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T M M OOOOO RRRRR PPPPP OOOOO RRRRR EEEEE V V IIIII EEEEE W W
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Volume #6 June 1st, 1999 Issue #2
Established January, 1994 http://morpo.com/
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CONTENTS FOR VOLUME 6, ISSUE 2
Editor's Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Amy Krobot
Under Ledge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Michael Largo
Catfishing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Michael Fitzgerald
Coffee Bean Philosophy, Too . . . . . . . Frank S. Palmisano, III
A Good Name . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lisa Klassen
Advantages . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Maryann Hazen
When All Is Said . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Michael Largo
Big Jim, the Mormon, and Hitler's Grandson . . Quincey Burkhalter
About the Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Authors
In Their Own Words . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Authors
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Editor + Poetry Editor
Robert Fulkerson The Morpo Staff Kris Kalil Fulkerson
rfulk@morpo.com + kalil@morpo.com
Submissions Editor Fiction Editor
Amy Krobot J.D. Rummel
amyk@morpo.com rummel@morpo.com
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_The Morpo Review_. Volume 6, Issue 2. _The Morpo Review_ is published
electronically on a quarterly basis. Reproduction of this magazine is
permitted as long as the magazine is not sold and the entire text of the
issue remains intact. Copyright 1999, The Morpo Review. _The Morpo
Review_ is published in ASCII and World Wide Web formats.
All literary and artistic works are Copyright 1998 by their respective
authors and artists.
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Editor's Notes
Amy Krobot
Submissions Editor
I feel like a cheat every time I admit that walking is my sport of
choice. I get a "workout" doing the very activity that also gets me to
places like Krispy Kreme, my living room couch, and bed. Three to five
times a week, I just put my feet one in front of the other for at
least 45 minutes without stopping, and, because of a vigorous swinging
of arms, I get to call it exercise. It seems cheap . . . ineffective .
. . impossible! But in truth, it works like a charm.
Even more exciting than the fact that this simple activity controls
weight while taking little toll on wallet or knees, is the fact that
walking as I do it - regularly and in the same neighborhood - delivers
a greater sense of membership than any expensive gym card every could.
I walk in a small neighborhood near central Omaha - a little pocket of
quiet and big hills and huge old trees. It's a place my fianc? and I
will at least look for a home someday, but for now, I'm happy to drive
there, park, stretch, and go.
As an outdoor walker, the one on the move in a stationary
neighborhood, it was easy to feel transitory at first. When I started
my walks in old Ralston, one house blurred into another and another as
I enjoyed the scenery and fresh air. Once my walk was over, I simply
extracted myself from the setting and went home with a "thanks for the
use of your hills."
But of course, it wasn't long before I started to notice things. Who
cares for their home and who doesn't. Who cares for their kids and who
doesn't. Who has a new truck, a new mower, or no desire to cook
(there's always a pizza delivery car idling in someone's driveway
along my route). There's a father who plays catch with his young
daughter nearly every night. She has an erratic arm, and every time
her throw misses him and ricochets off the house he yells from across
the yard, "Do I LOOK like I'm standing in the living room??" There's a
little arthritic, visually impaired dog who hears me coming and never
fails to snarl and "chase" me down the street in a rather
non-threatening, wandering figure-eight pattern (I always tells him
that he scares me, though, because I really admire his effort).
There's what I call the "Bob Villa house" . . . something's always
being ripped apart and renovated. This year their backyard has been
dumped in their front yard as they prepare for what looks to be a new
deck and pool. And of course there are the practicers . . . piano,
voice, drums, twirling, and flute . . . every night until someone
yells "Dinner!".
And in an unexpected twist, I have not been the only one becoming
aware of - and attached to - my "workout neighborhood." They - the
permanent residents - have become attached to me as well, it seems. It
took awhile for it to happen, but I have become a neighbor in this
community, even though all its residents ever see me do is walk
through it. At first, I was greeted by those who were outdoors,
working in their gardens or on their cars. Now, people wave at me from
their kitchen tables and their recliners. A little girl once yelled,
"Hey Mom, it's the walking lady!" People stop mowers and move
sprinklers for me. They ask my advice. To date, I've been questioned
about my opinions on the new color a house was being painted, the
placement of a tree that was being planted, and the weather ("What do
YOU think . . . are we gonna get rain like they're sayin'?"). I
receive kind offers - one woman tries to give me cucumbers and
tomatoes from her overgrown garden; an older gentleman always tells me
that I should feel free to drink from the spigot on the side of his
house whenever I'm walking on a really hot day - and I have been
called upon to mediate fights. One mother turned to me rather
frantically one evening, and said, pointing to her son, "YOU tell him
how important it is that he wear a damn helmet when he rides that damn
bicycle!" And just recently, a couple piled out of a car in their
driveway with her shouting, "Because it's a pain in my ass, that's
why!" Seeing me, they stopped arguing for a second, and then the woman
reiterated while gesturing toward me, "IT-IS-A-PAIN-IN-MY-ASS, and
she'd agree with me!" I have no idea what they were fighting about,
but in that moment, I was the familiar face she needed on her side.
Of all the benefits I've gleaned from my walking, this "membership" is
by far the most prized. Without evening living there, I've become part
of a community I've always loved . . . just by walking around in it.
To the residents of old Ralston, my "home" is the patch of sidewalk in
front of each of theirs. I may only pass by, but I do it often.
Last weekend, I was striding along, when a couple of kids yelled,
"Hey, can you come over and play?" I was home.
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Under Ledge
by Michael Largo
Dogs have been tied to a post
by six strands of chain.
They were bought as watch dogs 5
years ago
but now they are like invalids
that will not die.
When they catch a patch of
sun they will sit upright,
ears back like dazed children
hypnotized.
It is not known who feeds them.
A bone wrapped in dirt lies
near a dog curled close to cinder blocks.
There are cut barrels they sleep in
during snow.
No footprints though.
Nothing going in or
leaving.
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Catfishing
by Frank S. Palmisano III
Her grandfather allowed Sara to open the truck window so that she
could rest her arm on the door and let her hand jerk up and down in
the rushing air. Occasionally she stuck her head out for a few seconds
until her eyes watered. When she pulled her head back in, he kidded
her about being sad because a boyfriend had gone off to war or maybe
the moon.
When they got to Watkins Glenn, he pulled into a gas station. He
bought himself a twelve pack. He bought Sara a bottle of grape soda
which she made last for three or four hours by sticking a fishing hook
in the top and sucking it drop by drop from the pierced cap.
Eventually, they arrived at the deserted boat landing down past the
Speedway. Sometimes when they came here, they could hear the dim roar
of racecars and the crowd going nuts. Sara would imagine that these
people were cheering for her to catch fish. But today there were no
races and the absence of noise made her feel like they were
trespassing.
A cool, moist air covered the still lake. In the short walk from the
truck to the dock, the temperature the dropped 10 or 15 degrees. He
made her put on his sweatshirt. It was warm like a towel just from the
dryer, but reeked of paint thinner and the sleeves hung past her
hands. Her whole body tingled from the colliding temperatures. The sun
in her face. The chilly lake-air slipping under the sweatshirt, around
her knees. The splintery, hot planks of the dock.
At first, they just caught little pan fish--bluegills, sunnies, what
have you- but toward the end of the day she caught a huge catfish.
Almost two feet long. And fat, like a football. And ugly, an outer
space ugly, a grisly awkward thing.
She cried. Get it away. Please get it off. She begged him to throw it
back. Promise we don't have to eat it.
He promised they wouldn't have to eat it, but didn't throw it back. He
batted its head with the Billy club, emptied the four remaining beers
from the cooler and threw it in. For the following hour or so, the
cooler emitted and occasional thump-thump.
Around 3:30, a few cumulus clouds began to inch in front of the sun,
and he decided they should get going.
Her pole broke when he tossed it in the back of the truck. He said
that it was about time they got her a new one anyway if she were going
to keep pulling in such trophies. This seemed reasonable to Sara. It
seemed like a good thing he broke her pole.
They had been up since dawn so she slept most of the way home. The
sunburn and warm air from the truck and the lush earthy scent of a day
at the lake left her in a black-out slumber.
Casa de Grampa, he said as he nestled the truck into the driveway.
She pulled her face from the hot black vinyl. She wiped the drool from
her chin. She was unsure for a few seconds if the day had happened.
She sat and gazed around, taking in the world. The algae climbing over
the edge of the bird bath. The half-painted garage door. Grandpa
tucking the empty beer cans into his canvas bag. The heat sneaking off
the pitch-covered driveway in snaky little wisps.
Then her grandmother was at the truck. She pulled Sara's hair from her
face. She bemoaned the fact that her little honey was so dirty and
sunburned. The girl's mouth was still purple from the soda, and she
smelled like fish. A grayish slime covered her hands and fingers.
Oh my little baby. What has he done to you? Who got you so dirty?
She caught a whopper, he said. Bigger than that fucking mutant I
caught in April. She pulled it in all by herself.
Sara blushed. But her head was beginning to hurt from the sun and the
stink. Her grandmother could feel the little girl's sticky
uncomfortableness.
Go in and shower, honey. I'll take care of your grandpa.
After the shower, she put her sundress on, and sandals. She felt
pretty and grown-up and presentable as she stood, looking at herself
in the mirror. And the catfish seemed a universe away until he came
around the corner with it.
Sara, open up, he begged as he stumbled around after her. Dinner Sara.
Yum! Yum!
