The Bicycle Review
#16
16 Jun, 2012
Kerry Barner, Sarah Daugherty, John Domini, Graham Fulton, Howie Good, Jessica Harman, James O' Brien, Angel Uriel Perales, Carlos Porras, Linda Ravenswood, Claudia Serea, Bud Smith, Alisha Noelani Washburn, Matt Wilson, and Edward C. Wells II.
Original Artworks by Jeff Kappel and Jeremiah Maddock.
All rights reserved by the authors and artists.
16 Jun, 2012
Kerry Barner, Sarah Daugherty, John Domini, Graham Fulton, Howie Good, Jessica Harman, James O' Brien, Angel Uriel Perales, Carlos Porras, Linda Ravenswood, Claudia Serea, Bud Smith, Alisha Noelani Washburn, Matt Wilson, and Edward C. Wells II.
Original Artworks by Jeff Kappel and Jeremiah Maddock.
All rights reserved by the authors and artists.
#16 ...now 3, still free.
"Ines told me that one drop even if it got into you at all after I tried with the Banana but I was afraid it might break and get lost up in me somewhere because they once took something down out of a woman that was up there for years covered with limesalts theyre all mad to get in there where they come out of youd think they could never go far enough up and then theyre done with you in a way till the next times yes because theres a wonderful feeling there so tender all the time how did we finish it off yes O yes I pulled him off into my handkerchief pretending not to be excited but I opened my legs I wouldn't let him touch me inside my petticoat because I had a skirt opening up the side I tormented the life out of him first tickling him I loved rousing that dog in the hotel rrrssssttawokwokawok his eyes shut and a bird flying below us he was shy all the same I liked him like that moaning I made him blush a little I got over him that way when I unbuttoned him and took his out and drew back the skin it had a kind of eye in it theyre all Buttons down the middle on the wrong side of them Molly darling he called me what was his name Jack Joe Harry Mulvey was it yes..." (From "Ulysses" by James Joyce)
“I have never listened to anyone who criticized my taste in space travel, sideshows or gorillas. When this occurs, I pack up my dinosaurs and leave the room.”
― Ray Bradbury (1920-2012)
SHARE THE ROAD...
“I have never listened to anyone who criticized my taste in space travel, sideshows or gorillas. When this occurs, I pack up my dinosaurs and leave the room.”
― Ray Bradbury (1920-2012)
SHARE THE ROAD...
The Rider, Pt. 4
As with many towns, this town of Houston, Texas had a main street. That directest of thorough through-ways was yet unknown to Writer though, and the result was a meandering through the still abandoned streets of the large metropolis. There were long straight-ahead stretches and then right, left, rights. The scale of it was rather absurd. It was something like an umbrella or a flower opening. Each building stood there, and with each series of steps he traversed their breadth and then the breadth of the block, and then, there simply stood another block. Soon enough he had wandered across the commonplace light-rail tracks that many in America have not yet known. They are a part of the infrastructure of most large metropolises though, and as such, even in America, people who walk through those cities know them.
Eventually Writer found himself in that section of larger cities that he was always fond of. He looked at these more singular shaped structures and smiled. He fancied briefly that he might actually go inside one of the museums or galleries that day, but he knew that he had other things that he must do, even before he must do the things that he had come to town to do. In that way, the bits of life that stay with you, even when you leave one place, shape the existence that you come to know, even in the new places that you go. Umbrella began to make a sound in Writer's moistened hand. Perhaps it was increased friction or the excitement of the Arts District, whichever. Umbrella made a noise against Writer's pants while swinging by Writer's side. Umbrella stopped.
Umbrella straightened downward and rested again, with its tip opposite its handled-end, on the ground. Both of Writer's hands came up and rested on the blunt and hard rubbery end of Umbrella's handle. Writer pulled his head back and then simply stood there. The decorative map sign displayed the location where both he and Umbrella were standing. Writer surmised if the entirety of the Arts District was included then the city's public library would likely be displayed on the map as well.
That would be their first of destinations in Houston. While Writer was not one to speak when alone, nor to Umbrella, nor in the company of others at any length on many occasions, Umbrella might have deduced, if it thought on such subjects, that such a place would be on the itinerary when visiting a new city. You see for Writer the library was a place of indulgent enjoyment, practicality and productivity. There were three things that he planned to do: wash-up in the restroom, as many homeless people do; take a nap in a quiet room or corner, as many people do; and complete some work as people do.
As he noted the location of the library, including the intersections that marked the corners of its block, so much and so little was happening. Umbrella rocked back and forth occasionally as Writer leaned and noted the last details. Somewhere, still completely hidden, the sun was emitting much the same as it has done for a period that inclines many in common conversation to say “it has always done.” Umbrella still snug in its sleeve, the streets still sedate in this hour, Writer began to walk toward the Houston Public Library.
If you have ever been to this particular library in downtown Houston, Texas then you are aware how the building borders roads on two or three sides of its block and on the fourth it is bordered by a sidewalk walkway between the library and another building. Writer did not completely understand this on his first visit. As a result of this, and the presence of someone at the bus stop at the corner with the section of the library that was closed due to construction at the time, he and Umbrella found themselves walking the far way around this second building before returning again to the actual library building. There was no hurry though since it was not yet full daylight and therefore unthinkable that a library in the America that Writer knew would be open.
The two approached the walkway, now on the far side from their initial approach. It became obvious that this would be the walkway that led to the public entrance. Writer perked a bit, Umbrella twirled once, twice between his fingers, and then the two turned in between the buildings to investigate. Again however, someone was in a position that seemed precarious to Writer.
Understand, Reader, that Umbrella is not a completely misleading clue to guide insight into the nature of Writer. It is a sun-Umbrella, and it was purchased of a genuine desire and intent to protect Writer from the sun's harmful rays. While this is something that some will doubtlessly scoff at, and some did already in prior outings of the couple, it is a facet of the delicacy with which our Writer prefers to conduct himself. So, the presence of the security guard sitting outside in the dark in a rolling office chair chatting on his phone was something that merited reaction. Instead of approaching the sign with hours directly, Writer simply glanced and noted what he could see from the vantage point of the central walkway. He proceeded along that course. The plump belly of the security guard expanding outward and deflating as he spoke. The feet of Writer carrying him and Umbrella through the walkway at a steady pace, in a more or less straight line. At the other side of the buildings he again took a left and then proceeded to follow the block and then cross the street. He wandered until he found a bench at the edge of a park. It was a position that was and was not an ambiguous border that served to separate him from the path of most that might indiscriminately trouble him, should he doze. It also seemed to be outside of the boundaries of the park that was plainly stated not to open until sunrise. He sat and Umbrella, for its part laid down. The bench was a series of wooden slats connected with slots between them.
You have likely seen a similar bench in your city- and as may sometimes happen, perhaps You have seen someone sitting there in the dark hours of the day. Perhaps an Umbrella was laying down on the bench with them, or perhaps a bag. Sometimes they may have a full beard, or they may be clean shaven. Some are old and some benches are newly constructed. Perhaps they are the result of poor planning, or perhaps the city has the finest of leaders. These details do vary, and in the dark hours of the day sometimes these details are barely discernible.
In these hours the numbers of people that You might see while sitting on a bench in even a large city is limited though. The variety that passed by Umbrella and Writer this early morning however was interesting. There was a jogger. Thoughts of the city's realities might have occurred to Umbrella if it had been sitting up and attentive. There was a man in a tie with a satchel. Thoughts of the typical reality might now don on you as you think of Umbrella laid out on a park bench in this dark time after riding a Greyhound bus all night and now waiting for the public library to open. You were not there though, and the people that passed did not stop. Writer, for his part, was attempting to relax the shoulders that had carried the bag and the eyes that, despite time and the drying electricity behind them, did not easily settle shut. You are reading this now though, and this can be taken as occasion to consider such things.
