BICYCLE © 4/20/2005 Connie Vigil Platt It all started when my knee started hurting. It got so bad I couldn’t walk across the room without pain shooting up my leg. The only thing to do of course was go to my family doctor. Naturally the first thing he said was, “You need to lose some weight. If you don’t you may have to have knee replacement surgery, and I know you don’t want that. You have developed osteoporosis/arthritis in your joints. I can give you some pills that will help but you need to do something.” My opinion of him immediately plummeted. That is an old person ailment. At not even seventy I would not believe I was ready to be old. How could he even suggest that I was over weight? When I was eighteen I weighted about 98 pounds. I wasn’t eighteen in years old anymore but in my mind I was still that skinny young girl. So it was hard for me to admit that I had gotten older. My best choice would be to lose some of the extra pounds. If you lose two pounds a week how long will it be before you disappear completely. I was in no danger of fading away. I did try to fix nourishing meals. I bought smaller plates; to fool myself into thinking I was getting full size portions. I tried to arrange the food in an appetizing manner. You eat with your eyes as well as your taste. The first week I gained two pounds. Since the diet didn’t work I bought some exercise equipment. I tried riding a stationary bicycle in front of the television and that was no fun since my husband refused to give up the channel changer. I had a basement full of gym equipment that was fast growing rust and housing various types of mold. I didn’t want to use it and didn’t want to keep it clean. My knee kept getting weaker. Since I was afraid if I didn’t do something drastic, I would soon not be able to walk. So I decided I needed to ride a bicycle. As a child I never learned to ride a two-wheeled bike so in the natural progression of things I should be able to ride a three-wheeled bike. I scoured the newspaper ads for a second hand bike, on the off chance that it would end up with the other instruments of torture growing old in the basement. I finally found one in my price range, or in other words, cheap. It needed quite a bit of work but my husband said he would tear himself away from the television long enough to fix it. He worked on it for several days, oiling, greasing, and even getting new tires. He got on and rode around the yard. He pedaled silently and effortlessly. It looked great. “Come on get on and try it out.” He called. I lifted my leg over the seat and put it back on the ground. “Get on.” I shook my head. “Get on, I’ll hold you.” With every ounce of will power I could muster I got on and sat on the seat. Making sure my feet were on the pedals. He pushed. I screamed and tried to get off. “Pedal with your feet. I won’t let you fall,” He shouted. I screamed and tried to get off. He started pushing with one hand on the handlebars and one hand holding my back. I screamed and tried to get off. We made so much noise we had attracted a crowd of neighbors. One of them said, “If you can walk upstairs you can ride a bike. Just move your feet up and down.” He made pedaling motions with his hands. Easy for him to say, sure you can pedal the air with your hands. Every day we tried to practice with a bicycle that wouldn’t co-operate, so we didn’t have much success. The bystanders gave up calling out encouragement and went home to more important matters. Still it didn’t get any easier even without an audience. Finally, giving up all hope, we put it in the garage. Where it smiled evilly at me every time I went to get in my car. As if it knew it had won the war. It got so bad that I started parking in the driveway so I wouldn’t have to look at it. I hate to think that an inanimate object had gotten the best of me so one day when I was alone I collected all the courage I had and wheeled the object of my terror outside. Pulling up every ounce of nerve I got on. It sat there. I pushed down with one foot as I had been instructed. I move about an inch. I pushed with the other foot, and stayed in the same spot. Again with the first foot, I moved slightly. Finally I got it moving, somewhat erratically but moving, weaving and swaying around the yard. It was several days before I was brave enough to take it out on the sidewalk, and several more before I would tell anyone I was actually riding it. My husband has gotten a two-wheel bicycle for himself and we load them up and go ride around the park. We are having so much fun doing something together. It is great exercise and I have a wonderful feeling of accomplishment for overcoming my fears. Oh yes I have lost quite a bit of weight, I’m not going so say how much because then you could figure out how much I weighed to begin with. My knee feels so much better I can walk without a limp and my doctor says I won’t need surgery, I don’t know if this will work for everybody but it worked for me.

Sunflowers Christian Ward We ate lunch by a field of sunflowers, watching their petals flop like a folded out tissue paper crown. I wanted to mock them as I sat under a giant oak, tease their colour (stolen from their lesser cousin, the dandelion) as I ripped the flesh off my roasted chicken. That would be my moment, I thought. I wanted to stand over their decapitated stalks and be tall, not feeling their brown suns burn as the field was set alight by my tongue.

Stop Short: Safety Scissors Robert Dunn Tool of choice among maladjusted kindergartners, blunted tips mock my thirst for revenge. Knowing I must never run with you, I can still sneak up, snipping suspenders.

The Husband Raud Kennedy My landlord showed up this morning to blow leaves around the building. A short, potbellied bald man doing what he’s been told to. “You can’t put your sailboat in the water,” said his wife, “until work at the sevenplex is done.” He turned on the leaf blower, the air filled with dust. It’s July. The leaves, still in the trees.