She could feel her insides shake from the shrills coming out. He
wasn't looking in her eyes while he laughed. He looked at the top of
her head or at her little feet. He was ashamed, but , in his
drunkenness, having a fairly good time.
Yummy! Fish Sara. A yummy catfish fish. Meow. Meow.
Blood and fish spew splattered around the room. The cold drops hit her
face and arms, sending terrifying wet stings through her body. Finally
she wedged herself between the arm of the sofa and the wall. She
pulled herself into a ball. He dangled the fish over her head, letting
it drip into her just-cleaned hair. Yummy, Sara. Catfish. Yum! Yum!
Meow.
Sara was screaming uncontrollable, nearly hyperventilating when her
grandmother came in and shooed him away. She's only a little girl
George. Leave her alone. You monster. And she looked at Sara. Honey,
I'm so sorry. Are you OK? Grandpa didn't mean anything. Grandpa isn't
well. I'm so sorry.
It was a joke. Just a joke. Can't we have a little fun around here.
Then her unwell grandpa shuffled out onto the porch and fed the
catfish to their dog, Charlotte, who dragged the carcass into the
garage and wrestled with it for the rest of the day.
Later, he apologized. He said sometimes grandpa does bad things. He
forgets who he loves. He shouldn't drink. Grandpa shouldn't drink.
He's so sorry. He loves you very much.
I never meant to scare you, honey.
He was such a bigger person to her from that point on. So much more to
him in such a wild mysterious way. She never let herself be alone with
him again, but his name, or even the thoughts of him, lifted her. She
hoped that she'd once be a monster, be unwell, be courageous enough to
act on the honest, overwhelming rush, that guttural spasm that tells
you to scare little girls, tell operators to fuck off, speak dirty in
confessionals, on second dates. On top of the drinking, he ended up
losing what little mind he had and then dying after a slip on the
early November ice when she was fifteen. At that age everything was a
pain in the ass. She huffed and whined about having to attend the
funeral, despite having liked him more than everyone other than the
rough man she's with now. The way he walks out of the house at night,
it's like a conductor deserting his orchestra.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Coffee Bean Philosophy, Too
by Frank S. Palmisano III
I listen to ambition resonate
through the hallowed halls of
trendy bookstore coffee shops,
where its source, confined behind
a fortified counter, makes game
of the presidential scandal erupting
in Washington.
The probationary arrangement,
calls forth an amusing discourse -
coffee flavors, cakes and pies
with misleading titles, serves the
imagination more than the palate.
They converse on facts, and
create them when necessary
And each new patron symbolizes
inconvenience, a disfigured
gremlin that interrupts their
microcosmic world.
When he asks for service, they grope
with facial contortions, and language
distortions they serve up the flavor
of the day, insisting that the taste is
unique. "Mud flavored with a hint
of cedar wood," I think.
Their valediction is ingratitude.
Their comments - pitiless.
A premeditated retort emerges
through their stale teeth, stained
with beaned delight,
from a land where
indigent farmers scour
the crops for survival,
suspending their
judgment in patience.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
A Good Name
by Lisa Klassen
The warm, reddish sunlight of late afternoon thrusts through the
windows and pools on the immaculate, stone tiled floor. It is a marked
contrast to the cool blue tones, the gleaming steel and the faint odor
of antiseptic that hangs in the kitchen. The woman paces back and
forth through the puddle of sunlight, an agitated look in her eyes.
She stops, leaning against the counter, and taps manicured nails on
the marble surface while she thinks. The prettiness she possessed in
her youth has been replaced by the well-groomed look of a spoiled pet.
Her hair is masterfully cut in the latest style; her flawless makeup
masks the heavy frown lines forming in the corners of her mouth. Her
expensive clothes are perfectly tailored to hide the places on her
body where fat is starting to intrude. She pushes herself off the
counter, and throws open a cupboard opposite her. There are a few
dusty bottles of wine inside, nothing else. A bitter laugh escapes her
reddened lips. She rolls swearwords silently over her tongue, afraid
her husband may overhear. He does not approve of women swearing, he
says it is unladylike. She is having a dilemma. Over the past year
they have spent every second and fourth weekend in this damned place,
and this is a first. They have no food. Hours spent running all over
town for the gourmet goodies she would need to feed her picky husband,
all in vain. The two bags of groceries are probably still sitting in
their garage, the pate spoiling and the hand made ice cream melting.
Before they left the city, her husband had grunted assent when asked
if the groceries were in the trunk. He wasn't paying attention to her,
as usual. Now she doesn't know what to do. Her husband demands that
the household is a smoothly run one, and this would not go over well.
Though this mess is entirely his fault, she can hardly lay the blame
on his shoulders. Not out loud, anyway. The verbal blows and stabs
that would befall her don't make it worthwhile to say anything. He
doesn't like to hear about mistakes he has made. She wallows in
helpless anger for a time, before settling on a scapegoat. The kitchen
staff should have noticed the bags of groceries, those lazy slackers.
They're probably stuffing themselves full of her food and wine right
now. Well, actually her husbands' food and wine. Anyway, she will put
an end to their merriment very quickly. She considers phoning home,
then decides to save this small pleasure until she can do it in
person. An ugly grin smears itself across her face as she savors the
only power she possesses, the power to punish her staff. She relishes
the chance to berate the help for the feeling of control it affords
her, and keeps a sharp eye peeled for any mistakes. If her husband
takes out a particularly bad mood on her, she makes up something to
yell at them for. When they were first married, she just couldn't
rebuke the staff, no matter how he raged at her. It wasn't in her
nature. At least, it wasn't until her husband said the employees all
laughed at her for being so weak. She still remembers how terribly
hurt and angry she was. She tore furiously into them after that. The
original help have long since been replaced, so no one except her
husband remembers what she used to be like. Now the help are more
afraid of her than of her husband. She often suspects that what he
told her was a lie, the betrayed looks on their faces when she yelled
at them that first time haunt her. But she will not give up her petty
power now, she has become too dependent on it. And this little mishap,
though hardly the fault of the kitchen staffs, gives her another
opening. She rehearses what she will say, and whom she will select for
punishment. She has the feeling she will need this small release after
the weekend is over. They are paid so well, it should be a job
requirement to take what she dishes out, or so she tries to tell
herself.
She roots through the pantry in search of salvation, knowing it's in
vain. They don't keep much of a personal nature at their island home,
much less food. What keeps for two weeks that her finicky husband
would actually eat? He is so snobby in everything, including his taste
in food. Take these twice-monthly visits to this place. Why do they do
it? Because, according to her husband, wealthy people ALWAYS own a
country home. Each member of her husband's family have what they call
"cottages", although they are usually two or three floors, and almost
as ostentatious as the city abodes. So do all their friends. Where
would they possibly be in the scheme of things if he didn't own a
second home in the country? So they bought this extravagantly priced
"cottage" and use it twice a month. Her husband is excited, because
this Christmas it is his turn to have his family over. Early every
December, his family wages battle over whose cottage they would all
spend the holidays in. This year, he won. Another year with no chance
of her going home to spend Christmas with her family. She knows they
don't buy the feeble excuses she serves up each year. There is nothing
she can do, her husband requires her presence at these family
gatherings of his. He says the same thing every year when she asks to
go home for Christmas. He accuses her of trying to make him look bad
in front of his family, and tells her maybe next year. Every year she
hopes it is time, but it never is. She sighs, and closes the pantry
door.
She glances at the refrigerator hopefully. Maybe they left something
edible last time they were here. She pulls the fridge door open, her
fingers crossed. Ah, the horn of plenty overflows. Three measly items
to choose from. There is a container of cream cheese, some kiwis that
have gone bad, and...a squeeze bottle of French's Mustard? She didn't
buy this, did she? Her husband would sooner swallow bleach then put
the cheap yellow liquid on anything. He would be absolutely mortified
to find such a low class substance in his fridge, so it certainly
wasn't his purchase. Whole grain mustard, maybe. So how did this get
here? Still wondering, she walks over to the sink, unscrews the lurid
yellow top, and begins emptying it into the drain. The tangy aroma of
mustard wafts up from the sink. The smell brings flashes of younger
days, and she allows herself to be carried upon the wave of memories.
She and her friends used to scrape together their allowances to buy
hotdogs from the street vendors. There was nothing tastier to her when
she was younger. She would drench her hotdog in mustard, and pile it
as high as she could with the onions, cheese and hot peppers offered
as toppings. They would take their hotdogs to the park, sprawling
lazily in the grass. Hours passed as she lay there, letting the sun
beat mercilessly against her face while they talked about everything
and nothing. She wasn't worried about wrinkles, lines or skin cancer
back then. She would pull off shoes and socks, and clutch the grass
between her naked toes, crushing it to inhale its sweet fragrance. On
a day like that she could pretend that September would never come,
summer would just stretch away endlessly until Christmas. Lying on her
back, watching the clouds roll by, she had believed that anything was
possible. Anything. Belief is a sort of magic, transforming whoever is
lucky enough to possess it. That belief had vanished for her somewhere
along the way, and she had ended up in a place unimaginable to her
when she had it. She has tried drugs, alcohol, ski trips in Aspen, and
hour long massages at her spa. None of it gives her that easy feeling
of well being she once had. It is beyond her, now, except in memories.