Even in large metropolises with tall buildings, the dawn can sometimes be seen rising into the sky. It depends mostly on atmospheric conditions and the height of the point at which the light is first seen. On this particular day, from this particular vantage point, Writer could easily see the curved appearance of the light as it began to fill the sky. When the lowest visible light was comfortably bright Writer stood, settled the pack on his shoulders again and lifted Umbrella, holding Umbrella at the center and allowing it to remain in a position that was parallel to the bench, to the sidewalk, to the Earth in a relative way, as it rocked back and forth in the arm-swing lullaby that occurred as Writer stepped into the park. ...to be continued...
Copyright 2012 by Edward C. Wells II
Limited Release Chapbook
Dead trees and picked cotton processed into
24lb copy paper and then hand stamped
somewhere in Salem have never looked so
beautiful. Pay your 6.50 and become one of
the lucky hundred and twenty that get to revel
in its magic.
Unnaturally flat and, to the untrained eye,
boring. From 20 feet away a yellowish white
with dark spots—salt flats under the rain.
Move closer and those spots begin to make
words—grandpa's crossword puzzle. Read
those words and get confused. Read them
again and discover a poem. Then read them
again because you love that poem.
Finish this page then turn it and start over.
Copyright 2012 by Carlos Porras
CNN: O’HARE CONCOURSE, MARRIOTT LOBBY
Then up ten flights, fifteen, it’s vertigo,
the hotel hallway falls away from me.
I tell myself I know what’s going on. Cliché, I tell myself, an old, old trick,
from every scary movie ever made.
That steadies the nerves. But nevertheless
the rows of doorways tunnel off, reverse
zoom, narrower, narrower,
receding yet unending,
the doors
like brackets within brackets, like
some cruel trig formula,
infinity along
a fire-
retardant carpet, like… like I’ve seen
in half a hundred flicks by now, with spooks and no way out. Flashback, I tell myself.
Steadies the nerves.
I mean, I’ve got the bell-boy, but who’s he?
If I should start to fall, he’s not
his brother’s catcher. Simple math,
a buck a bag, that’s what I am to him.
If I go down and can’t get up, if I’m
another victim, only, photographed
before the kill (the final cut…), if I
turn up in shroomy black and white, unknown
statistic, naked, hooded, yoked and bruised --
this bell-hop wouldn’t wonder, much.
He’d only ask, what show was that?
Some news thing, like? Iraq, Guantanamo?
He’s seen the apparition many times,
some traveler singled out
and hammered, shrunk,
a dot.
Copyright 2012 by John Domini
AMYGDALA
1
Migratory birds that should be hopping a ride on the wind stroll between our legs. When did it become unlawful to squeal in pleasure? you ask. I shrug. What I call an attack of conscience another person might call the amygdala. I’m the most aggrieved of all the people on line, with a heart like a booby-trapped car.
2
The fat pharmacist wears a white coat he can’t quite button over his stomach. Smiling ingratiatingly, I hand him my prescription. He glances at it and just shakes his head. Ah, me! Another day without painkillers, another day as court jester to a humorless universe.
3
The door falls open as of its own free will to our flag missing from its accustomed corner, rows of empty desks under squalid yellow lights, the classroom clock’s audible heartbeat, a gnome-like teacher pausing in mid-sentence while he waits with a look of severe disapproval for you to find your seat, and behind him, still vaguely legible on the board, simple three-letter words, CAT RAT MAT HAT, that seem only to you to make a song.
4
You wished you were a wolf in the mountains. Wolves, you used to say, don’t wish to be found. After receiving another politely worded rejection, you washed an apple at the sink. All the windows facing the other side of the world were open. Veiled women beckoned you into the Kasbah. The X on the sidewalk marks the spot where you landed.
5
A rejoinder occurs to me only months later while watching the horse’s ears quiver. Official-looking documents stick to the bottom of the tall, steel-mesh fence where a noisy wind has blown them. The prisoner gripped by the elbow insists that’s not his signature. I go back inside just so I can listen instead to the baby babble. My point isn’t what you think it is, which is the point.
Copyright 2012 by Howie Good
A LETTER FROM YOUR SECRET ADMIRER
Dear ______________,
I was very taken away when I first saw you. It’ll be a strange comparison, but you reminded me of my first car. A 1967 sky blue Ford Fairlane. Something about the ocean, the sound inside of a seashell between the both of you, though there was no sound of a seashell at all, in either of you. That car shook violently when I drove it, you, I haven’t even heard your voice.
Just a vague feeling. A comfort. The stretched out blue ocean dissolving on the curve of the earth...you both remind me of the stupid Ocean.
You wouldn’t understand. I know that about you now. You are the type of person who doesn’t have feelings that are scattershot like that. You are a person grounded in the ordinary world. I envy that about you. I am a person so full of wild ideas and misunderstood love that I often feel like a balloon instead of a human.
Just floating across rivers illuminated with pure radiating fire.
Well maybe not fire, that would pop a balloon.
Your reaction to my “good deed” the other night was very disheartening. Serves me right for trying to be kind. I figured, we’re both single, attractive...in the market, why not try to be kind. As I have already said, I tend to do things differently, the average guy would have sauntered up to you in the bar and he would have made some clever little comment and then cleverly have attempted to buy you a drink and then cleverly...a lot of cleverness, all of it. I don’t operate that way.I think there is room in this world for soft beautiful light, people are just often too afraid of embarrassing themselves. Closed tight like flowers that bloom momentarily in certain moonlight.
I could see how you would have been a little uneasy, thinking about how someone had been in your apartment while you were sleeping. That would creep anybody out. I am however, completely puzzled as to why you felt the need to involve the police. Obviously my intentions are good. If they weren’t you would have known all about it, much earlier. I wish I could have been listening when the officer took the report, “What? Someone broke into your apartment while you were there and did what?” “The dishes.” “The intruder did the dishes?” “Yes.” “The intruder did the dishes?” A second time, skeptically, “And left a sweet note.” You would clarify.
Later, I could just imagine them, standing in a circle in the station, their cop moustaches bouncing up and down, swaying back and forth, as they laughed about your strange incident.
Sure, it was odd for me to come in like that. Don’t be mad at your Superintendant, it’s not his fault. I could steal just about anybodies keys. If you are going to be mad at anybody, be mad at yourself. You are not all you are cracked up to be. Your exterior might be a marvelous thing, your inner light is not all that pleasant. Plus, you snore. You drool. You really need to water that plant in the kitchen a little less. Wouldn’t the living room be a much better place for it? The sunlight, is all.
The truth is, I have been coming into your apartment periodically, though we are complete strangers, or truthfully, one sided strangers. I know a lot about you. Though we haven't talked, or even exchanged glances, I am drawn to you. Last Tuesday I organized your CDs alphabetically. A couple nights later I did your taxes. For real. Check your file cabinet. Done. I found your grocery shopping list and figured that I would be romantic and go shopping for you, have the brown paper bags waiting on the counter when you walked in after your yoga class. I was worried that you would come home with your own groceries and then there would be just far too many groceries. It would go to waste. I was concerned that the Butter Pecan ice cream would melt.
The Silly things that keep people confined to their own small lives, apart from one another. In a better world, our desires would be necessary things that kept us alive for each other. Our desires would not be just hobbies.
So, there, our love affair is over. It saddens me, and perhaps, it will bring you relief.
I thought that I would write to you and point out something good that came out of this for me. Once I realized that it wasn’t going to work out between us, I turned my attention to the thing that was really making me unhappy.
My sky blue 1967 Ford Fairlane.
