-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- | | | | | o | o | /--\ | | | | | /--\ || | | | |---| | |---- | | | | |---| |---| || \--/ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | \--/ |___|___| | | | | | |__|__| | | | |___| An electronic literary magazine striving for the very best in contemporary fiction, poetry, and essays. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Editor: Sung J. Woo (WHIRLEDS@delphi.com) -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- VOLUME I NUMBER 3 NOVEMBER 1994 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Table of Contents Changes.................................................................xx _Fiction_ "Cigars" by Keith Dawson................................................xx "Travel in Search" by Michael Gibbons...................................xx "Oranges" by Jonathan T. Drout..........................................xx _Poetry_ "ER" by Thomas Bell.....................................................xx "Picking Lobsters in the Corner Mart" by Bill Dubie.....................xx "The Lord" by Mark Thomas...............................................xx -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Whirlwind cannot continue without submissions from established and amateur writers on the net. If you or anyone you know is looking to publish contemporary fiction, poetry, or essays, please don't hesistate to get a copy of the work to us. Mail submissions to: WHIRLEDS@delphi.com. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Whirlwind Vol. 1, No. 3. Whirlwind is published electronically on a bi-monthly basis. Reproduction of this magazine is permitted as long as the magazine is not sold and the entire text of the issue remains intact. Copyright (C) 1994, authors. All further rights to stories belong to the authors. Whirlwind is produced using Aldus PageMaker 5.0, and WordPerfect 5.1 on an IBM-compatible computer and is converted into PostScript format for distribution. PostScript is a registered trademark of Adobe Systems, Inc. For back issue and other info, see our back page. Send questions to: WHIRLEDS@delphi.com. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- CHANGES Hello, and welcome back. In my last welcome page (May 1994), I promised two things: to be in South Korea for the coming academic year and to take my summer off from Whirlwind. Come September, I was supposed to be an ocean away, but for various personal reasons, it did not happen. Something else that didn't happen was the September issue of Whirlwind. Because of the uncertain state of my life, I wasn't sure if I could continue with Whirlwind at all. In fact, sometime in August, I posted that Whirlwind was going to take an extended leave, probably for a year. But it is back. Skipping July and September, I greet you with the third issue of Whirlwind. It is still the magazine that strives for the very best comtemporary fiction, poetry, and essays from the net world. Enjoy. Sung J. Woo Editor -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- CIGARS by Keith Dawson I was sitting in my room on a Thursday night in April, my freshman year at Amherst. I was watching Letterman on my roommate's black and white, Dave was wearing a velcro suit and jumping on a trampoline. Ted, my roommate, was in search of women, gone to Smith College for the night. I had the window open to catch some of the cool spring air. It had rained that night, the ground was wet and the fresh wind off the mountains smelled like nature. My fourth floor window faced the back of campus, toward the unused railroad tracks and the hills of Pelham. I could hear scattered noise from a party in B-dorm, but it was indistinct and far away. The room had two desks, two desk chairs, and a futon couch Ted's father brought him. Each of us had a book shelf with the semester's coursework stacked in rows. In one corner was my stereo, on the turntable were Ted's Grateful Dead albums, three of them. A doorway led to the bedroom where we both had beds and bureaus. The front door was closed. Dave leaped from the trampoline onto a velcro-covered wall. He stuck. I heard yelling coming up the stairs and down the hallway. Moments later, there was a solid pounding on my door. "Red the Ted, open up," said a voice. "We know you're in there Ted." It was rough around the edges. Old Milwaukee rough. "Where is that fucking Ted?" said another voice. "Is he hiding?" This second voice had a more clipped midwestern tone. It was a little higher in pitch. I opened the door. Two tall upperclassmen in black shirts stood leaning against the frame. The frame held. The shirts were emblazoned with three Greek letters: delta, kappa and epsilon. "Ted's not here," I said. They pushed past me into my room. "Come on out and take your punishment, Ted," said the thinner guy. He was over six feet (they both were) and shaped like an inverted triangle. The muscles in his neck and forearms were well-defined. The shirt, a large, was skin-tight. Clean shaven up to his non-existent sideburns, with dark hair and wire-rim glasses, he looked like Clark Kent. But George Reeves, not Christopher. He went into the bedroom and started poking through Ted's stuff. The other, hairier, fell back into my chair with a thick thud. He was built more solidly than his friend. I got the feeling that while Clark was a lifter, this guy was a natural heavyweight. He had dark hair too, but it was stringier. He wore a beat up wool baseball cap. "Oh no," he said. "Oh no oh no oh no." It sounded like a mantra. "We need Red the Ted. What did you do with him?" His eyes had a glazed-over cast I'd only seen looking up at me from the deck of a fishing boat. Over his head was a poster of the St. Pauli Girl. You never forget your first girl, said the poster. The girl was leaning over, offering a beer. "He's not back yet," I said. "I'll tell him you all stopped by." I was hoping they would go away. I knew them both, but only by sight. I'd seen them, together with other Dekes in the dining hall and on the Quad. I'd even been up to their house a few times, for open taps. Once I went with Ted. They poured him shots of vodka and made fun of his very red hair. Clark Kent stopped rifling through Ted's drawers and looked at me through the doorway. He stepped over a bag of laundry coming back into the front room. "We'll leave him a note," he said. "Paper?" I got him a piece of typing paper and a magic marker. He sat own at Ted's desk, dwarfing the little chair. "What should I say?" he asked the heavy one. The answer came in the form of a long belch. "Well spoken," said Clark Kent. He scrawled something on the paper. I looked over his shoulder, it said "Red the Ted -- rhymes with DEAD." He speared the note with Ted's scissors into the wooden desk top. "Come on Jeff, let's go with the one we got," he said. "Can't pledge hike with only one pledge. Breaks the rules." Jeff drew half a cigar out of the inside pocket of his denim jacket and put it in his mouth without lighting it. He leaned back in the chair until it was balanced on the rear legs, then plopped his size thirteen boots on my desk. Arms behind his head and cap pulled down over his eyes, I was afraid he was going tocome crashing to the floor. "Ted's not here, Jeff. We gotta go before the one in the car runs off. C'mon." "No. Need one more." He started to get up and pitched himself forward to roll off the chair. Just as it seemed he and the chair would lose their equilibrium, it skittered backwards across the wooden floor. He emerged standing in the center of the room, straightening his cap. "Well done," I said. "Thanks." "Who are we gonna get, then?" asked Clark Kent. "Try Skunkhead," said Jeff. Skunkhead was a guy in my class with a streak of white running through his hair. "He's gone too," said Mike. I saw him get on a bus to Boston this afternoon." He looked at me, glaring. "Someone tipped off all our pledges," he said to me. "Gee, that's a shame." Jeff perked up. "I know what to do," he said. He pointed a hairy finger at me. "He's not even a pledge." I resented them talking about me as if I wasn't there. It was my room. "Let's take him anyway. He's been to the house, drunk our beer. I've seen him. " He stumbled over and put his arm around my shoulder. "What's your name?" he asked me. "Jim," I said. "Jim. You wanna rush Deke?" "I don't know. Does it cost money?" "Um, it might cost you some. How much you got?" "Not a lot," I said. "We'll worry about that later," said Mike. "My friend here is offering to pledge you into our house. You can say no, but you don't want to hurt his feelings that way." I looked at Jeff. He was smiling around his cigar. It could have been a cruel smile, I didn't know, but I didn't want to find out. "I'm not sure about that either," I said. "Here's how it is. You gotta let us pledge hike you," he said. I'd heard about pledge hikes. Ted had told me stories he'd heard from sophomores about how upperclassmen came for you in the night and drove you off. Then they left you to get back on your own. There were stories about pledges walking for days, trying to thumb a ride. Not many people will stop for a hitchhiker on a back country road in the hours before dawn. And not too many people appreciate college kids ringing their bell in the middle of the night, asking to use the phone. There were also stories about farmers with shotguns. Ted told me about one year they hiked two freshman to Bowdoin College in Maine. Three hundred miles away. That's why Ted wasn't around. Ted was hiding. "Forget it," I said. "Don't be such a pussy," Jeff said. "It's not so bad. We won't leave you alone. You'll be with