Run for Milk on a Saturday Evening

As Bill leaned over to tie his shoelace he thought about what a stupid name he had. He thought he knew now the answer to give the authorities when they'd find his parents' bodies—butchered with the heirloom silver steak knives, quartered and baked into a lovely southern barbecue (they believed only in fine French dining). And furthermore, felt Bill, it was a good thing he hadn't themoney and his parents hadn't the compassion to pay for a shrink, when his one-hundred-and-twenty-eight-thousand-dollar epiphany (he'd kept a running tally since the ageof fifteen) had been that he hated his name more than anything. He'd always wanted something different: something with more syllables; something starting with a more prolific letter of the twenty-six. Something rare and romantic—like Davenport or Fernando, or even something like William. When he'd inquired, at the age of five, why his prenom was in reality only a nickname, his father had patted his rear and said,"Bill-boy, why have to pick it? We've done it for ya!" And he thought now how thatstatement applied to everything he'd ever known. The jock-school on the Upper East Side, Dartmouth for pre-med—he'd dropped out in three months—since he'd wanted to be a writer (or the next Dylan, when his mind really wandered). Or simply a four letter name—pick any—doesn't have to be "Bill" (and it certainly wasn't to the high schoolfootball team) when he dreamed every night of Vladimirs and Mauriccios. At twenty-eight he'd thought of adopting a pen name—then imagined his first book signing (he was sure if he ever had one, he'd be old and senile by then), and inscribing some gorgeous girl's book, while spying her long legs and the fact that she was a fan without a bra, Bill Wasenovskovisch. Anyway, even "Archie" was disyllabic—you never heard Veronica pine after Moose.

Someone kicked him. Imagine that: he was tying his shoe, and some asshole'd kicked him. True—he'd been done for a minute or so already, but did he really have to be assaulted, crouched over on the sidewalk? Not like he was so large of an obstacle, anyway; at five-seven he'd figure even old women could simply step over. Only on the West Coast; people had manners in the City. He thought of hisupbringing, how he loved a metropolis and none better than the Big Apple (though apples are small and he wondered why not watermelon or pumpkin), the center of the art world, snow-covered trees in January (thought of WoodyAllen films, so then Bergman—being able to see those movies in theatres); he thought of the Botanic Gardens in the early spring and cherry blossoms, Moma and street life, so therefore Lou Reed and an entire era wasted on his Long Island-born parents.

He'd only moved out here because lighter jackets are cheaper, and because long distance bills mean fewer phone calls and, anyway, his sister lived in Brooklyn, with a large Victorian house—and a generic household to match. She'dgiven his parents two kids and a dog, and a nice son ("in-law" forgotten), so hefigured, now, that he was off the hook in the procreation department. And he was allergic to anything with fur (like his aunt, Dora). Anyway, he didn't exactly have more of a life than a hermit— he just wanted one.

It was cold out, though; he hadn't imagined San Francisco could get so--wasn't California a desert? He wrapped his coat around him tightly and wished for once that he wasn't such a fan of vintage suede, lacking lining. His fingers fumbled half-numbly in his pocket for a cigarette until he remembered why he'd come out in the first place. For milk. Couldn't simply be Marlboro's; how admissive of defeat against the evils of advertisement. And for cereal, if it was sugary enough because that was all that he lived on. He came to the store at the corner and cursed for a few minutes, seeing it was closed. In disbelief he even looked inside at the darkness, pulling at the door (with a "push" sign).

He hated the idea of searching for a new store. His face was already flushed as he felt the eyes of walkers on him as he argued with the "closed" sign onthe door. He had a nice and silent agreement with the man at the Korean market not to inquire about the reason for his lack of a weekend night life (or any at all for that matter), though he doubted it was anything more than the cashier's lack of knowledge of the English language. He wondered if the small man ridiculed him while smiling, though he could not formulate the sounds of thoughts in an Asian language and so did not imagine any. Anyway, he really wanted a cigarette now, and a bowl of cereal with skim milk (he hated creamy things—thought of mucus).