Some years ago, I was forced to sell the car. It was in bad need of repair and I am just not the kind of person that can make heads or tails out of how to repair it. That old song, you know the words, I needed the money. At the time, selling it was just something that I did without all that much thought, later it became something that I regretted. The years peeled away from me and then, the first hot day, to my horror, suddenly here was the car. Cruising around, restored. It had always been in my mind and now, here it was resurrected from my dreams into the daylight, the windows down, the radio on, an arm sticking out, getting the best trucker tan he could after a long brutal winter.
That’s right. The man who bought it from me, was something of a force of nature. He took my decaying vehicle and transformed it. I would have to watch my old car, drifting by on the roads of my small town and try not to let it completely break my heart. It was under so many layers of wax that even the sun had to turn away from the glare. The chrome was something that only your dreams could polish that bright. The glug glug glug, purr of that exhaust was like a small orchestra to me as it coasted through the traffic light. The worst part of all of this was that I was on foot! Yeah, I didn’t even have a car.
So, thanks to you, I came to the conclusion that I didn’t need you, that you were just a stand in for something that I really had to take care of.
I went to the man’s house while he was at work and I did all of his laundry. I used fabric softener. I used spot remover on a shirt stained with wine. I cleaned out the dryer lint trap after every load. I neatly folded everything. Then, I fed his cat and cleaned his bathroom. Scrubbed the hell out of the toilet. Got all of the soap scum off of the sliding glass shower door.Emptied all of the trash cans. Changed the sheets on his bed. Sent his mom a birthday card.
Then, satisfied, I went out into the garage and took my car back.
It really drives like a dream. I’ll tell you this and you probably won’t believe it, but it is impossible for this car to get stuck at a light. Every light it hits is green. Everyone would fall in love with me if they were in this car, on my bench seat, just try not to smile.
The weather has been hot, there is no better time to be cruising down the coast line with the windows down. The wind whirring in your ears so loudly that you couldn't’ ever hope to hear the radio, but that is the point. The wind in your ears like that, it is like if you listen very closely, you are getting direct orders from the same beautiful noise stuck inside a sea shell.
Soon, I will be at the ocean.
The sun on me, and the car. As it belongs. As I lay on the hood. My hands behind my head. My feet splayed out. The stretched out blue ocean dissolving on the curve of the earth.
Best,
Your Secret Admirer.
Copyright 2012 by Bud Smith
Profound
Writing down verses on a barroom napkin
thinking you're profound,
staring at the ditch of the LA river
thinking you're profound,
stand in front of the mirror
and spread your arms like Christ,
notice and pop a zit,
spill some wine,
you are so profound,
shaking the snow globe,
oh profound.
Me vas a dejar,
me vas a dejar lejos,
me vas a dejar de lejos
profound,
claim this happened in childhood
profound.
I find folding my fitted bedsheets difficult
because I am all alone in the laundry mat
teary-eyed profound.
Fuck the world profound.
I killed the black dog runs at night profound.
Van Gogh profound, Goya's blue dildo
Mata Hari Krishna Vietnam wailing wall
weapons of mass indexed compilations
of love letters from the bedwetter
daughter naked on the ottoman empire
profound, mother fucking around profound.
Rosebud up your ass, cheap whiskey
to catch a predator Edgar Allen Poe
voting drunk in Baltimore for the
Sacred Beverage Press,
Yes, you,
totalitarian,
trying to lose weight
totally useless
and isolate,
isosceles profound.
Found lost and floundering
in mendacious profundity
profound.
Copyright 2012 by Angel Uriel Perales
Fairy Tale
After three days of hard rain, the sky was finally clear. Elsa and Jimmy, though initially upset about wasting so much of their hard-earned spring break indoors, had decided to pass the time by drawing, but now they were ready to play.
"Wait," said Jimmy's mother as he rummaged through his closet in search of his favorite flannel shirt. "Don't you want to see Grandma?"
He sighed. "I guess so."
"You guess so? Sillypants!" She playfully jabbed at the middle of his forehead with her index finger. "She hasn't been here in weeks; she'll be very happy to see you. Besides, she's bringing lunch. She should be here any minute now."
Jimmy rubbed at the crescent-shaped dent on his forehead left by his mother's canary-yellow talon. He frowned at her retreating backside as she left the room. Then his face lightened a bit. Lunch sounded good.
A few minutes later, Grandma's battered gray Volvo crunched its way up the gravel drive, and she jumped out, all smiles and hugs. She had brought four turkey club sandwiches with spicy brown mustard, the kind Jimmy liked.
Over lunch, there was the usual barrage of annoying questions about his academic progress and physical condition, which continued long after his mother had washed the dishes. Jimmy put on a cheerful face and answered them all, but he kept glancing at the clock and hoping the whole afternoon wouldn't be wasted on idle chatter in the dining room. He couldn't help but notice that Elsa had ended up wearing half her mustard on her face and her silly, frilly little white dress. When the two women gave each other their undivided attention and began gossiping in earnest about Aunt Glenda's merlot intake, Jimmy scowled fiercely at his little sister.
Suddenly, his mother cooed, "Perhaps you would like to show Grandma some of your drawings." This was a bit of a non sequitur; it took Jimmy completely by surprise, but he recovered his composure and gamely agreed, though he knew that his mother's request was really a command in disguise. He walked to his bedroom and rummaged through a stack of papers on his desk until he found the drawing with which he was most satisfied: a nude female midget clutching a tremendous, ornate beer stein with bas-relief stags prancing across it.
It wasn't wholly original; he had based the midget on a photograph he'd found in a magazine on the floor of a rusty, abandoned car in the woods, lying next to a heap of cigarette butts and some empty, halfheartedly-crushed beer cans. The stein was almost a line-for-line copy of a photograph he'd seen in one of his mother's old travel books about Germany. Despite its lack of originality, however, Jimmy was proud of his own handiwork, particularly the cross-hatching. He took his drawing to the dining room.
Mom and Grandma were almost squealing over Elsa's drawing. Jimmy set his own down carefully, then walked over to the other side of the table to see what all the fuss was about. What he saw was predominantly yellow and orange and strongly resembled a small broom fastened haphazardly to a Mason jar. The inscription "YUNICORN," scribbled messily across the bottom of the paper in purple crayon, clarified things a bit. In other words, the whole thing was a hideous travesty.
"Wow. Just . . . wow. A blind retard could make a way better drawing than that."
His mother's fat, heavy hand stung Jimmy's face, and the blow nearly toppled the poor boy over. It was followed by a little gust of cool air that only seemed to make the pain worse.
"Jimmy!" she declaimed shrilly. "If you can't say anything nice . . ."
"Don't say anything at all," he finished glumly, rubbing at the swiftly reddening handprint on his face. "Kankerhoer," he added as an afterthought.
"What does that mean?" His mother's voice sounded like a nest of hornets preparing for an air raid: a hornet pep rally, in fact.
"It's a very sincere apology, Mom. It's Dutch."
"My, what a clever boy!" gushed Grandma. "I bet he'll speak eight languages by the time he's nine!"
"Clever, but very naughty. Naughty boys don't get to play outside."
Panic ripped through Jimmy's seven-year-old mind like a flaming meteor.
"Oh, Jill! I bet these poor children have been cooped up for days, what with all the rain we've been having. Let them both play!"
By now, Elsa was crying loudly and rubbing at a patch of brownish crust on her chin. Jimmy, pleased as spiked punch about the sudden reversal of his fortune, was about to make a beeline for the sliding glass door when it occurred to him that neither his mother nor his grandmother had even laid eyes on his little work of art.
"Grandma, don't you want to see my drawing?"
"Of course I do. Let's see . . . WHAT THE HELL?!?"