the other pledge we got down in the car." Maybe it was the casual way they offered to pledge me that caught me off guard. Or maybe it was the thought that if Ted could go through this, it couldn't be so terrible. Maybe I was genuinely curious about what they were like, and what was going to happen. I don't know what made me say yes. Jeff took his cap off and put it on my head. It was a Mets cap. "Congratulations," he said, "You're officially a Deke pledge." Clark Kent reached out to shake my hand and introduced himself as Mike. "Got any money for beers?" he said. They led me to a tiny beige Subaru parked outside. Another freshman sat in the backseat. He was wearing a pair of red and blue 3-D glasses. I slid in next to him. "Hey, I know you," he said. I said hello back. His name was Bob and he lived on another floor in my dorm. He had a soft round face and a fluffy beard. Mike got in on the driver's side. Jeff took another pair of glasses from the glove compartment and made me put them on. They were cut from a cardboard cereal box. Mike drove out of campus on Route 9 toward Pelham, the undeveloped area. I didn't know the roads and towns out that way. The mall, stores and other colleges were in the opposite direction. I tried to keep up with the view, but Mike kept changing directions. Every time I looked out the window Jeff asked me a question or said something to distract me. Soon I gave up trying to get a fix. There were no other cars on the road, and very few lights. We passed farms. Sometimes I could see lights from the farmhouses through the trees. Other times we'd pass fields and I could make out the dark silhouette of silos or barns. Once, a car was parked by the shoulder. Jeff said it was someone out to tip cows. For an hour we drove around. Mike and Jeff spent most of the time telling us stories about the fraternity, then quizzing us on what we'd just heard. They'd yell at us for getting details wrong. Sometimes they'd yell at us when we got things right. They talked about how bad initiation was going to be for us if we didn't learn what they wanted us to learn. Ted lived in fear of initiation. He spent hours at a time studying his notes: upperclassmen's birthdays and home zip codes; the officers of the chapter, present and former; the cost of all the fixtures in the house and their dates of purchase; famous Deke alumni, and their years of graduation. That just scratched the surface. I knew a lot of it already, from quizzing Ted. Mike drank through a six pack. He threw every empty over his shoulder into the back seat. Once he hit Bob on the cheek. We were up to our ankles in empties. Jeff kept chewing on his cigar stub. Twice he lit it, but both times it went out. "This is good enough. I gotta take a leak," Mike said. Jeff nodded. Mike pulled over by the side of the road. There was no moon. The car's lights were the only thing cutting a night as dark as the bottom of a well. "This is where you guys get off," Jeff said. "Where are we this time?" Bob asked. "About 20 miles into Vermont," said Jeff. Mike unzipped his fly and sent a long, arcing leak into the bushes. Jeff put his arms around our shoulders and led us away from the car. I could hear Mike laughing. When we were about 25 yards down the blacktop, Jeff stopped. "Gentlemen," he said, "just follow that road." He looked at his watch. "You should be back at Amherst sometime around lunch tomorrow." We took off our glasses and gave them back to Jeff. He winked at Bob, put a pair on himself, then walked back to the Subaru. Both doors slammed and the car drove away. Soon the red taillights were out of sight and we were left alone in the dark. "Are they just going to just leave us here?" I asked Bob. "That's the general idea," he said. "Come on. We don't get anywhere standing around." He started walking down the road. I kept close rather than lose him in the darkness. "This is what I get for letting people into my room late at night." I said. "I'm gonna kill Ted." I was really furious. Ted should have been here, not me. I thought of him -- warm and cozy, bedded down with a Smithie -- and got very, very angry. My footsteps echoed on the asphalt. I realized sadly that my docksiders were not up to a night-long hike. At least I wore wool socks, I thought. My eyes had adjusted to the dark enough to see Bob clearly. He had a long, hunched-over stride. His corduroys made a swish-swish sound as they rubbed against each other with each step, and he walked with his hands in his pockets. "You don't understand what's going on, do you?" he said. "I'm walking down a dark road in the middle of the night." I shivered. "It's getting colder by the minute. Considering two hours ago I was sitting quietly in my room minding my own business," I told him, "I'd say things are pretty fucked up." "Yes, I'd have to agree with you." For the first time I noticed a touch of an accent in his voice was smooth and syrupy. Later I learned he was Canadian. "This is one of the things they like to do." "'This' meaning taking whatever random freshman comes their way if they can't find who they're looking for?" "Exactly." "We'll see about that." We walked on in silence for a few minutes, following the center line. It was painted with little reflective chips. I heard crickets -- and other things I couldn't identify -- all around us. "This is my third week of pledging, and my fourth pledge hike." He stopped to zip his jacket. I looked at him aghast. "You're kidding. You've done this four times? Jesus." "It's not as bad as it seems. Two weeks ago they left me at the Hampshire Mall. It was still open, so I bought this jacket." That was a good idea, I thought. We went on, picking up the pace. The road was getting a slight grade to it, and I could see a steep hill coming up on us around the next curve. It looked like it went on for quite a while. It also looked like the sky was lighter in that direction, like there might be a town out that way. The hill was steeper than it looked. I stopped to massage my legs and turned around behind to see how far we had come. Bob stopped too. I scanned the horizon for lights that might be from an oncoming car, but there was nothing but stars. We started up again. It took about ten more minutes. Just as I thought my legs would turn to jelly we crested the hill. The Subaru was parked at the side of the road. Mike and Jeff were sitting on top of the car drinking beers. A half-mile beyond them was a highway junction, the little road we were on turned into 116. I saw the tall UMass library, still lit at this hour, and not far away the illuminated clock tower of Amherst College. "You took longer with that hill than the last bunch," Mike said as we came up. "You'll have to improve." Jeff drew two fresh cigars from inside his jacket. He gave us each one, and lit them. "Come on up to the house," Mike said. "There's a fresh keg tonight," Mike said. It seemed like a reasonable offer. He seemed like a reasonable person, and I was relieved. Bob and I both said yes. Jeff clipped the end off my cigar with his pocket knife. It was my first cigar. We smoked them on the short ride to Deke. "I can't believe I let myself get suckered," I said. "Don't worry about it," said Jeff. "Everyone gets suckered. That's part of the fun. We got suckered. Trust me, you'll enjoy it a lot more next year when you're on the suckering end." ________________________________________ Keith Dawson's (kdawson@panix.com) story "Barking Dogs and Flying Saucers" was published in the May issue of Whirlwind (Vol. 1, No. 1). -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- TRAVEL IN SEARCH by Michael Gibbons Goodbye to California. Time to travel in search once again for the Real Meaning of Life. Jack and Emily's long-faced goodbyes had no trouble matching the cold foggy gray gloom of a Berkeley summer morning. One last breakfast at the Med. One last jay with Jack and Emily. Jack Kearny might have been crazy but so was I and he'll forever be my friend for introducing me to the ideas of George Gurdjieff. When I dropped them off on Rose Street, Emily gave me a kiss and a plastic baggie filled with rolled joints. We all had tears in our eyes. One life ending; another beginning. Such is the way with traveling people. I drove up and over the stony Sierra Nevada, which still had patches of snow at the tippy tops even though it was August, and across Nevada and the salt desert to Salt Lake City, stopping only for food and an occasional nap at roadside rest stops. I had decided to look up a Peace Corps friend, Ken Montgomery, who lived near the University of Utah, before setting out across the great plains. Ken was shocked to see me thinking that I would never have wandered into Mormon country in a million years. He was almost right. "You must be lost," he said, greeting me laconically. "I think I am," I said. "At least I thought I was two days ago before I left Berkeley. I'm on my way home to rest my mind." "What happened?" "My mind o-deed." "Drugs?" "Ideas." "Ever the mystic." "My grandmother once told me, after I returned from Africa, that you can send a jackass around the world for any reason and he'll still be a jackass when he returns." "Smart granny." I was pleasantly surprised by the beauty of Salt Lake and it's setting at the foot of the Wasatch Mountains. Salt Lake City has to be the cleanest city in America. All the non-white citizens and all the bars were neatly confined to a two or three-block area near some railroad yard. The bad part of town is what Ken said the rest of the noble citizenry called it. I lounged in a very comfortable couch in Ken's living room for the next twenty-four