he died he'd stopped by the convent early one evening for tea.

He had stood there at the door without a coat. “Come on,” he said.

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”It’s a beautiful spring evening and it’s warm. Let's take our tea with
us and go for a walk.“ He held out two styrofoam cups. As if she had
known what he wanted to talk about she had been hesitant at first,
but ended up acquiescing. They poured the tea in the cups and walked
together through the wet and warm spring weather. Dirty, shrinking
snow piles had been the only reminder of winter.

How many times before that walk had he told her of his doubts
and feelings of dissatisfaction? Too many restrictions. Too much
hypocrisy. How many nights had they argued about issues like birth
control and abortion? All these times she had defended the church's
conservative views and denied that he was ”simply being realistic.”

But, for some reason that spring evening was different. When he
had said, ”Sister, I’m in love with a woman.” She had not tried to
talk him out Of it. She had seen it coming and she believed that they
were right for each other. Miss Maly, the second grade teacher and
Father Daniels had become good friends and were spending a great
deal of time together. She saw their relationship as being full and
good for both of them. So it could happen as she had dreamed!

she told him that he would be a fool to deny his feelings. Why
should he remain a priest? There were other ways to serve the
church and that religion was sometimes best served by individuals
and families rather than figure heads and organizations. Certainly

the best way to serve God was to reach our full potential and serve

75

our fellow man. And if he remained within the priesthood he would
probably never reach his full potential. She had surprised even
herself by saying it. But in her heart, she knew she was right when
she told him: ”You are an excellent priest, but I know you will be a
better father and husband. And you will be happier.”

A month after they had walked together in the promising
weather of spring, Father Daniels had died. Was it some kind of
message? An omen? A warning? It couldn't be, not from her God.
Not from the God she had believed in and given her life to.

At the time, he had not yet announced a decision, but had hinted.
"Will we still be friends if I get married and decide to become a
Buddhist?"

”A Buddhist?” she had laughed.

”Sure," he had replied. I always thought Buddha was a happy go
lucky type and that sure seems better than the repent or burn in hell
stuff that I've surrounded myself with.”

As she removed the strands of toilet paper from the shrine she
noticed a peculiar odor. Sister realized that the smell was from
human desecration. She dropped the bundle up wad with instinctual
revulsion. An image of a laughing, crouched person surrounded by
others enraged her. How could they think something like this was
funny? Had they no respect?

Turning quickly away she stumbled and headed toward the gate.

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She gripped the black iron bar in her hand tightly, but did not pass
through. She stood there hesitating and finally in complete rage
briskly returned to the shrine and attacked the toilet paper with
renewed fervor. Her arm pumped up and down as she pulled the
strands down from the trees. It was as if she were tugging at an
emergency cable on a runaway train. Furiously, she pulled down. It
was almost eight o'clock. She would be late for mass for the first
time in nearly twenty years.

She arrived back at the convent feeling winded, old and beaten.
She went straight to the bathroom and turned the hot water on full
force and didn't seem to notice the cloud of steam or even feel any
pain from the scalding water. She was too busy scrubbing her hands
together furiously. Over and over she rubbed them. Lathering.
Rinsing. Burning. Finally, she stopped, but Sister Gloria like Lady
Macbeth was trying to wash something away that water alone could
not help. She heard the tolling of the church bells and stopped. In
the same frenzied manner, she cleaned her face and then left for
mass.

Once inside the church, she turned left out of habit. She reached
for the bowl of holy water, but suddenly withdrew her hand.
Clasping her hands tightly together in prayer she went to her usual
pew and kneeled. She stared at the large crucifix above the altar

with a look that was almost accusing.

77

While Father Lewis entered the church and proceeded toward the
altar, the congregation rose and sang the opening hymnal. Sister
Gloria did not rise or sing. She remained kneeling in a private
Gethsemane.

”Somebody's knockin' at your door.
Somebody's knockin' at your door.
Oh sinner why don't you answer?
Somebody’s knockin' at your door.
Knocks like Jesus,

somebody's knockin' at your door...."

Once again her thoughts turned to the day when she was a child
and her father sent her to Father Byrne. Had she really sinned? And
that day two years ago when Father Daniels had come to the convent
and she had given him her advice, was that too a sin? Was it a sin to
hope for a family that was filled with love rather than accusing fear
and obsessive authority? It was all she had ever wanted. She had
become a nun because she had once thought it possible to have a
positive impact through the power of the church. Now she wondered.

Who had desecrated the cemetery? At one time she would have
immediately assumed that it was someone from outside the church;
perhaps from the public high school. Someone without religion. She
looked at the parishioners scattered about the church. Half of them
were singing. It was possible, she thought, that the vandal was
somewhere among them.

As she stared at the life sized wooden crucifix which hung

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above the altar she considered the immense suffering of Christ.
Ridiculed, beaten, spit upon, hung up to die, had he ever considered
having a family and avoiding the pain of persecution? It was
probably sacrilege to have such thoughts, but she hoped that Jesus
had. It seemed human to have such thoughts and not to have them
seemed somewhat unbelievable. Spirituality was not just this
church with the crucifix, altar, stations of the cross, statues and
ceremonies was it? Increasingly she believed in religion outside the
organized church.