Jimmy couldn't understand what she was so shocked about. After all, hadn't nude figure drawings held a prominent place in the art world since prehistoric times?
"JIMMY!" shrieked his mother in that blades-on-a-chalkboard voice he had come to loathe. "This is vile! This is obscene! It's a . . . a sin!"
"Oh, Jill! Who knows how he got the idea for this? Children do grow up too quickly these days, you know."
Says the woman who gave birth at fifteen, thought Jimmy darkly.
"James Edwin Woodson! You will go to your room immediately and stay there until I . . ."
"No, no, no, Jill," purred Grandma in a soothing tone. She put her hand on her daughter's arm, which was extended stiffly in Jimmy's direction and ended in a fist with an accusing finger sticking out of it like the horn of a very pissed-off unicorn. "I don't think he understands the . . . the severity of what he's done. Maybe he and Elsa can enjoy the sunshine while you and I have a chat and some of my special lemonade."
Mom's eyes brightened at the mention of "special lemonade."
"Why don't we ever get to drink the special lemonade?" asked Elsa. She sniffled and rubbed her eyes with the backs of her hands.
"Because it's magic," said Grandma in a matter-of-fact tone.
"Perhaps I'll give you some for your twelfth birthday."
"Well, I like magic," she said.
Jimmy stared at her face: the fat pink cheeks; the golden curls his mother and grandmother so adored; the blue eyes with their blank, unknowing, idiotic stare; the hideous blobs of mustard and turkey around her mouth.
She might be magic in the way trolls are magic, he thought. She's no pixie.
Suddenly, he had an epiphany of sorts. It was an idea so brilliant, he thought it could save what had been a rather dismal afternoon.
"You should go play, mister, before I change my mind," said his mother, whose savage temper had cooled surprisingly quickly.
Jimmy snatched his drawing off the table and took it to his room, where he hid it in the last volume of the Oxford English Dictionary. He buttoned his favorite red flannel shirt over his faded NASA T-shirt, then bolted for the sliding glass, put on his sneakers in great haste, and ran to the aluminum toolshed where his little red BMX was parked. He pedaled as quickly as he could down a winding gravel path through the woods until he arrived at a tiny meadow by a creek -a place of which his sister had grown quite fond over the past few weeks because of its abundance of blossoming bluebells and the circles of small mushrooms his grandmother called "fairy rings." Then he rested and waited, idly tossing handfuls of wildflowers into the middle of the current to gauge its pace.
About half an hour later, he saw his sister's fat little legs and pigeon-toed, mud-caked, hiking-booted feet clumsily stomping their way down the path. When she caught sight of him, she picked up a pebble and threw it with all her might, but her missile fell short of its mark by almost two meters.
"You're a meanie!" she shouted. "You big, bad, booger-faced meanie!"
"No, I'm not. I was just trying to give you a little constructive criticism."
Elsa's face scrunched up in confusion. "What's constructive cricketsism?" she asked.
"Never mind. Little mouths always mangle big words."
"What's 'smangle' mean?"
"Don't worry about it. Look, I just want to tell you that I'm sorry if you think I prodded your hapless, gelatinous little troglodyte psyche a bit too much."
"What's . . ."
"Oh, forget about it." Jimmy smiled brightly. "Do you want to see some fairies?"
"Fairies? I thought the fairies were here. Grandma says these are fairy rings." She pointed at a little circle of pale, sodden mushrooms.
"Well," said Jimmy with the air of a leading expert on everything, "they may be. But if there are any fairies around here, they're woodland fairies. They're pretty shy and they would never let you see them. You should check out the water fairies. They're much nicer."
Elsa looked doubtful.
"Look," said Jimmy, "I can show you where to find some. They like deep water."
He extended a hand to his sister, which she smacked as hard as she could.
"I don't believe you," she said.
Jimmy smiled. "Alright, you don't have to believe me. But don't blame me if you never get to play with the water fairies."
He hopped on his bike and began to pedal away, whistling the first few notes of the first movement of "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik." He hadn't reached the far side of the meadow when he heard a shout.
"Jimmy! Come back!"
He did a U-turn and pedaled back to the spot where his sister stood.
"Alright," she said. "I do want to see the fairies. But if you're lying, I'm gonna tell Mommy."
Snitch, thought Jimmy. Usurper. Moron. Talentless hack.
He smiled as sweetly as he could. "Trust me," he said, "you won't regret this at all. Just follow me."
Jimmy walked his bike down the bank of the creek and carefully avoided the sucking mud between the blades of tall grass that grew there. His sister stomped through the puddles with abandon, as usual.
More suckling pig than girl-child, he thought.
After a few hundred meters, they came to a sharp turn in the creek, forded by a little covered pedestrian bridge of unfinished timber that might have been the star of a twee little oil painting if not for its extensive state of disrepair and decay. It resembled a long, thin gazebo that had been left out in the rain for far too long.
"Come up here with me," said Jimmy, who had heard his sister's plodding footsteps slow down, then stop.
He turned around and gazed down the lichen-spotted stairs at his sibling.
She shook her head and said nothing.
Jimmy leaned his bike on a handrail.
"What's wrong? Don't you want to see the fairies?"
"I don't think fairies would go there. It's scary."
"Trust me, that's just a front to keep the unworthy ones away."
"I still don't think there are fairies there."
"Well, they're water fairies. They have peculiar tastes in architecture. Also, they glow."
Elsa gasped. "Really? You promise?" A hopeful smile crossed her face.
Jimmy smiled back at her.
"Oh, yes. They glow all the colors of the rainbow."
She bounded up the slimy wooden stairs and followed her brother to a particularly rotten, mushroom-covered stretch of handrail near the middle of the bridge.
He knelt down and pointed to a clump of bushes on the far bank. Normally, the bushes were far away from the water; now they were half-submerged. "I think I saw one right there," he half-shouted over the cacophony of the speeding torrent.
"Where? I didn't see it."
"It was bright purple. Be patient. It'll come back."
His sister grabbed the handrail, stood on her tiptoes, and squinted at the bushes. Jimmy took a few steps back, then rushed forward and punched his sister's shoulder-blades with both fists. Elsa slammed into the handrail, which splintered into tiny pieces and tumbled into the manic brown flow of the creek, along with a shower of small grubs and termites. She tumbled with it and gave a surprised yelp like that of a wounded puppy, which was suddenly cut short when she hit the water with empty lungs and sank like a stone.
Jimmy stood in the middle of the bridge, panting slightly, and listened to the sound of the water. He walked to the other side and looked downstream just in time to see a flash of white cotton hurtling around another bend. Then he laughed harder than he'd ever laughed in his life.
Copyright 2012 by Matt Wilson
Repetitive Strain
there are things such as opening
your eyes
and standing listening
pouring water pouring milk
tying your shoelaces listening
to the joints in your elbows ache
and reading the same three lines
of the same book you’re reading
over and over
taking nothing in
as your head slips away your head
full of nothing
jumbled up,
and walking to the shop
and walking to the bottle bank
and picking
pennies up from the pavement
and watching the fat man
in the orange top
walking round and round the pond in the park
really fast
and picking
vegetables sauce garden peas
wild unwashed rocket shoelaces
and reading the same three lines
over and over and toilet
roll shoelaces ink,
and trying to keep the sun
from your head as you need to think
about the same three lines
you’ve just read before it’s dust –
and dusting,
sweeping,
and things like opening
curtains and closing
curtains and taking nothing in
and knowing and walking
round round in the park
and listening,
vegetables shoelaces toilet roll
vegetables shoelaces toilet roll
vegetables shoelacestoilet roll
Copyright 2012 by Graham Fulton
The Gift of Reverie
In the shad of a leaf I found a place to sit with the windy gods.
