I T H Q A R T R L Y J O R N A L P B L I H D B Y T H L I T WORD+IAG I.
I TH QARTRLY JORNAL PBLIHD BY TH LIT V O L 3, I 2 J N 2 0 1 0 JDITH ANOR ditor/publisher judith@the-lit.org TI L ACHINA Design Director tim@wjgco.com DAVID G N HARDT anaging ditor words4muse@the-lit.org R AY CN I C Poetry ditor words4muse@the-lit.org ROB JACKON Fiction ditor words4muse@the-lit.org ALNK A BANCO Art ditor images4muse@the-lit.org BONNI JACOBON NIN ANDRW Contributing ditors words4muse@the-lit.org We ve all been there: Trapped, imprisoned. ome by bars. ome by substance. ome by people. Imprisoned is a bad place. It strips us of humanity, creativity, altruism, self-love. Words, music, and images art can be a way out, though. In arch, I met with some friends who have begun a new nonprofit organization called Jail Guitar Doors. Yep, the same name as the song by the Clash, written for guitarist Wayne Kramer of the C5 during his prison stay in the 1980s. Founded by Wayne and argaret Kramer, and Billy Bragg, Jail Guitar Doors gets guitars to prison inmates so that those who are inclined have a creative release one that doesn t involve drugs, violence, or other bad behavior. They have been met by turns, with amazing receptivity and support, as well as with hostility and resistance. is receptive. This group of friends inspired us to theme this issue of, as well as each of the coming issues. We solicited words and images on imprisonment, and what is printed in the following pages gripped me at my core. It s dark. Important. It represents a turning point for us: we want to make a difference a difference in literature and the arts, a difference in the way people think, a difference in the way they write. The way they live. B I ION (Content evident) may be sent electronically to words4muse@the-lit.org. We prefer electronic submissions. publishes all genres of creative writing including but not limited to poetry, fiction, essay, memoir, humor, lyrics, and drama. Preference is given Ohio-based authors. Founded in 1987 as Ohio Writer, is the quarterly journal published by The LIT, a nonprofit literary arts organization. No part of this journal may be reproduced without written consent of the publisher. THLIT CLVLAND LITRARY CNTR A R T CR A F T BIL DING 257 0 P RIOR AV N I T 203 CL V L A ND, OHIO 4 4114 216 694.0000 W W W.TH-LIT.ORG Below is an open call for words and images crafted to the themes listed. Help us out. end original and unpublished fiction, poetry, prose, letters, essays, and images to us. We want to know how each of these themes inspires you. We want these themes to be your muse. Also, I can t let an issue go by without saying congratulations to a few of our area s finest writers. Congratulations to 2008 Writers & Their Friends Honorees Phil etres and David Giffels, respectively, for their 20 Cleveland Arts Prize awards for merging and id-career Artists, and to Henry Adams for Lifetime Achievement, all in the area of Literature. Kudos to fellow 2008 W & TF Honoree James Renner, whose breakout novel The an From Primrose Lane (and a yet unfinished second novel) has been picked up by arah Crichton Books. Well deserved accolades for all. JDITH 20 Themes eptember: Drama December: The Other 2011 Themes arch: Literary Competition Winners June: otels eptember: On the Couch December: In the ail 1
JAIL GITAR DOOR IAG BY PROJCT NOI FONDATION
contributors NIN ANDRW is the editor of a book of translations of the French poet Henri ichaux entitled omeone Wants to teal y Name from Cleveland tate niversity Press. he is also the author of several books including The Book of Orgasms, Why They Grow Wings, idlife Crisis with Dick and Jane, leeping with Houdini, and Dear Professor, Do You Live in a Vacuum. Her book, outhern Comfort, was published by CavanKerry Press in 2009 and was a finalist for the 20 Paterson Poetry Prize. PATRICIA AVRBACH, a Cleveland native, is the former director and current vice president of the Chautauqua Writers Center. he has previously had prose and poetry published in Lilith and argie. Her first novel, Painting Bridges, should be completed before the end of the year. Pat s avatar, Keykey nderwood, occasionally teaches creative writing in the 3D virtual world called econd Life. By day KN BINDA works as professor and chair of the History department at Kent tate niversity, but his evenings are spent talking with arina about Hawthorne, Whitman, Fitzgerald, and so many others and what they write and what that means and how to make sense of it all. They share a house with her two girls-adie and Faye-who make them laugh and think. Author of the novel aggot (Warner Books) and the story collections Naked to Naked Goes (cribner) and Loving Power, (Bottom Dog) ROBRT FLANAGAN has fiction in a various anthologies, including The Norton Book of American hort tories and Bar tories. Born in Toledo, Ohio, Flanagan worked as a dishwasher, night watchman and janitor, sparred in enough gyms to earn two detached retinas, served in the.. arine Corps reserve, and graduated from the niversities of Toledo and Chicago. The Loneliest an is included in Fight Night, a new collection of