She would not admit it publicly, but she had said to Father
Daniels more than once that she had religious experiences in
listening to music, watching movies, plays and reading books. A
well crafted work of art had been able to move her in ways that a
homily never had. The feeling of satisfaction and insight to the
world given to her by turning the last page of a great novel was
something rarely met by the church. Was thinking this way a sin?

She was so caught up in her vigil that she hardly noticed that
communion had begun and the congregation was filing in solemn
lines toward the body and blood of Christ.

When the others in her pew walked to the front of the church,
she followed in a trance. Normally, she took the host in her hands
but today, she stuck out her tongue. She felt Father Lewis’ finger

brush her tongue and the host stuck on her dry lips.

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Sister Gloria Shepard walked slowly back to her pew and sat
down. Her head was bowed and her eyes closed. As she sat, the rest
of the parish, knelt, stood, mumbled some prayers and sang the
closing hymnal. She remained seated until the last note of the song
faded: "Yes they'll know that we are Christians by our love by our
love. Yes they'll know we are Christians by our love...." It was time
to teach the third graders about the ”Golden Rule.”

As the children began to arrive and take their assigned seats,
she sat with her hands clenched together on her desk in the prayer
position.

She sat this way until the clock read nine-twenty and she
thought all the children had arrived. Then she stood before the
children and looked at each of them in turn.

”Boys and girls, today I am going to talk about something that is
very important. In many ways it is the idea that Jesus came to
teach us. If you remember nothing else that l have told you in this
class, at least remember...."

The door opened and in came Albert. He closed the door with his
back to the class and tried not to make a sound. ”Albert! You are
late. Please be seated,” said Sister Gloria.

”Sorry,” said Albert.

”Jesus believed in and taught what is known as the 'Golden Rule.’

It was such an important idea that he was willing to suffer death by

80

crucifixion. He hoped that we would learn from his example and live
lives based on love not hate.“ It was then that Diane raised her hand.
“What is it Diane?”

”Sister, may I please be excused,” began the girl. "I have to go...."

“We just got started, Diane. I'm afraid you'll have to hold on.
The 'Golden Rule’ is quite important and we'll need most of the hour
to coverit”

Diane squirmed in her seat and began to protest, ”But..."

”No buts about it, young lady,” snapped Sister Gloria. "You'll just
have to learn a little discipline and wait until our usual break. You
see, children, when I tell you that today's lesson is very important, I
mean it. It sums up the Ten Commandments and what it means to be
a Christian. If you don't know the rule, there's not much chance that
you'll lead a good life and be judged worthy of an afterlife in
heaven..."

As she spoke, Sister noticed that Diane had once again raised
her hand. She decided to teach the girl patience by ignoring her.
Discipline and respect was exactly what kids need, she thought.
Pausing, she clasped her hands together then proceeded to speak.
However, before she said a word, she noticed that Diane was out of
her seat and edging quietly toward the door. Sister Gloria was
horrified! How could Diane misbehave so terribly? ”Diane!” she

screamed, ”Get back here and sit in your seat.”

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Diane quickly sat down. ”Diane,” asked Sister Gloria, ”do you
know what the 'Golden Rule' is?”

”No,” said Diane.

”Albert, do you know what the 'Golden Rule' is?” asked Sister.

”Is it that Jesus is Lord?” said Albert squinting.

She sat there for a moment trying to figure out who to ask next.
Finally, she broke the silence by asking nobody in particular, ”Don't
any of you children have any idea what the 'Golden Rule' is?”

It was little Billy Williams, the smallest kid in the class who
raised his hand and supplied the answer. ”I think I know, Sister
Gloria,” he said. ”The 'Golden Rule' says, 'An eye for an eye and a
tooth for a tooth.“

Sister Gloria's thoughts spun in circles. Is this really what they
thought? What could she say? How could she explain? ”Who thinks
that William's answer is right? Raise your hand.”

At first just a few hands went up, but gradually they kept
raising until almost the whole class had their hands raised. ”All
right,” said Sister. ”You may put your hands down.” In all her years
of teaching she had never gotten an answer like this. She wondered
bitterly if it was because she had never before asked the question.
Perhaps too often she had supplied all the answers for them and not
allowed them to think for themselves. She had filled their heads

with the terminology and ideals of religion, but had she really

82

connected? Had she made a difference to even one of them?

She stared at the cinder block walls of the class room,
searching for answers. The institutional clock, cursive alphabet,
card board cut outs of the presidents, American flag and crucifix all
remained silent. At least she thought, looking out the window, the
sun is coming out. A moving shadow upon the floor caught her
attention. It looked almost like the shadow of a tiny dancer, waving
back and forth. Mesmerized, she watched it.

It was the shadow from Diane’s raised hand as she waved it
desperately, trying to get Sister's attention, but too terrified to
speak. After a long moment, Sister finally noticed. She looked at
Diane thoughtfully.

”I think,” said Sister Gloria, ”that perhaps now would be a good
time to take a lavatory break. And when we get back, let's try
something new. We’ll resume our lesson by discussing your favorite
music, books and movies.” A surprised murmur erupted from the

class as they followed Sister Gloria out the door.