He found an identical market around the corner and stepped in with his head down; he hated confrontations—conversations—and he found the West Coast to be angeringly friendly and warm. He felt the cashier's eyes on his neck as he walked down the aisle and wondered why hands in pockets always seemed to signal "robbery." Fuck you, asshole, they're cold and I'm sorry if I don't have gloves. Or something better to do on "date night."

[She watched him from behind the register and thought how bohemianly East Coast he looked. She placed him at twenty-five at most—being her age, with a nice ass and jacket. She liked the way his pants hung. He reached to get milk and she wondered if his wife was pregnant, so couldn't come with him.]

He came to the register, having already calculated the sum—it was a game he played (or a memory he had from repetition) and asked for a pack of Reds and matches, please. She was looking at him sideways and he was looking up through his bangs. Well, okay, at least I'm not working behind a cash register, for a living. Fucking Korean immigrants—learn the language and get a real job. He handed over one of the traveler's checks his mother sent a stack of monthly—with a note saying, don't tell your father (and he didn't tell them he was an usher at the Lysine;he didn't say anything at all and they didn't ask him).

[He bought typical lonely-single-white-male-food and she suddenly felt motherly kindness, though she never had those impulses towards children. She wondered, if she asked, would it be too forward to ask for his number, and would he give it. He looked sort of torturèdly artistic—like Hemingway or Modigliani. She looked down quickly though, realizing he must think this was her only source of income. Fuck you, you greasy asshole; she was paying her way through grad school, for a masters in teaching. He was obviously a tourist anyway, though she wondered why he was buying food if he was staying at a hotel. Though most likely"motel" from the looks of that ratty jacket.]

He paid and took the bag and change quickly (milk was more expensive here and he wouldn't be back; anyway he didn't like changes) and said thank you, slowly. He even smiled, so she'd understand him—fucking foreigners. He walked out. It was colder than he'd remembered, and his shoelace'd come untied again. He'd wait till he got back to the apartment and heating.

Rebecca L.

Auburn-haired "Piderman" falls in the grass

He tries to climb the sticky tree with the big kids
but he falls,
in the grass.
"Piderman," he shouts as he jumps up
and chases peaceful Mr. Squirrel.
"Piderman" has sap on his fingers, and grass in his pockets,
and dirt on his nose.
I am Dr. Octopus.
Who is Dr. Octopus?
Dr. Octopus squeezes "Piderman" in its death grip and
spins him till he can't walk, and staggers

Molly A.

a new appreciation for the rain

Nights of solitude
no promise of sleep
were frustrating yet incredible
dreams before dreams—
fantasizing,
your winter-black hair,
delicate snow-white body,
big enough to swallow me whole,
and your hands . . .
oh, so magical, divine, capable of building
a 21st-century house
gentle enough
to swim alongside
frail Chinese strokes.

Us and
a novel, sweet smell
more powerful than the cold air
a gentleman in disguise
you hand me your hat
—I like your hat (I taste your skin)—
ginger hands ignite a fire
reading lips
ignoring the silence
our thoughts are precious, memorable, and quickly dissolved
as thighs aflame
are put out with tongues.

Classic, simple, completely complete,
and nothing more
but the wet white shirt you wear in
the pouring, soaking, and wonderful rain
(you love the rain)
you smile
hair wet against skin
all that you care about is the
cigarette between your lips
not the sky above
nor the soft blanket of rain upon us
nor the New York lights of everyone else in the world
surrounding us,
our moment.

And yet you are not even aware of
those once unwashed hands,
stolen sniffs of your sweatshirt scent,
and the graffiti scrap that proves your presence
of one afternoon,
and how they have absorbed
into my skin
like a tattoo,
or better yet
a permanent smile.

Emma G.

Someone opens a window to get some air. The soothing pitter-pattering turns into harsh splattering. The stench of car exhaust reaches my nose. I make a face and stick out my tongue at the next graffitied truck that is in front of my car. The dog lifts his head in surprise when the car next to us trumpets its horn as if it would solve something. Someone sighs and closes the window. I feel safe again.

Justina K.