stories about boxers and arines currently on submission to publishers. DOGLA HOTON, JR, AKA AG TH WICAT, is happy husband and father to, respectively, Rasheeda Nicole and Douglas III. He is founder and executive director of Black Poetic, an arts and education organization that facilitates written and performance poetry. He has created a community initiative to provide seasonal series of free productions of performance poetry, song, dance, and visual art at The Cleveland useum of Art. By day, he is Disabilities Coordinator for the Council for conomic Opportunities in Greater Cleveland. Hoston has been selected to be a panelist on the Governor s Conference on Increasing High chool Graduation Rate for African American ales. WAYN KRAR is a songwriter whose reputation writing music for film and television risks supplanting his legend as one of rock s stellar guitarists. Rolling tone lists him as one of the top 0 guitarists of all time. Wayne is recognized nearly as often as a vigorous social activist. In 2009, along with wife/manager argaret aadi Kramer and legendary British singer Billy Bragg, he founded Jail Guitar Doors A, a Los Angeles based non-profit group that provides guitars for use in prisoner rehabilitation. ROBRT LAWRY is meritus Professor of Law and Director of the Center for Professional thics At CWR. He was educated at Fordham College, Penn Law chool and niversity College, Oxford. He has been a Fellow in Law and the Humanities at Harvard. In addition to traditional scholarly writings, he has published in a study of Justice in elville s Billy Bud and an award winning essay on artin Luther King, Jr., entitled One Tough Guy. He has also published a chapbook of poems, Necessary Pleadings. Recently, he was named the Phi Beta Kappa poet for 20 at CWR. He serves on three non-profit xecutive Boards, The LIT among them. Born in Cleveland, Ohio, COTT LAX is a novelist, short story writer, nonfiction writer and playwright, and teaches for The Lit and The Chagrin Valley Writers Workshop. The Denver Post called his first novel, The Year That Trembled, powerful and one of 1998 s milestones in fiction. He s won numerous awards from the Ohio Professional Writers (nonfiction), Cleveland Press Club (nonfiction), the Literary Competition (fiction), and Lax is a Bread Loaf Writers Conference Nonfiction cholar, ewanee Writers Conference Fiction Fellow and 2002 idwest Filmmaker of the Year. ANGLA CONOLO ANKIWICZ is the author of four chapbooks, the most recent are AN Y, published by Pecan Grove Press (20) and A IF, recently released from Little Red Books-Lummox (20). he has also been the Contributing ditor and Regional ditor, respectively, for the small (now defunct) journals ushroom Dreams and New Press. Combining poetry and her love of music, she is currently collaborating with composers on an experimental chamber opera and a song cycle. ABBY NAPOLI is a part of the Laurel chool class of 2012, and a winner of OCA Cleveland s Women Above The Influence Writing Competition. Her inspiration for this issue came from one of her favorite songs: Happy nding, by IKA. KARN CHBRT s poems appear or are forthcoming in Artful Dodge, Penguin Review, Akron Art useum s New Words, The Vindicator and others. Her chapbook is The Geography of Lost Houses (Pudding House). Poetry editor for Whiskey Island agazine, she has an FA from the Northeast Ohio aster of Fine Arts, and lives with her daughter in Youngstown, Ohio. ARINA VLADOVA has written for Interview, urface, and Big agazine. he now lives with her partner and two daughters in Cleveland Heights and teaches film and literature at Andrews Osborne Academy in Willoughby. 2
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The Narcotic Farm WAYN KRAR POLIC! DRG POLIC! DO NOT OV! FDRAL AGNT! W WILL HOOT YO! They were screaming at the top of their lungs as they came bursting into my apartment. I turned around and looked straight down the business end of a 9mm pointed at my stomach. This gun could make a really big hole. Once I was sure these were actually drug police and not dopehouse rip-offs, I relaxed a little. Out came the badges: DA. Federal Drug Agents. Without doubt, I was going to prison behind this bust. This was the logical conclusion of the downward trajectory of my life in those days. I was 27 years old and drifted into lower and lower circles after my rock band, the C5, imploded in 1972. p to that point, going to prison was something I d never considered. Real prison? This couldn t be. But when the weight of this sunk in, I wept like a baby. I had been waiting all my life to fuck up this bad, and I d finally made it. As far as I was concerned, it was everybody else s fault. (Deep inside, I knew better.) ince I refused to cut a deal and work for the DA as a snitch, I, a drug addict who dealt drugs, pleaded guilty to possession. The judge gave me four years. Though I tried to get ready for the penitentiary, talking to my ex-con friends about what to expect behind bars only made things worse. I quickly fell into a deep depression. When word came down that I was going to be sent to Lexington, KY, I was relieved. I