It was a conversation layered in the quiet of nature chimes.
I realized I had been shrunk to a size twenty times less.
I was less Full, less Tall, but miles more expansive, more free.
A creek made of ancient magic water trickled over me as I sat on its edge.
Fish jumped out and into the air, smiling at me as they dove back down.
It seems I've lived a thousand hundred years this way. Alone, and with
the gift of reverie.
Copyright 2012 by Alisha Noelani Washburn
On Loan
I worry that love like this is love on loan,
like the lobster baskets fill, but then the sea someday leaves empty.
Like the Roundstone ladies’ laughing —
really winking — hinting at some low-tide fate; the word is lately:
“honeymoon.”
Soon, the night’s gale will roam;
we, two, vaguely hearing — full and tired in the orange night.
Come morning, we talk of the nap-haired lambs out in it,
and of the blank bulls, you think, huddled in some bush.
I worry that time to us, like love, is likely debt accruing interest,
and one day I might say, “Oh, she loved these pony slopes,
overlooking Clifden Castle. Oh, she did. She did.”
Copyright 2012 by James O' Brien
Laundry Visionaries
As an artist,
You liked vision in all of its variations.
You didn’t know how to do laundry,
Though. That I would try over
And over again to teach you,
But you still packed your jeans
And t-shirts in there like sardines,
So soap streaks got on them.
There are strange correspondences
In this universe, and packing
Laundry too tightly, with too much
Of it to boot, is related directly
In some equation to white streaks
On clean clothes when you take
Them out of the dryer. Do not ask me
To prove it to you. Some things
I just know.
Copyright 2012 by Jessica Harman
Not From Waipahu
In Medias Res
Episode IV; Part Duae:
In which a man
forbidden
to see my face
praises my pale
& shimmering skin,
based on his fleeting glimpse
of my bare white feet --
soles washed in bleach,
toes polished with wine.
And I wonder as I run:
What good does a burka do
if I insist on wearing flip-flops?
Oh, feets don't fail me now...
Copyright 2012 by Sarah Daugherty
The Infant Golem of Prague
And the L-rd said
Go through the city
and set a mark upon the foreheads
of the men who sigh, and the men who cry,
for all the abominations done
Ezekiel 9:4
Long ago, Rabbi Judah (of blessed memory), used to tell the children about a mighty Golem
who could come alive to keep the Jews safe from those who wished them harm. But later in his
chamber, when he asked the Almighty to please bring the Golem to life, the dearest little man
appeared! This was no Frankenstein monster, no hulking boob to scare the goyishe children.
No. Certainly not. This was a little smidgen of a golem, almost a baby — The infant golem of
Prague. He had been made from a few spoonfuls of soil from a flower pot, and sweet wax — so
what else could you have expected !
The infant golem loved to stay just by the old Rebbe, whisking around the kitchen at night,
cleaning cobwebs, preparing the dough for morning. One night when all of the city was asleep,
the infant golem heard a cry, like that of a child, from across the square. Up through the open
window he flew and down the Rebbe’s wall, into the street following the sound. The infant
golem was not afraid when he reached the cathedral gates. He did not hesitate to push the huge
doors ajar and fly inside. The cry seemed to be coming from behind the altar, so the infant
golem peeked around and there he saw a tiny child, no bigger than a bread loaf.
Hello ? he said.
Thank you for coming said the boy. Some fellows pushed me down back here, broke off my
hands and left me. Will you help me up ? The more you help me, the more will I help you. And
the little child smiled the kindest smile that the infant golem had ever seen.
Dear fellow, said the golem, putting his hand behind the boy and lifting him up,
that is very kind of you to want to help me, but with all respect, how do you imagine that you
could help me when you cannot even sit ye up this night ?
My Father in heaven sees your kindness and He will repay thee.
Who is thy Father, said the golem ?
My Father is the King of the universe, said the beautiful child.
Then ye must be a Jew, and son of Abraham ! How auspicious is our meeting,
for I am the infant golem of Prague, sworn to protect and care for thee.
It is no accident that I heard ye this night !
Indeed, said the fair child, I was once a Jew, but now I am something else entirely --
I am called The Infant of Prague, he said.
That is amazing, as I am called The Infant Golem, also of Prague !
I wonder what the Rabbi would think of this ! said the golem.
I imagine he would be surprised to meet me ! And they laughed.
Dear Golem, could you help me to put my hands right and left ?
Of course dear fellow, said the golem, and he fished about for the little wax hands, so like his
own. In the heap, he found the them, lovely as slender boats on the Valtava. The golem heated
the wax with the flame of a prayer votive and put the two hands right and left under the long
sleeved gown of the child. How happy the two friends were in the cathedral.
But outside a terrible noise began to roar, like boulders being smashed up and down the road.
The friends flew up to the highest window and looked through the blue glass of Saint Ludmila
at what was happening in the streets. People were rushing in the starlight, chased by huge
machines, men were shouting, and fires burned.
We must help them ! the infants shouted and out the great door they flew. The first person they
saw was a Jewess who screamed Unclean upon seeing them, for she was afraid of icons.
The next person they met was a Christian boy who yelped Golem for he was a afraid of the
blood libel of the Jews.
What can we do ? said The Infant of Prague.
They none of them like us and are all afraid, the golem said.
We must split up ! You search for Christians and I’ll search for Jews and we’ll both help those
who are neither. Fast as the wind they flew to find someone to help. But in the rising tenor of
mayhem, the two small fellows were hardly noticed.
The little golem was so perplexed: The Rabbi didn’t want to make a scary golem, perhaps, but I
cannot match the men with their boots and daggers. Just then a woman rushed by with a child in
her arms:
What are you doing in the street ? Where is your mother ? she said. Climb on my back and I
will carry you. Hurry.
The golem replied Let me help you, what can I do ?
Help ? the woman said. You, baby, come to me quick and I shall try to hold you !
The golem said I am The Golem of Prague ! I want to protect you !
The woman replied — A Golem is a giant. If you will not go with us, go home to your mother
and hide. Bad men are here. Hurry ! and she ran down the street.
There must be a way to help thought the golem. I will go to the Rebbe and talk with him.
But when he arrived at the Rabbi’s quarters, there was no one there — only a note lay on the
floor, written in the Rabbi’s quick hand. The golem read it out :
Dear little golem, Where are you ?
The soldiers are in the streets this night
and are clearing out the ghetto !
When I asked the L-rd to bring you here,
I never thought we needed you to be a giant --
I imagined that you could be a little child,
like the son or daughter I never had.
Forgive me for the burden I have placed on you.
Do what you can and will to help the people.
And when you wish,
rub out the first letter on your forehead,
so that you may sleep.
The golem sat in the Rabbi’s quarters for a long time. Then he left the ghetto. As he went along the great road, he saw many sights he had never seen before. There was a man hanging in a tree, like the man from Bethlehem in the picture book the Rabbi had shown him; he saw a red cross on a white field where many men were laying down asleep and he thought of the mighty ship Mayflower that the Rabbi had shown him with the flag of Saint George flying them on their way — how many wonders are there of this world ?— he thought to himself; and as he flew above the land he saw that it was just a patchwork, like his own quilt at home; and he wasn’t afraid anymore. And in his eye and in his heart he listened out for the Rabbi.
And golem flew beyond sunshine, to where the air was filled with clouds of ice and he began to walk on the ground, heading east. And when it was night he thought he felt the presence of the Rabbi and he shot up into the dark and listened.
And he was right, the Rabbi ‘s breath came closer every moment and soon the golem saw a change in the patchwork; there was a little hut in a mountainside, with girls and boys eating blueberries in the moonlight and a man playing the accordion and much singing.