78 RPM James Gapinski I’m a writer. I’ve had one short story and a handful of poems published. Hardly enough prestige to quit my day job; which involves selling vintage records to middle-aged people and the occasional teenager who can scrounge up enough money to afford his or her favorite LP on vinyl. Of course the adolescent customers are few and far between, partly because they are always broke, but mostly because my store doesn’t carry the type of music that the youth enjoy. My store specializes in bands from the 60s and 70s. I’ll occasionally stock some stuff from a decade above or below that range, but such occurrences are pretty rare. It seems like most kids these days only like what MTV tells them to. They wouldn’t know the Beatles from the Beach Boys or Billy Joel from Elton John. There is this one real sharp kid though, Peter is his name, he’s one of the teens that I see on a regular basis. Even when he doesn’t have the cash to by an album he will come in on occasion just to shoot the shit. I’ve been lonely lately, and I guess having the company is nice. The kid knows his stuff too, and when that youngster sets his mind on getting an album he won’t take no for an answer; which of course can be a pain in the ass for me, ‘cause the kid knows his stuff. He always wants the obscure albums that are ridiculously hard to find. And to tell the truth, half of the time when I do get my mitts on one of the records Peter is looking for, I’ll hide it away in my private stash and tell him I was unable to locate a copy. He’s got this friend too, kind of nerdy lookin’ kid, reminds me of me at that age. You know the type that I mean; the sort of kid that has a plethora of Star Wars t-shirts, wears those thick-rimmed glasses, and revels in any opportunity to show off his knowledge of the Klingon language. I guess I don’t mind when he brings the nerdy kid around, ‘cause as I mentioned before, I can really use the company. * * * So I’m a writer, right? Well I’m working on this play right now. I figure I can give drama a shot. I haven’t had much luck “breaking out” into the fiction or poetry market, so why the hell not try drama, right? I decided a few months ago that I wanted to write a piece about the war, a real jazzed up contemporary piece. Breaking down the fourth wall, mixing up the chronology of the play, the works—like Margaret Edson’s Wit. I know what I want to do with the piece, but I don’t know how to do it. I wanna write an anti-war play, something that’ll maybe change a few minds in favor of peace and reason. The only problem is that I don’t know how to depict war in a way that will help display its malevolence. I digress, I saw this lecturer a few weeks ago at some college in the area, I don’t remember the name of the campus, but I damn well remember the speaker. Chris Hedge’s was the name, author of some book or another, War is a Force That Gives us Meaning or some jazz like that. So he explains how war is like a drug, how even amid its gruesome details, those who are enticed by the myth of war will become intoxicated by its essence. War gives people an adrenaline rush, and they suddenly feel as if they have something to live for. To rally around the apparent truth and justice of a noble campaign gives John and Jane Doe meaning beyond their crappy 9 to 5 jobs and bratty kids—war gives us all meaning and lets American society feel like it is part of “something more.” It made perfect sense; this Hedge’s guy was really onto something. He told of all the times he’d seen war firsthand as a reporter for the Times. Yet despite the unease that it churned in his gut, he craved war and he was drawn to it. Just like we all stop and look at the car crash on the side of the freeway, even though we feel like we shouldn’t stare, he too was drawn to the wreckage of war. War entices and enchants, it is impossible to ignore its vociferous presence. Even the works of those who speak out against the evils of war can become a part of its sinister seduction. Hedges explained about this group of marines that would watch anti-war films before battle to psyche themselves out and get ready for killing. Where some might see horror and mayhem, those who are addicted to the drug of war see honor and glory. The addiction does not stop at the battle field or the military base, it is in our very homes as we all reverently buy into the myth of the “just” war. Therein lies my dilemma, how do I create an anti-war play that does not show war? How do I avoid feeding the addiction with images of war, yet still accurately portray the horror of war? Hedges mentioned this French film from the 50s called Forbidden Games that was a good example of an effective anti-war film. I had seen the film before, but felt compelled to watch it again after Hedges mentioned it in his lecture. It is this flick where two kids find dead animals and bury them, real grizzly stuff. But battle is not really shown, only alluded to. It portrays the aftereffects of war without glorifying the callous killing that precedes such events. I am not really sure how to go about making an effective anti-war play, but I am sure I can figure it out. I am a good writer after all, I can do it if I put my mind to it. * * * So I walk into my store on Friday, right? And there is this dopey kid sitting there. After I stare at him for a few minutes with no recollection the kid tells me that he is Peter’s friend, the nerdy kid, Robert was his name. I didn’t recognize the kid without his glasses. “Yeah, what do you want?” I asked the kid. “Is Peter’s CD in yet?” Robert asked. “He wanted me to come by before school and pick it up for him.” “I’ve told you before, this store doesn’t sell CDs, we sell vinyl,” I stated. “Well do you have it or not?” “No, I haven’t got it yet. Tell Peter he can come by anytime after school today and I should have it by then,” I told the nerd. Truth of it was that I really did have the album, but I wanted to listen to it before I sold it to Peter. The kid had wanted me to get a hold of a 45 for him, the first one ever released by The Sonics in 1964, it had “The Witch” and “Keep A Knockin’” on it. Peter came by later that day after school to pick up the 45. I mentioned that I didn’t recognize Robert without his glasses, to that Peter replied, “Yeah, he looks kind of funny without ‘em.” “So did he get contacts then?” I asked. “No, he’s trying to see what it is like walkin’ around without ‘em,” Peter told me. “Why the hell would he do that?” “‘Cause he is going into the army,” Peter explained, “and at boot camp they are probably gonna make him not wear his glasses, or at least that’s what he’s heard. I dunno if that is true or not. But anyway, he wants to get used to it now instead of once he’s there doin’ pushups in the mud.” “The army! Why the hell is he going into the army? He is just a kid damnit,” I said, nearly shouting. “He’s 19, he isn’t a kid.” “That scrawny little punk is 19?” I exclaimed, unable to believe it. “Yup,” Peter confirmed. “Well why the hell is he joining the army?” I asked. “‘Cause he wants to go to college, and he doesn’t have any other way of getting the money.” “Does he agree with the war?” “I dunno,” Peter stated with a shrug. “You don’t know?” I nearly exploded. “How can you not know? You damn kids, you’re too apathetic. What you need is a draft to get you riled up a bit. Then maybe you’d start caring about the damn war.” “Calm down, I was just...” Peter started to say before I cut him off. “You damn kids, you’ve gotta stand up and start making some noise. You’re the ones that are fighting this war, not the bluehairs in Washington. People like your nerd friend, who never did nothin’ to nobody and were good, sweet, decent kids. You’re the ones that are going to go bleed...” I ranted like that for a while. I kept mumbling things under my breath all day, long after Peter had left with his 45. Later that night, outraged at the prospect of this innocent nerd enlisting, I started to write Act One of my play. I only ended up with a few sentences worth keeping and a whole lot of crinkled papers in the wastebasket. It was difficult trying to write a play portraying the misery of war, but I was sure I could do it—I am a writer after all. * * * So a few weeks later Peter came in again, he brought Robert with him. I could tell Peter wasn’t gonna buy anything, ‘cause he started perusing the shelves. He only browsed the store stock when he didn’t have money to spend. That kid was too smart to buy anything off the shelves. Peter knew that all the good stuff was only available by request. He picked through some old Dave Clark Five LPs while a couple of bluehairs purchased a Don McLean album. Now don’t get me wrong, I love a little McLean now and then, but the man’s records aren’t exactly worth buying, especially at my prices; those two geezers could have bought the record at a pawn shop for half as much. Once the elderly couple exited the shop Peter and that nerdy kid came up to the counter. “What do you want?” I asked curtly. I was glad for some company, but I was