She breathes in one last whiff of the container. Angry with herself
for indulging in such a weak, sentimental moment, she hurls the
container into the garbage. She doesn't want her husband to see it,
anyway. She has no idea how it got there, but she isn't about to get
blamed for the mistake. It would irritate him, as other people's
mistakes always did. And he seemed especially testy on these
"downsized weekends", as her husband likes to call them. That is part
of the reason she doesn't like them. To be honest, she downright
loathes them. He spends most of his time shut in the study with the
newspapers and the t.v. on, only coming out at meal times. This
invariably means she tries to pass time by reading a book or wandering
about the house, bored, trying to be quiet and having nowhere to go if
he emerges from hiding in a bad mood. They don't know anyone on the
island and he doesn't allow her to bring the cook, or any of the other
household help. He says they impair his ability to relax. At home, the
hired help make the decisions and take the responsibility off her
shoulders. Out here she is on her own. This means menial tasks fall to
her, as well as the cooking of meals. God, she just dreads the meals.
It isn't that she minds cooking, in fact she used to love cooking for
friends and family, as well as for herself when she was single. She
comes from a very middle class family, though. Her price range for
recipes was always limited to the under twenty dollars category. The
most gourmet dinner she knew how to make was beef stroganoff. So when
her husband informed her that she would be cooking their meals while
on the island, she hadn't thought much about it. Figuring that he
would want something simple for a change, she fell back upon her old
favorites. That first weekend out here had been absolute hell. Dinner
is a dangerous time, anyway, since they are forced to be in each
other's company. Everything she cooked, her husband completely hated,
and he spared no effort to make her aware of the fact. After meals she
could hear him stalking about his den, muttering. Since then she has
made sure to be prepared. She subscribes to every gourmet-cooking
magazine and raids the finest stores for supplies before these country
weekends. Mindful that these meals are the weakest point in her
defense, so to speak, she feels her stomach tense and her breath begin
to shorten when he picks up his fork for that first bite. Of course,
if he has had a rough week, he'll start in on her no matter how good
the food is. There is no winning in these instances. If she says he
enjoyed the recipe last time she made it, he will say she must have
screwed it up this time. And how can she argue? Even if she knows he
likes it, she can't prove it. It's a losing situation, and one that is
a continual stress to her.
She slams every cupboard and drawer in the kitchen out of frustration,
albeit quietly. There really isn't a damn thing to eat in this house.
Shoulders slumping, she realizes she must go into the town and pick up
some supplies that her husband will approve of. She has never been in
town before, although they have been on the island many times. Her
stomach sinks as she remembers jeering at the local supermarkets' tiny
size as they drove by from the ferry. Her husband made some local
yokel joke, and they both laughed. She winces at the thought of going
there to shop. Her doubts on the stores' contents aside, they will
know she is a stranger, and a city person besides. She is conscious of
the looks their brand new truck gets as they drive through the town.
She has heard the curses hurled after them as her husband drives by a
hitchhiker in the pouring rain on an island where hitchhiking is the
public transit. She quails at the thought of walking among them
without her husband's protective presence, her body laid bare to their
curious glances. And she is painfully aware that people just don't
like her anymore. Years of living under her husband's sharp tongue
have corroded her self-confidence. Anything she says now is echoed
back inside her head in his mocking tones, making it sound moronic to
her. This is ruining her social skills. She has a tendency to aim
suspicious stares at whomever she is speaking with, trying to figure
out if they are laughing at her. While speaking, she is braced for a
putdown, giving her voice a defensive, angry whine. Her conversations
now have a brittle, sharp feel to them. Talking to her is like lightly
touching broken glass. Press down just a little, and you will walk
away cut. The other day she screamed at the barista in the caf? she
frequents because he asked her if she wanted her latte lowfat,
surreptitiously peeking at her stomach. Now she is ashamed to go in
there, and slinks by every time she passes that way. Social contact
with strangers has become loathsome to her, and she tends to spend
most of her time inside. She never used to be this way, and it
frightens her. When she was younger she always had plenty of friends,
she was very easygoing with people. She has been avoided all
encounters for weeks, and she is not prepared for one now. She must,
though. There is no way her husband will go. The way he always scoffs
at the locals makes her think he might actually be scared of them as
well. If she asks him to go, he will just be angry, and she will end
up having to go, anyway. Resigned, she plays with the key rack, trying
to decide which car to take. She is definitely not taking the Durango.
The shining newness of the truck bespeaks wealth playacting at being a
regular joe. She is embarrassed for her husband every time he gets
into it. The truck just doesn't suit him. She grabs the keys to the
Mercedes. She has decided to play rich bitch. She puts on her fur
coat, and girds herself for battle. A feeling of superiority settles
around her like a well-worn suit of armor. Although this does not work
with her husband, she generally feels more secure around other people
when she assumes her high and mighty attitude. May as well try to
impress people if she has to deal with them. She will use her platinum
card and nice clothes as weapons. The door swings gently shut behind
her.
The ordeal is nearly over, and without incident so far. The selection
wasn't as bad as she had feared, she has her groceries, now she just
wants to get the hell out of here. Waiting impatiently in the checkout
line, she taps her fingers against the steel rail, and looks
disgruntled. There is only one teenage cashier working, and she is
busy chatting to a customer buying cigarettes. Christ. Some sort of
gabble about a hockey team, which she has no interest in. She checks
her watch three times in a row, sighing audibly between each glance.
This at least gets the cashier's attention, who proceeds to ring her
groceries through while continuing the conversation with the local
clodhopper. He eventually wanders off, and the cashier gives her the
total. Presenting her credit card with a flourish, she watches the
cashier's face to see if she looks impressed. The cashier (with a hint
of condensation?) asks her for I.D, as she isn't a "regular". Right.
This is small town nosiness or small town distrust, one of the two.
Anyway, just what she had expected. Out to give her a hard time,
punishment for not being local. She snorts and rolls her eyes, hoping
the cashier notices. She scrambles to think up some indignant retorts
as the cashier looks searchingly at her.
"Hey, are you any relation to the Bergers that live here? Natalie and
John?"
Taken aback, she giggles at this unexpected turn in the conversation.
Another couple on this tiny island with the same name as her husband?
He would HAVE to find this amusing. Unexpectedly, she is happy. She
has a story to break the tension of dinner. Okay, but she must play
this out in full, so she can have a good tale to tell.
"Why yes, I am related. John is my husband's brother."
"I knew it," the cashier bubbles happily. "I didn't think you and
Natalie were related, you look a fair bit older than she is. She and
John are a very happy couple, and such good people, don't you think?"
"Sure," she replies, rather roughly. Just as suddenly as her good mood
washed over her, it is wiped away. She's highly sensitive about her
apparent age. Only thirty-four, new acquaintances often mistake her
for a women in her forties, much to their mutual chagrin. Spending
life under the kind of stress she lives with will age a person
immeasurably. To rub salt in her wounds, her husband doesn't look a
day older than when they were first married. She doesn't like being
reminded of her vanished looks, especially by some dumb hick. The
cashier babbles on about the wonderful deeds of the alternate Bergers,
blissfully unaware of the sudden mood change.
She wonders when this torture will end. Who are these hicks, anyhow?
She used to volunteer her time constantly, and no one sung her
praises. Of course, she hasn't done anything since she married; her
husband disapproves. He never donates money for any other reason than
a tax deduction. He thinks all that stuff about the homeless and needy
is drivel, a scam to get money out of suckers. As far as he's
concerned, anyone who gets fooled by that bit is soft and weak minded.
She didn't want to give him a chance to heap that same scorn upon her
head, so she gave it up. But she misses helping people, she misses it
terribly. This is when she actually hates her husband. Not for the
choices he forced her to make, but for the choices she made
voluntarily, to protect herself. She has given up a career, children
and various little things, like the chance to do community work, and
for what? She's miserable. Ugh, why does she even waste energy
thinking like this? She has made her bed, etc. Now she just has to
live her life, such that it is, and stop thinking so much. She is
furious with the cashier for her part in this ordeal, and with the
stupid Berger's as well. She reaches for her groceries, determined to
flee, when something the cashier says catches her attention.
"Of course, if you are picking up these groceries for the Bergers, you
may as well put it on their tab sheet, instead of ringing up your
credit card. It would be easier."
Her eyes flash wickedly at the chance for a little retribution.
Indirectly these people have been responsible for her misery, and she
wants them to pay for it. As a bonus, it would be a pleasing ending to
the story, her husband would heartily approve. She would, of course,
leave out the age comment.
"I am picking up some things for them, actually. They must have
forgotten to tell me to put it on their tab."
"No problem, ma'am. Say hi to them for me, will you?"
"I'll make a point of it, don't you worry." She scurries out of the
store, sniggering to herself. This little piece of revenge has made
her feel a heap better. The alternate Bergers are no match for her.
She wonders how she could have let these idiots worry her. Look how
easy simple it is to fool them. Easy marks, her husband would say. She
just wishes she could be around next time they check their tab. Maybe
the cashier would get in trouble too, for authorizing the transaction.
She throws her ill-gotten gains into the passenger seat of the
Mercedes, and speeds away.
She relates her story over the dinner table, but her husband isn't in
the mood for her excited chatter. He merely looks at her before
shrugging indifferently and returning attention to his plate of food.
He gets up and leaves without a word as soon as dinner is finished.
Her excitement deflates, and lies limp inside her. Damn those pathetic
goody goodies. Not only did they ruin her afternoon, but they don't
even make good story material. She vows to go back to the store
tomorrow and put the most expensive items she can find on their tab.