hours, alternating between sleep and reading my bible, In Search Of The Miraculous. Ken would bop in and out from time to time to see how I was doing. I told him about what I was reading and his only reaction was to look at me sideways and out of the corners of his eyes, without comment. But then Ken had only one expression and that was a dull, relaxed, stoic look of how much longer do I have to put up with this shit. Not just me, mind you, but all the events of a pretty boring life as a teacher and graduate student at the U. of Utah. Salt Lake City did not challenge one's intellect. I already missed funky Berkeley and its zestful zaniness. What was strange about visiting with Ken was that we didn't know each other that well. We were teachers in different parts of Sierra Leone and had talked only a couple of times at the yearly teacher's conference in Freetown. One night a group of us were partying at the Tropicana Club, which was the only place in Sierra Leone where we could go that had imported beef, and a disco. We were all eating steaks and french fries and drinking Bud and talking about our first-year experiences as teachers. Most were still trying to feign the idealism and enthusiasm that we brought with us. But after a year of African realism had settled in, Ken and I were the only ones who admitted that we were going to go with the flow in our second year and not worry about much of anything with the single exception of getting drafted into the Army when we were finished. We were in the Peace Corps so that we didn't have to get shot at in Vietnam and we weren't afraid to say it. Many of our friends were there for the same reason but didn't like to talk about it. Many of them insisted on inflicting their American culture and values on the Sierra Leonians. While all the Sierra Leonians wanted was a way out of poverty and a boost to help them enter the 20th century, idealism aside. That was fine with Ken and me. Our colleagues were not impressed with our views of the African real world. The next morning we went to the Hotel Utah for a farewell breakfast and he seemed sad that my unexpected visit was over before it had begun. It was hard to renew old acquaintances and then just up and leave when we could have talked about so many things for days. Life is funny that way and I'll never forget that last moment with Ken. Eye-Eighty and 2376 miles lay between me and Boston. As my VW Beetle climbed over the Wasatch Mountains on the way to Wyoming, I thought that four days at six hundred miles a day would do it. If I wanted to drive more than ten hours each day maybe I could make it in three. During a pit stop in Rock Springs, Wyoming, I met a college student who was hitchhiking. We were sitting next to each other at a truck stop coffee shop and after noticing his backpack laying on the floor next to him, I asked him where he was going. "Back to college," he said. "University of Chicago." "I'll give you a ride," I said, glad at the thought of having a companion. "I'm headed for Boston." "That'd be great," he said. "I've had a tough time hitching since I got to Wyoming. I had to stay here last night. By the way, the name is Barry Langton." "I just left Berkeley day before yesterday," I said, as we shook hands. "I wish I knew that. I started out from San Francisco three days ago. It's been tough getting long rides." "Well, you got one now." We piled Langton's pack on top of my gear in the back seat and headed off toward the Rocky Mountains and the breadbasket plains and farmlands of Nebraska, Jack Kearny's Iowa, and Illinois beyond. We were quietly reserved for about an hour as I rolled the Bug along at 65 mph. Then we both started to talk atthe same time and by the time we entered Nebraska, three hours later, we had both told our life's story. Barry Langton was a third-generation San Franciscan, whose great-grandfather had sailed around the horn from New York in 1882, amassed a huge fortune in stocks and securities and then invested it in all the land and real estate he could get his hands on. His grandfather and father successively inherited the Langton fortune. "I'll inherit ten million dollars on my twenty-first birthday," Langton said. "Ten months, exactly, from today. I'll be a rich son of a bitch and then I'll be on my own. My father's bullshit at me because I'm not the least bit interested in the family business. He's pissed off because he can't do anything about my trust fund since it's under the control of my grandmother." "What's the first thing you're gonna do when you inherit the money?" I asked. "I'm going to hire a shrink and talk about my problems," he said, proudly grinning, and looking out at the Nebraska grasslands, turning rosy pink in the evening light. "I figured you'd say you were gonna travel around the world." "I will, but first I've got to talk to a shrink about my crazy fucking family," he said. "Then I'll get my degree and then I'll see the world." "What do you study?" "Physics," he said. "I want to eventually go to graduate school and get into nuclear physics." He paused and ran his left hand through his sandy-brown, wavy hair. His right hand tapped a rhythm on the dash to an old Jefferson Airplane song on the radio. His head bobbed slightly to the music. A huge grin broke out over his long, angular, waspy face. "I just love the Airplane," he said, turning the radio up. "And the Dead. And Quicksilver. Country Joe. Jimi Hendrix. Santana. Janis Joplin. Creedance Clearwater. All the old groups from the 'Frisco scene. Wow. They're all so great. Sorry I missed it, but had to wait for father to figure out where to put it. You know, my father won't let me play rock when I'm staying at home. What a stiff he is. It's classical music or nothing with him. That's why I'm going back to school early. I couldn't stand it at home. My father and me arguing all the time and my mother crying. It was too much to take anymore." I pulled out the baggie of joints and fired one up. We smoked in silence as we drove along the South Platte River. The fast-fading twilight cast a nebulous shadow across the prairie. Black river running silently. Early stars twinkled faintly. Signposts and roadside trees looking like lifeless soldiers lining our route. Tired and famished after a long and hot day, the twilight of my mind hallucinated movement everywhere. Father tree and mother shrub drinking from the river. Shadows swimming and swirling and swaying. Purple dreamscape of nothing but my mind's projections. Time to stop and eat and rest. The lights of Ogallala ahead, like a spaceship moving through the dark universe. Drawn to them like moths. My mind being pulled along by the magnetic light. Langton and I ate heartily at a great truck stop restaurant and then camped out at a nearby campground. Falling asleep only after roasting marshmallows, smoking a few joints, and talking long into a night that was slowly and silently transformed from pitched blackness into a ghost-like, pale hue by the rising moon. I remarked how much I was enjoying this moment on the wide-open prairie and that I felt as much at home here as the Cheyenne had for numerous centuries before me. A roof of stars and moon and life's good light shining through the sky's tiny apertures, revealing an immense and ancient universe. A bed of matted grass was surprisingly comfortable. I no longer seemed like a traveler going from Berkeley to Cambridge, leaving one place for the anticipation of arriving in another. I was here now. There was nothing but this moment. And then the next moment. And the next. I could see my life simply as a succession of these moments. "That book you're reading, In Search Of The Miraculous, is one great book," Langton said, as he bent down to throw another log on the dancing fire. The strange, dark shadow cast on his long face made him look much older than his twenty years. "I read it this summer." "That it is," I said. "A friend of mine in Berkeley thought I'd like it because I'm a chemist. With all the numbers and charts in it. He was so wrong, yet so right." "I thought it was mystical physics," he said, laughing quietly. "Mystical chemistry," I said. "Mystical physics. Mystical life. Life. You can see it has nothing to do with...I just figured it out today, driving along, the wind through the open window, the radio playing music, that it's about a wild and weird way to live that lasts a lot longer than an acid high, or low. Where you are free and don't have to take shit from anyone." "I enjoyed it as much because it drove my father nuts when he saw me reading it," Langton gleamed, "as for any other reason until I really got into it. Then it just grew on me and it read me more than I read it." "I know what you mean," I said. "You can taste what it means but you don't quite understand it. You're all around it, it's all around you, but where is it?" "My father always wanted to know why I didn't want to read the Wall Street Journal and all those business rags. Why I wanted to listen to rock. Why this and why that. I thought the kid was suppose to ask his father all the questions. He's got it all ass backwards." "It's kind of like thinking about some Indian camp here a hundred years ago and you wonder what it was like to live here then and be a warrior standing sentry in the quiet and reflective peacefulness of night a few hours before the enemy attacks at dawn." "My father is so full of shit, it's pathetic," Langton said. "He thinks I'm weird because I love physics. He says, you'll be rich and have everything you'll ever need. Why do you want to fool around with physics? And I say, dad, I love physics and I'm not interested