83

TANGLED STRINGS

The sun just seemed to be rising and once again I sat in the back
seat of our beat up Volare station wagon. As we drove along, I
thought about how much I hated garage sales and wished that my
father didn't have to work on Saturdays so often. ”I hope all the good
things aren't gone,” said mother. ”It’s getting a little late.” I looked
at my watch. It was nine o'clock in the morning. Mom and Bernie
were in the front seat and me in the back. It was a typical garage
sale Saturday.

”What was the address again Honey?" asked mother.

”What?” I asked.

”What's the address?” she looked in the rear view mirror.

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”What?” I said again.

”Steven, the address!”

”I think I forgot it.”

”Steven,” my mother said, ”do I have to inform your father of
your uncooperative behavior when we get home?”

Thinking of the tickets we had to next weekend’s Tiger-Yankee
game, I said, ”It's 312, it must be on the left side.” It seems
strange, but my mother often relied on me to give her directions. I
wasn’t quite old enough to drive, yet there I was directing her from
sale to sale. I guess it had something to do with the fact that
whenever my parents went anywhere together, dad would drive and
mom would be the passenger. It didn't matter if it was a long drive
like a family vacation or a trip to the store. It was just the way
things were.

And if I didn't blow it by next weekend, he would drive us out to
Tiger Stadium. I realized that the fact that mother despised
baseball complicated the whole matter. Since she wouldn't hesitate
to use the game as a way to punish me, I'd have to be on my best
behavior.

”This must be it right here,” said my mother, noticing the other
cars parked by the house, but not realizing that I had lied and said
the house was on the right hand side of the street. She stopped the

car and got out in a hurry. l slammed the door shut. Getting through

85

the day without getting the baseball game canceled was not going to
be easy.

”This is such a nice old house, I'm sure we’ll find some real
treasures,” said mother. Her voice lingered on the ”ures” sound and
her lips puckered.

”I hope we find something good,” said my little sister Bernie.

l lagged behind as Bernie and my mother walked up the driveway.
They eyed the few items that had been placed there to attract
attention. An old push mower, a rusty red wagon, a rubber chicken
and a coiled hose with different sprinkler attachments. The stuff
slowed their pace, but was not interesting enough to bring them to a
complete st0p.

An old lady hobbled slowly toward us from the back of the house.
”Why hello there,” she said.

”Hello!” answered my mother quickly and in a loud voice. ”This
certainly is a lovely home that you've got here. I'm surprised that
you haven’t got a bigger crowd yet.” Her voice was like a gameshow
announcer's, loud and too damn happy.

”Oh,” said the old lady, ”there's quite a few in the back, that's
where the good stuff is.”

”Well,” said mother. ”We better hurry on back then. Come on,
Bernie.”

It was quite a procession to the back yard. Mother pulling

86

Bernie, the old lady following, struggling to keep up; myself taking
slow, deliberate steps consciously maintaining my distance. I even
stopped and admired the rusty red wagon. It reminded me of the one
I had when I was a kid.

Bernie looked so damn smug walking beside my mother, it gave
me the urge to push her as hard as I could and make her fall to the
cement. The thought of her scraping her knee and crying had
overwhelming appeal.

As usual, my mother immediately began checking out the
furniture, quizzing the lady on various prices and pumping her for
seemingly trivial information. ”How old is this table? This is such
a lovely chair, why are you selling it? Are you firm on the price?
What a comfortable couch! But, of course the color is just dreadful.
It doesn't match anything I have. Although I suppose I could have it
reupholstered.” As she spoke, she ran her fingers along the cushions.
"Yes, I suppose if the price was right, I could have it covered.”
Stroking and patting, she checked for stains, tears in the fabric,
scratches and wobbles. She even discovered hidden damage beneath
cushions and arm covers.

Sometimes I wondered why mother went to garage sales. Was it
to buy things? Or was it simply an opportunity to compare other
people's belongings to her own? Maybe it was the hunt or the

negotiating. Whatever it was, after each garage sale, my mother

87

would have something to brag about. If she bought something, it
meant that her tough negotiating stance had been in top form.

She would get angry when father accused her of ”making up
another fish story” when she spoke about garage sales. And if father
questioned the value of the bargain (”What the hell kind-of basket is
worth $25?”), mother claimed that he just didn’t have it in him to
understand.

”Not all wives would try as hard as I do to save money,” she
would say. ”I just have a knack for finding good sales. It's a gift I
suppose. Not everyone would have the patience to find such a basket
and once I found it, how could I walk away without it?”

In the shadow of the garage was a big tan hound dog. He laid
there comfortably in a position that looked as if he'd been dropped
and just happened to sprawl the way he did. I knelt before him and
let him sniff my hand. Slowly he wagged his tail. From his grizzled
appearance I guessed that he was old and was probably as excited as
he got anymore. I petted him, scratched his wide head and smoothed
the fur on his back until his tail wagged just a little bit faster. I
rubbed just above his droopy ears and he yawned. When I stood up
and headed into the garage, he struggled to his feet and I saw that he
was missing a front paw.

His left leg was a good six inches shorter than the right and it

sloped to a stump where the paw should have been. As he hobbled

88

around it was obvious that he had grown accustomed to his handicap
and was able to get around rather well, considering.

Since I had always wanted a dog, seeing other people’s was
probably the one thing I enjoyed about these trips. Over the years I
had probably asked my parents a thousand times, ”Can I get a dog,
please?” lnvariably my mother would say, ”Now Steven, you know
that your father doesn't like dogs,” as my father shook his head or
rolled his eyes.