Even better, she'll throw it all away as soon as she's out the door.
Feeling miserable, she kicks a cupboard while walking through the
kitchen. It flies open, striking her in the leg. She falls, and stays
sitting on the floor, clutching her leg and weeping tears of
self-pity. Her watering eyes alight on a flash of red at the back of
the open cupboard. It is a glass vase full of dried roses, something
her husband has never given her. The beautiful flowers taunt her, as
her mind follows the only logical thought to its conclusion. Her
husband is having an affair, damn him. She feels half as attractive as
she did thirty seconds ago, which isn't saying much. He may be
dallying with his mistress here during the week. She grinds the
fragile flowers beneath her heel, and feels a little better. She has
been expecting something of the sort for a while, but expecting and
knowing are two different things. What the hell is she going to do?
Any women's magazine would tell her to confront him, but she feels
physically nauseous at the thought. Her head swimming, she isn't sure
she's strong enough. She wonders what the mistress looks like, how
young and thin she is. Bitch. She runs her hands over her body. The
flesh that was once lean feels soft and doughy under her probing
fingers. She swears she will go to the gym more often, and lose at
least ten pounds. God, with her body looking like this, it's no wonder
he has a mistress. Is confronting him about this worth the quiet war
it would start in her home? After all, how does it really affect her?
They are not exactly...affectionate. Sex? He hasn't touched her in
years, and she tells herself no loss. She decides to explore the house
tomorrow to try to gather more evidence. She is rationalizing, and
hates herself for it.
She ascends the stairs to the only place that she loves in this house.
Her bedroom. She designed it herself, with the help of a decorator.
It's warm colors, comfy furniture, and beautiful art are a marked
contrast to the icy blues and stern browns of her husband's bedroom.
It is always cool in there, even in the middle of summer, and the
furniture is so heavy, so dark, and so immovable. The room makes her
uncomfortable. Her bedroom makes her feel safe. It is the room of a
happy little girl, or a lover's cozy nest. It is entirely hers. He
never sets foot in this room, and she never thinks about him here,
unless she hears him. The room softens her, she is a better person
while she is inside. She often wishes she could bring people here to
talk, she would get along with them so much easier.
She kicks off her shoes, and crosses the deep plush carpet in her bare
feet. She picks a book from out of her bookshelf, and hunkers down in
front of her dresser. She opens the bottom drawer, searching for a
comfy nightgown to wear to bed. One catches her eye, particularly soft
and lacy. She doesn't remember buying it, but her husband paid someone
to stock the house with everything they would need, so she doesn't
find this unusual. She wishes he had let her do it, she had wanted to.
Not just because she was bored, but she found this house such an
impersonal place to live. She would have liked to breathe a little
life into it. She draws out the gown, and runs her fingers over it,
enjoying the feel of the soft fabric. Something crackles under her
fingers. It is a piece of folded thick paper in one of the pockets.
She pulls it out. On the outside half there is a drawing of a bed,
with a naked girl perched on it, knees tucked modestly up under her
chin, covering her. With a creeping sense of unease, she realizes the
bed looks exactly like hers. She opens the paper, and reads the words
printed on the inside.
"I love you with all my heart, my sweetest girl. When I breathe, I
smell your hair, when I close my eyes, your image burns there. Your
voice in my ears is the night cries of sleeping birds. Every night I
pray we will be together, forever. Your Love."
The air whooshes out of her in a sharp exhale; she sits on the bed
with a heavy thump. Her jaw clenches as she crushes the card between
bunched fists. Enraged, she isn't sure by which fact the most.
Her husband actually being in love with the little thing, or that they
have violated her room, the only thing that is still hers, that she
cares about. Damn him, why in here? He hasn't even seen the inside of
her room before, why would he bring his mistress in here. Furious
tears stream down her face and fall into the folds of the nightgown.
She tears the lacy cloth into pieces, then reads the card again.
Betrayal by sex she could handle. If he hasn't dallied with some sexy
young thing before now, it's only because he's been too busy to
bother. But the passion this card is infused with flays open her
heart, and delivers a mortal blow to her self-esteem. The only way she
has managed to keep herself intact all these years, the only comfort
she had is the knowledge that her husband is incapable of being any
other way. She has put up with his jibes, knowing he would do the same
thing to any other woman he was married to. A man of granite, his
personality so hardened it would dash her to pieces if she challenged
herself against it. This card proves her wrong. Now to find out that
it IS her, that another woman is capable of eliciting this kind of
sweet emotion from him, is a bigger blow than anything he has ever
said to her. She smoothes out the crumpled card, and reads it again,
trying to find where she failed in the lovely lines. Her brow wrinkles
in thought and it hits her. This isn't written by her husband. He has
absolutely no gift of expression. His sentences fall on the ears like
a boy dropping rocks off a bridge. Chunk. There is one sentence.
Thunk. There goes another. The verses in the card are light and
flowing. And she knows he doesn't draw. This card is sketched with
great love and a skilled hand. She doubts somehow that her husband has
the capacity to produce something like this, even when madly in love.
So he isn't the creator of the card. The cement blocks tied to the
feet of her selfworth are lifted as unexpectedly as they were put
there. The inevitable question arose. Whose handiwork was it then? Did
the mistress have a young lover? Was her doublecrossing husband being
doublecrossed? All these unanswered question gnaw at her. She hates
this stupid island. She wants to go home, where at least she has some
friends to mull this situation over with. Although it may not be worth
it to tell them, they will probably make fun of her behind her back.
They are all wives of her husband's friends, and not her first choice
of people to spend time with. To tell the truth, she wouldn't put it
past them to already know about the affair, and not to have told her.
Some friends. She lies down on her bed, exhausted by the rollercoaster
ride she has been thrust on. Sleep doesn't come easily, though. She
needs some answers, she needs at least to know if her husband has
desecrated her room. She has already sullied it with thought of him,
and her sense of safety here has vanished for now. She stares at the
ceiling late into the night before finally dropping into an uneasy
rest.
The sound of a car driving away wakes her. Great. This will free her
to search the house for some answers, and she won't have to face him
with the question in her eyes. She's left with the difficult task of
discerning what's amiss in a house decorated by strangers that she
spends two weekends a month in. She hasn't paid too much attention to
the rest of the house, anyway. Most of her time is spent in the
kitchen or her bedroom. The house is too new; full of glass and white
rooms with little to break the monotony of the walls. The stiff
furniture is uncomfortable to sit on, and the ceilings are so high
that it gives the house a chilled feel. She enters room after room,
certain that something is different, but unable to put her finger on
what. She stops in front of an object, unsure if it is new, or she
simply never noticed it before. She thinks she can sense the faint
echo of another personality, but she has nothing to substantiate it.
Nothing that would stand up in court, as her husband would say.
Frustrated, she puts a hold on the search in favor of breakfast.
She stands at the kitchen counter, watching the coffee water boil. She
assembles her breakfast of grapefruit and unbuttered toast, the repast
of suffering dieters everywhere. Seating herself in the breakfast
nook, she closes her eyes and lets the sunlight play over her face.
While enjoying the warmth, she lets her mind wander. An unforeseen
revelation takes her by surprise. She isn't putting herself on a diet
for her husband's sake, but for her own. In fact, she doesn't care
what her husband thinks of her looks, or what he has been up to.
Sometime in the night it ceased to matter.
"Let him do whatever it is he does," she thinks. "Maybe it will keep
him out of my hair for awhile!"
She laughs at how brave she sounds, at least in her head. The
discovery does wonders, making her stronger in places she desperately
needs strength. She decides she is even going to tell him to stay out
of her room, no matter what he says to her. After all, the are just
words. She is the one who gives them the power to wound, and she isn't
going to give them that power anymore. She smiles, a peaceful, easy
smile. It is the first she has shown in a long, long time. The smile
transforms her. She is achingly lovely is the warm sun, and she
doesn't even realize it. No one is around to gaze upon her in her
fleeting moment of beauty. With the ring of the doorbell it is gone,
as so many beautiful things are, unwitnessed. Her usual expression
sets in, that unattractive blend of bitterness and petulance.
Frowning, she gets up to answer it, carrying her untouched cup of
coffee with her.
An older woman, graying hair pulled down her back in a long French
braid, stands on her doorstep.
"Uh, hi there. Are you a relative of the Bergers?"
Irritation floods her body. These people are going to ruin her day
again, why won't they just leave her alone? She is getting damn sick
of this question. Trapped by the fear that this woman has spoken to
the cashier in the supermarket (she knows how these small towns work)
she is forced to renew a lie begun to impress her indifferent husband.
Feeling guilty, she replies rather tersely, "Yes. Why?"
"Well, I was hoping to speak with Natalie or John. Are either of them
here?"
She is being drawn into lying in detail. She is growing more and more
uncomfortable. "No, they are not. Can I help you?" she reluctantly
asks.
"Sure, just give them this envelope, will you? It's the notes on last
weeks town meeting."
Of course it is. The annoying do good Bergers. It will be her pleasure
to give this envelope to the garbage, after she has pilfered its
contents.
"It would be my pleasure," she smirks.
As she reaches out for the envelope, her mug of coffee slips from her
fingers, splashing the pristine white rug in front of the door. She
screams numerous blasphemies into the unsuspecting face of the woman
before running to get a cloth. If her husband sees that spill, she
will hear about it for the rest of eternity. Embarrassed by her
outburst, she avoids the other woman's eyes when she returns to the
doorway, cloth in hand.