And as he flew he saw the land open up into sections, with houses neatly arrayed like blocks on a grid, and a tall fence enclosing the whole place.
The golem saw fires burning, like for a huge campground, the biggest campsite he had ever seen
in any of his books. And he came down and walked beside the campfire and there he saw the
back of a man, in funny clothes that hung like the Rabbi’s bath towel on Friday afternoon. He
drew closer.
Hello. I am the Golem of Prague. I have come looking for my Rabbi he said.
But the man did not turn around, so golem went up to his face. And there he saw that it was the white face of a zombie. The man didn’t seem to notice the golem.
Wake up golem said, but the man stood stoking the flames with heavy work on his arms, and
tears in his eyes. And the golem went away backwards, afraid to look away from the man for a
moment.
And he went through the campsite, around the buildings in the cold mud, listening for his master.
Finally, behind the last row of cabins, near a pile of rocks, he found the Rabbi, lying on his side
in the moonlight. And golem put his hands on the Rabbi’s shoulder, but the Rabbi was too heavy
to turn over.
Rabbi ! It is I, golem ! I have come for you !
The Rabbi rolled over with great strain and golem fell against his face, into his arms, crying.
And they stayed like that a long time. And golem said Rabbi, tell me what to do.
And Rabbi said Remember that you are a Jew.
And golem said I am ?
And Rabbi said Remember when we danced around the table ?
And golem said yes, that he did remember.
And Rabbi said And we clapped ! Did that really happen ?
And golem said yes, it did.
And Rabbi said Are you real ?
And golem said he was.
And the great Rabbi breathed his last breath on earth, in the arms of the golem who loved him.
And golem sat with the Rabbi and hummed a little to himself. Then, when he had kissed the
Rabbi more times than he could remember, he rose and walked as far as he could, until the great
fence of the campsite stopped him. Then he flew into the sky heading back to his city.
When he reached Prague, he did not go home, but went straight to the cathedral.
He walked down the great centre aisle along soft red carpet. At the top of the altar stood the boy, behind a clean crystal glass, his clothes all arrayed in green and gold.
You look just like a prince the golem said.
Dear Golem! said The Infant of Prague, How is it with you ? I have worried for you and he
opened the case and stepped out.
I am very tired said the golem, Will you help me to sleep ?
Of course I will said the fair child, Tell me what you wish me to do.
Rub out the first letter on my forehead said the golem. And he lay down in the cathedral.
And the boy warmed his finger on the flame of a votive and began to rub out the letter on the
golem’s head.
And the golem said Do you know what it says ?
And the boy said It says TRUTH, dear Golem, in our ancient language, but if you take away the
first letter, it says …
and the boy rubbed the letter away and the golem fell silent … it says DEATH, my friend.
And the Infant of Prague carried the golem to the highest room in the old synagogue and closed
and locked the door behind. Then he returned to the cathedral.
And in the high attic of the old synagogue there lies a golem, with this note beside him, written
in the boy’s hand :
I am the Golem of Prague
I wait for the return of the Jews
for I shall be their champion.
Copyright 2012 by Linda Ravenswood
The premonition
I walked into a small, whitewashed room, where the mice had pierced all the walls.
I was inside a white piece of cheese with round rat holes everywhere. I’ll remember
this as long as I live.
I had made piftie, a garlic meat aspic, and I was carrying it on a white China
dish. It quivered and shook with every step I took. I remember saying to myself I can’t
leave the platter here—the rats will eat the aspic. And I turned, and the platter slid
right out of my hands. But it didn’t break. The meat jelly landed in a trembling mound
on the floor; it didn’t spatter or spread.
And that’s how I knew, Carmen, your pancreas was pierced like a piece of
white cheese, but the infection didn’t spread in your belly. It gathered in one place,
and the doctors scooped it out the way I cleaned the meat jelly from the floor.
Copyright 2012 by Claudia Serea
SPRING CONFERENCE, STOLEN WEEKEND
Past master at covering tracks,
she keeps the leaflets by the kitchen vase,
her husband reads and nods, she flags
the calendar, career day, seminar --
whatever, honey. Nods herself,
with pen-hand raised, while colors
off the widescreen flake the gold
around one finger. Broad daylight when she
sweeps up the other. He’s the worried one,
avoiding glances drawn like daisy-heads
that turn when trucks gun past. She’ll take the slow
way to the Con, pick Midwest glacial scabs.
Near-summer, they’re near-liftoff.
They loop the hills, the puckered orchard sprigs,
and swerve past signboards, one hand clapping:
Farm-Fresh. U-Pick. Cords Wood, Weathered.
The letters fade while sun ignites sap-treacle.
She’s got a notion she should share her past.
…now take that downhill, there was Aunt Grunnerz,
you’d think she was the witch from Grimm,
the trap-door candy-coated…. He’s
okay with this, he knows the trick.
perfumes the guilt; the kidstuff scatters tongues
of rose around a sickbed. His turn? Hmm.
Those crates for apples, slatted, foursquare, you
can’t find ‘em anymore…. Suddenly
he’s failing, choking. He’s blanking. Can’t
recall the countryside of childhood! Wait --
Vermont? Blue Ridge? Or Northern Cal, moraines
like these, and loam, and wine and maryjane….
What buzz has he got on, to leave him like
that fledgling buzz out there, the hatchling flies,
those tin bits cruising spit-slick roadside webs?
What chaos lurks across the next state line?
Conventiongoers, up ahead,
will couple them. Their room might leaf into
what’s under wraps, harvest burst free of time --
it might. No way to know until you taste.
Arrival. Registration. Name.
Copyright 2012 by John Domini
Made Friends
The Tinker's life had recently been marred
by a series of tragic events. His wife, his
first creation, pieced together with aluminum
and wood, was accidentally left outside
and taken to a junk yard where she met her
demise underneath an unforgiving amount
of pressure. His cardboard and tape infused
best friend died in a barrel fire that quickly
consumed his soft exterior. But It was
when Chapman, his beloved dog, made of
old bicycle parts and miscellaneous bolts
was tragically run over by a Honda that he
completely lost it.
He spent days at a time in his shop making
what he thought to be indestructible friends--
a bulletproof glass girlfriend who would never
really love his dirty hands like his wife did, a
Kevlar and Cordura stitched new best friend,
and a titanium based cat. But eventually each
of these bricolages also met their untimely
deaths in various freak accidents.
The Tinker, struck with a great feeling of
loneliness, went to his shop for the last time.
He made a gun out of plaster of Paris, caulk,
nails, and rubber, locked his shop's door,
and briefly reminisced about a life wasted.
He then pulled back the gun's rubber firing
mechanism.
Copyright 2012 by Carlos Porras
Pigtail Digitalis
for Brandy Schwan
The hanged man rings his bells,
witches don their gloves,
flappers dance the foxtrot,
Carrie Nations grinds her axe
and speakeasies dump
their liquor down city drains.
In a field of snapdragons
and toadflax, the girls
are holding hands,
can't you see their deaths,
can't you see that they are dead?
In a pool of water hyssops
and starwort, the girls
are taking baths,
can't you feel their deaths
can't you feel that they are dead?
Graveyard nurses sip their coffee under
the umber penumbra of sterile halls,
shuffle and whisper to each other,
"let this be an uneventful shift".
A doctor drops his silver pen
after signing multiple charts,
sighs and wonders how he stumbles
unobstructed in a geriatric ward.
In a blush garden of beardtongue
and drooping kittentails,
the girls chant encircled
and dress themselves with brooklime,
gypsyweed, and speedwell.
They chew on digitalis, gyrate
in perfect unison, laugh
out of the twirl, violet skullcaps
entwined tightly in their braids.
Painter, can you capture their deaths,
can you paint that they are dead?