The old lady saw the dog following me into the garage and said,
”Lay down. Go on now.”

”What happened to his leg?” I asked.

The old lady said, ”He had a huntin' accident.”

Bernie stayed near my mom, trying to inherit the gift while I
wandered to the other side of the garage. A table covered with
miscellaneous odds and ends caught my attention. The first thing I
noticed was a stack of magazines. There was a lot of junky old ones
like Bannock. Wardens. W I shuffled
through them in the off chance that there was something good.
W W. Eield_and_Str.eam and
Elaybgy. Elaybgy? Why would this old woman have Elaybgy? The

magazines were old, but definitely worth looking into. I made sure
nobody was watching and began to flip through one. Some literature

is just timeless.

89

There I was, looking through the magazine feeling anxious and
nervous, wishing I had the luxury of privacy, but nonetheless getting
excited. And my mom, sister, the old lady and half a dozen other
people all within sight. It was worse than looking through one at the
book store.

The centerfold was a gorgeous brunette named Lisa. She was
35-22-34 and she ”loved to shop.” I studied her breasts and legs,
delighting in her fully exposed tan lines; then glanced at my mother
and sister. Somehow knowing that Lisa was a shopper ruined things.
She was no longer an escape from the garage sale, but rather a cruel
reminder. Beneath the surface, she probably looked just like my
mom.

I hadn't noticed that an older kid with a bad complexion, fuzzy
moustache and one arm in a sling had been looking over my shoulder.
”Open the centerfold,” he said loudly.

Quickly I opened it for him, placed it on the table and moved
away. It was only fifty cents, but still out of reach.

Nearby was a stack of books. Mostly beat up paperbacks. A lot
of them smelled musty as if they had been left in a basement for
years. I could tell that they weren't the old lady’s because they had
different names written on the covers where the price was. Mostly
it was harlequin romance type stuff. Thick books with worn out,

steamy covers. Most of them had a man and scantily clad woman in

90

some sort of titillating position. There sure was a lot of water,
islands, palm trees and wind.

There were also some books that had plain, new looking covers.
However, despite the appearance of the covers, the pages looked
aged. So, I figured that they must not have been read more than a
couple of times. I looked for a deal, but the only title I recognized
was HHQISIfibfimLflnn.

I was disappointed to see that there weren't any bibles--books
on baseball. I followed the Tigers religiously: collected baseball
cards, played in little league and I'd even bring my mitt to Tiger
Stadium in case a foul ball came. And when we went, Dad would buy
me a program so I could keep score. He wouldn't even get mad when I
got bored with it by the third inning and quit. Anyway, it must have
been my obsession with baseball that caused me to pick out the
novel, W. It was only twenty five cents and
seemed like a bargain so I picked it up.

I went and showed my mother my ”treasure.” ”Oh Steven, why
would you want to read that perverted thing? Wasn't there anything
a little more intellectually stimulating over there?”

”Nah,” I said. ”Just a lot of old junk. Huck Finn's about the only
thing I recognized.”

”W! I think an adventure tale like that is just the

thing for a boy your age.”

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I reminded her that she had bought me a copy last Christmas
along with some other ”classics.” Because of mother's reaction I
decided that Wwould be an excellent purchase.
Baseball and perversion both for only a quarter.

I returned to the odds and ends table and immediately noticed a
wooden Buddha. He had a big round belly, arms raised above his head
and a huge grin. He seemed to resemble Babe Ruth after hitting a
home run; the kind of guy who would be fun to talk to and hang out
with. My Uncle Tim used to have one and I remember being told that
if I rubbed the Buddha's belly and made a wish, it would come true.
But, only if the wisher was deserving and sincere. I checked to see
if I was being watched, then nonchalantly rubbed his belly.

There was also a dusty old checkerboard. It was beat up like the
one that Grandpa (my Dad's father) used to have. On Sundays, he used
to come over for breakfast after church and he would bring his
checkers. It was annoying when he would wheeze and snort with
laughter and it was even worse if he double jumped you, but I always
enjoyed playing.

On the garage wall, above the table were several animal heads
on plaques. A couple bucks, one with a huge rack and another with a
small one. A bearded moose head. A small bison. There were also
lamps which used a deer leg for the stand and coat racks made from

the hooves. From one of the hooves hung a marionette.

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I loved puppets and this one was special because it happened to
be Popeye. He was in sad shape. Dirty with tangled strings and his
pipe was missing. Only a stump remained clamped tight between his
unbalanced lips. When I was younger, maybe six or so, I would try to
make Popeye faces and talk in his voice before cleaning the spinach
off my plate. More than once, I got in trouble for making loud
scarfing noises like Popeye. ”If that show is going to teach you to
eat like a pig, maybe you shouldn't watch it.”

”Popeye!” said Bernie who had snuck up beside me. ”Are you
going to buy it?”

”I only have a quarter,” I said.

”I have a dollar.”

”Thanks, Bernie, but it costs three dollars.”

”Ask mom.”

Maybe mom would buy it. ”Hey, mom! Look! Come here a
minute.”