in your business. He says I just want the money. And I say yes. Then I can build my own lab and get back to the beginning of time. Figure out what happened when time began." "I wonder what it would be like to live a life of being awake and waking up. What do you think he means when Gurdjieff says, `You have to wake up'?" "Yes, back to the beginning of time and the formation of the universe. The universe waking up." "If we have to wake up to something, then we must be asleep," I said. "Are we only dreaming that we're alive?" "Everything is locked up in tiny, subatomic particles," he said. "We'll have to blow them up and see what's inside. The mind blown wide open." "Being fully conscious. To understand yourself. What does it mean?" "I love to piss off my father," he said angrily. "Is that what you think it is?" "What?" "I don't know," I said. "What do you think they mean by self-remembering?" "They're simple terms and phrases," he said. "But like particle physics, you might have to work a lifetime to find the answers." "Life itself," I said. "I think the only time I really saw myself was on acid, a real bummer, and it scared the shit out of me. I don't think I liked what I saw. You know how in the book Gurdjieff talked about narcotics giving you a glimpse of what can possibly be attained. But you can't attain anything with drugs. You have to go through some kind of intense effort. What kind of effort, though? That's what I don't understand." "To get back to the beginning of time. Can you imagine that? It's the dream of every nuclear physicist. What would it be like without time? Jesus, I get goose bumps just thinking about it. A moment suspended between time and space." "I used to say to my friend in Berkeley, Jack, that I was looking for the meaning of life. Yesterday, I asked myself if life has any meaning. I mean, is life suppose to have a meaning and a purpose?" "My father is such a fuckin' asshole it makes me sick," Langton said angrily. "Someday, I hope we can see into the future and see ourselves there." "Our future is in the past," he said, tossing another log on the fire. "When my asshole father knocked up my mother. That's when all my problems began. That's why I've got to talk to a shrink." "You are not alone on that score." "We go back to get ahead." "Or we go ahead to get back," I smiled a weary smile. "Yes, it's a great book," he yawned. "Like no other." And he lay down and fell fast asleep. The moon reflected a string of light on the South Platte River. I chuckled softly. Smoked another joint. The chemist and the physicist alone on the vast Midwestern expanse of nothing. The weight of the world drawing down sleep to dream of vast expanses of timelessness. I awoke to a beautiful, cool dawn of absolute quiet. A new group of stars were playing in the sky. The moon now gone and the peachy Eastern horizon glowing warmer. Langton stirred and rolled over in his sleeping bag to the first birdsong. Back to the truck stop for breakfast and the beginning of another long and hot humid day on the road. The South Platte and the North Platte rivers merged in North Platte, Nebraska to become the Platte River, which adjoined I-80 for the next one hundred and thirty-eight miles. The river rolled eastward with us as we headed toward Iowa. I tried to remember the name of Jack Kearny's hometown with no luck. Roll along through the prairie. Roll along to home. The dusty tailwind blew us up to 75 mph and the Bug gasped for breath. Get along old gal. Rolling hills of Iowa cornfields and hogs in every farmyard. Bacon with my breakfast. BLT's for lunch. Salty ham for supper and a brew to quench my thirst. Just after we entered Iowa, we found ourselves surrounded by a group of four tractor trailers barreling down at 70 mph. I felt like a sapling among redwoods as we were tossed about by the wind currents and drafts as the big rigs rolled by us. Langton said, "I was hitching back to San Francisco last year on this highway and a guy in a VW Bug, like yours, picked me up. You know what he was into? He'd get so pissed off when the big rigs pushed him around, intimidated him, that he'd sneak in behind one and draft along behind with the engine off and save gas. Seventy, seventy-five miles per. That guy was crazy, but it was exciting. Told me it was greatest mystical experience he'd ever had." "What did you do," I asked. "Nearly shit my pants. But after a while I got used to it. It was kind of neat, in a weird way." "On the suicidal side, don't you think?" "Just think, if we die, what have we got to lose? You don't have to remember where your home is. I don't have to talk to my father again. We don't have to search for the truth of life anymore." Langton smiled. "You want to try?" "No." "You sure?" "Yes, well, maybe . . ." "C'mon. It's boring out here. All we've done is talk." "But I like talking. I want to live to talk a lot more." "I'll give you ten thousand dollars when I get my inheritance." "I'll try anything once," I said. "Wasn't it Rousseau who said that when his students were shocked to see him coming out of a whorehouse. Once a philosopher, twice a pervert." "Ha, ha, pretty funny," Langton said. "I like that. Once a philosopher, twice a pervert. What a great line." "Ya, I like it too." "See that rig coming up behind us," Langton said, after turning his head around. "Well wait 'till he passes and pulls into the right lane. Then we sneak up right behind him. You can feel it when your in the slot. You won't feel any air resistance." "How close do we have to be?" I asked, glancing at the truck in the side mirror. "Twenty, thirty feet. Maybe a little closer. You can feel the vacuum. It's a physical law." "Jesus, that's pretty close." "We'll be all right except if the trucker decides to stop," he said. "What he could do, what one trucker did when I was riding with that guy I was telling you about, was to pull out into the next lane if he sees you ducking in behind him. But that's all right. We'll just slow down. Don't turn the engine off until we've gone a few miles. By then he probably doesn't know we're behind him, or doesn't care if we are." A tandem-trailer rumbled by, shaking the road and causing us to drift to the right. He had barely gotten past when he ducked sharply in front of us and without doing anything we were being sucked along in his draft. "We're in the slot!" Langton exclaimed. "He put us there himself. Amazing. I've never seen that. Now hold her steady. Can you feel the vacuum?" "Yes," I replied. "Jesus, it's scary. I can read the small registration numbers next to the license plate." "He must know we're behind him," Langton mused, rubbing his youthful chin stubble. "He ducked in so quickly and he hasn't seen us. Maybe he'll forget us after ten miles or so." "Ya, but the other truckers can signal to him and let him know that we're trailing him." "We're dead if he stops suddenly," Langton said. "Otherwise it's no sweat. This is great though, don't you think? It's like everything worth getting in life, you get by living on the edge. You take risks for gain." "But what do we gain, or learn, by following the screwball in front of us?" I asked, with increasing fear. "For one thing you're going to get ten grand. And don't think I was bullshitting you. When I make a promise, I keep it." "What if we die? Who gets your money then?" "My sister. She's O.K. She'll spend it wisely." We were keeping a steady distance of about twenty feet. I could feel the tension in my hands as I had a death grip on the wheel. I glanced briefly at my white knuckles. "Look at your perception," Langton said. "Do you notice that all of you is right there. On the line so to speak." Langton was right. I was all right there. Attention very sharp. Perception clear. Colors bright. Kind of like a sober acid high and all the while we were being sucked along by the bouncing big rig at over 70 mph. I should have felt scared but I didn't. Why? Was I so crazy that I had to fill my life with death-defying stunts to get to the edge, so to speak, to feel alive? How did Langton know about what I was perceiving? "How did you know?" I asked. "Cut the engine," he said. "We shouldn't lose any power." I did and we didn't. All there was was the big motherfucking truck rambling and we in the Bug being sucked along in the slipstream, gliding over the rolling Iowa highway. Two very crazy kids headed for...who knows what and where? "But how did you know?" I repeated. "It's what's in that book you're reading, isn't it?" he said. "Using extreme conditions to test one's perception. Pushing yourself to the edge to realize that you are alive. This is it. Mystical thrill-seeking. If you can do this, you can do anything." "But what about your father?" "It's not the same..." Langton's voice trailed off. "What isn't?" "Never mind. I don't want to talk right now." The truck continued to rumble along as we passed mile after mile of endless cornfields in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. Riding comfortably in silence. My eyes glued to the license plate less than twenty feet in front of us: MINN TRK A34507. So what if I die, I thought. What difference does it make? Alive or dead, what am I? Who am I? "It's better than drugs because it's real," Langton said, finally breaking the silence. "I feel hungry," I said, my fear suddenly returning. "Hungry for what?" he asked. "If we hang on he'll take us to the world's greatest truck stop just outside Des Moines." We did and he did. Long truck shadows and the psychedelic lines of flickering shadows of the corn. Not afraid to die, or wanting to die? Which was it? Is it? After another ten miles, the