http://www.swellzine.com/ en Copyright 2010 Sat, 24 Apr 2010 13:58:23 -0600 http://www.sixapart.com/movabletype/ http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss Spring 2010 Edited by Archy Jamjun Winning isn't everything. It's an honor to be nominated. Better late than pregnant. Sometimes these proverbs are all we have to hang on to. Submitting stories for publishing can test of your ability to hope. You send your stories in praying they'll get published and in reality, sometimes you're honored that someone simply took the time to write a rejection letter. In a world where dollars get confused with success; mothers, bills, mortgage payments and hungry pets constantly remind you that writing rarely makes cents and thus it makes no sense. But we do it for another reason, there's an ever-present finger tapping on our shoulders. We just can't put that pen down. We can't stop pressing those computer keys. In general, we don't feel settled or happy without conveying ourselves through those twenty-six symbols. So to the winners of Swell's Fiction contest, here's a little vindication for your sacrifice. Here's a toast to your abilities and a shield to hold up the next time the doubt monsters arise. You've gotten paid and your work is up for people to read. It doesn't get much more SWELL than that. http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2010/04/24/all_thats_swell.php http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2010/04/24/all_thats_swell.php description Sat, 24 Apr 2010 13:58:23 -0600 I'm forty pounds overweight and have no fashion sense. I'm an accountant who doesn't live in West Hollywood. I have a son from my first marriage. Philip is ten years old and asthmatic like his father. We live in a condo in Milpitas. Our small living room is overwhelmed by a bulbous set of fake leather furniture arranged around a big-screen projection TV, which became obsolete the moment I unloaded it from the truck. I come from the Seviers, a Franco American, working-class family descended from a long line of Catholics. Jesus hovered over us like a hornet. Our faith was based on terror. Basic stuff, original sin trumps good intentions, you're doomed to die and when you do things get interesting. My problem growing up this way was I wanted to feel the passion but did not. My faith was based on disbelief, which became hollow unrequited love. Add the dyke component and it's, "The Song of Bernadette," rapture. As my fortieth birthday spread out before me like an expressway to death, it occurred to me that I had reached a pivotal point in my life wasting my days attempting to sort things out. In hindsight, a girl should not wear a white pant suit to her first communion. Yes, it is better to lie to a priest than have nothing to confess. Oddly, an abortion is more of a necessity than we have been led to believe. Finally, since lesbians are not explicitly named as sinners in the bible we have a pass. I'm through admitting guilt, confessing sins. I went out and bought a pair of tropical board shorts and booked my trip to Dinah. The Dinah Shore Weekend is an annual event, in which thousands of lesbians invade Palm Springs and have a Bacchanal. Poor Dinah didn't know in 1972 when she put together the Dinah Shore Golf Championship that she was laying the foundation for the biggest lesbian party on the planet. Philip, my sweet boy named for the bold, not the fair or tall and definitely not the fortunate, had to stay with his grand-mère. My mother was confused by the whole Dinah Shore connection. Her Dinah was a Jewish southern belle who threw enthusiastic kisses directly into the camera while calling out, "Mwah." A champion for middle-aged women, Burt Reynolds' sugar mama. Philip and I had an agreement. I would drop him off at my mother and aunt's side-by-side duplex in Hayward, and continue on to Palm Springs, returning five days later. The truck engine was still running as Aunt Marie emerged from the smaller plex on the left wearing culottes and last Easter's appliquéd bunny sweatshirt she'd made into a sleeveless vest. She waved a burning Tareyton 100 at Philip, and with her other hand held a toddler-sized pink stuffed bunny in front of her face singing, "Pip, Pip, Pip, I want to hip, hip, hop to you." Philip made a u-turn. The shutters opened and closed. My mother waited for the doorbell before she unlocked the door. My mom had stopped liking me the moment I went from the shy, placid girl to a creature no one expected. "Hey Mom," I said, running my hand over my buzz-cut. I dressed in high dyke drag just for her-- "Dinah Virgin" t-shirt, zip-off cargo pants, which on me looked like I was storing nuts on my thighs, and steel-toed clodhoppers. Taking in my girth, she winced and turned her attention to Philip, kissing him once on both cheeks. Philip loves my mother intensely. She represents everything wondrous women have to offer him in the world, things I would never give him. During their time together they attended an exclusive reception at some obscure art gallery followed by a five-hour multi-course French dinner. After an overnight with his grand-mère, Philip returned home with an air of pensive longing about him or maybe it was gas from all the cheese she insisted he eat. I left them standing on the curb waving. At just under 500 miles it would take me seven hours, more or less, to get to Palm Springs. I had plenty of time to plan my strategy for Dinah Score. I popped in my Dinah Shore CD and skipped over "It's So Nice to Have a Man Around the House," cranking up "Doin' What Comes Natur'lly," as I looped around the on-ramp for I-5. I stopped for gas a blue raspberry ICEE at the Circle K on I-10. I was looking at my blue tongue in the rear-view when I dipped out of the San Gorgonio Pass and before me in every direction were thousands of windmills slowly turning in the desert wind. Rows of them like massive metal crosses rising from the sand. The sky had turned a fiery orange and it loomed over Palm Springs, whose lights twinkled. Hailey gave me my key and was explaining my Club Skirts and PlanetOut VIP Package when a drunken vixen with pomegranate skin rubbed her musky thong and sports bra-clad body against my golf bag. "I'm drunk." "I'm not." "I like you," she said touching my arm like she was swatting at a fly. "Let's go make out at the meet-and-greet." Her name was Lindsay, originally from Portland, Oregon but currently lived in Riverside. She was between jobs because of an "unfortunate situation" and working temporarily in the photo department of a discount drug mart. I caught all this and still my eyes wandered down her body settling on her smooth crotch, flat beneath sheer lace panties. The meet-and-greet was poolside, a thousand women easy. Girls in sarongs, bikinis, hot pants, skin tight Lycra dresses, pants low-slung on their hips. I took my daiquiri and stationed myself in front of a palm tree next to the pool. The seriously drunk girls were sunburned. They'd been in the water all day doing body shots in the shallow end. A ring of empty glasses and overflowing ashtrays lined the rim of the pool. The cabana boys, visibly stressed with the volume, were unable to keep up. I fought the urge to press my hand on the skin of a nearby bleached blonde to leave a red and white photogram on her back. These girls were loud and crass, double-negative slingers. They ruled the pool with loud dim-witted chatter. I needed to circulate. I helped myself to a grilled shrimp wrapped with pancetta on a rosemary twig skewer. A T-dance had started near the smaller pool by the bar. The bass-line got underway and a mass of comely chicks rushed in and began freaking each other unself-consciously, each movement choreographed with an off-handed awareness of mass distribution on Facebook or YouTube. I checked my watch and realized by the light from the tiki torch that I had forgotten to shave my legs. It was getting dark anyway, and my Bermuda shorts were long. Loitering at the frozen margarita machine I saw Lindsay. She ran over, hunkered down, holding her plastic cup in front of her with two hands. "Stand still so I can pick you up!" she hollered. "Is that dog collar as heavy as it looks?" "I like your hat, what do you call it?" She took it off my head and put it on hers. "I'm not sure. A pork pie?" "I need food. Do you think I look fat?" She pinched a non-existent inch on her bare midriff. A beach ball hit the side of my head. I spiked it back and a cheer rang out in the distance. "My hero," she said attaching herself to me so quickly we fell in a heap into the bird of paradise. I felt something wet in my ear---Lindsay's tongue. "Like let's drop all the B.S. and, you know, do it." Why the hell not? I kissed her back in a sloppy drooling rouler une pelle, teeth bumping affair. I ran my fingers through her hair, which gave way and came off in a magenta clump in my hand. "Shit, my extensions. Those cost me 200 fucking dollars." I rolled out of the tropical plants. "Lindsay? This is nice. This is just perfect." A blonde, taller version of Lindsay stood looking down at me in disbelief. "I just got punk'd, right Linds? You weren't hooking up with this '80s reject. I mean, shit, since when did you want to fuck your father?" Lindsay stood up. I handed her hair to her and she started crying. They stumbled away clinging to each other. I fell into the landscaping and missed everything. All the girls were wearing nametags with colored dots. I asked the bartender what the different colors stood for. She said in her experience a green dot meant dullsville, yellow's girl was high maintenance, that left red, the only girl worth the drama. She winked and poured me two glasses of straight tequila and two beer chasers. I finished the drinks and went to find a nametag. They had run out. I wrote my name right on my shirt and made a black dot next to it with a magic marker. You don't buy beer you rent it. In line for the bathroom I noticed a caged go-go dancer gyrating in the Pussycat Cave was giving me the look. I got to the front of the line and there, suddenly, was a camera crew from HoMo network. As soon as the cameras were turned on, the toilet line lit up into a Lesbians Gone Wild shoot, everyone humping and screaming. I led off a chorus of "We Are the Champions," and flashed the camera my tits. The bright lights went out and the camera crew retreated. I turned to the girl behind me, Lilith, who had drawn a face on her red dot with "x"s for eyes and a frown. "I bet you taste indiscreet." I said licking my lips. Lilith made a point to flip her hair in my eyes as she cut in front of me and took my stall. "Turkish oil wrestling is slated for 10:00 pm in the Clit Club. Would you like to go?" asked the forty-plus, fat femme behind me. The Clit Club was the Saguaro ballroom transformed into dance club with a wrestling ring in the center. We arrived as MC Lotus began explaining the origins of Turkish oil wrestling. It seemed the sport had been around for awhile, since 1360 A.D. Back in prehistoric times the wrestlers poured olive oil over their topless bodies and leather pants then went at it. Victory was achieved when one wrestler pinned the other to the ground or lifted him above his shoulders. At the Clit Club, oiled-up and barely-dressed babes tossed each other around the ring receiving points for simulated sex or pulling each other's panties down. The first match was between Leatherette and Lollipop. MC Lotus introduced the challenger. "Leatherette, what is up? You know Leatherette, I am reading here that you lost last time, for fuck's sake. But you know what? I think she's pissed and she's ready to win tonight!" Leatherette bowed at the applause and I saw her butt crack as the garter belt expanded. MC Lotus put her fist in the air. "So let's do it. Are we ready to fight?" "Yaaaaa." "We gotta hear it." "Fight. Fight. Fight." She was inducing a riot. "Leatherette, Lollipop to the center of the ring." In the light I could see that Lollipop was an African-American Lindsay and that Lindsay had fixed her hair and was now Leatherette. "I want a nice clean fight but not too clean. Har har har. Now kick some ass!" The bell rang and the crowd commenced chanting, "Fight, fight, fight." "Don't you think this is demeaning?" The fat femme without a nametag asked me, but I ignored her. My mind, heated with spirits, was under the divine influence of Bacchus. I wasn't certain of what this meant, but I wanted desperately for Leatherette to finish round one on top. She went for and got one point for pulling off Lollipop's bustier and tossing it to the crowd. I mounted the stage seized by madness and under great convulsions gave oracles, which were captured by a camera crew from QueerTV and became the buzz clip of the day on Yahoo. The phone was ringing. I was late for the school bus. The phone was ringing. I was reclining on the floor fully dressed with all of my bags neatly packed and by the door. "Yeah," I answered. "Hey, mom." "Philip love of my life." "How's the desert?" "Sandy. How are you and GM doing?" "She doesn't like it when you call her that. We went to the cinema last night." "Subtitles or non?" "Non, Jean Renoir's La Grande Illusion in French. It is very timely in our current situation." "What are you doing for fun, kid?" "How's the desert?" "I haven't made it there yet." "I better get off the phone," Philip paused, "this is long distance." "See you later, alligator." My head was killing me. I ordered coffee, a monte cristo with a side of fries from room service. I drew a bath and ate while soaking in the tub. I tried to piece together the previous night but couldn't get beyond the meet-and-greet. I knew somewhere in the evening I had met a girl named Lauren, because she had left a note on the nightstand. Hi- I hope you regained consciousness. I guess you have if you are reading this. Your son sounds