I held Popeye up for her to see. His tangled strings twisted,
wound and released, causing Popeye to slowly spin about, limbs
flailing as if he'd lost his balance.

My mom came over. ”Steven, you already have so many of those,
how could you possibly need another one? Honestly, sometimes I
think you kids want things just to get something. It doesn’t even

matter what it is. I didn't allow you to come along just so you could

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get more junk.”

”It's Popeye,” said Bernie.

”Yeah, morn. It's Popeye and he’s only three dollars.”

”Three dollars!”

”Can you forward me allowance money or make it an early
birthday present? Please?” I asked.

”I have a dollar,” said Bernie.

”Well, I just don’t know. You two haven't been doing your chores
around the house lately. I did the dusting myself last week.” As she
spoke, she looked at the animal heads. ”Besides, what do you think
your father's reaction would be if we came home with this?”

”Dad likes Popeye,” said Bernie.

”I hardly think Popeye is a good role model with all his violence
and dirty talk under his breath,” said mother. She did not give in.
”And besides, I think you’re probably too old to still be playing with
dolls.” As she spoke, she ran her index finger along the
checkerboard. After rubbing her fingers together and tightly purslng
her lips, she proceeded to other things. She inspected the hoof coat
rack. ”This reminds me of the ones your grandpa makes, only his are
better.”

She was drawn to a sharp looking knife which was next to one of
those pictures of Jesus which shows his heart outside his robe,

bleeding. ”Oh my, what do you think of this, Steven?” asked my

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mother pointing.

”Creepy,” I said, shrugging.

She continued, ”Your father will be impressed when he sees
you’ve got a knife like this. It might be just the thing. You'd like to
have your own hunting knife wouldn’t you honey?”

”Maybe you should buy it for dad,” I suggested. I felt hot and
embarrassed because I despised hunting. It was a ritual in my
family probably just as important as the holidays. I still remember
how upset mother was when dad canceled his hunting trip with
grandpa (her father) two years in a row. She walked around the
house with puffy eyes for a while and gave the kind of looks that
make you feel guilty for some unknown reason.

”You will need a knife like your grandfather,” said mother.

”Maybe you could buy it for Bernie,” I said.

She sighed with irritation, ”Bernie is too young and besides,
she's a girl.”

”I want the knife,” said Bernie as she reached for it.

Mother held the knife high with one hand. ”No,” she said roughly,
pushing Bernie back with her other hand.

She looked at me angrily, ”Steven, would you like this or not?”

I thought of next weekend and the Tiger-Yankee game. As usual
we would get there early and settle into the wooden green seats to

watch batting practice and pregame warm ups. Dad would look

95

through the program he'd bought me and game time would slowly
approach.

”Can I get Popeye too?” I asked.

”Don't be greedy, Steven. Do you want this handsome knife or
not?”

The noise of the crowd, the hustle of the players, the calls of
the vendors; around the fourth or fifth inning we'd get some hotdogs
and maybe some ice cream. Whenever I ate, I worried about missing
a foul ball, so I kept my mitt pinned tightly between my knees.

I said, ”Yeah, I guess.”

”It’s settled then. I think you made a very wise choice, Steven.
You're growing up so fast. I can hardly believe that you're about to
become a man like your father, going hunting with grandpa and all.”

After some back and forth haggling, my mother and the old
woman agreed upon a price. I was furious. At three dollars, Popeye
had been a foolish extravagance, but at twenty dollars, my mother
would consider the damn knife a bargain.

I knew I was pushing it, but I gave it one last try, ”Can I please
get Popeye?”

My mother clucked her tongue and said, ”Steven, you know I don't
have money to buy you everything you want.”

As we headed back to the car, mother double checked the things

in the driveway to be sure she hadn't missed anything. Suddenly

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Bernie came running to us smiling and carrying the Popeye puppet in
her arms.

”Bernie!” shrieked my mother, ”Did you steal that?”

”No, I paid a dollar for it.”

My mother grabbed Bernie by the hand and headed back toward
the garage. The old woman must have heard the commotion, because
she appeared around the corner and called, ”It's all right, she paid for
it. I hope you don't mind.”

Without answering, mother turned around. I sat in the back seat
and Bernie sat in the front. As we pulled away, Bernie turned around
and handed Popeye to me saying, ”Here.”

I made the puppet do a little dance on the back of the seat.
”Thanks a lot, Bernie.” She just laughed.

Pursing her lips, my mother looked back at me in the rearview
mirror and said, ”Honestly, what's your father going to say when he
sees that dumb thing?”

I shrugged.

”Sit back, you're going to cause an accident.”

I had managed to get the Popeye marionette. but perhaps blown
my chance to go to the game next week.

When we got home later that day, dad was in front of the
television, watching the Tigers. l hesitated and allowed my mother

to rush past. ”Look at the treasure that I found at the garage sale,”

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she gushed as she held the knife out for him to see. ”It was only
twenty dollars. Can you imagine? And it’s just the thing! Steven
will need it when he goes hunting this fall with my father and you.”
She rubbed my father's back, patting and stroking him. ”Isn’t it
perfect?”

He simply shook his head, rolled his eyes and kept watching the
game.

Bernie was standing next to my parents. ”Look what we bought,”
she said, pointing at me. ”It only cost a dollar.”