never the type of person to let on that I was lonely. “Just stopped by to say hi,” Peter said. “You listen to that Sonics 45 yet?” I asked. “Yeah, it’s pretty good.” Not even bothering with anymore small talk, I immediately jumped into the meat of things. “So why are you joining up Robert?” “I want a college education,” he told me. “And you can’t get it any other way?” “Nope, student loans won’t cover enough of it,” he explained grimly, “and if you haven’t noticed, the government doesn’t really help people out unless they are willing to pick up a gun.” “Rifle,” Peter said. “What?” I asked, almost in unison with Robert’s “huh?” “I heard somewhere that the army doesn’t like to call ‘em guns. You gotta call it a rifle,” Peter explained. “No way, that can’t be true,” Robert said. “I am just telling ya what I heard,” Peter said in his own defense. “So do you agree with the war?” I asked Robert. “Hell no!” He exclaimed. “I wish I had other options, but I don’t.” “Yeah, you always seemed like a sharp kid, I figured you wouldn’t buy into all that war mongering crap.” “I really don’t wanna go, I’ve been really depressed about it,” Robert said—it was actually more than I cared to know, but I let him talk. “I just don’t know what else to do.” “It won’t be too bad,” Peter said in hopes of comforting the whiney little nerd. “Yes it will be,” Robert said. “Even if I never see battle, pledging to kill human beings in the name of the country—well who am I kidding—in the name of money, is something that goes against everything that I believe in.” “You’ll be fine,” Peter told him, “I doubt that we’d be over there fighting a war if it wasn’t for a just cause.” “There is no such thing as a just war,” I butted in, “only a necessary war.” “There have too been just wars,” Peter stated matter-of-factly. “No there haven’t,” I told him. “When violence appears to do good, the good is only temporary; the evil it does is permanent.” “I’ve heard that somewhere,” Robert commented. “Gandhi.” “Oh,” Robert said with a nod. * * * Robert started coming in more often during the couple of weeks before he was shipped off to Basic. Sometimes he’d even come in all by himself, and without an errand to run. I think the kid was starting to take a shine to me; maybe ‘cause we saw eye to eye on this war thing, and from what I could tell, Peter didn’t really seem to give a shit either way. So he comes in this one day, right? And the nerd is all teary eyed. He tells me that he is going away next weekend. I, of course, don’t really know what to say. I am not good with emotional stuff. “I’m scared,” he told me. “You’ll be fine. Can’t you be a conscientious objector or something?” I asked. “I’m not scared about having to kill anybody,” he told me. That made my stomach turn a bit, I couldn’t understand how a kid like him wouldn’t be worried about killing a person. “I’m scared about liking it,” he said. “What?” I asked, partly outraged and partly curious. “I have grown up in a culture that has taught me that violence equals power,” Robert explained. “Any moron with a sharpened stick can end a life,” I told him, “violence is not power. True power is the ability to save a life.” “I know that in my heart, but what if one day soon I don’t know it in my head?” He asked me, more tears streamed down his face. “The human body is frail, I could easily squeeze a trigger and snuff out a life. What if I get a rush? I would have the ability to end a life. I would have power over that person’s very existence. What if I lost my head and ended that life?” “I know you won’t,” I told him. “You’re a sharp kid. I know the army won’t harden you.” “But maybe it will. I don’t know what it’ll be like. What if it changes me? I don’t want to kill anybody,” Robert whimpered. “Kid, quit crying,” I told him. “This is a place of business. What if some customers come in and they see a kid ballin’ in here?” “Fine, gimme that Stiff Little Fingers album that you got behind the counter. Then I’ll be a paying customer and I’ll have every right to be sittin’ here crying about this shit.” “I’m sorry Robert, I didn’t mean it like that,” I said, partly trying to calm the kid down, and partly ‘cause I really was sorry. “You really want the CD, you can have it. Here, take it. It’s yours, on the house,” I told him, pulling out the record and offering it to him. “It’s not a CD, it’s fucking vinyl!” Robert screamed. He flipped up the gray hood attached to his coat and he walked out into the cold December air, I never saw the kid again—well not alive anyway. * * * About a year later I got invited to his funeral. I opened the invitation and I could feel my knees buckling from under me, as if a great burden had been placed upon me. I locked up the store and sat in the rickety chair behind the counter through most of the night. I listened to that Stiff Little Fingers album. The record player started spazzing out about half way through the song “Wasted Life,” and it kept playing the same few lines over and over again. “Killing isn’t my idea of fun / They wanna waste my life / They wanna waste my time / They wanna waste my life / And they’ve stolen it away,” the lyrics repeated. I kicked the player, it started working fine again after that. I worked a bit more on my play after I finally ended up going home. I couldn’t sleep, so I figured I might as well do something productive, right? It had been forever since I wrote any new lines for it; I had just kept toying with the same few lines from Act One over and over again. I’m sure I can finish it sometime within the next year though, I’m a good writer damn it. * * * So I go to the funeral, right? And they do that whole jazz with the flag over the coffin. This young lookin’ guy, couldn’t be more than 25, he folded up the flag into a neat little triangle and handed it to Robert’s mother. I had never met her before, she was probably about my age. I never had kids, and God knows that I never wanted them—dirty little bastards drove me nuts most of the time. But for that brief moment, as she clutched that flag, I felt like I knew her, like Robert had been our child. I don’t think there was a father in the picture. Robert’s dad must’ve either been a deadbeat or six feet under, ‘cause he wasn’t at the funeral. So maybe I was the next best thing, right? Yeah, I’d be a good dad. It wasn’t like you see in the movies, I can say that for sure. It wasn’t raining, there wasn’t a bugler playing taps, and there sure as hell was not that touching scene where the mother pines over the flag with respect and honor as she clutches it to her bosom. Robert’s mother didn’t look comforted, or honored, or even sad—she looked angry. She dug her fingers into the flag as tears continued to fall from her eyes. She ground her teeth and breathed heavily, as if she might explode in the same way that the grenade that killed Robert had. They said he died quickly, but I dunno; it was an open-casket funeral, so I figured that most of the shrapnel damage must’ve been below his waist line where the casket remained closed. Something tells me that getting your legs blown off wouldn’t be a very quick death—but what do I know? I’m no coroner, I just sell records. It was a small funeral, Peter didn’t come, I don’t know what became of him after he left the area earlier that year. He went off to some university, not one of the area colleges, he went out of state. His family was pretty well-to-do, so I expect that it was a good school. He’ll get a fancy degree and land a good job someday. Maybe I’ll see Peter coming back into my shop a few years from now with barrels of cash to buy all of the records that he couldn’t afford when he was younger. I doubt it though; he’ll probably move out to the suburbs and order all his records through the mail. He always did seem like the sensible type that might do that. I still couldn’t figure out why I had been invited to the funeral. I guess Robert didn’t have a lot of friends. * * * I talked to Robert’s mother after the burial and all that ceremonial jazz was over. She said that Robert was pretty fond of me. I guess my earlier premonitions were right, ‘cause she said that Robert told her that I was like a father figure to him. Go figure, me, a father. Apparently he mentioned me a lot in the letters that he had wrote his mom. He said that he didn’t wanna write to me until after he was out of the army; he thought I’d be disappointed in him—disappointed in what he’d become. I don’t think I would have been, but who knows. I’d probably still hold him in the same regard, he’d always be that little nerd kid to me—nothing more, nothing less. Later that night I worked on my play some more, I ended up scrapping most of it again. Even the parts of Act One that I had been toying around with for over a year ended up in the trash. A few months later I decided to give up on writing the play. Who was I kidding; I couldn’t write an anti-war story. Especially not now, how could I write objectively when my son had been killed in battle? Besides, I’m not a writer, I’m just some guy who owns a record store.