like a really great kid. I never did find your hat. See you around. ~Lauren P.S. I don't think they'll press charges. I picked up the phone. I had to find out who Lauren was. Based on her handwriting she was in her late 20s-early 30s, slender, on the tall side. Her writing style was understated and tinged with sadness, meaning she worked in the entertainment industry and was available. I told Hailey all this. She said it was impossible to search the hotel database with only a first name. Maybe, she advised, I could leave Lauren a note on the hook-up board. I drove to the desert instead. Joshua Tree National Park lies at the intersection of the Mojave and Sonoran Deserts. I pulled into the entrance of the park as the desert temperature reached its daily peak. The heat floated up in creepy, wavy lines from the ground. I killed the engine and realized I hadn't brought any water, the thought of which made my throat close from thirst. I got out of the truck; the cooling engine ticked. The air smelled like fired clay. From where I stood there was nothing but endless horizon and mountains shaped like bleached jawbones full of broken teeth. An angry roadrunner sprinted out from behind a tree with a lizard thrashing from his beak. He looked at me as if to say, "You're going to die, loser, beep beep." I took the trail to the visitor's center. The retired guy in the bookstore looked concerned when I asked him for a trail map and six bottles of water. He wouldn't let me go without explaining the seriousness of siesta time in the "hi-desert'" (elevation 3,000 to 6,000 feet). The old guy did have a point. All the little creatures had gone underground in the shimmering heat. I looked at the map and thought Indian Cave sounded right, Huck Finnish. Indian Cave turned out to be Indian Cove, full of big rocks and even bigger rock climbers. A large but surprisingly agile one was waving at me. I waved back as she rappelled. She walked over. On her T-shirt it said, "Save A Tree ... Eat A Beaver." "This place is amazing," she said. "So you like piercing thorns and venomous fangs." "I'm glad you are still with us." I had no idea who this fat rock climbing femme was and she could tell. "We met last night. Lauren." She held out her hand. "I thought it was you but your hair looks different today." She was wearing a helmet. "You seem disappointed." "How long have you been climbing?" "Awhile." She replied putting her gear in a pile. "Doesn't the desert creep you out? You walk around in the blazing sun and pieces of deadly cactus jump off and stick to you." "That would be the clavellina cholla cactus or Opuntia molesta in Latin." "You might as well be on the moon. It's like nothing exists. The present, the future---nothing, or if it did exist, we're going backwards into it," I explained. "Why did you come all the way out here?" "My son loves Joshua trees. They remind him of Dr. Seuss. I promised him a photo." "Where's your camera?" she asked. "I don't remember." "I'm off." She bent down to pick up a snake. "Rushing back to Dinah in time for the last pool party?" "I'm camping here tonight." "By yourself?" I realized as soon as I said it that I used too much force when forming the question. I also was shocked to discover I wanted her to answer but would respect her more if she refused. A crackling sound similar to the crunch of eating Grapenuts cereal started in the bushes. We both turned to watch a turtle emerge, its head bobbing as it touched a patch of sunlight. "Here's my date now," I said moving closer to the reptile. "Don't try to pick him up, unless you're into Desert Tortoise piss." "He's too busy to stop." It was true; the dude obviously had someplace to go. "Mating season," Lauren announced. "I gathered as much." "He knows the odds are against him. Females can carry around sperm for years and still lay fertile eggs, most females don't actively seek out the males." "How do you know all this?" I asked. "I'm doing field work for the Arizona Museum of Natural History." "Turtle work?" "I'm a naturalist and curator of the museum." "I feel inadequate. You probably think I've been shitting where you eat." "Something like that," Lauren smiled--an enormous smile I hadn't noticed before. "Do you have time to show me what I've missed?" "Only if you know how to cook," she smirked, "you can make us dinner." The name of "Joshua Tree" originated from Mormon pioneers who named the tree, a type of lily, Yucca Brevifolia, after the biblical figure Joshua. Supposedly the Mormons saw the tree's branches as the arms of Joshua reaching up to the sky to stop the sun. The Joshua tree is an ecosystem unto itself, sheltering orioles and owls. Kestrels rest in it between hunting sorties, loggerhead shrikes skewer lizards on its spines. On spring nights, yucca moths pollinate the tree's flowers, which look like popcorn bouquets. We scrambled up rocks. Lauren said yellow blossoms first, the bees' favorite color. Spread out below us was a dizzy ocean of yellow buttery blooms, patches of brittlebush, creosote bushes, desert dandelion and desert poppy. She pointed across the expanse of the desert floor painted with purple lupine and red chuparosa. El Niño may be a disaster for the coast, but it's brilliant for the desert. I followed Lauren's Subaru to her base camp, at the Ryan campground. I parked near her tent. She appeared with a coffin-sized metal cooler. "I'll bring you the rest of the supplies you have to work with." I pawed around in the cooler, shut it and sat down. "You have quite a selection of food here." "I like to eat," she scowled. "Not me," I pounded on my big belly. "I'll get the wood," she responded. Crisis averted. One thing you never want to do, my friends, is get between a woman and her body image. The sun was nearing the horizon, bathing the desert floor with a fiery red light. I sat on the cooler sautéing onions, potatoes, cauliflower and curry in Lauren's cast iron skillet. The wood smoke made me think back to camping trips with my parents when I was a kid. After each meal my father would push his empty plate away from him and say food tasted better when cooked over a wood fire. I threw in the chicken, squeezed lemon over it and put the lid on. Lauren had run along to freshen up, imparting an ominous warning about the little desert creatures having shindigs as soon as the sun set. That was when the desert became frantic, she explained, turning into a who-will-eat-who slugfest. Insects ate pollen. Rodents ate insects. Reptiles ate rodents. Owls ate reptiles. Dykes drank wine. Lauren returned smelling of grapefruit and vanilla. She had changed into a tropical print sundress featuring hibiscus, pineapple, and palm trees, her assets nicely displayed by the sweetheart neckline. I poured the wine, a 2005 Clos St. Jean Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Vieilles Vignes. I raised my glass. "À votre sante." "À la votre." She took a sip and left a trace of her coral lipstick on the edge of the glass. It had suddenly gotten cold. Lauren left and returned wearing a fuchsia cashmere cardigan that matched the hibiscus in her dress. She handed me a faded Harvard sweatshirt, and I handed her a plate. I told her to turn off the flashlight. It was bad enough that the rock behind my head was moving. We didn't need to attract any more bats. "Come on, I want to see the cereus. It only blooms at night." We had eaten all the food, finished the French Grenache, and had started on a delicate 2004 Bonny Doon Nebbiolo. I was set. Lauren stood and walked away shining the beam around like a searchlight. "I'd pound on the ground if I were you," she called back to me, "It deters the scorpions." I ran after her. We found the cactus flower seducing the bees with its showy white blossoms. You know you're in trouble when you find flowers sexy. I was thinking about the flower when I found I had been wriggling my ass on a smooth rock curved like a woman's body instead of Lauren. It was so quiet the rubbing of my pants had caught Lauren's attention. "Everything okay?" "It's so quiet I keep hearing things but maybe I'm not. I'm not sure. Doesn't it freak you out being here?" "No." "You're lying." "How would you know?" I grabbed her arm and pulled her to me. She kissed me back with borderline violence. We made out in a trance-like state for what seemed like hours. "Let's go back." Behind her the long fingers of an ocotillo cactus reached for the moon. Lauren had rearranged her tent. It was fortunate that she had bought the deluxe model or else the two of us inside would have stretched it to its limit. She told me to wait as she piled the blankets and unzipped her sleeping bag into a tangled den. "Come on," she said. I crawled into the opening and she zipped it behind me. We kissed. She opened her eyes and found me staring at her. "What?" "You're gorgeous, I said. I want to undress you and learn your secrets." "I want you to shut up and fuck me." I awoke during the night to a howl. I was hearing things again. Lauren made a faint wheezing noise in her sleep. I had forgotten how defenseless people were when they slept, like soft, velvet-like deer antlers before they turned bony. A chorus of yips and cries surrounded the tent. Lauren turned onto her side, her back to me. I spooned her, clung to her tight. The next morning I watched as the sky grew bright blue and the horizon a deep red. I could see Lauren in the distance taking photos. I expected to see Philip running up to her, his hands cupped around a lizard. He was going to love doing desert field work, taking a break from the Francophilia when we lived in Arizona. I wondered if we could get a dog. Would it be safe in a backyard full of snakes? Lauren and I should both go to Jenny Craig ASAP, the kid didn't need two fat mommies. I pulled the sleeping bag over my head blinded by the sun's ascent. The perimeter of our tent was lined with coyote prints, which snaked across our campsite and back into the brush. Breakfast was almost ready when Lauren returned. "Good morning. Did you sleep as badly as I did?" I handed her a cup of coffee and a plate of bacon and eggs. "You didn't have to do this. I'm leaving." "Let's order one of those tropical drinks, the kind that comes in a bowl that looks like a volcano and you have to drink it with a foot long straw." "I'm heading back to Mesa," she said. "You're seeing someone, aren't you?" She looked at me as though I was the stupidest person she had ever met. I was. I took all the tools I wanted from Lauren. The hardest part was picking the right tree. There were several to choose from so I went with my gut and selected a scraggly mid-size specimen twisted by the wind. It wasn't a normal tree; its limbs grew straight up and out haphazardly like fireworks. I worked the soil at the base of the trunk and dug a shallow trench, unearthing the root ball. Pulling up the sleeves of the Harvard sweatshirt like gloves, I rocked it loose. Joshua trees are pure xerophytes able to withstand distress that would kill an ordinary tree. I hauled it to my truck and stuck it in the sand I had shoveled into the bed. Then I left Joshua Tree National Park veering onto the shoulder, flattening miles of flora and fauna, until I reached Interstate 10. http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2010/04/23/take_down_the_sun.php http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2010/04/23/take_down_the_sun.php article Fri, 23 Apr 2010 14:56:00 -0600 I walk down the street, my skin warmed by the late afternoon sun, sweaty socks sinking into the tops of my sneakers. I take the ball home with pride. Bouncing it, the sound acts as a ticking clock. A long, honey blonde braid swishes against my starched white blouse and wispy hairs are stuck to the sides of my face and forehead. My sneakered feet are silent, carefully picking their way over a sidewalk fractured by the roots of old trees. Black shorts cover the tops of long, slim legs. Our team, Robbie and Vinnie and I, have been friends since we were six and know each other's moves, even in the dark. All the others have stayed back. All the boys on different teams now, even the red-headed kid who tried to grope my breasts during the game. I was wondering about that. The other boys were so mad we won. I knew it had something to do with having me on our team. A long, green car prowls the street with its top down. I glance to my right tucking the ball under my arm like a shield from their hungry eyes. I need to hurry now. The boys in the car are yelling "lezzy, lezzy" and making kissing noises that slam through the quiet. My face is hot with shame. I want to get to the other side of the street, but they are blocking my way. My heart begins to beat faster. As if obeying some ancient signal, I break into a run at the same moment the three in the back of the car jump out. Gripping the ball tightly to my chest, I jump a small picket fence into another yard and quickly vault over another one. Faced suddenly with six feet of chain link, I throw the ball down and ram my feet into the diamond openings. I get over the spiked top, down the other side, and land just as they start climbing. Running through yards and gardens, my breath comes as quickly as the tears. I squeeze my slight body through a small space in another fence, tearing a small right angle into my shirt. I put my back to a brick wall. Sliding one foot quietly across the cement, I bring the other to it, gliding closer and closer to the street. My palms cling to the rough brick, I am afraid that the rustle of my shirt against the scratchy surface is loud enough to let them know where I am. Sweat streams off of my eyebrows, down my dirt-streaked face. I can hear them somewhere behind me taunting, "Lezzy, Lezzy, come here puss!" Stunned by their closeness, I slink towards the street, my heart pounds so loudly it sounds as if it were outside my