Pumping

The little girl clung tightly to the swing, the wind swooshing madly past her brown ringlets of curls, throwing them up into a tangled web. Her body bowed to the rhythm of her pumping, up, down, up, down. She was keeping a constant view of the pole from which the swing hung, way at the top. She wanted to go higher than that pole, so high she would turn upside down and swing in a taut circle around it, coming right back to where she started from, a few feet up from the ground, but having conquered the swing, and the ones next to her, and the whole playground.

She could hear her mother's voice in the distance, as her mother was lifting her baby brother onto the smaller, more secure tot swings. Her mother picked him up by his armpits and set him down. As she started to push him slowly, he extended his arms straight out in front of him and his mouth opened into a wide oval on its side, a sign that he was either afraid or very happy.

The girl was still swinging higher and higher, getting closer to what was becoming a necessary goal. At the height of each swing she was now only inches away from the cold metal pole; she could almost reach up and touch its smooth surface.

Suddenly she jerked her head around, searching for her mother and baby brother. Her upper torso turned with her head, and all of a sudden her little finger got caught between the chains of the swing. It was being tightly pinched, and she struggled to yank it free. At that moment her other hand slipped and she went flying off the swing. She sailed through the air, stunned, for what had to be at least a month, traveling at a height unknown to her in her six years of age. Then, too soon, she landed with an embarrassingly painful thud on the patch of dirt in the grass beneath the swing. With one humiliating slip the whole road she had traveled, the extreme closeness with which she had almost been there, at her goal, had vanished.

Elizabeth H.

Phases

1.
There are two, a bedroom,
a black strap slipping off
a frail bone shoulder, small smile,
sliding under hips, four legs, two heads tilted,

tipped off the axis, eyes open, averted,         pull,
slight exertion, she finds it silly
and sits up.

2.
She falls asleep first, he untangles
her hair, splayed over the pillow,
         she's like a child
he thinks, and this pleases him.

3.
He is the one to cry out from a dream,
sweaty, waking her,
soft-eyed, caring as a sister, straightening the sheets,
slips one arm around his middle, sleeps again, sharing his pillow.

4.
Both wake an hour later, bleary, dehydrated,
he brings water, she's cranky, scowling, she shrugs him
off her, pale body shutdown, lanky, she frowns.

5.
Neither can fall back to sleep,
the room seems to have gotten so small, stoic white walls,
suffocating ceiling, he goes to the window for a cigarette,

she stares at the floor, hangs one arm over the side of the bed, you're
keeping me up she complains.

6.
Sweeter now, the sky is beginning to lighten,
soft glow burns behind their eyelids,
not sleeping, not awake, but gentle tangle of limbs
(the soaring one encounters in a semi-
                              conscious state of hellohello
and thank you, crossing of borders, here a river, there a desert, eclipsing,
and what a blueblue sky it is)
synchronized breathing, sinking.

7.
Such a Loud and Rude disturbance,
almost sleeping, and the garbage truck growling from the street,
she lets out a moan           he jumps up out of frustration.

They decide to fuck it, to get out of this room, these walls and sheets so binding.
They head out for coffee, he helps her with her jacket,
she leans on him on the way down.

8.
They sit on a stoop, huddled, heads bent,
watching as the sun rises higher and obliterates the shadows lurking in the corners.

Sara F.

Upward

And he walked on. He walked along
The granite soil and crumpled paper cliffs.
With spherule eyes and with his
Haggard hands he reached into the sky to cause
The decadence of the sun.
But promptly,
Before a second had had time to pass,
He threw straight back his potent head,
And while his mouth was thus ajar,
Upward
Sprang the fresh and lovely moon.

Anna K.

Fixing a Muscle

***

I had just spent the past half-hour kissing a boy. He had red hair and blue eyes and soft skin on his arms and we'd snuck away from the big groups of our friends because we knew it would happen between us that night. We had been spending a lot of time together and he was opinionated and made me laugh. I was wearing his sweatshirt, blue with a hood and a big front pocket for both hands. We'd sat under a tree with low branches. The dark hardly let me see his face. Sand was the floor and it got in my socks. I knew everyone would ask me if we were together. His mouth had felt good on mine.