"Sorry about that, I just didn't want the rug to be stained," she says
as she kneels on the carpet.
The older woman smiles kindly down at her. "Here, let me help." She
takes a section of cloth and begins scrubbing. "No need to apologize,
this isn't Natalie's house, so I can see why you are getting frantic."
Not Natalie's house? Of course this wasn't Natalie's house. She peers
suspiciously at the woman, searching for signs of senility. Maybe she
wandered from house to house, plaguing the inhabitants. All the locals
know her, so they don't answer the door. Caught by in her own
ignorance. The old woman looks pretty together, though.
"The one time Natalie and John had me over, they were absolutely
fanatical about the use of coasters, and they kept eyeing my wineglass
every time I walked over the Persian rug. They are usually so
easygoing, I was surprised they were actually making me feel
uncomfortable. They told me how they housesit for this rich couple,
and they wouldn't want anything irresponsible to happen to the house.
I admire the respect they show for another person's property. Anyway,
I'm sure you have seen that gorgeous teal blue and cream Persian rug
in the living room. I wouldn't want anything to happen to that,
whether it was mine or not."
Her jaw drops at the older woman's statement. They have a teal blue
and cream Persian rug in their living room.
"Well, I'd better go. When they get home, tell them I'm sorry I missed
them. If you can't get that stain out, I'm sure Natalie has something
lying around the house to get it out. Nice meeting you."
The woman strides off down the driveway. She stands in the doorway,
mouth still open. With a flash of insight, she runs to the garage and
checks the Durango's cab. Sand. From the sandbags during the flood.
With an almost audible click, the pieces all fall together. There was
no other woman. There are only other Bergers. They live here. They
LIVE here. She is astounded at the risk these Bergers have run. They
must stay here during the week, knowing that their counterparts only
came in every second weekend. As an off thought, she wonders where
they were right this second. They must camp out somewhere and wait.
Unbelievable. They must have watched the house for weeks to make sure
that it was safe. A deep blush begins to spread across her cheeks. How
routine their life must have looked to the hidden watchers. She feels
humiliated by the fact that they had decided breaking and entering was
a safe risk. Her shock erodes into anger. How dare they? House sitting
for a rich couple. They haven't just subverted the car and house,
either. Some girl has taken her name, taken her identity and lived it
better than she could. They have fulfilling, helpful lives, while she
has nothing. Her little piece of revenge at the grocery store doesn't
seem like much to charge for use of her life. Well, she will put a
stop to it right now. Furious, she storms into the house and begins
searching for a phone book. The police will handle this. Her husband
will be enraged and mortified, he will prosecute the "Bergers" to the
fullest extent. He will make sure they spend a long time in jail, she
doubts they will be "together forever" now. The sweet words in the
love letter spring to her mind, and she feels a pang of pity for the
young imposters. Anyone that much in love will find jail a waking
nightmare. Now, if she is going to be truthful with herself, the only
reason why she is so incensed is because she is jealous of the young
couple, and the love they have. She actually admires the gutsiness of
the stunt these two have pulled for so many months, and the fact that
they have become upstanding members of a small community without
anybody ever suspecting. They must have studied their counterparts
very carefully to know that she and her husband have no interaction
with the other islanders. They have certainly taken care of their
home, she has never suspected a thing until this weekend, and her
husband still doesn't. The humor of the situation strikes her, and she
begins chuckling. As a matter of fact, she would love to meet these
young ruffians. Her face falls as she realizes the circumstances she
will probably meet them under. Her husband will not see the humor in
this, nor will he recognize that there was no harm done. As far as he
goes, the "Bergers" picked the worst home possible to pull this stunt
in. Speak of the devil, she hears his car pulling in. Those poor kids.
All their leftover groceries are loaded into the car. It is the end of
the second weekend of the month. She fusses around the counters,
postponing the moment of departure. Her husband glares restlessly
about him.
"Move it, let's get going," he snaps at her.
She levels a long, hard look at him, saying nothing. He tries to meet
her stare, fidgeting. Finally he looks down, and walks out of the
house, grumbling. He slams the door shut behind him. She takes a last
look around, then puts an envelope on the kitchen table. She shuts off
the lights, and closes the door gently behind her. The envelope lies
gleaming on the table, caught by the afternoon sunlight. The front of
the envelope is marked with a looping, childish hand. It says "The
Bergers." It is the envelope the older woman left behind. On the back
is written, in the same childish hand, "Thanks for the good name. I
hope to see you soon. Regards, Laura Berger."
The car churns up dust as it speeds down the country road. Carried
away inside it, she grins. It seems like such a waste to have
something so expensive only used twice a month. Her husband won't
catch on, he never notices anything. Besides, she they are the first
people she has wanted to be friends with in a very long time. Laura
Berger takes a deep breath, and begins to sing.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Advantages
by Maryann Hazen
I relax so intensely, my skin snaps.
This badgering rationality is enough
to steam my eyelids. I practice
knuckle-cracking, chain smoking,
coffee drinking, pill-popping ways
to take it easy. I idle so high, I can't come
to a full stop. I could never stay
between the lines. I'm the root of all evil,
yet I pump the gas. I never intended
to evolve into this jaw-clenching, nail biting,
heart breaking, ulcer-burning son-of-a-bitch.
I'm totally percolated
and the pressure's gonna kill me
if you're lucky.
I bake the bread of woe and lick
my fingers clean but I pay the tip, don't I?
Don't I? I'm a back stabbing, nit-picking,
road-raging bully boy and I dare you,
I double-dog-dare you, to love me enough
before I explode
or very simply fall to pieces.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
When All Is Said
by Michael Largo
This house is a crow
that picks at something in the grass.
We are inside, in its stomach.
We climb its ribs with a candle
that gets blown out when we
reach the lungs.
Sent tumbling
backwards.
The sound of tractors
coughing up the morning dampness
into the sky which is a clean
white handkerchief.
Buckets with rusted bottoms
pitchfork and shovels lean against
the corner
smoking thin splinters.
You tell me you like living here.
I look at my hands.
I have nothing to say.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Big Jim, the Mormon and Hitler's Grandson
by Quincey Burkhalter
"Hitler's Grandson is Alive and Living in Denver." That was the
headline on the latest edition of the tabloid I stole after spending
my last dollar and eighty-five cents in change on cigarettes. I didn't
believe it either. I just put the magazine inside my coat so I would
have something to read while I was taking a shit. I had no idea at the
time that what I read in the bathroom would soon be parallel to my
life. But it's all true.
Pressure was coming from every direction at the time. My mother would
call me at night and leave messages during the day. My batty
girlfriend would threaten to leave me. They both asked the same damn
thing every time. `Have you found a job yet?' Then pressure came in
from the other side. I had just spent my last dollar and eighty five
cents in change and this was my last pack of cigarettes.
So, I sat there, sat in the crapper smoking away on the sweetest
Marlboros I had ever tasted and thought about my options. I had
avoided this from the beginning. This would tie me to home. My parents
wouldn't give me anymore money. I'm just their loser son. So, why go
back to a family that didn't care for their son? I forced the last
option I had out of my mind.
I pulled the tabloid out from underneath my jacket. "Hitler's Grandson
is Alive and Living in Denver," it said. I sucked in hard on the third
cigarette from the pack. I wasn't really counting, but I figure it was
the third, because I had only wiped once. There was a picture of a
young man with his arm around a pretty girl. I couldn't tell if the
man was Hitler. It looked kind of like him, but he didn't have the
distinctive little dictator grin; he didn't look evil. He looked sort
of happy. Under the picture it said, "Hitler and his `Secret Lover.'
She was Jewish! (1923)." Hitler had a secret Jewish lover prior to his
dictatorship of Germany. His lover had been Jewish. Ah-Ha! I guess
that gives a simple explanation as to why Hitler hated Jews. She
dumped him like he was rancid meat.
And hey guess what? The plot thickens. Hitler's lover was pregnant.
And Hitler didn't even suspect. The child was a boy and whether Hitler
knew about him or not Hitler's lover and his love child escaped the
persecution of World War II. The kid grew up and even snagged some
unsuspecting wife. It's no wonder, his wife was American. They moved
to Denver. Anyway, Hitler's son and his wife were killed in a car
accident ten years ago. And this is where it gets good. Their child
survived and is "Alive and living in Denver."
Hitler's grandson was going to the university. So, was I. He had been
sighted going to criminal justice classes. That seemed right. I had
always thought cops and dictators were only a step removed. And that's
what Hitler's grandson planned to do. He planned on persecuting people
who broke the speed limit. Especially if their last names were
Lowenstein or Seinfeld or Rosencrantz like mine. Actually, I'm not
even sure if Rosencrantz is a Jewish name, but my parents are Jewish.
I looked at the baby picture of Hitler's grandson. The caption read,
"Now an employee of Big Jim's convenience stores."
And it just so happens that Big Jim's just happened to be my last
option. My sister-in-law worked for the main office and had promised
me a job if I ever wanted one. I was down to my last pack of
cigarettes, so I took it. There were more than a few Big Jim's in
town. So when I got the job, I didn't expect I would be working with
you know who. I didn't even believe that this person really existed.
I'd read about him in a goddamn tabloid.
Who believes anything they read in a tabloid?
_______________________
The guy that gave me the tour of Big Jim's was a guy I like to call
the Mormon. He was a burly, older, bald man with glasses. He had to
have been my father's age, so I instantly thought, What's this guy
doing working here? I soon found out.