truck slowed, flashing right directional and we were out of the vacuum. He turned quickly off the road and into the truck stop parking lot. At the same time, I had the sight of another big rig in the rearview, barreling down on us as we slowed and breezed by the entrance to the parking lot that our leader had taken. "Start the engine!" Langton screamed. I had forgotten it was off. I swerved to avoid the truck on our rear end. When I hit the dirt and pebble shoulder it was like ice. In slow motion we slid down a grassy embankment. "Christ, that was close," I exhaled after not breathing for what seemed like several minutes. "I guess it's not just what's in front of you that you have to worry about." "But you were right there," Langton said. "Right on the beam. You knew exactly what you had to do. You didn't hesitate. Great driving that was." I shrugged and exhaled. "Yah." It wasn't as bad as it seemed. We had been lucky. There was no damage to the Bug. I managed to drive back up the embankment and on to the shoulder with Langton pushing and laughing. I took the next exit ramp and turned back toward the truck stop. "That's enough of that shit for me," I said, as we ate. "No point in over doing it," Langton said. "We have to savor the moment. Digest the experience of what's happened." "Only after digesting this hot turkey sandwich," I said, gobbling the food. "How much farther do you want to go?" Langton asked, looking out at the parking lot full of big rigs with their powerful engines idling. The truck stop's neon sign ("Open 24 Hours Everyday Of The Year") flashed more brilliantly in the dark gray dusk. "Let's drive until we can't drive any more," I said. "Until we're so tired we only have enough energy to pull over to the side of the road, get out the sleeping bags and fall asleep. Langton took the wheel. He wasn't a very good driver. Said he found it boring. But who couldn't drive on a super interstate. We bought a thermos and filled it with coffee. Langton had some bennies to wash down ith the coffee. I smoked a joint. Langton pulled cautiously out of the lot and entered the flow of traffic. "I could never see you following the draft of a big rig," I said. "Neither could I," he said. "Too chicken," he added with a laugh. "Then what was all that business about being in the slot? About being right there? On the beam?" "I don't know," he said. "I like it better when you're driving. You're one of the best drivers I've ever ridden with." "Well, you'll just have to stay away from the trucks until I get some rest. Then I'll take over." I dozed off only to be awakened by Langton pushing my arm. He'd already had enough of driving and since I was still too tired to drive we stopped at a campground for the night. No fire. No reflective chat. No meaning of life rap. Bone tired to sleep. Four days on the road and anxious to be home. One life ending, another beginning. ________________________________________ By Michael Gibbons . -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- ORANGES by Jonathan T. Drout I am lying on my bed tossing an orange over me. I throw it upwards and it rises toward the white ceiling. My roommate has left the dorm for the evening. The orange hangs for a split second, completely motionless. The mattress of my uncomfortable bed hurts my back. I want to roll over, but I still have to catch the orange. It starts on its way down. The overhead light has burnt out, leaving the room darker than I'd like. I bought the last bulb. Stuart will have to buy this one. We have split all the expenses that way. It eased the cost of living. About halfway down now, the orange spins lazily as it falls. Today marks the quarter point of the semester. We are halfway to spring break. Most of the students have left for the weekend. Three quarters now, and I want to get up, but I have to catch the orange. With little to do, I have scrounged together my remaining friends and we are going to hang at the radio station and spin some platters. There probably won't be many people listening. Less than a third of the parking lot was full at dinner time, and kids were still packing to go. I open my hand, the orange almost in my grasp. This semester life has been boring. I have completely lost interest in working. My focus has shifted from academics. I have been perpetually tired. No matter how many hours I sleep at night, I still nap during the day and doze through class. I can see the reflected light from the orange changing my hand's colour. The orange still won't finish its fall. Today I dozed during physics. Somewhere after quarks. Whatever a quark is, however, I did learn that it comes in a group of colours that aren't actually colour. I could reach up and grab the orange, it's so close. The clock reads seven forty-five. Its old second hand barely ticks around these days. Lately everything moves slowly for me. I feel like I'm perpetually on speed, except that I can't stay awake. Constant hyperactivity coupled with almost uncontrollable sleep urges. I thought I was a bipolar manic depressive for a few days. Then I became thirsty. I catch the orange, its bumpy skin finally coming to rest on my open palm. I can't wait to eat it tonight. I get off of the bed and it groans goodbye. The wind keeps yelling to me through the cracks in my window. They moan their warnings of cold and snow. I grab my parka and my bag and head out the door. No sense locking it. There's no one around. The radio station is across campus from Darlington Hall. Most of the school buildings can be reached through a group of steam tunnels. The tunnels house the steam pipes that bring heat to the aging dorms. In the late seventies, after student petition, the tunnels were opened to people who wanted to avoid walking in the cold. With security prowling the halls, there have been no murders, rapes, or any other problems in thirty-five years. The cellar of Darlington has a large grey doorway in one wall. At one time the door was sealed, but now only empty screw holes in the frame betray the existence of the once locked doors. In the tunnel, new fluorescent lights fit snugly into the medically white drop-ceiling. The entire hall glows with the eerie colour of artificial lighting. The stairs down to the tunnel are painted a cheery yellow. They dare me to rush, to fall onto their cement teeth and be ground up. I smile back at it and go by. Gaily coloured leaflets are taped to the walls, advertising all the events that no one will attend this weekend. Party at the !Grind! - $5 cover charge Film - Jaws Gerard Auditorium, 9 PM Skis For Sale !! Call 6558 I need a ride to Maine. HELP! Two for one deal at CMJ's this Friday! A lot of exclamation points waving to no one's eyes. The posters are fluttering in the warm breeze of the heating system. I feel nervous, and maybe it's the warm breeze playing around my ankles. I pick up my slow pace. My backpack jounces with each step. A faint jingling comes from inside as the crystal bounces up and down. I have to walk carefully so that nothing cracks. With a little concentration my footsteps ease. I can control my body when I concentrate. Bring about fluidity. The walk to the radio station seems to take forever. My mind is more hyper than it has ever been. Everything is drawn out, every detail etched into my awareness. I can't stop noticing the scrapes on the walls and the dust motes drifting about the lights. The corridor stretches for under a hundred yards, but I feel trapped. I can't do anything at a speed fast enough to keep pace with my thinking. To get to the radio station you must pass underneath it and come up in Mary Donlon Dormitory. The station was built five years ago, and wasn't connected to the tunnels. Before that we broadcast from the student union and barely had enough room for our equipment, let alone our library. I walk outside into the blustering wind. The snow assaults my face and builds up on my blue pullover. The walk is only forty feet to the station door, but I am already shivering. I begin to look like some grotesquely smeared American flag, my blue pullover the field and the dots of snow some foreign constellations. I bend into the breeze, tipping my face to avoid the tearing wind. Suddenly Gregg throws open the station door. "Come on Scott, move your ass! My blood's going solid in this weather." I move quicker now, and am inside the door within seconds. Gregg pulls the door closed behind me and he wind howl ceases. The smell of the station comforts me; old vinyl records in musty jackets have a way of caressing me, of soothing me. I can't help smiling at seeing him. I've been looking forward to this evening for so long. "Hi Gregg, sorry I'm late," I mutter, "delicious weather." "It's all right, I've only played two songs. Great weather predictions. Damn weatherman told me it was going to rain. And speaking of delicious, Heather's coming." I put on a surprised look, as if I didn't know this. "The snow kept her from leaving for the weekend," he continues. "Her little sports car can't handle it. Anyway, she'll try and get over to do the show with us." "Cool. I'm just gonna go into the library and pull some music. I'll be right back." The station library is an L-shaped room. Records fill the wall shelving from floor to ceiling. The room is poorly lit with once bright overhead lighting. Most of it no longer glows, and what does casts a dank light over the place. Humidity has wreaked havoc among the thin album covers. Many are tatter, barely recognizable without the small stickers adhered to each that identify group and album names. In the sleeve of each record is a piece of white lined