chest. I am afraid they can hear it. Finally reaching the end of the wall, I try to send my eyes out to the street ahead of my face. Slicing through the stillness a hoarse voice shouts, "There, I see her!" Without any thought, I run into the street, down the other side, and into an alley. Now on familiar ground, I hope to make it to the large avenue where there will be people. In the yard behind Isaac's house, I slither into an opening in the garage, unable to see in the sudden darkness. I move silently towards the back, where I know a board is loose, stumbling over old rags, dead toys, metal stuff, and flat tires. The smell of moldy rubber, gasoline, and oil smothers me. All the while I pray I will not be found. My arms are covered in sweat and grime, and finally I reach the second opening. I slide a board aside and creep back into day. I run through the yard with the grape arbor across the back and climb up a paint-chipped fence. I barely reach the top, jump down, and land hard onto the familiar avenue. It is late in the day. Lots of people drive, walk, and shop. There is a mixture of languages and voices that somehow understand each other. Old women with weathered and wrinkled skin stare at me. I pass Entemann's bakery without a second glance at my beloved Charlotte Russe. I pass by Jack's candy store, but instead of going inside for an egg cream or some penny candy, I move along quickly. As I round the corner to my house, I see my older sister's boyfriend and two of his friends playing stoopball. "Hey!" they call out, "How are you doing, kid?" They are the same age as the boys from the car. I look over at them but keep walking. As I pass Robbie's house I realize my arms are empty. I try to figure out how mad he will be and what I can say about the ball. I reach my driveway. I go to the side door, swipe my left arm across my eyes and nose, and step into the cool and bright kitchen. My mother turns and snarls, "You look like a mess. What have you been doing this time with those boys?" Looking down at the floor I whisper, "Just out, playing some ball." http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2010/04/23/brooklyn_afternoon.php http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2010/04/23/brooklyn_afternoon.php article Fri, 23 Apr 2010 14:49:56 -0600 I trudge down Jarvis street to the subway kicking at mounds of snow, which have turned to a filthy sludge. I can't believe my mom's here in Chicago, probably early as usual, wedged tight in her chair at Caribou Coffee wondering why I'm perpetually late. I meant to be on time. It's just that Jo's slender body coupled next to mine had such a sedating effect on me. It's like I was drugged or something, just couldn't move. Only thirty minutes ago, Jo had elbowed me until I stirred. Early afternoon sunlight filtered through the blinds, splaying across our navy blue comforter and over the bridge of her nose. She turned her languid eyes in my direction and murmured, "Lizzy, you've gotta tell her. You're gonna, right?" That familiar knot began to fester in my stomach then. I managed a callous nod, pulled at the rumpled clothes strewn across our lazy boy and tugged them on until I was dressed. Before I left, she added, "If you don't, I will. I swear." The blood drained from my face, leaving me a sickly pallor, and I left our apartment with her warning impeding my stamina like a fledgling migraine. It's difficult to put one foot in front of the other, but once I hear the distant rumble of the train, I quicken my gait, jumping up the stairs two at a time. The entire platform convulses as snow spews from the luminous metal contraption zooming my way. One of the doors to the Red Line stops right in front of me, and I feel like I'm in the middle of a stand-off, like the glass is eyeballing me, challenging me to make a move one way or the other. I hate running from things, even inanimate objects, so I step forward and find a lone seat in the back. My thoughts fall back to mom as I gaze out the dingy window, watching pedestrians below saunter across the streets and dodge vehicles with dexterous precision. I meant to tell Mom about Jo earlier this year, but it never seemed the right time, or as my uncle Ray would say, "You're chicken-shit kid." I'm only twenty-three, not ready to settle down or anything, but there's something special about Jo. She's different from anyone I've ever dated. Our relationship started strong, and it hasn't let up in the eight months I've been with her, that romantic phase hasn't worn thin. Now I'm trapped on the Red Line speeding towards impending doom, otherwise known as Mom. I try to stop the onrush of thoughts, but they just keep coming. I close my eyes in an attempt to ignore them. Twenty minutes later, I'm off the train, walking past the Briar Street Theatre when some idiot backs out of the entrance and assaults me with his elbow. Fucking tourists. I walk the rest of the way with a menacing snarl strapped across my face. Just as I imagined Mom is glued to a chair and adjacent to the fireplace with smile plastered to her face. I hate the way she does that, just smiles when she doesn't feel like smiling, always so damn pleasant. It's sickening. Sometimes I wanna shake her, like now, tell her to act how she feels, that it's okay to be a bitch sometimes. I stride forward, ignoring the gawking counter help, and lean in to kiss mom's cheek. Her skin is cool. I step back and try to mirror her, but the attempt to make this fulsome gesture is exhausting, and my jaw only clenches tighter. My palms are sweaty, and the knot in my stomach is nauseatingly intense, like my insides are caught in a vise. I haven't even said hello yet. "Hey mom. You look great." She really does. Her hair has begun to fade slightly, turning silver blond, but it highlights the natural hue of her freckled skin. Her eyes, which always seemed so nervous before, now appear easy and clear, almost serene. There's something else too... I just can't put my finger on it... "Lizzy, my little Lizzy..." Her voice comes out in a low drawl. It's unusually calm and mellifluous. "I'm so glad you could meet me." "Of course, mom. How was the trip?" I grapple with my seat, which has somehow gotten caught between the metal legs of the table and the wooden chair right beside it. Mom doesn't even notice my behavior, it would have embarrassed her three months ago. I yank the top of the chair until it jerks out; it slams into the table and spills some of her coffee. I notice a half eaten scone resting beside the cup and wonder when she stopped dieting. "Easy Lizzy...easy..." She sounds like she's trying to break a wild mare. I stare at the liquid puddled around the base of her coffee cup. When I look up, her green-gray eyes are wide, but gentle. "I see you have the same wardrobe." I try not to glance down at the layers of greens and blacks surrounding my gaunt frame, but it's impossible with her eyeing me like that. My combat boots are scuffed and worn, they creek as I shift from foot to foot. "Why don't you let me take you shopping, sweetie. You look like you just got out of the army." She gestures toward my chair, a polite way of telling me to sit my ass down. I sit. "Come on mom. Seriously, do we have to go through this?" "I just don't understand why you dress like that. You're such a pretty girl. A little eyeliner and mascara would bring those features right out!" This fight has gone on since I was a kid. She used to braid and curl my hair, coat my legs in tights and then stuff me inside dresses. My school days began with mom dragging me down the driveway pressed, ironed, soaped, and distilled. I detested all of it: the dresses, the barrettes, the perfumes, and the tights. I had no intention of being someone's plaything. "Really, Lizzy. You look like a war veteran..." "So mom!" My voice comes out rough and jagged. It careens around the confined quarters, the pitch rising as it catches speed. Our nearest neighbors latch onto it, spinning around to observe the drama. I glare at the brunette to my left until she drops her eyes. Her friend doesn't understand this social grace so I lean across the table and ask, "You need something?" It comes out as more of a statement than a question. He turns his beady eyes back on the brunette and mumbles, "What a bitch." Mom's body is rigid as stone so I let him go with his face still intact. She taps her nails against the burnished wood and glares at me. "You look great, mom." I try to break the tension. "There's no reason to be rude, Lizzy," she says with candor, her eyes tracing the sides of my shaved head, as if my very appearance is an attack as well. "I know, mom. Sorry. Soooo, how was your trip?" This is the right question. "It was beautiful!" she begins. "I love traveling by Metra, love watching the countryside go by like that. It is such a sacred experience... to view the trees and hills from..." Her eagerness intensifies as she babbles on and on about the train ride, her pantheistic love of nature wasted on me. I keep my eyes on her and nod in the appropriate places, tuning her out while I wonder how to bring up Jo. "Mom, I'm gay, and I'm in love with this really great chick." Hmmm...not bad, but I probably shouldn't say chick. "Mom, I'm gay, and I met this really cool girl. I think you'd like her." What if she doesn't like her? What if she hates her? Okay, okay, let it go, try again. "Mom, I'm in love. Her name is..." I'm what? What'd I just say? "Lizzy...are you listening?" Mom's distant voice closes in on my thoughts, and drowns out the internal dialogue battling in my head. My right eye gives an involuntary twitch. "Yeah Mom, it's beautiful," I stammer, wondering what she was talking about. "What?" "Ummmm... it's beautiful?" "Did you hear a word I just said?" I pull my face into an apologetic grimace. "No," I sigh. "I'm kind of distracted today." "Lizzy, you need to listen to this. I came all this way for a reason. I'm not here for my health." She takes a sip of coffee and dabs at the corners of her mouth, while I sit in a stupor, realizing what an idiot I've been. Of course there's a reason she's here. I didn't bother to ask her or even wonder why she suddenly insisted on visiting me in Chicago. I, of all people, know she rarely treks a mile outside of her own hometown. I swallow and lean back in my seat. "I'm divorcing your father." Her words crash into stillness. The brunette is eavesdropping again, her body half-turned in our direction, her face still and tense. I want to tell her to fuck off, but decide this is a bad time. "Mom? Are you okay?" I begin, thinking about what an asshole dad's been to her all these years. "That's a big move for you." I whisper the last part, attempting to keep our business at our table. She shakes her head and uses the napkin to wipe up tears that have accumulated around her eyes. Then she lets out a long sigh. "I have spent most of my married life waiting for this day...I am so tired of cooking and cleaning up his shit. I'm getting a divorce and taking a vacation!" She throws her head back and surprises me with a brazen laugh. I observe her with suspicion. I'm waiting for her eyes to pop out of the sockets, her hair to stand on end, or some other sign signaling an emotional breakdown but nothing happens. She looks more alive than I've ever seen her. She blows her nose on a napkin and waits for me to say something. "I'm happy for you, mom, really." I grab her hand, the skin still soft and smooth, and wrap it in my own. "Does he know?" "We've been separated for three months now." Her hand pulls away from mine and grabs at the white coffee cup, turning it between thumb and forefinger, the ceramic scraping wood. "What? Why didn't you tell me?" I ask, "Where are you living?" She isn't listening. Her eyes have switched direction and are now focused on my arm, a scowl forming as the last words fall. "What is that?" she demands. I look down, startled to see my shirtsleeve pulled up and my tattoo hanging out. It suddenly appears twice as large. "It's a tattoo." "Lizzy, what is the matter with you? Are you angry at the world? Why do you pull these kinds of stunts?" Muffled laughter comes from a nearby table and I turn to see Beady Eyes shifting his attention from me then back to Brunette. "Is your life that boring asshole?" It's like my mouth just explodes without forewarning, the words vomiting into space. He snaps his head back in place, this time, holding back any snide comments. "Lizzy, it's okay..." I glance up at mom. "What?" "The tattoo dear, the way you dress." She shakes her head, sucking air in through her teeth. "God, I sound just like your father. I'm sorry." I'm surprised by her apology. "Thanks," I mumble, fumbling with the zipper on my jacket. She heaves herself back, smacking the palm of her right hand on the table and asks, "So why are you so distracted today?" I almost jump out of my chair. How does she do that? Can she hear my thoughts? "What? Why?" Mom's eyebrows narrow. She observes me like a rat in a lab. "You said you were distracted, dear." "Oh...right. Ummm, yeah..." My mouth is dry as snake's skin. I lick my lips, moving my tongue around to get the saliva flowing. "There's something I wanna talk to you about..." I think about my aunt Louise, the still-in-the-closet, stone-butch lesbian, her rough, calloused hands, muscular physique, rubicund complexion. The family knows she's a dyke, it's hard not to know, but it just festers in the space around us. Dad shakes her girlfriends' hands politely, their faces changing with the seasons, and then exonerates them by turning away. "Lizzy, what is it?" Mom looks impatient. I bite the inside of my lip. "I met someone, and it's serious. Her name's Jo." "Say what?" "I'd like you to meet her." "Her name is Jo? Jo isn't a woman's name." "It's short for Josephine." "Oh, well that's nice dear. Does she live