"Don't get me wrong, Ken," he said. "It ain't like I like working at
this place. This is the back room. What ya' think, Kurt? Great hall of
beer, huh." I looked around. There were posters of Big Jim, the owner,
everywhere.
"Yeah," I said staring at the posters that lined the wall. It was like
Big Jim was some sort of legendary rock star and this was his first
ever live performance. "Arriving July eleventh, at a Big Jim's near
you," each identical poster said.
"Had two wives once," the Mormon said breaking me out of my trance.
"Married twice?"
"At the same time. Married to both at the same time. Grab that dolly.
On my fourth marriage now. Got fourteen kids, that I'm counting, you
know what I mean."
I started to look at the posters again. Big Jim looked like a
caricature, a clay version of a real man.
"Two at the same time?" I said.
"Yup. Thought the first one was dead. So, I got married again. Then
hidey-ho, wouldn't you know it. First one shows up at my door."
"What happened?" I said, intrigued by his soap operatic life.
"Well, number one was better in the sack. So, I kept number two and
screwed number one on the side. On number four now. I told you that.
Grab the twelves of Red, White, and Blue. Don't drink `em, just grab
`em. I don't drink no more. Quit."
When we finished the tour we returned to the cash registers up front.
A new shift had come on. That's when I saw him. You know what I mean
by him don't you? I mean him, Hitler's Goddamn grandson. I didn't
trust him the moment I saw him. There was something about this average
looking, mustached young guy that made my insides feel slimy, like
warm mayonnaise. An almost poison tasting metal tinge came up on the
back of my throat.
"Hi," he said. "Name's Craig."
"I'm Kevin R-. . . Just Kevin." My voice shook. It never shook. What
the hell's wrong with me, I thought. This guy made me feel uneasy,
unsteady, like my ankles had been replaced with roller bearings. That
never happened to me.
"O.K. Kevin, just Kevin, you know how to work a register?"
I said nothing. I stood there frozen. I could feel the Mormon
retreating behind me.
I couldn't believe it. The Mormon had come in for the fifteen minute
tour and now he was leaving me with this guy. He left me with this
guy, this Craig guy, this guy that reminded me of a used car salesman
and Momar Kadafi in the same breath. The Mormon was leaving and there
was nothing I could do about it. I saw Craig wave. I turned to see the
Mormon wave back as he was getting into the car with his wife. This
guy, this Craig guy, just stood there with this smile on his face. I
saw the Mormon's car leaving the lot. The smile disappeared. I managed
to speak.
"I know how to work the register," I said with a tongue that felt
almost numb.
"Well, too fucking bad," he said. "You're on beer duty tonight. It's
behind the cooler. And stock the single cans of soda too."
"I haven't been back there," I said.
"I've been on the fucking tour. I know you've been back there. Big
Jim's gonna be here in a week. Do it and I'll check it when you're
done."
He was right I had been back there and the Mormon had told me what I
was supposed to do, but I hadn't really been listening. I was more
interested in the story about him being married to two women at once.
Besides, the Mormon told me I would be on the register the first
night. The Mormon managed the goddamn store, but this freak of nature
assumed the position of God the minute he was alone with me. There was
nothing I could do.
"Get started," he said. "They're gonna start comin' in sooner than you
think."
"I was supposed to. . ."
"I don't fucking care what you were supposed to do. It's Saturday,
it's July the fucking third, and we don't sell liquor on Sundays. If
you think I'm gonna stock beer tonight you're fuckin' crazier than my
grandpa. Now get your ass to the back."
The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I could feel my ears (What'd
he mean crazier than his Grandfather) get hot a and my jaw clench. I
stood there looking at him. I knew it had worked on people a lot
tougher than Craig; so, I stared. I'd never had to be very big to be
intimidating. I just had to prefect this stare. I didn't move. He rang
up three customers. I stood there. All three of the customers were
college girls, only one of them good looking. He didn't stand a chance
with even the ugly ones. He said the same damn thing every time.
"Lookin' hot tonight. Someone's gonna get their fireworks early."
All three of the girls giggled and looked his way. I stood with my
frozen glare fixed right at him until the third girl left.
This Craig guy turned around as the door shut. The third girl turned
around to look at, I'm sure it wasn't him, it had to be me. She looked
right at me. I looked at Craig. Craig looked at me. My eyes watered
and went blurry with anger.
"Did you see what they bought?" he asked.
I said nothing.
"They bought beer." He stopped to see if I would react. I stared.
"Stock the fucking freezer," he said.
I felt myself backing off as another customer came through the door.
"Lookin' hot tonight. Someone's gonna get their fireworks early." I
would have thrown up if I had to hear him say it one more time. The
girl turned around.
"You're kinda cute," she said as her dress threatened to get even
smaller. She was staring right at me. She thought it was me who had
used that terrible line. I stayed there, just hoping that this girl
who looked like a cross between Rosanne Barr and Elvira wasn't
actually talking to me. She stared. She looked me up and down. She
smiled with teeth the color of unhealthy urine. I went to the back to
stock beer.
I jerked the cooler door open with what felt like anger, but was
probably frustration. I slammed it behind me with the same emotion.
There was a note on the inside of the door, over one of Big Jim's
posters.
1st Crew,
Don't stock the beer. We got new blood coming in tonight.
Craig
I turned around. The cooler was empty. I hadn't noticed it before. I'd
been listening to the Mormon tell his story. The Mormon must have seen
the note, I thought. He must have noticed the cooler was empty. The
other six pack cans were in the back room; so, I went back there.
I hadn't noticed before, but this whole back room was filled with
alcohol. Cases upon cases were stacked at least twelve feet high. Who
in their right mind would stack them this high, I thought. I would
need a ladder or some rope to get to the first case.
Before attempting this miraculous feat. I decided to take a look
around, get myself familiar with this back room. I might as well be
familiar with it, I thought. I'm going to be back here all night and
into the early morning. I walked slowly down the corridor, slowly down
the Great Hall of Beer. God, I needed a drink.
I checked around for cameras. To my surprise there were none. But
posters of Big Jim stared at me from every direction. He looked
unreal, distorted, but his eyes followed me everywhere. There was not
a place where he couldn't see me. I looked closely at one of the
posters trying to stare him down. He looked like a muppet, like one of
the designs Jim Henson had thrown away. His mustache was a thick
graying handlebar over a mouth that stood open in a hapless, Kermit
the frog grin. His eyes stood out of there sockets like he had no
lower eyelids. Hair sat on his head as if it was waiting for someone
better to come along so it could escape. I checked again for cameras.
Big Jim seemed to unreal to even exist, little alone to be watching
me; so, I tore into a box that had Jim Beam written on the side in big
red letters.
"Did you see that, Jim," I said.
I couldn't believe it. There must have been twenty flasks in the box
and there were three more boxes. I held one flask in my hand and put
another one in my inside coat pocket behind a tabloid I had stolen a
few days before. I had forgotten the tabloid was there.
I pulled it out as I took my first healthy drink of Jim. I felt warm
as it hit my empty stomach. "Hitler's grandson," I said laughing to
myself and opening the magazine. I skimmed over a couple of articles,
one about an alien abduction and the other about a werewolf that had
killed two kids in Vermont. Then, I got to the Hitler article again.
"I'll be damned," I said out loud to myself. "His name is Craig." I
thought about the dipshit, asshole up front and turned the page. It
was him. It was Craig. There was no doubt about it, Craig's photo was
staring back at me. It was a computer generated photo of what Hitler's
grandson would look like at twenty two, the age he was now, taken from
a picture of him when he was five. I dropped the bottle of Jim Beam as
I was trying to take another drink. It shattered into a million pieces
as it hit the floor. I held the picture in front of me.
"Hey!" I jumped forward nearly slipping on the alcohol I had spilt.
"Hey asshole. We're out of Milwaukee's Best. Get your ass in gear." I
turned around to face the voice. It was Craig standing right in front
of me. I looked from Craig to the picture, the picture to Craig. I
couldn't move. "I gotta get back up front," he said. "Get your ass in
gear." I stood immobile for quite some time, thinking of how he had
probably seen my name on the time sheets. I'm not sure if my name's
Jewish or not. I couldn't speak.
I didn't see Craig the rest of the night. I worked like a mad man
throwing twelve packs of Milwaukee's Best and Red, White, and Blue
beer to the front of the cooler. The twelve packs disappeared before I
could turn around. I got the motion down. Up, down, pull out the
twelves, and slide. Up, down, pull out the twelves, and slide. After
awhile it got easier, but it never slowed down. By the time midnight
rolled around I had worked for twelve hours straight. I hated this
Craig guy with a unholy vengeance. I prayed a silent prayer. I don't
believe in God but I prayed silently. I prayed that this Craig guy was
Hitler's grandson and that I could prove it and sell that bastard down
the river.
_______________________
Three days later I had gotten used to the cooler and started to like
the hard work and free Jim Beam. I worked every night with Craig. When
I did, it was me in the cooler and him up front using the same damn
line on every girl that came in. I tried to talk to Craig when I
could, tried to get a clue, some sort of incriminating evidence. I
asked him how old he was. He wouldn't tell me. I asked where his last
name, Brown, came from. He said, `Charlie Brown.' I asked what he'd
meant by `meaner than my grandfather.' He said he didn't have a
grandfather. No question phased him. He was made of stone.
Finally one night he just said it without me even prompting.