paper with the song list hand written. Keeping a written list of everything was my idea when I joined the station. I didn't want to see anything lost. Vinyl without a title will never get played, and the music will disappear into nowhere. I sit down on the floor to browse through the C section. I pull out some Curve, an old nineties pop band, and something by The Church. Suddenly I can't stay awake. It feels like I'm floating on the floor. The same feeling as when an elevator first starts to move and the bottom drops from beneath you. I can't focus, can't read the songlist from the Church album. The gray carpet extends itself across the room, blanketing my vision until I fall asleep. * * * Cradled in the light doze of my nap, I remember when this all started. I was nineteen years old and my parents were going on vacation. It was the beginning of the summer, a week after summer break started, and my Dad asked me to come into the house to talk to him and Mom. I had been seeing a lot of my then-girlfriend Colleen back at that time, and things had seemed pretty serious. We spent most of our days together, laying out at the beach and going on field trips to the Cape May Point nature reserve. Sometimes my parents complained that I shouldn't be so attached to her this early in life. I would always just nod and shrug, thinking how soft her touch felt and how soothing her laugh was. When Dad called me inside I figured that I was going to get 'talked to' about seeing Colleen while they were away. My parents were always very secretive about their house and didn't like me to have guests that they didn't know were coming. The air was warm, even out of the sunlight. We had all the windows in the sitting room open and a box fan blowing air out the propped front door. Mom and Dad were seated on the couches when I came in from the yard. Mom was wearing her especially morbid summer outfit that day, a dark blue dress that clung to her shoulders and hid every pretty part of her. Dad looked more relaxed than her, but still awfully tense for a little conversation about my girlfriend. "Scott, your mother and I have held off talking to you about this. We felt that it should wait until..." "Until you were old enough, " my mother continued, "to understand what we were going to say." They looked at each other, Dad nodded, and mom continued. "Your father and I are going away tomorrow. For quite awhile. We've never left you for this long before. And with you being older now, well..." she trailed off. "Mom, I can take care of myself with Colleen. We know what we're doing, we're not going to get in any." I stopped, because Mom was laughing at me. Not a laud laugh but a petit one, as if she knew things that I never could. "Honey, it's not that at all. Your Dad and I trust Colleen very much. We find her -- realistic. Not like a couple of those plastic girls you've dated with the blank eyes and that stupid grin all the time." "We have no doubt in your handling yourself appropriately, Scott," Dad finished off. "We just want to prepare you. We want you to know how we care. To know that we have thought of you, and we think this is the best way to handle this." "Handle what, Dad?" I was beginning to think that my father was babbling. What were they talking about? "It's all in this," he said, gesturing to mom. She had lifted a leather bound book from next to the couch. "A book? You guys are this serious about a book? Dad, I got a 3.8 last semester at school. And you two think I need to be sat down to be told to read a book?" I couldn't believe they thought I was that irresponsible! After all the years of excelling at school. "We just want you to read this," Mom said. Her smile had broadened. She was trying to comfort me, to assure me they were serious. "And to know that we are totally serious, and that we feel this is the best way to tell you." "Tell me what? Wouldn't it be easier to just tell me?" "No," they chorused. "Just read this after we go." "OK," I said. I stood back up, thinking this was all absurd for a book. "I'm gonna go down the beach now, so can I start reading today if its so special?" My parents denied my request, telling me that I could read it after they left for the West Coast tomorrow. A couple days later I started the book. The pages were old and dry. I didn't want to take it outside after I opened it. The dryness threatened to change the book to dust if the sun exposed it. The cover was supple leather, kept well-oiled by all the people who had owned the book. The opening inscriptions were faded beyond recognition. I couldn't read anything until about the thirtieth page. Then the writing became dark enough that I could figure some of it out. It was scrawled penmanship. "Fleeing the town," one of them read, "for the peoples here have turned against our healings and helps. They see not where we gaineth the..." The rest of the page was blanked. I spent the next two weeks reading the book, while my parents travelled out west. I never received word from them, but in my family 'no news was good' when vacations were concerned. Each night I would put away some pages, reading under my desklamp until I couldn't focus. After a day or two I became enthralled with the work. It appeared to be a collection of diaries that some ancient family had written. Some entries were simple, dated journals of daily life. Crop timings, municipal actions, and family recipes took up pages of the volume. Here and there dates were indecipherable, as was much of the test. I learned that on May 3, 1534 a young woman named Martha had given birth to a young boy. It wasn't until the sections penned during the mid 1700s that I started noticing something odd. Each entry was still in the same hand. Elias, the main writer for this part, had evidently lived a long life, though it seemed impossible that the same man had been around for so much time. One evening I came across a page titled "A letter to my son." At the time of reading it I did not know this would be the last entry by Elias. Dearest Philip, I do not know if what your mother and I told you will be taken seriously, so I have left this letter for you. I know you thought us crazy, but you will seen what appeared to be the ramblings of your aged parents was indeed the truth. You mother and I will have left you by the time you read this. We regret that we could not part happier, but we feel that when you know the truth you will again love us for what we are and what you are. We are not normal. Normal people do not know their death date. They do not know that they will live for over two hundred years. They do not know that they will never see more than twenty years of their child's life. Your mother and I have grown up knowing this since our youth. We have taken part in ceremonies most people are horrified by. We have known what you would become, just as we have known what must come of us. The most important thing is that you realize you are not like those around you. No one will understand your existence. They did not in ancient Scotland and they will not even here in America. The other thing you must take seriously is the ceremonies spelled out throughout this book. Within one year of today, your birthday, you must perform them and then hide yourself. School yourself with this book, for it explains who we are. Nothing like your family history can prepare you for your future. The ceremonies you will read of in the next few passages are tested and necessary. As you feel the changes within you -- the tiredness, the quickening, the thirst, the loneliness -- you will accept what this tells you. You will see that we acted as we did because we felt you would understand more if you found out when you were older. Live on, and continue the family with honor. Here the letter ended. The next page was dated several years later. The writers name was Tom. At first I thought it interesting that this person shared my father's name. It took many pages of reading and exploring his character before I realized that it was my father. When my parents died on their trip, I began to assign credence to the book. When I started to change, I believed. * * * "Hey Scott, you okay?" Gregg asks from above my. I open my eyes and find him looking down on me. He's wearing a puzzled face not betrayed in his voice. "Yeah, sorry. Bad week, exams and such. Guess I just needed a catnap." "Great," he says, shaking his head and rolling his eyes melodramatically. "Think you want to wake up before the show ends? Heather just got here and I could use some music." Still a bit confused from my nap, I yawn and get up. I grab the records I had, pull a couple more, and go to the on air studio. There are fifteen minutes left on the radio show. The next DJ called to say he wasn't coming. No one felt like staying on the air for an extra four hours. Gregg is in the office photocopying the song lyrics to some old music. I fold my hand around the orange again, feeling its bumpy skin under my nails. I toss it into the air. Halfway up. I can't wait for the taste of the orange to fill my mouth. Three quarters, its shadow expanding as it reaches for the track lighting above. Afterwards, I need the orange to get out the other taste. Heather has her orange with her. I don't know why only oranges work. Some things in the book are never explained. But over and over, my family has used them to purge the taste. It crests near the ceiling. A dot way above my head, the orange sits perfectly still on a column of air. My heart beats. The first squirt of juice, flowing into my mouth, cleansing it. My heart beats. The orange falls. I can't wait. Halfway down now, bee