When my father saw me from across the room, his eyebrows
unfurled and he smiled broadly. ”Whoahhh, well blow me down. It's
Popeye! And you got him for only a dollar?” Bernie nodded her head.

I walked over to my father's chair and handed him my puppet. He
made Popeye do a little dance and did the Popeye laugh, ”Ah ga ga ga
ga ga! Ah ga ga ga ga ga....” And we all laughed, except for my

mother.

98

NOSTALGIA

When I was younger, I lived on Almond Street. It was strange to
drive past the old house yesterday. It'd been over thirty years since
I lived there with my parents. Anyway, I went back. For some
reason people are interested in returning to places they once lived or
worked. To see how things are. To see what's changed since we left.
And I’m no different, I guess.

To a six year old, the street had seemed endless. I remember
walking down the block, past house after house. I would walk all the
way to where the road dead ended. There were railroad tracks and
beyond them was a a fence topped with barbed wire. On the other

side of the fence was the factory where my father worked. They

99

made engines there. Huge engines the size of car. Engines designed
for industrial machinery, generators and cruise ships. Once the
factory had an open house and he showed me all the engines lined up
on the loading dock. They were painted as if they were Indy racers,
chrome color, orange and blue. All ready to be shipped out.

Sometimes I would walk down to the tracks in the early
afternoon. One day, as I came to the end of the street, I realized
that my dad was on the other side of the fence. The factory side.
Had he been waiting for me? How did he know I would come? I think
I remember being afraid. Would he be angry? I wasn't supposed to
play near the tracks and I had been told time and time again not to go
near them. Not even to put pennies and rocks on the rails. Just
watching the train go by was forbidden.

I stood there for a minute not knowing what to do. Should I go
to him and talk? That would mean crossing the tracks, which was
definitely against the rules. But just being there was against the
rules too. Should I turn around and just go back home? Maybe he
hadn't really seen me.

”Come here,” he called. I walked forward until I stood before
the tracks. Was this a test? I was afraid to cross them. ”It’s all
right,” he said. ”Come here to the fence, just be careful.” I crossed
them delicately, trying to convince him that I had never before

crossed the tracks.

100

”What are you doing down here?” he asked.

I shrugged.

”You know you're not supposed to be here, don't you?”

I nodded.

”Well, I'll let it go this time,” he said. ”But, you know what’ll
happen if there's a next time, don't you?”

”Yes,” I said. Not really sure of what next time would bring.

”This time you’re lucky,” he said. ”This time I have something
for you that you'll like. I was just going to bring it home, but I
figured you might be out here.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flashlight.
There was a metal key chain through the end and attached to it was a
small magnifying glass. He would often bring things home: bumper
stickers, key chains, baseball caps, pens, tiny first-aid kits. All
with the factory logo. But, the flashlight was the best thing my dad
had ever given me. I had wanted one for so long. Ever since he had
brought his home from work one night, I had bugged him. And now my
constant questions had paid off.

He handed it to me through the fence. I just stood there not
knowing what to say. I turned it over and over in my hands, carefully
examining it. Switching it on and off.

”You better get home now,” he said. ”I'll see you tonight.” His

warning to be careful on the tracks once again reminded me to treat

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them with unusual respect. The long walk home was perhaps one of
the happiest memories I have of my childhood on Almond Street. He
had remembered.

It was funny how driving past the old place had caused me to
remember. How long had it been since I had thought about that day
at the tracks? How accurate was my memory? Did time cause me to
fill in gaps and make things seem better? Or worse? Was my
picture of the past more fiction than fact? It’s hard to say.
Remembering Almond Street was like recalling a dream. Bits and
pieces came and went. Facts were hard to come by. Maybe the most
consistent thing was the overall feeling. A hard to describe feeling.

Driving down the street I noticed that it wasn't as long as I'd
remembered. The tracks were probably only six or seven houses
away from my house. It didn’t seem far at all. The houses seemed
incredibly small. A group of young children ran across the front
lawns, playing some kind of game. Lawns which had seen me do the
same.

Going back caused me to remember a friend. Donald had lived
across the street. Anyway, the day I met him, I was sitting on our
front lawn by the curb. It was summer and I remember being in the
sun and getting warmed by the rays. I had my little
flashlight/magnifying glass with me and I was catching the sun with

it and focusing a narrow beam of light through the lens and onto a

102

leaf. I had heard that you could start fires this way. So far the best
I could manage was little holes that looked like cigarette burns. No
flames. It must have been early afternoon and I was waiting.
Waiting for the sun to get hotter? For the ice cream man? Waiting
for someone to come out and play? Waiting for something.

Donald was doing the same thing on his side of the street. I
remember watching him. And he watching me. There we both sat on
our respective front lawns with the street between us. The street
was a no man's land which we'd been forbidden to cross. And unlike
the tracks it was within clear view of our houses. So there we sat
like two soldiers on border patrol. Watching and waiting.

One of us convinced the other to cross the street. Was it me or
him? The important thing is that we met and became friends. I
don't think we were best friends. It seems my best friends lived on
my side of the street, down toward the railroad tracks. I remember
very little about them. Not even their names. Just vague
recollections: basketball games, tag, baseball, hide and go seek.
Games played with forgotten children. Children who now probably
had children of their own.