close?" "Are you kidding me mom? You're not gonna have a fit?" "About what dear?" "Me mom! I'm a lesbian, 100% pure dyke at your service." "Oh Lizzy, you're so dramatic sometimes. I've known you were gay since your were a child." She leans toward me, winks, and gives my arm an exorbitant pat. "What?" I feel anger. I want to ask her a hundred questions, the first being, "Why the hell didn't you tell me?" but all I can muster is another, "What?" Mom pushes back in her seat and shakes her head. Wisps of hair fall from the tiger-striped barrettes fastened behind each ear. "I wanted to give you space," she begins. "I tried to talk about it with you one day, but you clammed up, and I decided you would tell me when you were ready." "Wow," I drop my head in my hand. "How old was I?" "About fourteen. You were crazy over that Cathy girl." "Cathy, Cathy..." I think back to high school; the star athlete, her lustrous hair pulled back in a drooping ponytail, those mischievous, gleaming eyes, and her confident, sexy smile. "You knew?" "Of course, Lizzy. She was all you talked about, and one day I made the mistake of teasing you." Mom takes another sip of coffee. Wrinkles crease at the edge of her mouth. "After that, you stopped talking about her. Oh, it was pretty obvious you were smitten." "What about Aunt Louise?" I ask. "What about Aunt Louise?" she echoes. "The way you treat her girlfriends, the way you tiptoe around her sexuality?" "Lizzy, your Aunt Louise has no intention of settling down. I treat her girlfriends like the floozies they are. I don't discriminate against them because their gay, but because their hussies!" Her face begins to fluster. She picks up her coffee cup, and then sets it back down, the brown liquid sloshing, almost spilling over the edge. "Most of those girls are just experimenting!" Can you believe that? And your aunt just indulges them!" "Or indulges herself." The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them, but mom's glare slaps the grin right off my face. "Sorry," I say again. "So what's she like?" "Jo?" "Of course, who else would I be talking about?" "Ummm... she's amazing." "Is she the butch or the femme?" "What?" How in the hell does she know this stuff? "You know dear, the man or the woman. Because I have to be honest, I'm tired of your glum attire, and I can never take you to get your hair done... you don't even have any hair." I wonder if there's a right or wrong answer here. "Well... mom. There's not... ummm... there's not always a butch and a femme..." I snatch at her scone, tear a piece off and stuff it in my mouth. "Well... is she or isn't she?" Her nails are tapping against the table again, the very sound grating my nerves. There's definitely a right or wrong answer. I half swallow, half choke on the sugary treat. "Well, she's kinda like me, I guess." Mom raises her eyebrows. "You know, more androgynous... a soft butch..." I falter and glance out the corner of my eye for some help from our friendly neighbors, but Beady Eyes and Brunette have left. Mom flaps her hand at me, dismissing the question altogether. "Oh, butch, femme, it's all a bunch of nonsense isn't it, just a lot of silly jargon." She picks up the remaining scone and pops it in her mouth. "Does she like to get her hair done?" "Not really...but she does wear make-up," I say, detesting the way may voice turns all hopeful and whiny like a child's. "Really?" "Yeah, I mean, it's a bit dark and edgy, kinda punk... you two could have a heyday with that." I shrug and fold my hands together on the table. Mom leans forward, pats me on the left arm, just above my tattoo, and whispers, "Are you happy, love?" I think about Jo, probably still floundering in our bed, the sweet grassy smell of her skin weaving into cotton sheets. "Yeah mom. I am." "Then I would be honored to meet her." I stare into her speckled eyes with relief, the pressure in my abdomen beginning to assuage. I want to say something to her, tell her how proud I am of her, how much I love her, but my tongue is thick with emotion so I just sit here like an idiot, watching her watch me. She finally breaks the silence. "Maybe," she begins, rapping her knuckles on the wood and turning to gaze out the window, "she'll go shopping with me." Her eyes widen slightly and the corners of her mouth turn up in wander. "Maybe she'll go to the lingerie stores with me. Lord knows I need company in that department, and it won't be you." Her eyes veer toward my chest. "Do you remember the day we bought your first bra?" I slump in my seat and cross my arms in front attempting to protect what little dignity I have left. "You were so embarrassed," she continues, ignoring my stare. "You sat in the corner and sulked, so sensitive..." She drones on, strolling down memory lane as I stare at the crumbs sprinkled across the table next to us. I shift my attention to the inside of the coffee house, and scour the place for a distraction. The place is buzzing with customers, but all the tables surrounding us are empty. There's no one here to fight, but mom, and that is a useless battle. The urge to slap her has long since past so I wait out the rush of words as she jumps from one idea to the next. During a slight pause, I interrupt. "Mom, we should probably go. Jo's gotta work at two... if you wanna meet her..." "Oh, of course." She pulls her coat on and stands. She looks beautiful and at ease with herself. I step forward, loop my arm through hers, and lead her toward the door. Before we get there she turns to face me and says, "Lizzy, I am so proud of you. I love you more than you know." Then she kisses my nose like she used to do when I was a child. All those words I had wanted to say earlier, all those words that had stuck in the back of my throat like mud, she says in two simple, yet eloquent sentences. I can't help but admire her for that. And as I observe her, I begin to wonder if my cynicism will dissolve with age, fading as life shifts and spins, until the last traces of fatalism have been flung off, until my personality parallels the sharp, tenacious woman standing before me; and I decide it might not be such a horrible thing to turn into my mother. http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2010/04/23/say_what.php http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2010/04/23/say_what.php article Fri, 23 Apr 2010 14:20:14 -0600 "When was the first time you did it?" Brian asked. "Did what?" I asked. "You know what I mean-- had sex," he said. I grabbed his hand from between my legs and pulled it up to my shoulder. He nuzzled against my chest and although I couldn't see his face, I felt his smile against my pecs. "Tell me about your first time," I said. "I asked you first." "I know you did." He dug his hips into me with a slow thrust. "His name was Matthew and we did it one afternoon while my parents were at Temple." "How old were you?" I asked. "We were both sixteen, but we had been playing for a while, ever since his Bar Mitzvah." We held each other for a few minutes in silence. "I told you my story," he said. "Now you tell me yours." "What for?" "Because I'm comfortable and I want a story," he said. "Now tell me about your first time." My father took me to bars when I was growing up. A lot of times I was brought home and put in bed by other people, usually barmaids or one of my father's buddies. It was just my father and I in a crackling duplex in Queens. We each had our own bedrooms, both with mattresses on the floor. My father had a friend who was an electrician. He would come over and start a wiring job on the house and never finish it. He was always in and out of prison for short stays, anywhere from thirty days to a year. The light switches he worked on never had wall plates and hung limply out of the sheetrock, exposing frayed or copper wires. The lamps we had in the house had no lampshades so the light ran up the white walls. The wooden floor creaked and had paint stains from when my father, a painter, came home from work. The windows had no shades or blinds or drapes, just chipped paint peeling itself off with time. The back screen door hung ajar and gave off a sense that something had happened or that anything could. The bar my father went to was three blocks from our house. Even though he knew he would get wasted and it was such a short distance, he would still drive there and back. And even though it was so close to our house, I still had to go with him every night he went. He said he didn't want to leave me alone in the house because he was afraid I might burn it down. I thought that was stupid, but I knew as long as we were not at home, he wouldn't ask me about my homework and I wouldn't have to lie to him and say that I didn't have any. The bar was a mix of bikers and middle-aged locals. Fights broke out occasionally and my father and I developed a system. The louder things got, the sooner I made a run for it. Whenever I saw people start wrestling, before anything really bad happened, I ran out the back door. I ran into the back parking lot and hid behind a dumpster. After the violence was over, my father stood at the back door and called my name. This was the signal that it was all over and that I could come back inside because everything was safe again. Torch was a biker. He got his name from his friends because he was an arsonist and rapist. He wore a red hanky tied around his neck and was bone skinny. He had miniature, insane eyes that were mostly black. He was a semi-friend of my father's and brought me home from the bar occasionally to put me to bed. He was my first. I remember the red streaks on my sheetless mattress after his removal and him wiping himself with a white t-shirt on the floor next to my bed. When I woke up in the morning, the t-shirt was the first thing I saw before getting ready for school. That smeared t-shirt would stay in my head all day while I sat at my desk, trying to learn long division. He had a terrible body odor that mixed with cigarettes and hashish. He usually carried a Bowie knife or spring action stiletto, the kind that's illegal. He wore a 28" waist. I knew that was his size because I had to look at the tab on the back of his Levi's while they were crumpled on the floor next to my mattress, always close to my face. It was late on a Sunday night and my father got into a fight at the bar. This was not usual for him, but also not unusual. I remember being worried about trying to get up the next morning for school. I always woke myself up to make sure I got there on time, even though my stomach would always hurt from nerves. I was in the corner of the bar playing Arkanoid when the fight started. I loved hanging out in the corner of the bar and playing video games while the barmaid kept feeding me cherries in my soda, telling me how cute I was. By the time I went outside to see what happened, my father was sitting on a 2x4 between two cinderblocks. He was smoking a joint and taking a moment to catch his breath with a victorious cut on his nose. I was scared and shaking. My father told me it was all right and that we won. Then Torch pulled up on his motorcycle. I ran inside and hid under the pool table. I only saw his motorcycle boots and his acid washed jeans, which were dark from dirt and soot. Everyone must've known I was there but must have thought I was playing some type of hiding game. For the rest of the night, I stayed under the pool table and played with a bunch of cardboard coasters the barmaid gave me. It wasn't until the bar was closing that someone came for me. Torch reached his hand under the pool table for me to take. I did. He escorted me out the back door with his arm around me, chatting like we were buds. He was the only customer left in the bar and the owner was closing the till. The barmaid I liked was already gone and I didn't see my father. It was up to Torch to take me home and put me to bed. When I woke up the next morning, my stomach was hurting again. I was late getting to school, something I was always afraid of. I had to go to the main office and tell the Assistant Principal why I was late. She gave me a pass to go through the hall and gave me a note to give to my teacher, although she told me I wasn't allowed to see what the note said. But before she let me go, she told me I had to see the school Social Worker during recess. I felt like I was in trouble and I hated that I couldn't be normal like the other kids. They didn't have to go see a Social Worker. I made a promise to myself that I wouldn't say anything to anyone once I got there because I knew adults could be tricky. Before I walked out of the room, the Assistant Principal bent down close to me and asked me when the last time I had taken a bath was. I told her I couldn't remember, even though I knew it had been over a week. I wasn't sure of the answer she wanted so I said what every kid says, "I don't know." She asked me if we had running water at my house and I said sometimes we do and sometimes we don't and sometimes the water comes out looking brown. She let me go and told me to be a good boy and said to make sure I saw the Social Worker that afternoon. When I got to her office, the Social Worker wasn't there yet. I sat on the hard green linoleum of the hallway. The door around the bend must've been open because there was a breeze and I saw dust bunnies run along the floor of the hallway. I followed them till I lost sight. The hall was silent because I was in the wing of the school where there were offices, but no classrooms. I was watching two dust bunnies race each other when I heard the clicking of high heels against the shiny hard floor. I stood up immediately and waited for her to appear. She was very nice and introduced herself as Mrs. Healy. She was middle-aged with black hair and looked like Olive Oyl from the Popeye cartoon. The first thing she said was that I wasn't in trouble