"Hey, Rosencrantz," he said. "Is that name Jewish?"
I turned around. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I could
feel my head bob involuntarily up and down. "What's your point?" I
said trying to appear confident.
"I was just wondering," he said. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
"I've been dating someone for awhile, off and on," I said nothing
knowing it had been a little more serious than that. "What's your
fucking point?" I said.
His face looked puzzled, but I knew it was fake. "Just trying to make
polite conversation," he said. This guy hadn't had polite conversation
once in his lifetime. I just know that his first word as a baby wasn't
Mama or Dada. It was probably. . . I don't know. Maybe it was stab or
shoot. Gas, gas was his first word. It had to be gas. Stabbing and
shooting were just too humane. I gathered my composure.
"I'm going to the cooler," I said. I knew it was completely stocked,
because no one had been in the store in over three hours.
"No you're not," he said without raising his voice. The hair on the
back of my neck stood up again. "You know how to use a microwave?" he
asked.
"What the hell do you mean by that?" I said thinking of the ovens at
Auschwitz and of the pictures of my grandfather after he had come home
from there, frail and brittle with sunken cheeks.
"I mean," Craig said with an obviously misleading tone. "I mean, I
brought us dinner. If you'll run to the break room and zap it in the
microwave, you can have half."
"I'll zap it," I said, "but I don't want any. I mean, who the hell do
you think you're dealing with anyway?" I may have been half lit up on
Jim Beam at the time, but I wasn't stupid.
"You're fucked in head," he said as I took his four burritos to the
microwave.
The food smelled good. It was supposed to. If it didn't smell good,
then I wouldn't be tempted to eat it. Don't get me wrong I didn't
think he was trying to poison me or anything stupid like that. Craig
was to damn smart to try that trick. He needed me. He needed an army.
His idea was that I would get hungry and sit down to eat with him. A
comradary would form and we would become friends. He'd ask me things
about my life. I'd tell him. He'd use my childhood memories to
manipulate me, like Hannibal Lector in Silence of the Lambs. He'd
drill ideas into my head, brainwash me. After awhile I would think
like him. I'd walk like him. I'd talk his lingo, "Hey baby, lookin'
hot. Somebody's gonna get their fireworks early," Most of all, I would
hate myself for what I am, a Jew. I would believe that what his
grandfather did was right. I would believe that my relatives suffered,
some even died, for a cause that was just. I wasn't going to eat his
damn burritos no matter how good it smelled.
In my mind, those damn burritos were proof enough. This guy, this
Craig guy, was spawn of the devil, spawn of the Antichrist, Hitler's
Goddamn grandson. My scalp burned with a heat that came from inside. I
say, it was the heat of knowledge. I held my hands in front of my face
and saw them shake. I forcibly calmed myself down by looking at the
poster's of Big Jim that covered the wall. I took a long drink of the
bottle that hid in my inside coat pocket and breathed deeply. "I can't
let him know that I know," I said out loud to myself. Besides, I knew
that if I wanted to prove anything I needed evidence. Nobody had been
here when he gave me the burrito's. They wouldn't believe it. Finally
I felt my face get warm and numb from the alcohol. I was calm. I
walked out with the burrito's. They smelled damn good.
_______________________
The next day I came into store an hour and thirty minutes late. That
was the day I found out why they called the street I worked on Canal
Street. There was a canal along the street, a canal that I soon was to
become very intimate with.
I had ridden my bike clear across town to my girlfriend's house. She
lived just off of Canal Street about ten miles down from Big Jim's. I
gave myself plenty of time to get to work. It usually took me about
thirty minutes to get to there this way so I left an hour early. It
was unusually hot for Denver and humid beyond belief. I enjoyed this
type of weather. This was probably the only reason I loved working at
Big Jim's. I could show up to work drenched in sweat with my lucky
bandana wrapped around my head and no one would care.
I had been riding along congested Canal street weaving in and out of
traffic. I ran lights. Cars honked. I gave them the bird. "Hit me," I
yelled, "I'll sue your ass." I didn't really give a damn what the
people in the cars thought. None of them could do what I was doing.
They weren't in the shape. They sat in their cars eating donuts one
after another, putting on their Goddamn makeup, and singing badly
along with their five thousand dollar stereo systems. I passed right
by them on a beat up old ten speed I had bought from some guy who used
to run triathalons. I was stronger than any of them. Smarter than any
of them. And on Canal street, I was faster than any on them.
Of course it couldn't always be that way. Some asshole always had to
prove me wrong. This time it was a guy in a `79 Bronco. The Bronco was
high off the ground, raised up so the guy in it would feel superior to
the rest of the human race. It was exactly the kind of testosterone
machine I could see Craig driving. The first time I noticed this guy
behind me he was trying to push a red Geo out of the way. He managed
to do it with a few revvings of the engine and a slight push from
behind. The car moved over to the shoulder. I looked back to see the
Geo driver, it was a girl, flip him off. That was exactly what I would
have done.
Then he got behind two seventies gas guzzlers. These guys weren't
going to let him through no matter how much he pushed. So, Mister
Ejaculation On Wheels started swerving wildly back and forth. I could
hear his wheels squealing, smell the rubber burning on the pavement.
The Bronco wasn't going to get past the LTD and the New Yorker, they
wouldn't let him. And I wasn't going to move. I owned the fucking
road.
Then the old man in the hat that was driving the LTD made a right
turn. I never have trusted old men in hats. That was just enough
opportunity for Mr. my engine's louder than your so get the fuck outta
my way to get around.
That was when I noticed. I looked back to see his face. I could see
the fire of hate burning in him, a vein pulsing wildly on his
forehead. His black hair was neatly combed to the left and plastered
to his head. Blue eyes glared madly from underneath savagely
distraught eyebrows. That evil dictator grin flashed brilliantly under
a square patch of hair. His eyes burned with rage.
I started quickly for the left lane since he was in the right and
there wasn't much of a shoulder. That was a big mistake. I felt like
my feet were going to fly off the pedals even with the toe clips on.
He came closer. I could see the fury in his eyes. A human life was of
no consequence to him. I could tell he knew I was Jewish and hated me
for it, just like he had hated my grandfather. It felt like my tires
weren't even touching the pavement. I looked back again.
The evil he possessed was strong. His lips were pursed tightly
together. He ground his teeth in fury. But above all he seemed to be
enjoying himself.
The Bronco roared and pulled up close. I could see the grill, bugs
smashed in the radiator, the chrome bumper reflecting the image of my
back tire. My legs were on fire. I turned to see a curb. Without
thinking I managed to pull my front wheel high enough to get over the
curb. I felt a hard jolt and heard my back tire pop. I could see the
canal coming toward me. I jumped off of the bike and landed in a crazy
forward momentum on the gravel of the street. The bike landed in the
canal
Dazed and angry, I looked up for the Bronco. The street was empty.
There wasn't a person or a car sight.
_______________________
I was bloody, sore, and soaked to the bone. I had wrecked my bike on
the way to work and in the process of trying to save the bike, fallen
in the canal. I had walked three miles and come very near to
hypothermia. I walked in the front door of Big Jim's Gas and More. The
Mormon was behind the register.
"Calvin, you're here," he said. "Clock in and get on the register.
Craig's in the cooler."
I wanted to say, I'm bleeding. I'm soaked to the bone. I was almost
killed by some asshole in a `79 Bronco. I can barely walk. Look at my
ankle. It's swollen. Instead, I limped behind the counter,
dumbfounded, and put my smock on. When I walked up to the register the
Mormon calmly stepped aside.
There was a line of people all the way to the back of the store. The
Mormon moved to the other register. I stood there looking down at this
conglomeration of keys and slowly started punching them. I asked for
an I.D. from the guy behind the counter and slowly punched some more
keys. "Is that all?" I said. The guy said it was. "Fifteen forty-two,"
I said. That's when the shit hit the fan. The customer said I had over
charged him. I explained that this was a convenience store and things
cost a little more here. He started yelling for the manager.
"Can I help you, sir?" the Mormon calmly said.
"This jerk doesn't know how to work a fucking register! It took him
two days to ring up my order. Then, he over charged me."
The Mormon calmly looked over the ticket and rerang it. Craig walked
behind us and started to ring out the customers on the other register.
The guy was satisfied with what the Mormon came up with and left.
"Craig, hold down the fort," the Mormon said. "Calvin, can I talk to
you." I followed him to the break room. "Clint," he said. "We need to
talk about how you run the register."
I wanted to say, that was my first time. You just witnessed my first
time. But I had been employed here nearly a month. The Mormon wouldn't
believe me if I said I had never worked the register. I told him when
he hired me that I had worked a register just like this at my last
job. My last job was as a janitor.
"You've come up short three times so far on your shift."
"It was Hit-. . . It was Craig," I said knowing I couldn't reveal the
truth yet. I wanted to say, I've been in the cooler. Craig hasn't let
me work up front. Instead, I said, "I'm dyslexic."
"You are? Hey, that's a relief. Why didn't you tell us before?"
I hadn't needed the excuse until now,
I thought. "I hoped it wouldn't get in the way," I said.
"Tell you what," he said. "Why don't you work the cooler tonight and
let Craig watch the front for a change. I'll help you." He told Craig
what was going on and we walked to the back. I kept up with the Mormon
who was always in fast-forward mode. Then I remembered my ankle. I
started limping.
"Ain't got long you know," the Mormon said as he opened the door to
the cooler.
"`Til what?" I said.