THE ART OF SHEDDING TEARS Cynthia Ruth Lewis That’s your opinion-- I’m not an asshole just because I laugh at people who waste time in writing classes hoping to be the next Ginsberg or Bukowski hey, I’m all for the desire to convey emotion through the written word, but you think you can corner the market on lunacy and pain gleaned from pages in a textbook? Those aspects don’t come easy, my friend-- there isn’t a soul on earth who can teach you how to bleed

Tattoo Ink Ken Dean “Tom, are you sure you want to go through with this? You had always said tattoos were silly. Plus, it’s permanent once it’s done.” “Emma, we’ve already been through this. It’s just something I decided I wanted to try out,” Tom responded from the chair while waiting for the tattooist to return. “Besides, the guys at work who have them said it makes you feel younger.” “Fine, it’s your body.” Frankly, she was tired of discussing it. Thomas Durkitt was a 45 year-old construction worker who was just looking for a way to feel young again, which was a hard concept to explain to his wife Emma. He had talked to several friends who had received tattoos and how it had made them feel along with the additional attention it drew from various people. Sounded like fun. Tom and Emma had been married now for eleven years, a happy marriage with a seven year old son, Joey. Tom was a construction supervisor for a large company, while his wife Emma had earned a masters degree in art history before they had gotten married. Together they brought home a comfortable income. “Everybody ready?” the tattooist, whose name was Ponjin, asked as he entered the room. Emma noticed that Ponjin didn’t have a single tattoo or piercing. That was a little odd. She had heard that most tattoo artists dabble also, having tattoos done by others (There’s only so many places one can reach on ones own body). “All set here,” answered Tom. “Okay, do you have a preference as to which arm you want it on? And did you bring a drawing of the tattoo for me to reference to?” “Left, and here’s the drawing.” Ponjin took it and moved over to his work bench. “What kind of tattoo did you decide on, Tom?” Emma asked. “It’s a kanji script, I did a little bit of research before I decided.” “Don’t those scripts and symbols have a certain meaning in Japanese? “Yeah, the one I found stands for knowledge. The research I did was to make sure I had the right meaning and wouldn’t look like an idiot in case a Japanese person happened to read it.” “Good idea. Why knowledge?” “Just figured I could use some.” Emma looked over at the tattooist’s work area and noticed Ponjin pondering his supplies. He seemed to be mouthing some kind of chant that was barely audible. Strange, she thought. Was he praying? Oh well, to each their own. She had always prided herself on the amount of tolerance she demonstrated towards other people’s beliefs. “Okay Tom, let’s rock.” Ponjin said as he brought his supplies on a cart over to the reclining chair Tom was sitting in. “I’m going to draw the outline of the tattoo first, so that we can be sure of where you want it placed. Then if that’s okay, I can begin the actual tattooing process. Judging by the drawing you supplied, it shouldn’t take more than half an hour.” “Sounds good.” Ponjin proceeded to draw the outline as Tom was wondering how much pain this would involve. Shouldn’t be too bad though. The people he had asked who already had tattoo experience said the upper arm was one of the less sensitive areas. “Okay,” Ponjin said, “Stand up by the mirror and check the outline. If that’s where you want it to go, we can start.” Tom looked it over. “Excellent outline and the placement is perfect.” “Thank you, sir. Did you have a certain color in mind?” “I don’t want it black. Do you have a deep, dark blue?” “Absolutely, that’s what a lot of customers ask for with this type of tattoo.” Ponjin donned plastic gloves and began to sort through the supplies on his cart. “Okay, here comes the fun part. You said this was your first, right? Let me know right away if there’s too much discomfort and we can stop for awhile.” Ponjin lifted the needle to Tom’s upper arm and began to fill in the outlined area. The needle produced a buzzing noise, somewhat like a sewing machine. “Wow!” Tom exclaimed. “You Okay?” Emma asked. “Yeah, just felt like an electrical shock at first, now it just feels like a continuous bee sting, but it’s bearable.” Ponjin added, “That’s the normal reaction, most people find it tolerable.” He proceeded to fill in the rest of the outline, occasionally stopping to wipe off excess blood and ink to get a clear picture of his working area. Emma, being an artist herself, was spending the time looking at the unique prints that Ponjin had above his work area. She was tracing them off to keep since they were so unusual. There was something odd about them. They seemed to tug at the fringe of her memory; but she kept drawing a blank. She would try to do some research later. “Okay Tom,” Ponjin said. “You can relax now. We’re all finished. You seemed a little tense.” “It’s okay, I’m fine.” “Good to hear. I’ve put some ointment on the tattoo along with a bandage. All the care instructions are in this take home packet. Take care of the tattoo per the instructions and it will last a long time.” “Thanks Ponjin. I do appreciate it.” “Okay, you’re all paid up, so you’re free to go. Keep me in mind if you want any other tattoo work done.” They shook hands while Ponjin looked him directly in the eyes. Tom suddenly realized that his eyes had a mesmerizing effect. They suddenly looked so black and deep! He felt himself being drawn into them, like they were the only thing that mattered in the room. He was starting to feel some vertigo, as if falling. He shook his head to break the feeling. “Uh, sure Ponjin. I’ll keep you in mind.” Tom was still a little dizzy from the gaze, but it was passing. Odd, he was having trouble remembering why he was dizzy. As they were leaving the shop, Ponjin added, “You folks make sure you think about a return visit.’ “Yeah, sure. We’ll definitely keep you in mind. Take care.” “What was that all about?” Emma asked. “He seemed kind of pushy.” “Naw, I think he was trying to get us to come back here instead of some other parlor if we wanted another tattoo. I thought his work was excellent.” “If you ask me, he seemed a little creepy. How does your tattoo feel, anyway?” “Kind of a burning, tingling feeling down deep, like it’s settling down to the bone. You would think it would just be painful.” “Yeah, that’s a little odd. Well, how does it feel now that you’re a tattooed man?” She said jokingly. “Not really that much different.” Oddly enough, Tom wasn’t laughing. About a week passed in which Tom took all the precautions for the tattoo per the instructions. It had healed well, and at the end of the week he stopped using the A and D ointment on it. “Tattoo feeling okay, dear?” Emma asked as they were getting ready for work on a Monday morning. “Feels normal, except there’s always been this low-level tingle in the tattoo that hasn’t gone away. I thought it was part of the healing process, but it’s still there.” “Could be an infection or reaction; although it looks fine.” She said as she was inspecting it. “I’ll let it go for a while and see what it does.” “You able to drop Joey at kindergarten?” “Yeah, I can make it in time. I’m kind of excited to get to work; I have a bunch of ideas on how to improve our processes.” “Okay, you two both have a good day, love you both.” She said as she went out the front door.” “You too, Hon.” “Yeah, double for me Mom.” Emma arrived home from work a little