because she knew that's what I was thinking. Even though she said it, I still felt like I was in trouble. Then she said she wanted me to draw a picture while she talked to me for a while. She said she wanted me to draw a picture of what my house looked like and then draw a picture of the people in it. Not only did I hate drawing, but I thought it was the stupidest thing I'd ever heard of. But if all she wanted me to do was draw while she talked, I could do that. Just as long as I didn't have to talk because I wasn't sure what she wanted me to say. After I was done, she stopped talking for a minute and looked at the picture. She said it was a very nice picture and instead of throwing it in the garbage like I hoped she would, she put it in a folder. I noticed the folder had my name on it and had the handwriting of the Assistant Principal. I decided right there I would never tell her anything. We played the card game Uno the rest of the time and she said I was good at it. Good enough that she took out a legal pad after I won the first game and started keeping score of our matches. She told me that I should come by her office again tomorrow at the same time and play her again. She said she would practice and get better and try and beat me. She asked me if maybe tomorrow I'd like to talk a little bit with her instead of her doing all the talking. I knew she was going to say that, so I gave her a shy, "Maybe." By the end of the year, I had spent the rest of my lunch breaks with Mrs. Healy in her office playing Uno and not talking very much. I never again saw the folder that had my name on it, but by the end of school that year, her legal pad showed she had 62 wins while I had 88. The last time I saw Torch was when I was ten. I saw him stab a man in the weeded concrete parking lot behind the bar. I was hiding behind the dumpster in the corner of the parking lot again playing with two cars I kept in my pocket. I was sitting on a long and hard chipped piece of wood that used to be a telephone pole. My face was streaked with dirt because I hadn't bathed and I had been crying. My father slapped me earlier that evening and I wanted to be as far away from him as possible. He yelled at me because I mentioned the word "mom" while he was talking to a younger woman. It was loud in the bar and the jukebox was kicking out George Thorogood. What I really said was "home" and no one heard the first part of my sentence, which was "I want to go..." I was shouting to get my father's attention in hopes he would hear me. There was a break in the song and then a strong lick from a guitar. When I shouted "home" it sounded like "mom" and the woman stopped her conversation with my father and they both turned and looked down at me. The woman looked at me inquisitively. My father looked very serious. I knew I had just done something wrong. The woman gave my father a dismissive look and he said something to her I could not hear. I was looking up towards them as they sat on brass stools, and my head barely reached the ledge of the bar. I saw her turn and shake her head in what was a "no" right before she mouthed the words "thanks". She got up from the stool next to my father and walked to the other end of the bar. "What the hell did you do that for?" he said right before he slapped my face. I was embarrassed and immediately began to cry. I ran out the back door and hid behind the dumpster. A few minutes later my father came outside, and I heard him calling my name. I kept hearing him say he was sorry and asked a couple of bikers outside if they had seen a little boy. They all seemed to have said no and I peeked to see him go back inside. He came outside a few seconds later with his keys jingling attached to his belt loop. He walked briskly out of the chain link entrance to the parking lot. I saw him keep turning his head and checking under cars and along the side backyards of people's homes as he walked down the street. I knew he was looking for me but I wanted to hide. I knew he was looking for me to apologize and not to hurt me again, but I wasn't ready to forgive him. I wanted him to think I was kidnapped and that would make him sorry he hit me. I spent a few hours hiding behind the dumpster. I didn't want anyone to see me-- I just wanted to hide and play with my cars. It wasn't until later that I heard a commotion coupled with shouting and howling. Several bikers were outside watching Torch beat on a man in his fifties. I peeked and saw the man lunge to try and grab a hold of him, but Torch was able to dodge the man and he fell to the ground. The man was then kicked repeatedly in the ribs and back by Torch and a few more of his friends. They were all laughing and smoking. After a few minutes of thrashing, the man lay on the cracked concrete, not moving and moaning. Torch took a step back and asked one of his fellows for a cigarette. He lit the cigarette and took a drag, admiring his work. I heard him crack a few jokes to his biker friends and they all laughed. Torch then flicked his cigarette after taking only two drags, reached into his tight dirty jeans and pulled out his Bowie knife. The metal briefly caught the light from the lamppost in the parking lot. He took the knife and swooped down like a diseased black vulture. I heard a sound like someone piercing a leather couch and then a groan deep from the belly of the man. I heard a gurgling sound as the blood started to fill his throat and lungs. It made a sound like water finally going down a drain after becoming unclogged. I had to run. I ran out from behind the dumpster but in no specific direction. I had no idea where I was headed. Torch tracked me down and grabbed me as his friends started their loud bikes and fled. He picked me up and thrust me onto his motorcycle. We ended up at a motel and I was too shocked to be able to say anything. I remember he made me hold his hand at the motel desk. I listened to him explain how he needed a room for the night for him and his son. I couldn't say that he had just stabbed someone and that I wasn't his son. I couldn't say anything. I just held his hand. It was later that night in the motel room when he sat down naked on the bed next to me. He had just taken a shower when he put his arm around me and laid me down on the bed next to him. "You saw what I did tonight, didn't you?" I tried to nod yes, but was staring straight up at the ceiling. "You know what we do here-- you can't never tell anyone." I was staring at the ceiling, which was lined with mirrors. "Answer me boy," he said aggressively. "Listen here and you listen good. You say any word of this and what you saw and next time I'll do that to your daddy." I couldn't say anything. I just kept staring at the mirror on the ceiling, looking down at my pre-teen body while lying next to the naked body of a wiry, violent man. Torch was later murdered in jail by a Hispanic gang. I read it in the newspaper during first period when I was in tenth grade. I was in my social studies class where each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, we had to bring in the day's newspaper and read it to keep up on current events. We had to make clippings of the stories we liked and keep them in a manilla folder with our name on it, which the teacher kept in an aluminum cabinet behind his desk. Later in the year we had to do a research project on one of the articles we cut out of one of the newspapers. I read the article about Torch, whose real name was Gary something. He died when they cut his throat in the shower after putting sixteen holes in his body with a sharpened toothbrush. The paper said it was gang related, but that's all they said. There were only a few sentences about it in the Local Section. They referred back to the murder he was found guilty of, the murder I witnessed and said nothing about, which was how he ended up in jail in the first place. They said there would be an investigation into his death and that's all there was. When the bell rang and I had to go to my second period math class, I folded the paper and left it in the metal book-holder on the side of wooden the desk. Mr. Dales hated when we didn't clean up after ourselves saying that it was a sign of laziness and we would all become obese adults. Still, it was something I thought was better left behind http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2010/04/23/excessive_disclosure.php http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2010/04/23/excessive_disclosure.php article Fri, 23 Apr 2010 14:08:04 -0600 Spring 2009 Edited by Jill Craig Several times these past few weeks, my partner and I have found a little something extra in our laundry. We haul the baskets up from the communal laundry room in the basement of our apartment building, dump the warm clothes and towels on the bed and begin folding and sorting. The first time it was a tiny baby sock - white with blue stripes - and it fit in the palm of my hand. The week after that there was another sock - this one was miniscule and the paw print on the bottom helped us decide that it must belong to one of the tiny, well-dressed urban dogs that have been prancing around our neighborhood this winter. The next week, it was a little pair of underwear. They were boxer briefs, grey cotton, but scaled down to fit a six-year old. As we stood giggling at the adorable little drawers, it struck me - these underpants belong to a total stranger. And they are on my bed. The little underpants made me feel a little closer to my neighbors than I'd like. I know the names of only a handful of the people in my building, and of those people, none of them are small enough to fit into the little boxer briefs. While the rural and suburban branches of my family tree tell me that it is disgraceful that I do not know all of my neighbors, I am fine with it. I share so much with the people in my building - I know the sexual habits of the people upstairs, next door has the uncanny ability to start their showers mere milliseconds before I start mine, someone's socks and undies have been on my bed, and the people across the hall make sure to have screaming matches only when I am trying to practice peaceful, meditative yoga in my living room. We are intimate enough already that we need not be on a first-name basis. The writers in this issue remind us that we do not always have such control over our proximity to others. The routines of everyday life push us into the orbits of family members, lovers, friends, and intimate strangers alike. What binds these characters and these stories may be shared blood (or other bodily fluids), shared walls, shared passion, a shared experience, or just shared minutes during a basic transaction. Though the close exchanges in these stories and poems are not always neat and clean, the pieces in this issue connect the individual points of intimacy to form a constellation shaped something like the human experience. Whether you enjoy them alone, curled up with your laptop, or read them on your Blackberry, smashed between 50 other commuters on a standing-room-only train, these pieces will undoubtedly remind you of your own proximity to those around you. http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2009/02/14/proximity.php http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2009/02/14/proximity.php description Sat, 14 Feb 2009 11:31:40 -0600 Ann, the saleswoman at the jewelry store, held my hand in hers, palm up, like an empty, hopeful nest. "This should fit better now," she said, referring to my engagement ring, which she held in her other hand. The ring had been in the shop for a few weeks being resized. I'd missed it. My finger, so long unadorned, had already grown accustomed to its feel. Ann eased the band back down over my knuckle, then deftly placing her hands below and above mine, turned my hand over. She removed her top hand--and there was my ring, back shimmering on my finger as if through a magic trick. "How's that feel?" she inquired from the other side of the glass-topped jewelry counter. The whole store glittered with refracted light, and Ann sat in the middle of it, mistress of the arcane science of ring fitting. I was submitting myself to the rituals of her care. "I think it's good," I said, my inflection wavering upwards with uncertainty. My thumb toyed with the band. My engagement ring was the first valuable piece of jewelry I had ever worn. It had more than a personal meaning. If I lost it--and it had been way too loose before I brought it in--I wouldn't just be losing a sentimental object, but one that was worth something, enough to be insured. I wasn't used to being responsible for such nice things. "I don't know. Maybe it's still a little loose," I said. "It's hard to tell." "Well, your hand feels cold," Ann said, reaching for it again. The way she pressed my hand between hers, warming it, felt almost choreographed, designed to impart the sense that my hand itself had value, an appraisal I felt pleased to accept. "Remember," she said, "cold constricts." I did remember that. When Ann sized my finger on my last visit--slipping on different size bands and gently tugging on them to see if they would slide over my knuckle--she'd explained how hands awaken large and warm from sleep and then shrink as the day progresses or the temperature drops. So, when I was late for this visit and couldn't find my gloves and it was December and cold in Minnesota, I had jammed my chilly hands like a guilty secret into my pockets as I hurried in from the parking ramp. I was visiting the world of my ring, a world where I didn't feel I totally belonged. I'd parked at the only downtown ramp I knew, the Northstar ramp connected to the hotel where I'd waited tables when Marcus and I first met. And I hadn't gotten dressed up, even though I was going to an artisan jewelry store in an upscale downtown mall. Assembling