Copyright 2012 by Angel Uriel Perales
What Happened to Him
She told me he was doing a summer job on a building site. 18. Make a
few quid, something to do. Outdoors, and lots of laughs with the guys on
the site. Whistling at girls, hodding bricks, going up ladders, going down
ladders. Not wearing a shirt with the sweat running down your back.
Feeling real. Alive. The sun in the sky. The house slowly beginning to
appear. Something magical. Walls, roof, joists, rafters. Somewhere in
Surrey. Lots of money floating around. Cement, wood, smoke. Sawdust
and hammers and swearing and drinking tea and laughing all day. One
morning he jumped from a scaffolding walkway, didn’t notice someone
had left a heavy pick on the ground with the handle sticking straight up.
He landed on it and the handle ripped right up inside him. Between his
legs. Up his back passage. A chance in a million. A random act. Hard
to imagine. Hard to think of it actually happening to yourself, as if it was
you it was really happening to. A trick of perspective. His insides were
a mess, but he survived. Just. 18. The sun in the sky. All of it taking
shape.
Copyright 2012 by Graham Fulton
Decorating the Soul
Sandeman. He cuts a dark figure of advertising in Gaia. Wrapped in a black cloak, hat on head, no-one sees his face. There are no markings on his body. He’s all silhouette. The only thing of colour is the glass of red port he holds in his hand.
On the opposite side of the river in Porto, Manoel is working the tables in his father’s restaurant. His sleeves are rolled up showing tattoos on both arms. Chinese script travels the length of his left. On his right, there is a picture of a crouched tiger. Our Lady is designed on the back of his neck.
Manoel clears the dirty tables quickly to make room for the next set of guests. He does not look up at them. He does not have time. He must work hard. He likes to think he is the quickest, the one who grafts the most, the one who deserves the most love.
Back in the kitchen he plonks the dirty crockery by the sink. It rattles for a second then settles. His sister-in-law, Amélia, dressed in a fat-stained white overall and hair bonnet, looks at the pile of plates, the leftover fishbones, the mangled prawns, and sighs. She turns her back to Manoel and hunches over the sink. She starts to scrub a pan slowly. Manoel sucks his teeth and says to himself, “Que Deus proteja meu destino”.
Amélia’s slowness gets on his nerves. For every plate she washes he could do four. But she is family. His elder brother’s wife. Keep it in the family his father always says. Already the mother of four small children, her body has never recovered from the exertion. Her waist is the same width as her hips and her swollen ankles spill out of her shoes. She reminds Manoel of a penguin, her arms too padded to settle easily at the side.
A couple have already seated themselves at one of the cleared tables. The woman is white, the man Asian. He brings them a menu and shoots back to the kitchen to get clean cutlery. Amélia is scraping the plates into a full bin.
“Why don’t you change it?” says Manoel. “If you pack in more, the bag will burst.”
Amélia ignores him and carries on scraping. Playing deaf is one of her tactics. She would never openly defy Manoel, but by pretending that she hasn’t heard, she wins small victories. She doesn’t want to empty the bin. Manoel grabs the ends of the plastic bag and pulls out the waste. He bangs it on the floor and bits of fish fall at his feet. He ties a knot. Amélia still has some fishbones left on her plate. She stands there blankly.
“Are you going to put a new liner in the bin?” says Manoel. He turns. His father is in the doorway with his arms folded.
“Are you going to pick up what you dropped?” his father says.
“I’ve got customers. Amélia can do it.”
“I’ll see to the customers. Just make sure the floor is clear. I don’t want any accidents tonight.”
Manoel hurls the rubbish into the skip, grabs the dustpan from the cupboard and starts to sweep up. He looks at the bits of hair, breadcrumbs, broken bones collecting in the dustpan and wants to rearrange it over Amélia’s head. His brushstrokes get wider and he sweeps onto her fat ankles, hoping to provoke her, but she does not react. When he is done, he stands up and looks at the bin. It still has no plastic bag lining it.
“Amélia!” he shouts.
“Yes, Manoel,” says Amélia, her back to him.
“The bin liner!”
Amélia turns to look at him. She wipes her soapy hands with a cloth, ten maybe fifteen times, all the time looking at Manoel. She places the cloth back on the hook very carefully and walks up to him. He is holding the dustpan at chest height.
“Would you like me to get a fresh bin liner for you?” says Amélia.
“Correct,” says Manoel, wondering what kind of shape Amelia’s mouth would make if he rammed the dustpan into it.
“Why didn’t you say so?” says Amélia.
Manoel bites his tongue. He looks across at his elder brother who is too busy serving food onto plates to notice this exchange. Someone else who can play deaf and dumb very effectively. Why did he marry her? What could he possibly have seen in this dumpling of a woman?
The couple outside are now looking anxiously at the kitchen. His father has forgotten the cutlery. The man seems to know only two words of Portuguese: señor and obrigado, thank you. He wants every item of the menu explained. Manoel uses the little English he has to translate.
“Obrigado,” says the man.
“Not. On. The. Menu,” says Manoel.
Manoel looks across the river at the silhouetted Sandeman, blinking white and black against the night sky. He loves the image. He wonders why he has never had Sandeman tattooed onto his own body. It is the first picture he could draw by heart. Sandeman the solid, the broad shouldered, the proud. Winner of women and breaker of hearts. His is a manly beauty. Sandeman will never be forced to sweep fishbones off the floor. Or empty bins.
“Señor,” says the man. Manoel snaps out of his reverie and looks at his customer.
“Prawns, please. Obrigado. Señor. And a wine.”
“Red or white?”
Faced with another choice, the man reverts to the menu.
“A port, señor, obrigado,” says the man, closing the menu.
“Red or white?” says Manoel.
“Red,” says the woman rather quickly. She takes the menu out of the man’s hands as though removing a dangerous toy from a child. “Darling, look at the bridge. Isn’t it pretty?” She looks up at Manoel and gives him a nod. Her eyes look a little tired. The mascara has smudged.
Manoel enters the restaurant, places the order and takes the Sandeman bottle from the shelf. He pours two glasses.
The restaurant is full of his father’s clutter. Banknotes from all over the world line the walls. Paintings are crammed into every single space. Old sewing machines, irons, dial telephones, objects of another era.
His father loves to tell the tale of the first painting he ever bought. He was by the river in the Ribeira district, watching a young artist at work. A Frenchman. The artist was painting boats along the Gaian shore. Manoel’s father, Joachim, or “Chim” to his friends, asked him how much he wanted for the painting. The Frenchman said 2,000 escudos without even looking up from his canvas. This was way before the euro. In the late eighties, 2,000 escudos was a lot of money. Chim handed it over immediately. No negotiation. No bartering. No price ping pong. From that moment onwards the Frenchman became a friend, his father a hero. Chim tells this story to all his customers. He even had the painting made into his personal business card. People love this tale. Manoel has heard it a thousand times.
On the table by the door there is a stack of visitors’ books. Chim began collecting them as a young man and they’ve been piling up against the restaurant walls ever since.
When Manoel finishes his shift for the night, he often sits and looks through the comments. Entries are written in many languages, some in scripts he does not know nor understand – Arabic, Chinese, Russian. He likes these foreign entries the most because then he can imagine for himself what is written: ‘Nice place, great waiter’; ‘A wonderful night to remember under Portuguese stars. The service was superb. Our waiter served us the most exquisite dishes within minutes of ordering’; ‘The food was excellent but we were particularly struck by the charming and handsome waiter who served us at record speed’.
There are even notes from politicians and celebrities. It might be a small place but his father often boasts that it is frequented by people from all over the world. Even the most remote islands of the South Pacific have an entry and a banknote tacked to the ceiling.