later than usual that evening, around 7:10PM. “Tom, did you and Joey already eat dinner?” “All taken care of, Hon.” Tom said as he was sitting in front of the television. “Joey’s upstairs watching cartoons.” Tom seemed mesmerized by Jeopardy, which he didn’t usually watch due to frustration over never having any good answers for the questions that were put out. Emma sat down on the couch beside him, but he didn’t seem to notice. Emma did notice that Tom was getting every answer right, immediately after it was asked. That in itself was amazing, as a full round of Jeopardy would usually humble anyone, except for the trivia superstars in the world. But here he was, spitting them out like so many cheap peanuts. “Tom, how are you getting all these answers right?” “I’m not sure,” taking full notice of her for the first time, “The answers just seem to be right there in my head as soon as the question is asked!” Okay, Emma thought, this is amazing! Tom didn’t know a lot about most of the categories on the show; much less Art and Literature. And these questions are all trivia; it wasn’t how smart you were, it relied on your memory and what you had been exposed to in life. “I’m dumb-founded,” She expressed as she walked into the kitchen to start to prepare dinner for herself. That night everything seemed normal, except that Tom kept fidgeting and woke her up around 2 AM. “Tom, what’s wrong. Nightmare?” “No. I just can’t get all these thoughts out of my head. Ideas keep coming to me on their own; things I normally wouldn’t have any interest in. I mean, the ideas are fantastic, we could probably get rich on the patents alone.” “Maybe you should write them down for later use; you never know.” “Don’t need to,” Tom answered. “They’re stuck in my head like a photographic memory slideshow. I’m going downstairs to get something to eat.” “Okay, try to get some sleep afterwards.” “Will do.” The next day came like any other. The same getting ready in the morning; off to school and work. Of course, Emma found herself worried about Tom while working. It’s like he was turning into some kind of super genius. She had to giggle as she thought of the famous cartoon Coyote. But this was serious stuff; she found herself wondering if there was something wrong with his mind. Something like the famous book about the idiot that had brain surgery to increase his intelligence but only to crash back to what he was before after a spate of 250+ IQ. The title eluded her; Algernon or something along that line. Anyway it was time to head for home. This commercial project was taking up a lot of her time; here it was 8:30 already. Joey greeted her at the door, excited. “Mom, Daddy went to get another tattoo and he took me with him!” “Tom! What’s this about? You got another tattoo?” “Mommy, can I get one too? Daddy wouldn’t let me.” “No Joey, you’re much too young.” Joey walked away pouting. “What possessed you to get another one, Tom?” “Just compelled to, couldn’t help myself.” Oh God, Emma thought. He’s going to get addicted to these things and be a walking tapestry! “And look at this, it’s already healed.” He took the bandage off and it already looked perfect; as if a week had already passed. How was that possible, she wondered? “And what kind is this one?” she asked. “Why, it’s the Flash symbol, one of my favorite comic book characters when I was young.” “And we’re going to stop at this one, right?” “I won’t promise, Emma. But I will try to hold off.” “Okay, have you guys eaten yet?” “No, just got home about twenty minutes ago. “All right, I’ll make us something.” She looked out back and saw the big trash can and realized this was trash night. “Tom, could you do me a favor and gather the trash and take the can out front?” “Sure Hon.” There was suddenly a small pop, with a vacuum feeling that took her breath away a little. She even smelled something like ozone. “Tom, what was that!? Did lightning strike nearby?” “No, I didn’t hear anything. In fact it was very quiet outside.” “Outside, you we’re outside?” “Yeah, I gathered the trash and took the can around front.” “How, I just asked you a couple of seconds ago.” A chill was starting up and down her spine. She ran to the front door and opened it. There was the trash can by the curb, waiting for pickup the next morning. She went outside to look at it. She touched the handle; it actually felt warm to her touch. She walked back inside. She went over to Tom, who was sitting on the couch. “Tom, your clothes smell a little scorched, do you smell it? “Now that you mention it, they do a little. How could that have happened?” Emma had a really wild theory, but was afraid to mention it. She also smelled the hamburger burning in the kitchen that she had been cooking. “Tom, do something for me please. The hamburgers are starting to burn in the kitchen. Could you go take the pan off the burner for me?” “SureÉbe right back” Tom seemed to blur for a fraction of a second, and then disappeared. Where did he go? He vanished! No, he was suddenly beside her talking. “These are burnt, Hon. I don’t think they’ll be any good.” “Tom, you went to the kitchen and back in what seemed to be less than a second!” “That’s impossible. I walked there and back. You were sitting on the couch, but then again, you weren’t moving after I got up. And the frying pan wasn’t making any sizzling noise and the smoke seemed to be hanging in mid-air. That would mean I’d have to be moving at an impossible rate of speed. And when I gathered the trash and took it outside, everything seemed too quiet, as if the world had stopped. What the heck is going on?” “I think it’s the tattoos, Tom. They seem to relate to how you’ve able to do these things. The surge of knowledge, the super-speed. Somehow the tattoo transfers its attributes to you. I did some research yesterday on the prints and paintings I saw hanging above the tattooists work area. Being in Art History I was able to figure out where they had come from. They were representative of an ancient Celtic religion. A religion that believed in the transference of power. And I also saw Ponjin praying over his supplies on his workbench before beginning the tattoo on you.” “My God.” Tom exclaimed. “This is too wild to even believe!” “I know, we should go ahead and go to bed, we’re both tired and my head is killing me. We can figure out what to do tomorrow, if anything.” “Okay. I am pretty tired for some reason.” But Tom couldn’t sleep that night. He was either tossing in bed or up pacing around the house, trying to figure out what this all might mean. The alarm went off and he was still awake. Might as well try to go into work and try to act normal. Emma and Joey went off for their daily routines also. Emma made sure she left on time to get home. She was really worried about Tom. She was waking up last night about once an hour since Tom was up all night pacing or looking up stuff on the computer. Probably doing research. Who knew what he was looking for or thinking with that snap-to intelligence he had acquired. When she arrived home she found a note on the door in Tom’s writing telling her that Joey was next door playing with the neighbor kids. Emma went over to pick him up. “Joey, where did Daddy go?” “He said he was going back to the tattoo guy.” “Did he say what for?” “No, but he was up in my room for a while looking through my action figures. Then he found my comic books. He left in a big hurry Mommy, with all of my Superman comics. Is he going to bring them back?” Emma was thinking to her self, ‘Oh my Dear God, what has he done?’ “I hope he will, Joey,’ she said trying to reassure her son. “I hope he will.”