some sort of outfit that would help me blend in had seemed, that morning, like too much effort for just one errand. Instead, I put on the Bonnie Raitt t-shirt Marcus had bought me after the State Fair concert at which he had proposed. My back arched a little with defiance. No one could look down at me for wearing that t-shirt with my diamond. Ann tugged at my ring. "I think it's okay," she said. "I can't get it past your knuckle." I tried too and couldn't either. "Why don't you wear it for a few days and see how it feels?" she suggested. "Okay," I said. I liked having the hedge of a few days. "Wow, it's really sparkly," Ann said, rocking my hand in hers to let the diamond catch the light from different angles. I watched her. She was blond; her glasses just lenses floating on her face without frames. She did this all day long and yet still seemed sincere, genuinely taken with my particular stone. She'd also cooed about how sweetly nervous Marcus had been when he came in to buy the ring. How could the constant drama of other people's love lives continue to absorb her? "Could I try it on?" she asked. "I'm actually the same size as you." I noticed she wasn't wearing an engagement ring or wedding band herself. "Sure," I said. It felt like a fun "just us gals" kind of thing to do. I started to yank the ring off. "Here," she said, "just ease it off like this." She pressed the band into the inside of my knuckle and then rotated the outside edge, back and forth, back and forth until it slipped off with ease. "Oh, yeah," I muttered. She'd demonstrated that technique last time. I should have remembered. Ann slid the ring gracefully onto her ring finger and then held her hand out to admire it. But her focus seemed to have shifted from the beauty of the sparkling object to its symbolic meaning. "I go out with guys, and they're, what are they?" Ann searched for the answer. "Well, there's some aspect of their physical presentation that I object to...." "Like what?" I asked. I hoped she wasn't one of those people who laid out strict height or weight or hair color requirements for their dates. I liked Ann and wanted to keep on liking her. "Like they don't bathe that often." "Oh, yuck," I said, scrunching my face in disgust. "Or, you know, they're not completely over their last girlfriend." "Yeah, well, that's no good." I shook my head. "Or, I'm trying to rekindle something with an old boyfriend," she said, and it seemed her litany could go on and on. I had had my own version once, but the specifics of my lament had already begun to recede. "I'm 47," Ann said, "and maybe what I'm supposed to do is help make other people happy." She peered at me through the clear crystal of her glasses, seeking agreement. "Don't say that," I said, holding her gaze. "You're a prize." Light dallied in the irises of her eyes, as if within the facets of a diamond. I tried to think: Did I know any single guys I could set her up with? But now that Marcus's boss was finally dating someone no eligible man sprang to mind. God, I was so glad not to be single. And wasn't my own happiness unlikely? Should I? I thought. Should I tell her my story? I wondered if Ann had had any suspicions. Did she think Marcus and I were just another straight couple getting engaged? "You don't know how love will come into your life..." I began cautiously, with what could have been an annoying platitude. But I was warming up, bracing myself to open the door, preparing for a possible blast of cold air. "When I first met Marcus, he wasn't Marcus," I said. "He was Margery." There. I'd said it. "What?" she said. She cocked her head. "Marcus is transgender," I said, as if simply evoking the word "transgender" would explain everything. But I knew better. It rarely did. Ann kept her head cocked, so I explained: "Marcus started out as Margie, with a woman's body. But he transitioned. You know, with hormones and surgery." I waited for a moment to let that sink in. Apparent men in suits and apparent women in heels scurried by in the mall corridor, balancing lunch-hour boxes of take-out. "I never would have guessed," Ann said. "I had no clue." I smiled a slight smile. So we'd successfully infiltrated. We'd made a foray deep into straight territory--we'd bought an engagement ring, for heaven's sakes--all, evidently, without arousing suspicion. "Okay, so you started out dating Margery," Ann said. She was speaking slowly. I recognized this stage: she was puzzling out the logistics. "So, does that mean you're...are you a lesbian?" "Actually, I'm bisexual," I said. I tensed slightly. "Bisexual" seemed to be another word that often needed further explication. I didn't wait this time, but hurried on to my definition: "What I mean is that I've dated men and I've dated women." Ann brightened: "Well, that'd double your chances of meeting someone. Maybe I should try being bisexual." My body went still. I got that a lot--this notion that bisexual singles revel in some sort of dating nirvana. I took a breath and reminded myself: It's an innocent mistake. How was it that straight people could so consistently not see the stigma sexual minorities face? Did Ann really not realize that her bisexual stand-in would be viewed as kinky and oversexed? Worthy of a fling maybe or a three-some, but most likely not with a guy who'd stick around the next morning. "The truth is being bisexual probably halves your chances," I said. "Let's just say you have to factor out a lot of prejudiced people." "Oh," Ann said. If my life was any guide, the best mate for a bi person was someone conversant with all genders--say, someone trans--a very small pool indeed. I watched a potential customer peer into a glass case. It was a miracle, really. All most of us want to do is find just one special person, and I'd found mine. I was safe now, on the other side of single. I wanted my ring back. I held out my hand. "Oh, here," Ann said. She eased my ring off her hand. She was back to being the friendly professional. "Wear it for a few days and see how it fits," she said. "I will," I said, but as I slid the ring over my knuckle, I could feel the fit was already better. My hand had grown warm; my finger filled the ring. http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2009/02/14/the_wedding_ring_clerk_1.php http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2009/02/14/the_wedding_ring_clerk_1.php article Sat, 14 Feb 2009 10:00:00 -0600 took a shine to me as Gamma put it when she came out to the house last month and Ian came by for dinner and took me to my room after and we turned the music on and locked the door while Momma and Daddy looked over nursing home brochures with Gamma until she got tired and knocked on my door and whispered night, boy and the sudden jerk my head made when I tried to take Ian from my mouth to say good night made him come and I felt him flood my mouth but I managed to mumble a good night, and Ian apologized but I told him I was fine and really I was because I was used to it, not having his come inside my mouth, not that, the sour, stagnant taste of his release washing my teeth and sliding down my throat because it's just like bending in front of the toilet after I've eaten a whole cake I swiped from the cafeteria using the hall pass I stole from Miss Winter's class two years ago, or the whole bag of miniature Hershey bars Ian drives me to the Brookshire's on the other side of town to buy, or a whole carton of ice cream--double chocolate, rocky road, peppermint fudge--and Ian says I must have a big appetite and caresses my face which I know means it's time to lean down from the passenger seat into his lap while he cruises down I-30 on the way back to my house, but it's good practice I tell myself, the days Ian can't come over because his girlfriend already made plans and I'm just home with Tamera talking into the phone watching the silent pictures on the other side of her room and Momma watches Oprah in the living room on the other side of the house, the volume turned up more than at night to cover the music I play even when Ian's not here because the bathroom is right next to my room and that's close enough to muffle the hot, chunky splash the food makes as it falls from my lips into the cloudy water below, that splash as loud as a cannonball's impact no matter how far over the toilet seat I pitch myself, how close I hold my face to the water's surface, its faint aroma of urine which I used to get rid of with disinfectant every day until Momma started to wonder why she had to replace bottles so often so I can only do it twice a week now, but even that turned out to be a good thing because the odor helps my stomach contract and the food comes faster and I don't have to spend as long behind the locked door where Tamera might notice and laugh because everyone knows what boys my age are doing in the bathroom when they lock the door, not this, not Ian in my mouth right now and his hips begin to snap back and forth against the mattress and I know it's almost time and I'm used to the taste now, so used to hot fluid coursing up and down my throat I could do this forever, bent over the boy or bent over the toilet, and I wrap my lips tighter around him and listen to the music thud and the door is locked.]]> http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2009/02/14/gag_reflex_1.php http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2009/02/14/gag_reflex_1.php article Sat, 14 Feb 2009 09:00:00 -0600 she's got beautiful eyes hazel color of a Grecian sunset with flecks of amber and gold she is responsible and sane in a country that is not, radical fundamentalists swarming around every church broadcasting the wealth of servitude at once, she is resolute and unsure striving forward with calculated steps never to doubt herself but then the world is uncertain money is tight the good life a bauble dangling above our heads I love her like fire in a city where we hide the flame carefully tucked inside our hearts http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2009/02/14/the_artist.php http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2009/02/14/the_artist.php article Sat, 14 Feb 2009 08:00:00 -0600 None of us really like him, except for Oscar of course, and he stands to make his way downstairs after answering his cell. It looks like the ketamine's got him, and he needs a moment to gather himself. He stands in his usual cowboy stagger, like he's wearing a six-shooter or whatever they're called, and in reality he's just standing there in a bathrobe that Oscar had monogrammed for him and we can see the black hairs against the white surrounding his nipples on his slight developed chest and a trail of black hair that leads down to his manliness which is for now--thank God--concealed by the bathrobe barely pulled together with a loose knot. He starts walking to the far door. Oscar takes the pipe out of his mouth to speak. "Don't worry about going down to get her. Esmeralda will send her up." Oscar is standing there in the smoking jacket that we think makes him look ridiculous but would never dare voice to him and I know he thinks otherwise because he told me once that while he was growing up he always admired the magazine's founder and wanted to be the queer Hugh Hefner. And he kind of looks like a middle-aged version; he has the same pronounced jaw line and is just as thin but his nose is smaller and he actually has lips. "And now darling," he says, with Kevin, Manny and me sitting around him and a monstrous pile of crystal, "I finally am the queer Hef." Kevin nods and steps back for a moment, then stumbles, then regains himself. "Let Helen come to us." We all think it's absolutely inappropriate that Oscar's letting this little heroin junky stripper into the house simply because she's Kevin's last heterosexual relationship. But it's another one of Oscar's parties, and what Oscars says goes. Kevin gets about halfway back across the room when his legs start to shake a little and then Manny, who's already sitting on the couch, realizes what's about to happen and he jumps up and out of the way and Kevin drops onto the sofa with the ugly paisley design that reminds me of my grandmother's furniture with the plastic covers. His bathrobe opens from the impact. Manny, now standing over him, waves his hand in front of Kevin's blue eyes and when he has his attention points to his crotch. "Could we put away the Lone Ranger for now, dear?" Kevin smiles weakly and pulls the bathrobe back together. We hear a knock at the door. Manny takes a straw and razor and cuts himself a line of k. "Just let yourself in, dear," Oscar yells from the other side of the room. Helen is short and skinny, a kind of skinny that at one time might've been runway-worthy but is now alarming, with white skin that we're sure at one time must've been attractive but now looks ghostly and big blue eyes that by themselves are striking but set against her pronounced eye sockets become macabre and we assume from these observations that she must've been more of a person at one time, and the heroin must be eroding her, consuming her. We wonder how much longer it will be before she vanishes. We are introduced and she quickly finds her way to Kevin and sticks her tongue down his throat. Manny finishes his line and looks up at them. "Oh my fucking Christ--I'm trying to snort k here!" He turns to Oscar. "Oscar, they're ruining my appetite for katie. Get her out of here!" Kevin pulls away from her and smiles. "Don't worry Oscar; it won't happen again," he says. Manny puts down his straw, walks over to them, and pushes Kevin out of the way. He puts his face in Helen's, his large brown nose touching her small white one. His face tightens; his brown eyes are intense. "You're lucky you're with Kevin. You know what normally happens to pussy around here that isn't feline?" She doesn't respond; she just