***

Jeff was sitting alone on a small incline to the left of the bonfire. It lit the left side of his face the color the sun had been before it went down. His knees were up and his arms wrapped around them. I remember being amazed at how small he could make himself. He was still in a tee shirt and shorts even though the evening was cool and the wind made his sleeves puff up like bells. We'd met in the airport in America six days before. His smile had been bright and enthusiastic when I introduced myself by telling him I liked the band that was advertised on his shirt. He was warm from the beginning. I gravitate toward warmth. The boy I'd been kissing was Jeff's best friend. It struck me how, in less than a week, our lives had become so intertwined.

We were getting to know each other and we'd had a long talk a few nights before. We'd lain on a grassy hill in the dark, facing the lights of Jerusalem that we could see just over the trees. He had talked to me about the girls. I remember appreciating how he could speak about personal things so easily. In the cool Bedouin night I sat down next to him and he turned his face to me, his lips curving into a half-smile. He said he'd just been sitting there thinking about things. I wanted to ask what things, but he was getting ready to tell me and I knew that. I ran my fingers through the sand around me.

There were Canadians sitting by the bonfire playing drums. They had been playing since before it got dark and I heard it like a white noise, shutting out the conversations that went on around us like loud crickets. Jeff told me he'd been thinking about his ex-girlfriend, how he had thought he was going to marry her. I asked what happened between them and he shook his head and shrugged, frustrated with what his answer would have to be. She had cheated on him. They had first been together at summer camp, and when he left early to have heart surgery, she had cheated on him. I thought of how hard it must have been for her to think about him and about why he wasn't there and that being with someone else had been her way of putting it out of her mind. She must have thought that what was happening to him wasn't real, that it was all a dream and that when she got home to Minnesota he would be there like he always was, healthy and in love with her. I was going to tell him that, but I was sure he had already thought of it. I thought about how it was so easy for him to have deep relationships. I'd picked that up about him in the very beginning and it impressed me.

Three days after I'd met him we went swimming with all of our friends and I saw his scar. I was the only one who noticed it and I remembered wondering why nobody else had. I remembered that it had made me sad and that I'd sat at the edge of the pool while everyone else had chicken fights. I asked if he would feel comfortable telling me about his surgery and he said yes. He told me about the number of doctors he'd been to and that one of them hadn't thought anything was wrong, that it was only a heart murmur. I told him that I had a heart murmur and so did my mom. A better doctor evaluated his condition and knew that an operation was necessary. They'd had to replace a valve, and he said that the only thing that was different now was that he couldn't play football. I pictured him in a football uniform and smiled. I asked him how it had affected him emotionally, but I didn't really hear his answer. While he was talking, I was picturing him opened up, his body's lifeline and his ability to love exposed to the air and clamps and scalpels and doctors. I wondered if when the surgeon looked at Jeff's heart he saw love escaping. I wondered what had been taken out along with a dysfunctional valve. Maybe they had taken out the piece that loved his girlfriend. Could the doctors see that? I imagined the operating room bright with a white light that was so strong it made everything look fuzzy. I saw the doctors standing around the operating table in a rectangle, their faces lit with a warm glow given off by his red heart. I saw the piece they took out continuing to glow and the face of the surgeon amazed at how warm it felt in his hands. I think that when they put in the new valve they must have found one even brighter and warmer still than the first. I felt cold and asked Jeff if he did too and he said no.

People we knew walked by in groups. The wind blew girls' hair over their eyes and someone had wrapped himself in a sleeping bag, worn like a jacket. I asked to see Jeff's scar and he lifted his shirt. A smooth vertical line of tissue extended down his sternum and I ran my finger over it. He said he couldn't even feel that I was touching him. To me it felt more like plastic than skin. I knew I hadn't been through enough or learned enough about myself yet to handle what he had coped with, but as we sat there in the desert, our inner thighs sore from riding camels and our faces dirty with sand and sweat and friendship, I thought of how what Jeff had done was something I would strive toward.

Leora V.

Tricknology

Andrew U.