I remember the first ”game” Donald and I played. I showed him
my magnifying glass and what it could do to leaves. Donald was
impressed. I reluctantly entrusted him with it because he had

something to show me. He walked up and down the sidewalk. His

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eyes scanned the pavement as if he had lost a rare coin. Finally he
found it. ”Come here,” he said. It was an ant hill. Dropping to his
knees, Donald knelt on the cement. He held the magnifying glass
close to the sandy pile. A beam of light focused on the ants which
methodically went about their work. Up and down the hill they
moved. Like a spotlight, the beam of light shadowed their
movements. Fascinated, l knelt down to get a closer look. What was
he doing? What would happen? Suddenly smoke began to rise from
one of the ants. The little body blackened and curled into a ball.
Donald's hand shock as he laughed.

I suppose that ”best friend” memories are what Almond Street
was really about. Maybe they're what I should be remembering. But,
for some reason, as I drove down the street yesterday two things
stuck out. The flashlight and Donald. Even though I no longer knew
exactly which house he had lived in or even what he looked like, I
still remembered him.

One day a group of kids had been playing. Donald, myself, and
maybe four or five other kids. A mixture of boys and girls. Already
trying out roles and figuring out where they were headed. Lobbying
for position.

We were playing a game of tag which was more like
unorganized football. In order to tag somebody, you had to stop them

from running or tackle them. One time when I was it I chased Donald

104

down. We were in his back yard. We circled around trees, behind the
garage, beside the house, back and forth. It would have probably
been easier to capture one of the other screaming kids, usually the
louder they yelled, the slower they were. However, in my wisdom as
I raced around the yard like a madman after Donald I had decided that
only Donald could be the next person to be it. Probably because he
had been tagging me all day.

Finally I grabbed him by the arm and spun him hard to the
ground. ”I'm not it,” he yelled.

He tried crawling to his feet and running away. Before he
could, I fell on him with my knees hitting him in the back.

”No tag backs,” he screamed.

No tag backs? Had we called that at the beginning of the
game? No one was sure. Sometimes we did. This time nobody knew
if we had or not. Except Donald.

”It’s the rules!” he shrieked. ”It's my house and we weren't
playing tag backs.”

l was still sitting on top of him, keeping him pinned beneath
me. “Get off,” he shouted. ”Get off of me, there’s no tag backs,
you're still it.”

The other kids gathered around to watch. ”Am I still it?” I
asked them. ”What rules are we playing?”

”I can't breathe,” yelled Donald.

105

Nobody seemed to know. Nobody said anything, they just stood
there watching. I was on top of Donald, holding him tightly by the
arms to the ground. We were both on some sort of stage. Donald
continued to yell at me to let him go. He started to buck in an
attempt to knock me off. I was used to the game (I had older
brothers and sisters). Either I could let Donald get up and remain it,
or I could keep him pinned and force the issue. Not wanting to be it,
I kept him pinned.

”We were playing tag backs,” I said locking down into his face.

”No we weren't,” he said angrily.

l lowered my face closer to his. ”Yes we were,” I sneered.

Donald spit upward, but the awkwardness of his position
allowed gravity to return it harmlessly to the grass.

”You like to spit?” I asked. Staying well above his face, I
leaned forward. I let a thin string of saliva out of my mouth. Slowly
it drizzled downward. Quickly I sucked it up like a spaghetti noodle
before it fell. The other kids laughed. So, I did it again and again.
The closer it got to his face, the louder they laughed. Their approval
and Donald’s increasing struggle caused me to miscalculate. The
spit fell with a splat right onto his face. As he shook his head
wildly from side to side and thrashed about, the other kids laughed
crazily. l was too concerned with Donald to enjoy their response.

His face had turned red and he was determined that his humiliation

106

had gone far enough.

In his struggle, he managed to buck me forward by kneeing me
in the back which allowed him to kick me. His shoe was hard and it
hurt. ”Take his shoes off,” I yelled. As if by magic, Donald's legs
were seized and his shoes were removed.

Looking down at Donald, I realized that he was about to cry or
something.

”Well, maybe I'll be it,” I said. ”As long as Donald plays
without his shoes.”

”I'll ruin my socks,” said Donald, no longer struggling.

”Take off his socks,” somebody suggested.

Donald's socks were quickly removed. He laid still on the
ground, looking up at me. He seemed quite afraid. Why didn't he
continue to struggle? Maybe he knew he was outnumbered. Maybe he
trusted I wouldn't let things get any further out of hand.

”Okay, I'll be it,” I said. I let go of Donald's arms. Still sitting
on top of him, I looked down. ”There will be tag backs.”

Suddenly Donald threw his weight forward and knocked me
tumbling backwards. He scrambled to his feet and ran toward his
house. If we would have been alone, he probably would have made it,
but the other kids easily caught him and dragged him back toward
me. ”Why were you running away?” I asked.

Donald didn't answer. Somehow he freed one of his arms and

107

grabbed my throat. It was getting serious. Out of control. If I let
him go now, it was certain that he would tell his mom what had
happened. Once my mom found out, I'd be in big trouble. I repinned
his arms and tried to think. How could I explain pinning him down,
drooling on him and having his shoes and socks removed? Any way I
looked at it, I was in trouble. Sure there were other kids there, but
they hadn't done anything. They'd basically watched me do it all.
Witnesses rather than accomplices.