"The big guy," he said. "Gotta hidey-ho, buster."
"What?"
"The big guy, you know, Big Joe."
"The owner?"
"Yup, you got it, the owner, the big cheese. So, gotta hidey-ho. No
questions. That's why I brought you back here, Kyle."
"Kevin."
"Huh?"
"Nothing."
"You see Chris."
"Kevin."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"O.K., the big banana's gonna be here. Gotta hidey-ho. Cooler's not
gonna get up to specks on it's own. That's why I brought you back
here. You're a hard worker, Curtis."
The only thing I can figure, is that The Mormon got to close to the
Agent Orange when he was in Nam. He started to do the thing I had
learned the first day. Up, down, pull out the twelves, and slide. Up,
down, pull out the twelves, and slide. I followed suit. There was
absolutely no reason to be going at this crazy pace the cooler was
about half filled. It was Wednesday and the only reason it was down to
half was that the first shift had not touched the cooler since last
night. I could tell. I had put tape on the top of the Red, White, and
Blue beer all the way to the bottom. They would have had to cut the
tape to move any of the twelve packs. The tape was intact. All of this
would take a couple of hours to fill, even with customers coming in.
With the Mormon back here with me we would be finished in less than
thirty minutes and I would have to go back up front with you know who.
"Two days," he said. "Yup, gotta hidey-ho. Big Joe's gonna be here in
two days."
"Jim."
"Huh."
"Big Jim."
"Yeah, what about him?"
"His name's Big Jim."
"I know. What's your point?"
"Never mind."
"You know Calvin I feel sorry for you."
"Why's that?" I said.
"That Craig guy," said the Mormon. "He's not the easiest guy to get
along with."
I was quiet. Maybe the Mormon knows, I thought. I doubt it. He can't
even remember my name.
_______________________
And it was two days right on the button when Big Jim showed up. It
wasn't unannounced in the least bit. There were little black and white
posters of him everywhere. I couldn't even find an empty space on any
wall and I looked.
For a week we had worked our ass of for this man on the poster. None
of us had ever even met him. We weren't even sure if he had a last
name. We worked like none of us had ever done before. We labeled. We
straightened. We dusted. We cleaned. We stocked liquor. I hadn't
worked harder in my life, but it felt good as long as I was in the
sanctity of the cooler.
On the day Big Jim arrived I was still trying to make order of the
strange way the Mormon had organized the cooler.
Big Jim came in with no pomp and circumstance, no trumpets blaring,
not even riding a big white horse. The poster's had all been taken
down before his arrival and it seemed as if no one cared. He came in
unnoticed. At least I assume he was unnoticed.
"Hey son!" he said in a voice that nearly knocked me over. I jumped,
nearly dropping a twenty ounce Red, White, and Blue.
"Sorry, son. Didn't mean to scare you. Big Jim here," he said. I could
see his hair trying to escape.
I wanted to say, How are you sir. Nice to meet you. I'm Kevin
Rosencrantz. Instead, I said, "Where's the Mormon?"
"What, son?"
"The m-m-manager."
"Ooooh, him. Skipped him, didn't bother. Store's making a profit. Why
should I bother the manager?" He looked around. I remembered the fresh
bottle of Jim Beam I had just stolen and started to zip my jacket.
"Tight ship you run here," he said. I tried to keep from screaming as
the zipper on my jacket was stuck. The whole reason I was back here
was so I wouldn't have to meet him. "How you keep from goin' batty
back here," he said. I reached in my pocket trying to shove the bottle
back further so he wouldn't see it. "Oh, I see," he said looking
directly at my hand. I knew I was caught for sure. "Can I have a
swig?" he asked.
I pulled it out, still unsure of what he was doing. "Here," I said
handing it to him.
"Used to do the same damn thing," Big Jim said as he took a long
drink. "Had one of them just about every couple of days. Only way to
keep sane, when your working with a potential dictator."
I had heard it, but couldn't believe my ears. "Potential dictator?" I
said as if I knew nothing about it.
"Yeah boy," he said laughing and patting back his escaping hair. "You
probably don't read those stinking rags. This tabloid keeps on
printing these articles about how Hitler's grandson has been workin'
in my store."
"Really sir. That's fascinating."
He laughed again, this time harder. "Yup. And I'll be damned if that
boy up front don't look just like the Goddamn picture."
My hair stood on end. The beer bottles were breathing. I can't tell
him, I thought. He doesn't really believe. Then the words came out of
my mouth. "You gonna give my Jim Beam back sir."
"Oh yeah," he said and handed me back the bottle after he had
carefully screwed the lid back on.
As Big Jim left the store I watched the guys up front, the Mormon and
Hitler's grandson, stare at the counter. "Have a good day," they said
in unison as the bell rang announcing Big Jim's departure.
I pulled the tabloid out of my jacket pocket and looked again at the
picture. I stared through the beer bottles at Craig standing up front.
He looked mean and strangely pathetic. Big Jim had not really believed
Craig was `you know who's' grandson. I looked down at the picture. I
felt strangely hot and more than a little stupid. A girl came in the
front door.
"Lookin' hot," Craig said. "I'll have a burger and fries with that
shake."
I took a slow drink of Jim and thought about some way I could possibly
get out of this job. Craig could stay here and plot to take over the
world or maybe he would just stay here and insult women. I guessed he
would do the latter. Craig and the Mormon looked funny. They seemed
almost cartoonish through the brown glass of the beer bottles.
"Gotta hidey-ho," the Mormon said, sounding like Deputy Dog. "Big
Jake's gonna be here any second. Look busy."
"Sounds good," said Craig in a completely nondictorial way. He quickly
grabbed a mop and bucket and headed for the floor. "Gonna mop first,"
he said, "then I'll take out the trash."
"Do it quick," the Mormon said. "No time to doddle."
Craig looked oddly human, oddly normal. "Hidey-ho," he said. I looked
away from the front of the store and down to the tabloid. "Hitler's
Grandson is Alive and Living in Denver," it said. I slowly tore the
tabloid into small pieces and threw it into the trash can, into the
trash can on top of at least a hundred posters of Big Jim.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
about the authors
** Quincey Burkhalter ( qburkhalter@compuserve.com )
Quincey Burkhalter is a graduate of New Mexico State University in Las
Cruces, NM. He has a degree in broadcast journalism, but just recently
quit his job as a reporter to work as a law assistant. He is 29,
married and has a ten month old daughter.
** Michael FitzGerald ( mfitzgerald@montana.com,
http://www.clutchmasters.com/ or http://www.umt.edu/cutbank/ )
Michael presently lives in Missoula, MT with his smart, sexy fianc?e
Catherine Jones. He is a candidate for an MFA in Fiction at the U of
MT.
** Maryann Hazen ( faerhart2@aol.com )
Maryann Hazen is a mom and wife living happily in NYS. Writing poetry
has been a life-long passion of mine. She has enjoyed the good fortune
to see hundreds of poems published and has won several awards and
contests. She loves going to Renaissance Faires and making
birdhouses. Other hobbies include needlepoint and flower gardening.
She has an awesome tin collection and avoids the kitchen as much as
possible.
** Michael Largo ( MLargo123@aol.com )
Michael Largo has published a book of poems, Nail in Soft Wood
(Pikadilly Press), and two novels, Southern Comfort (New Earth Books)
and Lies Within (Tropical Press).
** Frank S. Palmisano ( frankp7@prodigy.net,
http://www.recursiveangel.com/ or http://www.poetrymagazine.com/ )
Frank S. Palmisano III is a resident of Baltimore, MD and is currently
pursuing a Master's Degree in Theology at St. Mary's Seminary/
Ecumenical Institute of Theology. He is an avid reader with a wide
range of interests. In particular, he has explored the idea of
language as it appears in Heidegger, Nietzsche, and Foucault. He is
also interested in resurrecting a dialogue between the
biographical/occasional poem and the intellectual community.His most
recent poetic feasts can be digested through Recursive Angel, Gravity:
A Journal of Online Writing, The Dead Mule, and Mediphors: A Literary
Journal of the Health Professions.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
in their own words
** Catfishing by Michael FitzGerald
"It's about fishing and grandfathers."
** Coffee Bean Philosophy, Too by Frank S. Palmisano III
"This poem was inspired as a result of a conversation I overheard at a
coffee house adjoining a nationwide bookstore. The discussion was so
immersive that the participants seemed to ignore the terms of their
job description, opting to review national issues and other
tendentious considerations rather than be harassed by the frequent
appeal of customer service. The discussion was not only uninformed but
reminiscent of the dillanteism that appears so symptomatic of the
collective ego that has infiltrated American culture. Two issues
became immediately obvious. Man subdues the social environment through
personal opinion to reinforce his sense of participation and existence
in it. And people love to here themselves speak; the exercise of
speaking is more fascinating than the events assigned to it."
** Advantages by Maryann Hazen
"This is what I imagine it feels like to be "The Bad Guy"; the one who
would use every advantage to dominate or acheive the upper hand in any
event or scenerio ... yet even he must require love and acceptance ...
don't you think?
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
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editors@morpo.com . . . . . . . . . . . . . Reach all the editors at once
http://morpo.com/ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Morpo Review Website
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SUBMISSION GUIDELINES FOR TMR
To receive the current submission guidelines for _The Morpo Review_, send
a message to guidelines@morpo.com and you will receive an automated
response with the most current set of guidelines.
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Our next issue will be published September 1st, 1999.
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