stares with those eyes. "They end up buried in the woods out back." "That's enough," Oscar says and moves towards them. He moves Manny out of the way with a wave of his hand and puts his arm around Helen's shoulder. "Now, while that behavior was absolutely inappropriate my dear, you are a guest in my home" (he looks straight at Manny when says this) "and we need to be hospitable." He looks her up and down. "Now that heroin looks like it takes a lot out of you; would you like a little coke to lift your spirits?" Helen agrees and puts down the shoulder bag she's brought in with her, then makes her line with one of the razors and takes a straw and snorts and we swear to Christ we can see the powder travel up her nose and pass right under her big right eye into her brain. She's wearing a white tank-top with a black bra beneath and we can't see any track marks so we have to wonder how much cartilage is actually still left inside that nose and why the coke doesn't just fall back out all half-dissolved in snot and blood since those worn nasal passages must be the only gateway for the heroin, unless, of course, she shoots into her leg or better yet between her toes which we have no way of verifying since she is wearing both jeans and shoes. The drugs were set up earlier in two large piles and labeled "coke" and "katie" with these lovely place holders in brown and pink--it's a project that Oscar always gives Esmeralda full artistic carte blanche for at all of his parties--and next to that sit two smaller plates, one with razors and one with straws. Next to this is a bowl of fruit. I hate ketamine so I take some coke along with Oscar. When I cut it I ask Oscar what the deal is with the fruit and he says they're actually wax, and that Esmeralda had bought them along with the place cards; she thought it was clever that a bowl of fruit would be placed at a party attended by fruits. After we're done Kevin takes some more ketamine. Then we all sit. I am at one side of the couch in an uncomfortable chair whose cushions have the same pattern as the couch and wooden arms with grooves that curl around and create swirl designs at the ends and Oscar is on the matching chair at the other side. Our chairs are angled in to face the couch and Helen, Kevin, and Manny are on the couch. Kevin is paralyzed in a k-hole and stares straight ahead. Manny turns and leans over Kevin. The diamond in his earlobe sparkles for a moment when he moves and I can see some black stubble starting to break through his cheek. "So, Helen, Kevin tells us you're a stripper." "I am." "Do you make good money stripping?" "Good enough." "And what's your stripper name, dear?" "Angel." "Angel?" He moves back to his original sitting position and turns his head to Kevin. "She looks more like a demon wouldn't you say?" Kevin doesn't move or respond so Manny waves his hand in front of Kevin's face. "Hello ....God, you're fucking boring when you're in a k-hole." "Manny," Oscar says, "stop making fun of our guest." He turns his attention to Helen. "Would you like some more coke, dear?" "That would be very nice, thank you," she says. She tries to get up but Kevin has his hand in her lap and she can't move it. Manny slaps Kevin and his blue eyes widen and he sits up straight and pulls his hand away from her. Kevin rubs his cheek and says "What the hell was that for?" in that whiny voice that makes him sound like he's five and we all hate, and then he tells us he has to take a leak and leaves the room. Pretty soon Helen wants to know what kind of music we listen to and makes her way to the open laptop hooked up to the stereo in the far corner of the room whose entire digital memory is devoted to Oscar's music library. Right now the screensaver is running, displaying images of naked young men that change after a minute or so and when she sees it she turns back to Oscar and says "I like it," and then touches a key to bring up the library. Oscar immediately rises. "What do you think you're doing?" "I just want something to dance to, that's all." Kevin walks back into the room. "Where are your manners?" Oscar says and starts moving towards her. "What the hell is going on?" Kevin says. "No, no, it's okay," she says and looks straight at Oscar. "I'm sorry." Kevin comes up behind Oscar and puts his hands around Oscar's arms and slides them up to Oscar's shoulders and massages them. Then he tilts his head in and says into Oscar's ear, "Please let her stay. I'll make sure she behaves," and then he kisses the nape of Oscar's neck. "All right," Oscar says, then turns to face Kevin and kisses him long and hard. Helen starts looking through Oscar's music library and plays all different house remixes of pop songs. She only listens to a few seconds of one song before trying another. Then she decides to put it on random and sits back down. Kevin starts in with the ketamine again and Helen does some more coke and after we're all done taking lines again she sits and talks about stripping more, how much money she makes, the men she's strung along, the rich ones she's milked for a few bucks here and there. By now her shoes and socks are off and we try to inspect her toes for track marks but of course it's impossible to see in-between her toes and we give up. She tells us her dream is to end up like Anna Nicole, well not the dead part she says to us, but the whole marrying a really old guy with a lot of money and waiting for him to die. "Is that why you left Kevin," Manny says. By now Kevin is in another k-hole and sitting stone-like in Oscar's lap. "God knows he doesn't have a dime to his name." "Kevin left me." A new song comes on and her big eyes get bigger and she tells us that this one of the songs she strips to. When she says this Kevin reacts by looking in Helen's direction and then tells her to show us all something. Then he turns to Oscar and runs his fingers through Oscar's hair. "Do you mind?" Oscar shakes his head no and Helen starts. Her movements are liquid; we can tell she wasn't lying when said she's been doing this for years and she slowly takes off her tank-top. She turns a few times, walks up and down the space in the room between our seating arrangements, and she takes turns staring at each of us with those big eyes and we wonder if some of her allure for straight men comes from not knowing whether she's going to ultimately fuck you or cut off your dick. She slowly takes off her jeans and tries to make this look sexy but she has trouble getting the top of them past her pubic bone and pulls them off in sort of jerky stop and go motions. Her panties are black also and she dances some more, and we inspect her as best we can again for track marks without letting on to her that that's what we're doing and we see nothing so we decide for once and for all that she must snort the shit by the truckloads. Then she locks those eyes on Kevin and moves over to him and starts grinding in his lap. He grabs her hips and smiles and guides her grinding. Oscar grabs the wooden chair arms and uses them for support to stand up, pushing the two forward and knocking Helen's head on the wooden trim of the couch. She yells in pain, then stands up straight and Kevin stays crouched over, his open monogrammed bathrobe hanging over him, with his hands still out as if they're still guiding Helen's hips, and Oscar waves his hand in the air and announces that we've seen enough. By now the song is over anyway and there is a few seconds of silence before the laptop picks something new. Helen sits back on the couch and Kevin regains himself, closes the robe, and sits down next to her. Manny turns his head towards them. "Well, that was interesting. I can check 'het strip tease' off my list of things to do now. Too bad you didn't motorboat me; then I could've checked off two things at once." Oscar makes his way over to the laptop in the corner and shuts off the music. "Kevin, dear, I bought you a present. Would you like it?" "Of course he would like it," Manny says. "He never refuses your presents." "Would you?" Oscar says to Kevin. "Sounds good," Kevin says. Oscar disappears for a moment and comes back with a box, gift-wrapped in the same pink and brown color scheme as the place cards. Oscar hands the present to Kevin and then sits back down in the chair, with this big dumb smile on his face, showing the teeth he had fixed and straightened back when his movies made money. Kevin unwraps the present and pulls out a revolver. "What the hell is that?" Manny says. He jumps out of his seat and moves backwards and bumps into me. "It's what I've always wanted," Kevin says, "ever since I was a little boy." His face looks like he's in a k-hole again but he's not; he looks like the stunned little kid in all those nauseating movies that run around Christmas where, after a lot of hard work in behaving and getting on Santa's good side, the kid gets exactly what he wants on Christmas. He points the gun towards one of the lamps, pushes out the cylinder, spins it, and watches the lamp's light filter through the spaces. Then he clicks it back in and looks in the box again. He pulls out a box of bullets. "What the hell are you going to do with that?" "Maybe shoot cans out back. Or small game," he says, then looks up at Manny and smiles. "Oscar," Manny says, "did I miss the memo detailing the white trash chic you've got going on in this house now?" "Oh shut up Manny." He gets up, moves over to Kevin and kneels in front of him. "Making Kevin happy makes me happy." By now Kevin's hand is back in the vicinity of Helen's crotch and Oscar pulls it away and locks his fingers inside Kevin's. "Are you happy?" "Very," Kevin says and they kiss again. After this we get back to our drugs and Helen pulls some heroin out of her bag. Our suspicions are confirmed as she makes herself a few lines and snorts it. Kevin asks her for a line and she obliges and after an initial flush that they tell us is better than an orgasm they talk a little more about their relationship and the drugs they did and the criminals they ran with. By now they are lounging on the couch together with her head on his chest. "It was a lot of fun wasn't it?" Helen says. "It was," Kevin responds. He shoots up and off the couch and startles Helen. She quickly composes herself and sits up. "Why don't we play William Tell?" he says. "William Tell?" "Yeah, like we used to you know?" He picks up the revolver. "We can try it for real this time." She hesitates but finally nods and she moves the now empty coke and ketamine platters off the serving table and climbs it. "What will I put on my head?" Kevin scans the room. "There" he says, pointing in her direction and takes a wax apple from Esmeralda's bowl and hands it to Helen. She places it above and tries to balance it on her head while standing on this table, still in only her black bra and panties. Then Kevin loads the gun, spins the cylinder and pushes it in position. "What the hell are you doing?" Manny says. "Helen and I are playing William Tell." "You can't be serious--I mean you've been snorting ketamine for hours and you just had some heroin; you're in no condition to shoot a gun." "I've done this a million times back when I was a kid--and on more drugs. Don't worry about it. I'm a perfect shot." "Oscar?" "Manny, he told you, he's a perfect shot. This won't ruin any of the furniture, will it Kevin?" "Nope." By now he has his finger on the trigger and is aiming with his free arm underneath the gun to level it and has one eye squinted shut. "I'm going take that wax apple right off her head." "All right then. You heard him Manny, he's going to take the wax apple right off her head." Oscar smiles his big dumb smile. "My God this is so much better than my other parties!" I'm looking at Kevin and Helen is out of view. There's a pop, like a painfully loud firecracker, and a flash of light. Then the faint smell of something burning. I feel something on the side of my neck. I pull it off and look at it. It's slimy and red and has a few black hairs attached to it. I think it's a piece of skull. http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2009/02/14/another_one_of_oscars_parties.php http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2009/02/14/another_one_of_oscars_parties.php article Sat, 14 Feb 2009 07:00:00 -0600 ]]> http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2009/02/14/about_our_cover_art_1.php http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2009/02/14/about_our_cover_art_1.php art Sat, 14 Feb 2009 06:00:00 -0600 I can change. As I exhale, I offer the other side of that mantra to the world around me: You can change. I repeat this process - the move towards quiet, the breathing, the mantras - over and over each day. Little by little I've learned to step away from everyday worries and remember that the future, while it may be hiding out of sight, just around the bend, still waits for me on the road ahead. The writings featured in this issue of SWELL offer insight into the process of change, the power of transformation, and the potential of growth. I hope they give you the perspective and enlightenment that they gave me. ]]> http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2008/10/08/respiration.php http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2008/10/08/respiration.php description Wed, 08 Oct 2008 23:10:36 -0600 The Devil Wears Prada where Anne Hathaway learns that a size six is fat in Fashion Land? Well, it's only funny 'cause it's true. In fact, the very truthfulness of this odd discriminatory tendency of fashionable New Yorkers led me to pick up a number of fabulously chubby, plump, bitchy queens as shopping buddies. I mean really, when you walk into a store near Park Avenue that specializes in $500 denim pieces (when your jeans cost more than $200 they are henceforth referred to not as jeans but as "pieces" which distinguishes