”Donald,” I said. ”If I let you up, will you promise to stay here
and not run for the house? I'll be it and I won't try and tag you back
until you get your shoes on. Okay?”

Donald's eyes watered and he shook his head no. Looking at
Donald, I asked the other kids for ideas. Desperation. l was about to
let him go anyway. Even if he planned on telling, I knew of no way to
stop him.

However, one of the girls said, ”If we took his pants off he
wouldn't want to run out of the backyard.”

To a six-year-old, the idea made sense. ”Okay, you guys help,” I
said. I remained sitting on his chest as several arms and hands went
to work. ”You sit on him,” I told one of them. ”I have an idea.”
Relieved of my position, I was overcome with a strange feeling. I
was relieved to be uninvolved and in a spectator role, but it hardly

seemed better. Things were going too far. It all seemed crazy.

108

Donald began to scream and a hand was put over his mouth. I stood
there watching as his pants were jerkily pulled down from his
waist. Donald kicked and flailed his arms, but it was no use. There
were too many of them. His pants were tossed to the ground near
me.

I gathered his shoes and socks, roughly folded up his jeans and
left them in a crude pile.

Donald was turned over on his stomach, sobbing loudly. In the
struggle, his underpants had come down with his jeans, they only
half covered his thin, boyish butt. One of the boys saw this and said
to the girls, ”Who wants to see his dick?”

As Donald's underpants were torn from his grip and pulled from
his kicking legs, I ran out of the backyard and toward my house. I
quickly crossed the street and ducked inside. Each time the phone
rang, my heart jumped. For a long time afterward, I worried that
Donald's mom would tell my mom what I had done. I hoped that he
realized that I had stepped back from it all and not been involved
towards the end. I was afraid that he would want revenge. What
would he do to get back at me?

When I saw his parents, I wondered if they knew what had
happened. Would they suspect that I had been involved? Would they
know that I had been responsible for everything? I imagined them

coming up to me, grabbing me, shaking me and asking, ”Why did you

109

do that to Donald?”

What could I have replied?

I also considered what happened to Donald after I had run away.
Did they keep him pinned? Did they let him go? Did they chase him?
Did they hurt him? Whatever they had done, it had only become
possible because I had not wanted to be it.

I imagined what it would be like to be humiliated as Donald had
been. I thought of his mother looking out the back window and
seeing her son naked, surrounded by laughing kids. Being violated
like a carnival freak. She would run out and put a stop to the whole
thing, but only after it was too late. What could possibly be said
between them?

Were these the thoughts of a boy or a man? It's impossible for
me to separate them. I would like to think that I was aware enough
to be concerned even back then. I'd like to believe that I made a
mistake and learned from it. However, I can't help but wonder if
feeling bad about hurting somebody thirty years later is enough.
What else should I have done? One thing I have gained over the
years is the perspective of a parent. No longer do I have to imagine
what Donald's parents might have felt if they ever did find out.

I remember that we moved after that summer. Dad got
transferred and we left Almond Street by the end of October. I can

still remember the last day there. The big moving truck was loaded

110

up and we were just about ready to leave. Mom and Dad were
finishing things up and l was out in the front yard waiting. Maybe
waiting for my friends to come out so I could say goodbye one more
time.

The little flashlight/magnifying glass my dad had given me
was in the pocket of my windbreaker. I distractedly fiddled with it
as I sat. I was reminded of Donald and what I had done. I looked at
the moving van, my house, then across the street. Holding the
magnifying glass above my outstretched hand I focused a small,
round beam of light onto my palm.

I realized that I hadn't talked to Donald since the incident.
Occasionally I would see him alone in his yard, but never again with
any of the other kids. I had never gotten in trouble and now I was
moving away. I wondered if he had told his parents.

Staring at the beam of light on my hand, I realized that nothing
was happening. Maybe I could think of a way to smooth things over.
As another October cloud scooted before the sun, shadows rolled
down the street. And I finally reached a decision. I would go to
Donald's house and apologize.

I rang his doorbell. His morn answered and I fidgeted with my
flashlight/magnifying glass. I asked if Donald was home. He would
be back soon from the store with his father. What should I have done

then? Should I have told her to give Donald the message that I was

111

sorry? For a brief moment I had considered giving her the flashlight.
But before I could think of an explanation, she had already begun to
close the door.

Would I have really given it to him? Standing dumbly on his
doorstep I realized that all I could do is go back home and wait.
Donald never got back before we left. I climbed into the front seat
of the moving truck. As we pulled down Almond Street away from

the house, dad noticed that I still had the little flashlight in my

 

hand.

”You still have that thing huh?” he said. ”I thought for sure
you'd have lost or broken it by now.” The truck turned left and we
headed toward our new house, leaving Almond Street behind. ”I
brought you home another one. It's packed away somewhere.”

It seemed strange to go back to Almond Street yesterday. I'm
not sure why I went. Maybe it was simply curiosity. It was
interesting driving down the old street, seeing the old house and
going down to the tracks. It all created a feeling. Nostalgia? I'm
not sure, but I'm glad I went. To see how things were. To see what's
changed since I left. And after all these years perhaps finally

discovering the nature of Donald’s revenge.

 

 

 

I.“

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