Manoel wants to visit the places he can only read about at the moment. Places that do not leave him smelling of fish. His father might be content to experience these places second hand but Manoel wants to see them with his own eyes. Porto is too small, the streets too cramped, the air too fetid to breathe. He wants to travel to the tallest skycrapers, the deepest canyons, the widest rivers and the busiest streets.
The couple finish their meal and ask for the bill. The man catches Manoel by the arm and says, “Señor, obrigado for the prawns.” Manoel has grown curious about him, wondering where he’s from. He knows his father will be thinking the same thing. Manoel prepares the receipt. They are one of the last customers of the evening and his sprint slows down to a purposeful stride. He can relax a little. He’s made a lot of tips, all of which go towards his round-the-world ticket.
Chim is sitting in his favourite spot at the back of the restaurant, observing the couple. His arms are folded and he has a smile on his face. Manoel pours him a port.
“Thank you, son,” says Chim.
In the kitchen Amélia is tackling the final pots. Sweat is pouring down her face. Manoel sees his brother give her a cheeky slap on the bottom. He wishes it were harder.
The woman stands at the entrance of the restaurant and flicks through the albums idly.
“Please,” says Chim and gestures for her to sign.
Manoel produces a pen, hoping his father will notice. She cannot refuse. She takes the pen, finds an empty page and starts to write. Her husband enters and looks over her shoulder.
“It’s a visitors’ book,” the woman says.
“Let me sign something,” he replies.
She hands over the book and wanders outside. Manoel is pleased. He’s not interested in what she has to say. She’s European. He serves Europeans day in day out. He knows the Roman alphabet all too well. Her husband is something different. He wants to see this man’s handwriting. He offers him a seat.
“Where are you from?” shouts Chim, from the other end of the restaurant. Manoel feels a shiver of resistance. Every time he tries to capture someone’s attention, his father takes over and Manoel is ignored.
“Guess,” says the man, without looking up.
“India,” says Chim.
“No.” The man lets out a small but exasperated sigh.
“Bangladesh.”
“No.”
“Pakistan,” says Manoel.
The man pauses. “No, Afghanistan,” he says.
Chim nods.
“Ever had any Afghans before in your restaurant?” says the man. Chim nods again as though he gets Afghanis every week through his doors. “We’ve had people from everywhere.” The man looks a little disappointed.
Manoel scans the man’s handwriting. There is something about it that makes his heart skip a beat. Something magical about the flow of the script, like white water rapids on a page, dancing above and below the line.
“What language is that? Persian?” Manoel asks.
“Pashto. I’m Pashtun.”
Manoel has never heard the word Pashto before. He looks at the man properly for the first time. He doesn’t have one of those turbany things on his head. His hair is thinning on top but is a deep, deep black. There are faint streaks of grey at the temples. His nose is wide and there are several dark liver spots on each cheek. The lips are full, almost female in shape. He is a handsome man, probably about thirty years of age. Manoel wonders how an Afghani ends up in Porto with an English woman. He must have travelled, seen the world, to come to such a hidden spot.
“Can you write my name?” asks Manoel.
“Sure. What is it?”
“Manoel. Em.A.En.O.E.El.”
The man takes a fresh page and starts to write. First a swirl, like a wave, then a dot above and below. More waves. More squiggles and it is done. The man turns the page to Manoel. It is beautiful. His heart jumps again. What is it about this script? This man, this stranger, someone who sat at his table, harassed him over the menu, ate his food, drank his wine, someone he did not know two hours ago writes the name Manoel - his name - in a language he has never heard of before and he can barely breathe.
He thinks it is a sign from God. Only once before has he felt like this when he was eight or nine years old. He was walking to the altar to receive the First Holy Communion. A statue of Our Lady was looking down on him from on high. Her hands were together in prayer and she was smiling at him like his mother. She followed him with her eyes all the way to the front of the church where the priest was waiting for him. He thought her beautiful. Her smile was so welcoming, so loving, that when the priest said to him, “The body of Christ,” Manoel forgot what he was supposed to say. He only had to remember one word, but he forgot it. He kept looking at Our Lady. Then something strange happened. He saw her mouth the word, ‘Amen’. She put her fingers to her lips to ensure the secret between them, then closed her hands in prayer again. “Amen,” he said to the priest and opened his mouth to receive the Eucharist. At that moment he knew Our Lady had singled him out. She was watching him. He wanted her to watch him for the rest of his life. He’d often doodled pictures on the back of his hand. At the age of eight or nine he’d decided on his first tattoo.
“More. Write me: May God pro-pro-tega my destino.”
“Destino? What’s that?”
“He means destiny,” says the woman. She is standing at the entrance. “May God protect my destiny.”
The man closes his eyes in concentration as though offering up a prayer.
“Yes! May God protect my destiny. Write it. In your language.” Manoel is excited. He is nine years old again. He can read the signs. He is being called. He doesn’t know why this man has been chosen over any other. From the shelf above he gets two glasses and puts them down on the table. He waves to the man’s wife to come and join them in a drink. He pours them a port each from the expensive bottle, reserved only for celebrities and politicians. Chim raises his eyebrows and says, “Are we celebrating something, son?”
“Yes. My next tattoo.”
Chim folds his arms tightly across his chest. Manoel knows his father had been horrified when he presented him with the Virgin Mary on his back all those years ago. “Of all the images to choose you’ve gone for the Mother of God!” his father had said. “A statue in church, yes, or even a painting on a wall, but, son, to have her etched onto your back. You can’t even see her.”
“I know she’s there,” Manoel had replied and clamped his mouth shut. Chim knew then it was no use arguing the point further. Even if Manuel had had to tattoo it on himself using a mirror, a compass and a bottle of ink he would have done so. Manoel, he would say, out of all his children, was the most determined.
The man spends the next few minutes writing the script. He does so very carefully, almost as if each letter were sacred. Manoel appreciates this. Normally he would be impatient over such care, but these words will be marked indelibly on his body for the rest of his life. He doesn’t want the man making any mistakes.
Amélia, her work finished for the night, joins them, but says nothing. She pulls the hair bonnet off and ruffles her flattened curls. Manoel tries to block her view.
When Manoel looks at his name spelt out again, he is taken aback. The ‘el’, the first letter that he reads left to right, which is the final letter in Pashto, is like a capital ‘J’ and the ‘e’ looks back to front. If one reads it quickly, it looks like ‘Jesus’.
“What’s your name?” asks Chim.
The man says, “Badam.”
“Like Adam, with a ‘B’,” says the woman. “It means almond.”
“When the almond tree is in blossom,” says Badam, looking at Chim, “and the leaves are so white and beautiful, that is badam.”
“I will write to you, Badam” says Manoel. His eyes are bright. “Look, I show you.” He turns his back to them and removes his shirt. The Virgin Mary can be seen in full. She reaches the top of his neck to the small of his tanned back. It must have taken hours of pain, hours of patience. “She will protect your destiny too.”
As the couple walk out of the restaurant, the woman links arms with Badam. She turns to look at Manoel and Chim and gives them a wave. Amélia watches them go. She is outside, too, hiding in the shadows, smoking. As she stubs out the cigarette, she hears the woman say, “Did you know who that woman was tattooed on his back?”
Badam shakes his head. He has a smile on his face. The woman says, “It was the Mother of Jesus, also known as Our Lady, the Madonna and the Blessed Virgin Mary.”
“Madonna. I’ve heard of her.”
“Why are you smiling?”
“Wouldn’t it be funny if I’d written, ‘Badam for President’?” Amélia smiles too. She watches them as they walk into the night. On the billboard across the river the lights of Sandeman wink at her. He’s a man who can keep a secret.
Copyright 2012 by Kerry Barner