lining for my hand. Tonight. Soon. I catch it. Heather laughs, knowing what I am thinking. "Tonight, as we planned, darling?" "Of course, Scott. Everything set up perfectly?" I nod. "Did you bring the crystal?" "Yes, its all packed in my bag. I just hope the decanter didn't shatter or anything. After hundreds of years, I'd hate to be the one to destroy any of this stuff." "I'll be in the library," she says as she leaves the room. "Well, its time to close down the 'Slide Show' for this week. If anyone out there is still up, we'd like to thank you for tuning in to 104.5 WXXS, your listening choice for all the right tunes. I'd like to say goodnight to everyone out there. I'm gonna sleep a lot tonight. Gregg?" I ask, for he had come back into the room while I was talking into the mic. "Alright. Well, this is Gregg and Scott, and we now turn you over to dead air, because the next radio show never showed up this evening. Night." Gregg slips the microphone off and shuts down the broadcasting board. Anyone turning to 104.5 on the FM dial would hear only a fine lulling static. "Nice show, Scott. Except for playing that new release by James Skies on the wrong speed we lived through another Friday." "Yeah, I thought we were pretty good, to be a bit cocky." "Hey, Heather," Gregg calls out, "did you put that New Order album back? I don't see it out here." "Yes, I put it with the rest of their stuff. Did you want it left out?" "No, I just couldn't find it and worried a tad. Thanks." In the backroom, Heather finished returning albums several minutes ago. She now had a crystal knife in her hands. She wipes the blade clean with a tack cloth, bringing it to a gleam. Though basically ornamental and unable to have a sharp edge, the knife held a fine point. "Ready to go, darling," I call to Heather, as if it were a question. My body is keyed up beyond anything I've experienced. Everything I touch feels hot and sharp. My nerves are raw, as if my hands have been thrust into ice. "Sure, let's do it." I pull my gloves on and look to Gregg, who is rearranging the desk and cleaning up his personal CD collection. "About ready to lock this place up?" "Yeah, I just need to grab by jacket from the library." Gregg rises, turns his back me, and walks toward the library. As he comes to the door, I reach into my pocket and grab what looks like a tarnished piece of guitar string. Sliding up behind Gregg, I loop the garat around his neck. Gregg stands perfectly still, unsure of what exactly is going on. "One," Heather whispers from in front of him. Gregg tries to turn, but I press him face first against the wall. "Two." Heather smiles at me, happy but jealous that I'm getting to do this. "Three." Gregg thrusts his fingers toward the garat, probably hoping to pry open an airway. I pull him away from the wall and knock him back into it. "Four." Gregg is slowing now, so I press my knee into his back to keep him pinned. "Five." Gregg's scrabbling hands catch my belt in an attempt to pull me away. I wish I could see his face now. "Six." His grip falters as he became dizzy. "Seven." Gregg drops limp, unconscious. "Seven seconds without blood to the brain and the human body passes out." Heather rises and walks over to where I lowered Gregg to the floor. "You may have been a great DJ, but I never quite could get along with you after you tried to rape me." She bends down, grabs Gregg's head, and snaps his neck in a quick hundred-eighty-degree turn. I smile at her. The thirst makes the murder seem inconsequential. All I can think of is finishing this, of the taste, of the acidic juice washing my throat. Of Heather taking part in this, of her sharing what I understand and love. I still amazed that she decided to take part in this, to believe me. No matter how much the past assured me of this, I was still doubtful. She and I were spending Thanksgiving break together the day she decided to do it. She didn't actually say so that day, but looking back I think it was when she realized it was what she wanted. "Scott?" "Yeah, Heather?" I called out from the kitchenette of my apartment. "If all this stuff is true, this book I've been reading, doesn't that make your family a bunch of murderers?" "You can look at it that way. But think about it as survival. Its a tad animalistic, but it comes down to us or them. Either I kill or I die. When it's your own life that's at stake, things tend to seem clearer. Also, once the desire sets in, there's really little choice." "Hmm?" "It was like, the ultimate lust. I had to do it, to satisfy myself. I knew I was doing it to survive, but there was a sick pleasure in it. Sort of the perfect combination of pleasure and pain. It hurt so much, that easing the pain was perfect." Heather sat across from me. I couldn't help but stare at her for a few moments. She is tall, a slim and pretty five foot ten. Even sitting down her long legs show her height. She's not the type of girl that has looks to make others jealous. Her strawberry blond hair merely falls about her shoulders, nothing outlandish or against the fashion of the time, and her green eyes aren't of the glowing radiance associated with beauty queens. Instead, she's like a watercolour of someone beautiful. Odd at first glance, washed out looking. But when you see past the blurs of your vision there's a lot more there. "I don't understand why all this affected me. How did I get these urges too? Why do I read this and feel that it would be a total thrill?" "It doesn't seem anyone's figured this out. It has to be combined with sex. All the writers hinted at that. But there's something else, something inexplicable that draws the person in. And only a certain person. The first girl I slept with didn't feel it. Neither did Jannel, the girl you stole me from." I smiled, because one of her favourite stories was about meeting me skiing and deciding that the girl I was with wasn't good enough. Heather is very aggressive. "So there's no reason why, it just happens?" "I don't really know. I can only guess from what we've read. You should have more of an understanding, because you're the one who has found the start of the thirst. You're the one who accepts what anyone else would call fiction." She didn't answer me, just got up and ran herself a glass of water from the tap. I sit in the middle of the floor, the now dead body of Gregg sprawled between us. She opens the Kenya bag and empties the contents onto the floor. A crystal decanter, a roll of silk tape, several lengths of surgical tubing, and a small fishtank pump. Heather plugs the little air pump into a socket near the floor. It hums and vibrates quietly, a slow stream of air hissing from a side mounted nozzle. She hooks one length of the tubing onto the nozzle, and hands the end to me. I place it next to the body. I then slide the other length of tubing into the stoppered top of the decanter. "Ready, Heather?" "Come on, its just like cutting bunnies or frogs, for all this bastard was worth." She grins over him, a jack-o-lantern smile telling just how much fun this is to her. Like myself, she enjoys every sensation, every taste and smell and touch. With a careful slip of the wrist, Heather repeats the cuts that I had once made twenty years ago when I first did this. I reach across with the tubing and slide it into the carotid on the left of Gregg's neck. The other piece of tubing I slide into the other cut, thus creating a means for filling the body as the blood drains. The little pump strains and begins to fill the decanter with blood. The blood has taken on that deep brilliance that only oxygenation can give it. Darker than any red wine, it swirls sluggishly in the decanter. The faceted sides reflect my face back to me. Twisted from both the glass and the please I am feeling, my features have look horrifyingly ecstatic. Heather and I pass the jug back and forth, a draught at a time. The rightness has filled me. I know that what we have done will continue my family, my people. I love Heather for this, and for joining me. I can not even speak for I am so happy. Instead I just keep swallowing. Heather is as greedy as I, her eyes focussed on me and the decanter every second that I hold it aloft and drink. Heather and I finish the ceremony and leave Gregg lying in the middle of the radio station floor. No other shows are scheduled until early Monday morning, and by then she and I will be well hidden. Joking as we walk back through the tunnels, I notice that the overhead lights are much warmer than they had been. Twelve inches of snow has fallen over the course of the evening. A light and powdery snow, it covers everything, giving the land around the college a rebirth in virgin white. After drinking the blood I feel high and carefree. We walk along and laugh. Everything seems funny to Heather, and I can not help but laugh and revel in her. Never before have I felt so secure and loved. Heather makes joking airs of smacking me, but it turns into an embrace. "Come on, we only have a few hours to finish the ritual of our marriage." "Yeah, and how do I know that part's necessary?" A smile. "You'll just have to trust me." "Even if it's not, come on." She grabs my hand and we walk off through the now happily lit tunnels. "As soon as we get up tomorrow morning we have to head out. Just in case someone finds Gregg. We'll go where I hid last time. It was comfortable, and perfectly safe." I laugh, and kiss Heather again as we hurry to my room. "Yeah, we just have to make sure to ditch my Alfa in the lake. I hope it falls through the ice. You did measure it, didn't you?" "Yeah. Those two days last week that were above 40 were enough