A Burger and a Beer M. Brandon Robbins Jerry walked through the door of Hamm’s and was greeted by a hostess; one of the town’s high school kids. “Good evening Mr. Felwall,” she said with just enough enthusiasm to keep her job. It was nine o’ clock on a Friday night. She didn’t want to be in this town, much less at work. “Just you tonight?” “No, Randall’s going to be joining me.” “Oh, Mr. Truman’s leaving his house? That’s news. Would you like to go ahead and be seated?” “Sure. Smoking please.” “No problem.” The hostess grabbed two menus and two sets of silverware wrapped in napkins and led Jerry to a booth near the back of the smoking section. The crowd was thin but the smoke wasn’t, and the music was so loud that even the few groups of people congregated around tables and booths had to shout to be heard by each other. Jerry had to admit though; Hamm’s Pub was one of the best places he had ever patronized. Jerry settled into the seat and listened to the hostess rattle off tonight’s specials: fish and chips, beef pot pie, spaghetti and meatballs, and ribs. And for desert was an apple crisp topped with vanilla ice cream and a Jim Beam caramel sauce. “Can I go ahead and put in your drink order?” “Sure, I’ll have a Miller Genuine Draft. And go ahead and bring Randall’s Labatt’s Blue if you don’t mind.” “No problem sir. You enjoy yourself.” The hostess walked away, stopping at the bar to put in the orders. Jerry felt like every eye in the building was on him. He could hear what they were thinking. “People just don’t do that around here.” “It’s just not right.” “Running around on his wife is bad enough, but all that whips and chains stuff? It’s just not the way the Good Lord intended.” The beer couldn’t come fast enough. The waiter was a little older than the hostess, probably in college and glad to be here. Working tonight meant he could drink tomorrow night. “So can I put you in for an appetizer?” he asked after naming off the exact same list of specials that the hostess had spit out. “No, but I know what my friend and I are having. We’ll both take the double-stack burger with fries.” “Sure thing,” the waiter said smiling. He scribbled the order down and walked away. Again, the gossip in Jerry’s head started. “He’s the only one from around here that messes with that jezebel. She was a nice little secret until he was seen walking out of her house. I hear he’s over there all the time.” “Why does she even stay here? She knows everyone hates her. I guess it’s so the guys that come from the city won’t get caught by their wives.” “He’s over there all the time.” He could hear the women saying “I’ve told his wife a hundred times but she just won’t do anything.” He started drinking, hard and fast. Half of Jerry’s third beer was gone by the time Randall arrived. “So how are you?” the quieter man asked in an even and neutral voice. “I’m good, real good” said Jerry as he reached forward to vigorously shake his friend’s hand. “And you?” Randall shrugged. “I could complain, but I’m not going to. I see you remember what I drink.” “Oh yeah, Canada pride and all that. Oh, and I went ahead and ordered our burgers.” “I trust you made the right selection?” “Yep. The double-stack with fries.” “Excellent.” Randall took his seat and helped himself to a sip of his beer. “So how’ve you been doing my friend?” Jerry asked cordially in a slurred drawl. “I’ve been doing very well, no major hindrances to my well-being.” “And what occasion do we owe to you coming out your little hermit box?” Jerry asked, laughing. Randall shrugged. “Can I not ask one of my oldest friends to meet me for drinks and dinner?” Jerry shrugged in response. “Yeah, but usually it takes an act of God to get you out the house.” Randall reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out and then produced a lighter from his pants pocket. He lit his cigarette and took one long, slow draw from it, exhaling the smoke in a small cloud that formed a halo over his head before dissipating. “Well, let’s just say He moves in mysterious ways.” Their orders arrived and they began eating. Randall tentatively picked at his fries and nibbled at his burger while Jerry ravenously polished off his meal in mere minutes; even downing his beer while he was at it and going half-way through another before finishing his fries. After his final bite, Jerry sat back in his chair with his beer in hand, drinking a long swallow as he reclined. “So how’s the family?” “Not bad. My mother’s expressed interest in moving back to the old homestead and my brother asked that great question to Natasha last month.” “And since you bothered to mention it I guess its good news.” “I’m going to be a brother-in-law as well as an uncle.” “Congratulations. I’m not asking in which order.” “Well, if their math is correct, the two events should coincide.” “They picked one hell of a way to celebrate an engagement. So, how about you? Any lady loves in your life?” “No, I am devoid of romantic involvement.” Jerry started laughing. “You want mine?” Randall raised his eyebrow. “Is it that deplorable?” Jerry finished off his beer and started talking again. “Look, all my wife does is whine and moan and whine and moan about how I’ve lost interest in her, about how she doesn’t feel sexy or attractive anymore, about how she wants us rekindle the romance.” “A relaxing romantic vacation seems in order.” Jerry laughed. “With a home owner’s loan to pay back? And medical school bills to pay off? And now she’s talking about going back to school? And let’s not forget the kids. Please. The only vacation we’re going to have for a long time is a picnic in the backyard, eating potted meat sandwiches and drinking convenience store wine.” Randall took another sip of his drink and another draw from his cigarette, and then arched his eyebrow slightly. “Maybe if you diverted some funds from your extracurricular pursuits those factors might not be an issue.” Jerry lurched forward, slamming the palms of his hands on the tables and adapting a defensive tone to his voice, but not raising the volume of his speech. “Me and Bettie don’t do anything but play Randall, not a thing but play. I ain’t never...” and with that he realized that he just admitted to what everyone had been whispering about. At least it was to Randall. He wouldn’t say anything to anybody. Randall was a good guy. Randall raised his hands and tilted his head. “I was merely making a harmless suggestion my friend.” “I tell you Randy,” Jerry said, already having forgotten the fact that he had just admitted to doing what everyone was accusing him of, “you’re a smart man. Stay single I tell you. Stay a lone wolf. That way, you have your fun and nobody says a thing, because you’ve got not a single care or attachment in the world.” “I’m not entirely certain that that is an attractive offer. I find it appealing to have a home and family, a wife and children. And I must admit; I fear that I will have no one to grieve for me when I die, and that is more than a little depressing.” Jerry laughed. “I’m never going to die. I’m going to be around to put up with everybody’s crap forever. That’s my punishment.” Randall smiled ever so slightly as his voice dropped to a furtive tone. “No; you are going to die. You are going to die tonight, because I am going to kill you.” Jerry laughed boisterously, and continued laughing for a long time, even drawing attention from the surrounding tables. He laughed until he looked into the eyes of his friend and no longer saw a reason to laugh. All of a sudden, the slightly drunken man was very nervous. “Randall? What are you saying?” As if he didn’t even hear him, Randall calmly continued. “I am currently wearing a shoulder holster under my jacket and in that shoulder holster is a handgun. If anybody saw this, they would think nothing of it because everyone in this town carries a gun; that’s just the kind of place it is.” Jerry shook his head, wanting to believe that he was dreaming or that Randall was performing some sick practical joke. But he knew, deep down inside, that this was for real. “I’ll call the police,” he said quietly. Randall laughed quietly. “I wouldn’t bother. They wouldn’t believe you. I’m a good guy.” Jerry’s hands were shaking now. “Why are you doing this?” “I would be concerned about whether or not I will be successful as opposed to my motive. Now, I am going to finish my burger and beer. I’ll even pay for your order. While I’m finishing, I advise you to run. Maybe you can find help or make your way out of town by the time I’m done. Either way, once I’m finished your window of opportunity will be closed. The next time I see you I will kill you.” “I’ll stay here. You can’t kill me in front of all of these people.” “Do you think I’m stupid? No, you’ve got to leave eventually. Don’t you have an appointment with Bettie tomorrow?” Jerry looked shocked. “How did youÑ“ “Everyone knows everybody’s business in this town whether they talk about it or not.” Jerry shook his head, getting up nervously. “Randall, why? We went to college together. You introduced me to Aliana. You were one of my groomsmen for Christ’s sake.” Randall picked up his burger and took a small bite. “I would suggest you run.” Jerry got up as if in a daze slowly walked for the door on the side of the pub, trying to find his footing. He opened it, still not sure what was going on. He just knew that he had to find a way out of this town and fast. He shot one last look at Randall who was calmly eating his dinner. The door shut behind him and he stumbled onto the sidewalk. He felt dizzy, flustered. A