them as Very Expensive) you don't expect to be told to wait while the overly solicitous and impeccably groomed salesgirl goes to check "in the back" to see if they have your size. "I'm a six, dammit!" I wanted to yell at her. "The same size as the hot blonde in the first Batman movie! A man in a Batsuit could clip me to his fucking belt! Why would you need to hide my size in the back?" "You got anything for me, sugar?" chirruped my prancing shopping partner. "I'm a big girl too," he sang while shrugging his football player shoulders into one arm of a jacket that looked Very Expensive. The salesgirl winced and gingerly reached out her hand to help him out of the jacket but he sashayed off to the full length mirror, the seams on the jacket straining at his armpits. "This is nice," he purred. Retracting her arm with a look of distaste I could almost hear the running commentary in her head, "You had better buy that because I get paid on commission. I wish you would just leave," she clipped into the back where it took her a full ten seconds to determine that nothing in a size six was in stock and would have to special ordered. "Fuck you," yelled my companion. And deadpan to me, "Let's go get a slice of pizza." Looking around, everyone in New York was tiny...which lead me to believe that the restaurants and bars that lined every street in a blaring Technicolor light and sound show, causing three-smoker pile-ups every five feet, were clearly just for show. No one in New York actually ate. The ones that did clearly didn't progress as far as digestion with the process. Except for me that is - I ate everywhere. Every organic martini bar and coffee shop and overpriced "Homestyle" diner had an impossible allure. Sure it was just cheese and salad - appetizers were all I could afford - but this was New York cheese and salad. It tasted like.... Finally. Finally I lived in the city that had captured my heart years ago at age fourteen when, on a ferryboat with Courtney Love barrettes blowing in the wind I had folded my black fingernails into my palms and vowed that Someday I would live in this big amazing city. Someday I too would be part of this exciting metropolis where people had pink hair and cool jobs like Art Director or Fashion Stylist or Hooker. When I was offered the job of Art Director with a large photo agency in Manhattan, I was already in New York frantically looking for work. I had given myself a week's worth of unemployment paycheck on which to make it work or head back home. My backup option when I got laid off from my mid-range magazine gig was to move to San Francisco and get a job at the Lusty Lady working as a stripper. I was fine with the peepshow part, but the Lusty is a unionized strip club, which eliminates smarmy male managers, stage fees... and tips. Like hell I was gonna get waxed and plucked and dyed and tanned for a lousy thirteen bucks an hour. So, I did what anyone in my position would do. I flew to New York, crashed on the couch of a friend I hadn't seen since college and, panic stricken about the lease I impulsively signed on my fifth day in town, went to every magazine office in the city looking for work. Most of them did not let me in. I had that hungry, unfashionably lost look that marked me as new and therefore untouchable in the New York City caste system. One office after another came up bust as interns in $800 pumps slammed glass doors in my face, glaring at the smeary fingerprints I left by knocking. "Do you have an appointment?" disdain dripping down Prada and Lanvin as they took in my size six, thrift store jacket. I made one last call and found myself in the huge Chelsea studio of a photographer from whom I had once bought an image for the cover of my now defunct magazine. James ushered me in, chattering excitedly about the creepy neighbor downstairs who had just been arrested for assaulting yet another of the numerous women he lured to his studio through Craigslist ads. "Don't ever answer ads on Craigslist," he admonished me while I tried not to look guilty. "I don't," I lied, smiling too big at a spot just below his eyebrow. While James made tea I gave myself a tour of the open studio and sifted through his photos of Waitresses Around the World. I thought that they needed a good editor but that they were brilliant. I was having a hard time not grabbing the stack and running for the door, arms full of what I was sure would make amazing wallpaper for my new apartment. When my cell phone rang, I explained to the HR rep on the other end of the line that I would be leaving New York in a day. I was out of money and patience. Typical New York vibes were emanating from me as I explained that I could come right now for an interview or not at all. Two interviews in one day later I was hired. I had a real job. With a salary and a 401K. I was an actual grown-up. In New York. Sans black nail polish. Ten pounds lighter. Everything was perfect. Two weeks after getting on a plane to New York I had a great apartment, a job I didn't hate and roommates that could pass as friends until more permanent arrangements could be made. I also had the worst flu I had ever experienced in my life. One month later I had it again. Then again. Somewhere in the midst of the antibiotics and Theraflu I also developed a condition that can only be described politely as an intestinal problem. After a month of existing on bananas and rice, I finally saw a doctor. Actually, I saw four nurses and one very rude lab technician. After another month of not eating real food while worrying that I might have developed an intolerance for Lactose that would keep me from my favorite dinners of Lonestar beer and Texas jalapeño queso, I panicked and went to another doctor. After two more weeks of lost blood work and EKG's, I was finally diagnosed with a parasite. A parasite! A tiny and disgusting bug that crawled onto my plate because some waiter did not thoroughly wash his hands for two minutes with soap and hot water after using the bathroom. Welcome to New York. In addition to a whole host of truly unmentionable symptoms, the most interesting was the rapid weight loss that accompanies an all-carb diet and the presence of a nutrient-sucking bug. Really, perhaps the Manhattan socialites who have their thigh fat sucked out on a regular basis should try my diet. I lost another ten pounds in one month and was down to a pre-high school weight of 122 pounds. A size four. Apparently it's a contagious parasite, so if any socialites wanted to come do very dirty things to me before the next big costume ball or charity event to shrink down from their size two's to a more respectable zero, I considered providing my services for free. I would call it Organic Post-Parasitic Rejuvenation technique. It would be huge in Europe. It's all natural and guaranteed to make you feel lighter than air. If Demi Moore can tell the world that leeches are what keep her gorgeous, maybe she can be my spokesmodel too. We can go on tour. It will be organic and Very Expensive. The weirdest effect was how previously brusque New Yorkers began to act towards me. I heard somewhere that there is one woman to every two single men in this city. Whatever the reason, feminine competition is fierce. Suddenly, I understood what the cult of skinny was all about in this city. Everyone was nicer to me. People moved over on the subway. Men held doors in a city where no one holds anything unless they get paid to do so. One-hundred and eighteen pounds and dropping. I was sick all of the time and you could count my ribs but I could wear anything right off the hanger. Women nodded approvingly in lunch lines at my bottled water and apple meals. My sister called and Demanded that I EAT A SANDWICH after she saw a photo taken of me on my birthday. I looked like I belonged on a flyer for an aid organization, maybe something for the UN. I refused to buy jeans smaller than a size four even though they hung off of my jutting hip bones and lamented the loss of my once ample breasts. I was down to an ordinary B cup and wondered how it was that skinny girls ever got laid with so little equipment to work with. There was nothing to shake, stretch, or stick out. My partner reassured me that I was sexy at any size but stopped putting her full weight on me when we had sex. I think she was afraid her six foot muscular frame would crush me. After much agony over the size of things I finally gained back about five pounds after I started a course of heavy antibiotics. Feeling healthier and hotter than I had in years, I went downtown to SoHo, which is where all the skinny rich girls shop, and found a great denim piece on sale at 60% off. I whipped out my credit card, forgot I had a coupon, and bought a pair of Very Expensive size four jeans. I love those jeans. They are dark washed Skinny's that bag a little in the knees but hug my ass as if I still had curves. They are the softest denim I have ever felt, with cute skinny-girl detailing on the pockets in pink thread; the kind of cute I never could get away with before. When I run up the stairs in them after I jump off the subway, late for work in my Manhattan Art Director office, I feel eyes on my ass from below. I feel sexy in those jeans. I stand aside for the fat guy who rides the train with me every morning. He's the only one in Manhattan and he's beautiful. He wears Day-Glo hats and giant Member's Only jackets and his clothes always look Very Expensive. Nervously, I asked him where he got his T-shirt. He winked and in the sweetest Texas drawl said, "Back home. They don't make clothes for big girls like me in this city." ]]> http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2008/10/08/fat_pants.php http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2008/10/08/fat_pants.php article Wed, 08 Oct 2008 18:00:00 -0600 You're a waiter, you're a lover, you're a legend. You don't fit into any cup I try to pour you. Your hand starts to bleed. I drink it, we're elemental; you're the Earth and I'm Fire. I know there must be something here that isn't everywhere else. Somewhere far away a grandfather clock counts sheep. In my dreams I'm a shambolic fraud, desperate and faking it. He wakes me up in the morning, and with all the white around I start to forget. You're my crucible. That weekend his friends take us out on their boat. All the boys and then me. It's been five days. Everyone can smell it on me now, and they smile. The sun is miraculous, the things it does. We wear sunglasses and scowl, we're a Prada ad. I sit on the prow and sunbathe. I sit up and let the wind blow in my hair. What if it was short and brown instead of long and blonde? He calls to me from the rail, he's holding a beer. I take my top off for him and don't care if his friends see. He smiles and his mouth opens and I can't see his eyes. I taste freedom. The air is humid and sweat gathers in strange patterns on my skin, mixes with spray and melts its way down my sides. Five years go by while we're on that boat, looking at each other. Between us are beaches and waves, the tide and caves. When I fly home I laugh the whole way. I look like I have two black eyes. The plane chases the sun and the oxygen masks drop down. The new year chases the old one out and you feel a pulse, like something could really change this time. * * * I don't recognize my passport photo. In the air I think about it too hard and east and west are the same thing. Night and day happen at the same time. I'm here for three months on the company's dime. I don't know anything of work. Chase is late but I'm not. When he drives, my teeth are clenched. We argue about yield signs. He doesn't know where we are. Our sentences don't fit together. The weather's grey. He tells me he wants to buy a motorcycle and I think of a tableau: a grey field with yellow and red stripes and splotches. My throat feels tight like I swallowed something whole. There are spiderweb-white lines in between my fingers. Did I want to have a child with you? I taste salt water and try to remember the summer. We fight but it's all a preamble. We listen to music at maximum volume and don't fight. Did I even know there was a volume knob? I could hold him from behind. Call me Yoko. His friends turn their backs to me. It's loud and I can't hear them even when they speak right at me. When I drink I feel walls go up, not down. I've got a guy I started to see back home, but that's a bad joke. Chase says to me, I get to dance with you tonight, and it reaches back across time, it's deep and primal. It feels like a threat. He can't see what I see in their eyes, like velvet curtains descending. Get the hook. I had paradise for three months, and I wonder how long they had. When I fly home I wear the eye mask but it doesn't work. A kid next to me whose parents aren't around vomits into the air sickness bag and smiles at me. He doesn't know where we are. I close the shade on the windows against the black. I wish the sun would take it away. ]]> http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2008/10/08/chase.php http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2008/10/08/chase.php article Wed, 08 Oct 2008 15:00:00 -0600 for l. Clifton I will celebrate with you woman, nonwhite and mother of my flesh, the rude knives that buckle at your breath, the kind that sort of shape and knock my throat. I will celebrate in my malesuit, with this flip privilege folded between my thighs, being nonman, a chassis hollowed at the sound FAG squeaking by. Let us celebrate, for I've been to the levee's teeth, where slave heads meet upon their stakes at the river, and I've known so many men, and women, who have tried this murder, who have tried. ]]> http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2008/10/08/celebrate.php http://www.swellzine.com/issue/2008/10/08/celebrate.php article Wed, 08 Oct 2008 14:00:00 -0600