to thin it out. At the edge its only an inch or two." "One last question. What is this orange you had me bring for? You never did let me in on that." "In about two hours you are going to get the world's worst taste in your mouth from the blood. I tried toothpaste, mouthwash, water, and soda last time. The book said use oranges, but I figured modern times had come up with something better. The only thing that cleaned the taste out of my mouth was an orange." The next evening the gate is unlocked as usual, and we simply push it open on its black iron hinges. Not squeal emits, proof of the fastidiousness of the maintenance crew. I inhale the deep-night air. We are tired, more so than we had ever been. Now, however, we could truly rest. The fifteen year nap after the marriage ceremony needs security. Two years ago I had made most of the necessary arrangements. Only the securing of finances had to be taken care of, and that I handled the week before. The worn path beneath my feet leads through the dark copse of trees, winding and curving enough so that we can see only a few feet. We silently walk through the still falling snow. Our footsteps have already started filling. A few minutes of walking brings us to a small bower. The door is set into the hill and inscribed with some plain carvings. I unlock it and Heather pushes it open. We step inside and lean our weight against the cold iron of the door. The door moves, and thunks shut. I lock it from the inside and drop a bar across it. Extra security wouldn't hurt. I need sleep. My vision is grey, as if I were lost in the snow outside. Heather and I lie down to sleep, the walls of my family's crypt protecting us. Where else to hide after a murder than with the dead? ________________________________________ Jonathan T. Drout lives in Virginia. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- ER by Thomas Bell 3 a.m., went after his brother with a knife. 15, thin, black, "Don't need no help." Lives in guns, drugs, mother has two or three men over every night. "Gonna kill myself - can't help my mother." An hour ago when they picked him up. Hasn't slept safe for months. Could go off any minute here. Smiles, jokes. "Just said it. Don't need no help. Can't make me. I aint crazy." What's his name: Conduct disorder, undersocialized? Depressed? Who owns him: State Department of Human Services. Who'll take him: Unit's full. Vanderbilt's full. UMC doesn't like his insurance -- none. The Pavillion can't Take adolescents. They're all very nice. The police are sympathetic. Doctors and nurses want to help but don't know how either. The Institute has To take him. They've been full for days. We can't find the right language tonight. But night noises never cease. ________________________________________ Thomas Bell is currently a clinical psychologist in private practice. In former lives he was a librarian and an editor. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- PICKING LOBSTERS IN THE CORNER MART by Bill Dubie Those plump commas of claws can lean and wave at us their eyestalks blind to the unchanged water They scuttle robotic in the fusia oxygen bubbles are degree symbols superscripting their worth when we barter and choose among the corn chips and frozen food I open my billfold and taste the salt in my blood _______________________________________ Bill Dubie's recent publications include poems in CORE, The Northern New England Review, and The Fever Dream. His collections include Closing the Moviehouse (Wings Press, 1981) and The Birdhouse Cathedral (Connected Editions, 1991). -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- THE LORD by Mark Thomas I have been looking for The Lord. You see, it goes like this: This morning I woke up and opened the blinds Hoping to find The Lord out there, Grinning, glowing, whatever. But no, there was no Lord. At work, sometimes I go into other people's offices And I ask them, I ask "Would you like to come with me To the church across the street, So that we can find The Lord?" They have all said no. They have all shaken their heads. And later I am walking, I am walking and walking and walking, And along my way I pull at people's coats and ask "Are you The Lord?" They all say no. They walk away. And once I saw a friend from college, I met her on the street. We hugged and chummed and promised things, and I said "Do you know how I could go about finding Jesus?" She said "Jesus?" There was a long, long, long silence In which was sparked a rotten chain between us both. The winds on 2nd Avenue tossed Soily questions at her face and mine. What wrong had I said? I turned and left that silence there, And I remember now that quiet in her eyes. There have been other things, as well. I thought I heard The Lord announce the news last month on 1010 WINS radio. I thought I felt The Lord tickling my stomach once when I drove 112 miles per hour. I think I saw The Lord sitting and grinning on an awning at West 98th Street. I think I felt The Lord in my breath and in my eyes once when I got into a cab. And once on York Avenue I thought I saw The Lord standing at the bottom of a big hole. When I drive past a church I ask the person I am with, I ask "You wanna run in there and see if you can find The Lord real quick?" They always refuse. They always shake their head. And so I have parked the car, left the engine running, And dashed into these churches to see if The Lord was there. But The Lord was never in any church in any city at any time, And I have seen a thousand churches, hundreds of cities, across all times. Sometimes I am jerked awake at night, and I think "Was it The Lord that woke me?" And other times I can not sleep, and so I think "It must be The Lord keeping me up." I walked into a library once and I thought out loud "It feels just like The Lord is here." But no, The Lord was not in that library Reading magazines or killing time. I do not know where The Lord was that day, But certainly not with me. And once on the bus I swear The Lord walked in. I stood up and looked around. "Is it you? Are you The Lord?" I asked a man. "Are you The Lord?" I asked a little girl. "You? Are you The Lord?" I asked a blind old lady. "No," they all replied. "I am not The Lord." And they were not The Lord. I do not think I know The Lord. I don't know where It is, or where It lives. It is not in the phone book, It is not in the kitchen, It is not in the rug. If you also are looking for The Lord, Do not look in the Empire State Building, Because the Lord is not there. Do not listen to the radio, Because I did that, and found no Lord. No need to check Tiffany's or Coney Island, Don't bother Trump, and forget about this poem _ I have looked in all these places, and did not find The Lord. But every day the same thing occurs: I am with someone, or by myself, and a funky itching whips me. I look into my mailbox and think I see The Lord. I tap someone on the shoulder and ask "Are you The Lord? Do you know where I could find The Lord? Have you found The Lord?" Every day, I tell you, the same things occur and occur. So do not mind me if I ask you for The Lord. If you have not found It, simply say so, and I will walk along. I long to say "Hey look! That's It! The Lord!" And leap in exaltation, shouting in accord. Maybe today I'll turn on a light, and there will be The Lord _ Shining, bright, whatever. Maybe tonight I'll sit by the river and The Lord will come and talk with me. Or maybe tonight some beasts from Mars will glory me away in a flying machine, Or maybe St. Peter in his craft will pluck me from this earth and fill me with Heaven. Then I will know The Lord has seen me all along, and sees me wandering now, Numb and gaping, body stopped and stranded, desperately looking to the skies. ________________________________________ Mark Thomas lives in New York City. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- OTHER MAGAZINES ON THE NET -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- InterText, a bi-monthly magazine publishing fiction of all types, edited by Jason Snell. Back issues are available at network.ucsd.edu, under the /intertext directory. ___ Quanta, a science fiction magazine. Each issue contains fiction by amateur authors and is published in ASCII and PostScript formats. Back issues of Quanta are available from export.acs.cmu.edu in the pub/quanta directory. ___ The Sixth Dragon, an independent literary magazine devoted to publishing original poetry, short fiction, drama and commentary, in all genres. In addition to 3,000 paper copies, The Sixth Dragon will publish ASCII and PostScript editions. For more information, e-mail martind@student.msu.edu. ___ Unit Circle, an underground paper and electronic 'zine of new music, radical politics and rage in the 1990's. On the net, it is available in PostScript only. If you're interested in reading either the paper or PostScript version of the 'zine, send mail to kmg@esd.sgi.com. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- BACK ISSUES Back issues are available at ftp.etext.org via anonymous FTP/Gopher under the directory /pub/Zines/Whirlwind SUBSCRIPTION If you wish to be on the Whirlwind mailing list, all you need to do is send a message to WHIRLEDS@delphi.com with the subject of the message "SUBSCRIBE WHIRLWIND" and nothing else in the body of the message. FURTHER QUESTIONS If you have any other questions, you can reach us at WHIRLEDS@delphi.com. Whirlwind apologizes for any errors in this issue. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- That's it! Thank you for reading. NEXT ISSUE OF WHIRLWIND: JANUARY 1995 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-