million thoughts were running through his head and one idea pervaded through all of them: he was going to die tonight and Randall was going to kill him. He did the first thing he could think of. Jerry reached into his pocket and retrieved his cell phone. He dialed his home number. Aliana answered it. “Felwall residence, this is Aliana speaking.” “Ali, thank god you’re home.” “Where else would I be?” She recognized her husband’s voice. “Have you been drinking again?” “Ali, Randall’s going to kill me.” There was a pause before Aliana answered him. “Oh yeah, you’ve been drinking. I tell you what, call me when you need a ride home and don’t have money for a cab.” “No, Ali, really, he just said it. We were having a burger and he just said that he was going to kill me.” Ali laughed humorlessly. “If you expect me to believe for one instant that Randall Truman is going to do anything harmful to any other person you might as well ask me to believe once again that you are not having an affair. Goodbye.” A slamming sound pierced Jerry’s ear and the line went dead. He immediately dialed the number again. After two rings he heard his wife’s voice. “Jerry, if that’s you again, give it up unless you’re asking for a cab.” “Ali, listen to me. It’s true. I am having an affair okay? Well, not really an affair but we just play. It’s me and Bettie. I even pay her Ali. We don’t have sex and I pay her. If you want to call that an affair then yeah; I’m having an affair.” “Like I didn’t know that.” Her voice was strong and confident, but wavered a little. Jerry was admitting it; somehow, that made it that much more hurtful. “So please, give me another chance. Call Randall’s cell and talk to him. Give me a chance to make it right.” “Goodbye Jerry.” She hung up the phone less forcefully this time. Jerry spun around and looked back through the glass door. He saw Randall, calmly eating his burger. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Maybe Aliana was calling him to talk some sense into him. But Jerry didn’t have time to wait and see. Jerry turned around and started walking away from the pub, crossing the street and then turning right. He knew that the bus station was in this direction, and intended to buy a ticket to the farthest place from here. Once there, he would call his wife and see if Randall was still acting like a psychopath. If so, then she could fend for herself. If she’s not willing to go to her best friend and talk him out of killing her husband, fine. The two of them could get married and then Randall could take over all of this that Jerry had and didn’t want but Randall seemed to yearn for. He would quit his job; send in his resignation immediately. Close out his joint account with his wife and wire her half the money; that seemed far enough. Then, he would get started on a new life. Jerry even swore that if he got out of this alive he would even end things with Bettie. Or even better, offer to relocate her. Buy her a nice place, maybe even start his private practice and give her a job just to keep her close. She might resist at first; she kept telling him things like she’s not a slave and she’s not property to be bought and sold. She got really mad when he hit her the first time; that was his fantasy though, to rough a woman up a bit. But as long as he kept paying she kept letting him come over, as long as he didn’t hit her and as long as he didn’t try to mix her business with his pleasure too much. Of course all that would change when she never had to have a customer again, when he could keep her all to himself. It sounded so perfect, so tempting, he was thinking of calling his wife and telling her that he was leaving just so that he could do it. But he would play fair. The bus station was well-lit as usual. There were buses constantly coming through; this little town was positioned nicely between two metropolitan areas, making it an ideal location for mass transit. It was the biggest boon to the town’s economy and the station itself was usually crowded until late at night. He walked through the door and up to the front desk. Before the clerk could even acknowledge him he said “I need a ticket to the farthest destination this place can reach.” The clerk, more than a little confused, said “Okay sir. What date are you planning on departing?” “Tonight. Soon.” “I’m sorry sir but we have no departures tonight. There’s a bus coming through but it’s not leaving until tomorrow morning at nine.” Jerry was a mixture of angry and desperate. “I want a ticket out of town tonight!” “I’m sorry sir, I can’t help you.” “You don’t understand! Someone is trying to kill me!” The clerk was even more confused. He could tell that Jerry was intoxicated, but wasn’t sure just how intoxicated to fabricate a story like this. “Sir, do you need to contact the authorities?” “They’ll never believe me!” Jerry turned around and walked out of the bus station. Back on the sidewalk, he felt bile rise in his throat and he bent over to vomit. The combination of food, alcohol, nerves, and physical movement was getting to him. While the adrenaline pumping in his veins was helping to sober him, it was doing nothing to calm him. After his final retch, Jerry stood and propped against the outer wall of the bus station for the slightest of moments, just to make the world stop spinning. He stumbled forward, hoping to make the city limits and maybe thumb a ride on the highway. Or if he could just make it to the main street where all the traffic passed through, the families on vacation and the business people all en route to their destination and going through this sleepy little town. Maybe one of them would have mercy on him. “Right,” Jerry said aloud to himself. “A drunk guy screaming that somebody’s going to kill him. That would make someone pull over and say ‘hop in’ real quick.” The town had no cab service that he could call. His hope was faint and fading fast but Jerry wanted to live too badly to give up. In fact, he would just find a new life anyway. He would run away, divorce Aliana, and leave this little town behind him. Everything was just fine back in the big city. People didn’t talk, people didn’t gossip, and nobody asked questions. Jerry could disappear in a larger city like he used to live in. He had a good deal of fun in fact, being able to hide from his wife and kids. Jerry realized all of a sudden that somehow, in his rambling in trying to formulate a plan, he had ended up right across the street from Hamm’s again. He could see in the glass door, and Randall was walking through it. His legs still felt a bit rubbery, but Jerry ran anyway. He didn’t look behind him to see if Randall was giving chase; he just ran. The streets were deserted; there was no traffic at this time of night. The few people out wouldn’t be going home until midnight or later. Jerry didn’t drive because he intended fully on drinking, so he had no car. There were no dark alleys to lose Randall in. The only establishments nearby were businesses, and they were all closed. Finally, realizing that his cause was indeed hopeless, Jerry just stopped and turned around. Randall was just a short distance from him. “I’m going to change!” Jerry shouted in a panic. “I swear. I’ll get out of this town and leave everyone alone if you want me to, just don’t kill me.” “You’ve said that before,” Randall calmly shouted back. “Isn’t that what bought you here?” “I wanted to come here! I wanted to start fresh.” “But you knew you couldn’t leave without your wife. You needed her to raise the kids so that you could live the American dream you had always desired.” The two men were now close enough that they didn’t have to shout, just speak loudly. “You just want her for yourself,” Jerry spat. “You just want my Aliana for yourself!” Randall reached into his coat and produced the gun he had confessed to possessing earlier. A loud click rang through the air as Randall disengaged the safety, then another as he slid back the slide to chamber the first round. Jerry’s knees gave away and he sank to the ground, tears welling in his eyes. “You’ll never get away with this,” he shouted. “Someone will catch you and you’ll serve time.” Randall slowly raised the gun to point directly at Jerry. “My wife will never forgive you for this. I am her husband after all.” Randall sighed deeply, his shoulders rising and falling. “I told my wife I would change!” Jerry screamed. “I told her that I would change!” “I’m sure you did, more than likely in hopes that I would change my mind. But as you can see I haven’t changed my mind. I still intend to carry through with my plans.” Jerry started sobbing, and then his tears started flowing freely as he started crying in earnest. “Randall, why? Please tell me why? Why are you doing this? Is somebody paying you? Tell me, why? Why?” Randall pulled the trigger. For a split second, the muzzle flash illuminated the darkness of the night. A puff of smoke rose to the sky and a popping sound reverberated through the open night air. A bullet cut through the air and slammed into Jerry’s skull, splattering a Rorschach blot of blood on the pavement behind him. He fell backward, his body thudding like a dead fish. Randall slid his gun back into his shoulder holster and turned away, walking back towards Hamm’s. After the ringing in his ears had gone away, Randall reached into his coat and pulled out his cell phone. He dialed a number. When he heard the sound of a familiar voice saying hello he simply said “It’s done.” The receiver on the other end was put down, a click preceding the silence.

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A Day in the Life Bill DeArmond Long before he opened his eyes he was conscious. He knew the clock beside him said 4:50. It was set for 5 a.m. but it never went off in the morning. George’s internal clock always stirred him, even on weekends when he would acknowledge the time, mentally check the date, and roll back over. George was fascinated by his own preoccupation with time. He had frequent dreams about time. He would envision the clock, briefly bring himself to awareness, turn over and the clock face would be within 15 minutes of the image in his mind. Mostly, he willed himself to push the alarm button before the buzzing woke up his wife. She slept so fitfully now, always tired during the day, especially now with her malaise. He lay there, warm in the covers and the heat from her back. He let the day’s schedule run through his mind. Every day was nearly identical, but it helped him to focus and allowed him to savor those first few moments of his morning. George Bennett slid silently out from under the sheets, careful not to disturb her. Gently, he pulled the comforter back across her shoulders. His hand rested there for a while. He slipped on his house shoes waiting like sentinels at the foot of the bed. He took his ratty but substantial robe from the end post and shivered as he felt its accumulated cold. Keeping the thermostat turned off at night was the only way to stay within their utility budget. He made his way quietly down the stairs. At over 200 pounds, he still moved as stealthily as a ninja. Ironically, his wife, who was half his size, thundered about the house like a baby elephant. But this was the time George cherished most, when all things were possible, before promise became disappointment, when chores had a purpose—making the coffee and toast, taking out the trash, emptying and replenishing the dishwasher. He filled his cup halfway and ran a little water into it. The first sip of the day can’t be too hot or overpowering. He set it on a coaster (always on a coaster) by his recliner in the living room and turned on his 40 watt reading lamp. He took a drink and sat perfectly still, the cup bringing his arthritic hands to life. He listened to the house coming to life. Yes, this was a moment to treasure. He refilled his mug and was ready to face the morning’s headlines. Quietly, he opened the front door, turning on the porch light just long enough to spot where the delivery boy might have hidden the paper. His neighbors burned their lights all night—artificially convinced it provided protection from dark intruders. But George couldn’t afford either the constant bulb replacement or the electricity. Besides, he knew where the shadows dwelled. There was a brisk chill in the air that stung his lungs, but not unpleasantly. The lawn was covered by a heavy frost—the promise of fall grudgingly giving way to winter. This fuzzy white domain waited patiently for the rising sun to spirit it away. His shoes got progressively wetter as he searched the porch and the driveway for the paper, finally spotting its blue plastic cover near the rear tire—the one with the slow leak he had to keep filled every morning. He closed the door but heard the floor above creak, as if his wife had stirred into the spot he had vacated. When she was diagnosed seven months ago, he promised her he would be more attentive, more responsive to her needs. So a good day was followed by two bad ones, then a brief respite, and the cycle would begin again. The good days seemed fewer now. George Bennett had a specific paper-reading ritual. He first discarded all the ad inserts, the Business and Home sections. He would look only at the back of the Local piece to see what the weather foretold for that day. He liked only “partly cloudy and mild.” Next, he would give a cursory run through the Entertainment part, although nothing much excited him anymore. They hadn’t gone out to a movie in over a year. Sports was his favorite and he would devour every story, except soccer and hockey which he didn’t understand and thought boring. The Front section was always last—something he had to work up to. There was never any good news and the letters only solidified his belief that ninety percent of the public were morons. He never spent more than ten minutes in the bathroom before leaving for work. A fast shave with a three-week-old blade and a minimum of cream. Patiently rolling the tube down to the dollop of toothpaste. And out the door, easing it closed behind him. ****** On a good day George would find a space in the general employees parking lot. Since there was only one spot for every ten workers he rarely found a place. Once before he had parked in the named reserved place of someone he knew was on vacation, but the guy came back to check his mail, complained to security, and George got written up. Most days he had to park on the street somewhere in a three-block radius. On a bad day he would have to leave his car in one of two public lots six blocks away and at a cost of $2.00. On rainy days he always had to park there. George was a glorified paper pusher. He arrived at his cubicle ten minutes early, hung his jacket over the back of his chair, and rolled up his sleeves to hide the frayed cuffs. This was his typical day. He would open a file, correct the overnight total, figure the additions and subtractions, compute a new total, factor in the interest, recalculate the amount and save it. Then he’d move on to the next one. The company had hired some outside efficiency expert to determine exactly how long it should take George to do one file and had assigned him the number of accounts he should complete every day. His phone would ring 9.25 times a day. Occasionally he’d be called to another part of the building to trouble shoot some problem. George looked forward to these welcomed interruptions of his routine. But if it took too long, he’d have to eat his lunch at his desk while he got caught up. The company paid no overtime. Usually, when on schedule, he’d eat lunch alone in a corner of the break room. The turnover rate for an employee was about 18 months. George had been here twelve years and only bothered to learn a few names. He would get a milk out of the vending machine, a juice if his blood sugar was low, and take his lunch out of a well-worn paper bag. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays his sandwich would be peanut butter and jelly; Tuesdays and Thursdays he got whatever his wife fixed for herself on Monday—usually tuna salad or meatloaf. There was always two oatmeal cookies with raisins. The only surprise change in his menu was the fruit she packed—an apple, orange or banana—and the rare pleasant substitution of a pear. Today proved to be no different than any other for George. ****** His evening rituals were also the same. They would take turns making simple but substantial meals which they would eat off trays in front of the television. With an occasional bathroom break, George would sit next to her as she watched her shows—not because he cared about them (how could anybody watch Desperate Housewives?) but because he cared about her. Precisely at 9:00 she rose from the couch, passed behind his lounger, wrapped her arms around him for ten seconds, kissed him on the top of his thinning hair, and shuffled her way off to bed. He muted the TV volume so as not to disturb her. For a while he flipped through the channels, imagining the conversations the beautiful people were having in the box. When the news came on he hit the remote and the silent room got darker. He picked up a well-worn paperback he kept on his end table—a story about a young girl and boy coming of age and a mysterious neighborhood stranger who saved their lives. He’d always wanted to be as good a father as the one in the book. But they never had any children. When he felt sleep approaching, he replaced his mark, closed the book, turned off the light and made his way up the creaking steps. He slid as quietly as a ghost next to his wife. Placing his arm around her she unconsciously moved slightly closer to him. He knew he would soon be sleeping alone. A tear welled in his eye, but he fought it back. Eventually sleep embraced him like the darkness he longed for. George Bennett had survived another day. Maybe tomorrow would be different.

what is veganism?

A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don't consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.

why veganism?

This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.

so what is vegan action?

We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.

We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.

We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.

A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.

vegan action

po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353

510/704-4444

MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)

functions:

* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.

* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants

* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking

* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen

We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.

The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology

The Solar Energy Research & Education Foundation (SEREF), a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., established on Earth Day 1993 the Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology (CREST) as its central project. CREST's three principal projects are to provide:

* on-site training and education workshops on the sustainable development interconnections of energy, economics and environment;

* on-line distance learning/training resources on CREST's SOLSTICE computer, available from 144 countries through email and the Internet;

* on-disc training and educational resources through the use of interactive multimedia applications on CD-ROM computer discs - showcasing current achievements and future opportunities in sustainable energy development.

The CREST staff also does "on the road" presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources.

For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson

dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061

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