knew about the place already. I knew that it was originally called the nited tates Narcotic Farm. I knew this was where all the great jazz musician, hipster dope fiends went. Jackie aclean, Charlie Hayden, am Rivers, lvin Jones, onny Rollins, Howard cgee, and Ray Charles. ven William Burroughs himself had been there and wrote about it in Junky. veryone I knew who had been in the federal system said Lex was the place to do time. But by the time I arrived at Lexington as a prisoner in 1975, The Drug War was kicking in. Lexington had abandoned its mission as a humane treatment center for addicts and was functioning as little more than medium-security prison for drug offenders. On my arrival there I remember being stunned by the gigantic size of the place. After getting photographed, fingerprinted and given a new set of prison clothes, an official gave us the Welcome To Prison talk. We could do easy time here if we were smart. Or if we wanted to play it hard, he could make it very hard. When it was over, it was clear to me that the Lexington where I d just arrived was nothing like the Narcotic Farm of years past. Back when Burroughs was there, they called you patients, not prisoners, because you were there for treatment even if you d been convicted of a federal crime. I was not a patient. I was now inmate 00180-190. The first few and last months there were the hardest because my mind would go to the street and to things that I could not control. I obsessed on my girlfriend, who, it turns out, began driving a get-away car for a series of armed robberies while I was away. I began to adjust to life inside the institution. I was jailing now. mpty hours are a prisoner s enemy, so I did the best I could to fill up my days with anything I could. I took college courses, and with the great jazz musician Red Rodney as my teacher and fellow inmate, I studied music theory. I played basketball and paddleball in the winter. In summers, I ran five miles a day around the big exercise yard. ometimes twice a day. Got into great shape. I wanted to hit the streets hard. As the days and months went on, the prison population rose. The Drug War was ratcheting up. Lexington wasn t about treatment at all anymore, it was about accountability. This was Prison. Not rehab. When I arrived in 1975, there were 600+ inmates at Lexington. By 1978, when I paroled out, the population had risen to over 1200. There were people sleeping in the hallways. Day rooms were filled with cubicles. It looked like a state joint. From where I see it, we as a nation were just beginning to embrace the mentality of a total War on Drugs where killing or capturing the enemy will somehow make this problem go away. Today the situation is far worse than when I was incarcerated. As I write this, this nation incarcerates more people than any other nation in history, and hundreds of thousands of them are serving time for non-violent drug-related charges. As a former convict, I can say that prison changed me. And probably not for the better. y time at Lexington, in the end, was a crushing experience. pon my release with little more than willpower to go on I returned to a life of alcoholism and drug addiction for a long time more. Now there are treatment programs all over the country. And they work. I found the help and support I needed, and today I have a beautiful and sober life. WAYN KRAR LO ANGL, CA APRIL 20TH, 20 7
ven the guitar has bullet holes. others of the dead keep books of faces, blood runs from eye sockets, from everywhere. Children with two feet pick for food in the dump, climb among bombed out trucks. They have not forgotten how to play. ome guerrillas are young as twelve. At the checkpoint, the photographer lies flat on top of the bus among baskets of hens. The roads and walls are stone, no softness between them and the displaced, the orphaned. Pregnant women stand belly deep in the river, washing clothes. Listen, they say: the dead are talking to you. Don t flinch. KARN CHBRT 8
Final eal Requests of Condemned Prisoners tate of Texas web.archive.org/ Karla Faye Tucker, twenty-three, and slim, opted for the diet plate, a banana, a peach, a garden salad - ranch dressing on the side, prior to her date with the electric chair. But most want more, flesh and fowl, chopped and fried, heaping plates of simple fare: greasy spuds, melted cheese, crudities, sugar, salt, hot pepper, enough drink to drown a man. Johnny Ray Johnson consumed four pieces of fried chicken, two fried steaks, twenty shrimp, four eggs, two biscuits, two gallons of hot coffee, and several slabs of peanut brittle. Vincent Cooks put away twelve pieces of fried chicken, double cheeseburgers, toasted buns, french fries, onions, tomatoes, sweet pickles, hot peppers, peach cobbler and cold milk. Jeff Dillingham devoured crispy fries, lasagna, garlic bread, nachos, mac and cheese, five scrambled eggs, a cheeseburger heaped with Cheddar, wiss and ozzarella, three cinnamon rolls, and eight pints of chocolate milk. As though a single meal could satisfy the craving for all the years left on their plates. Victor Feguer s tastes were more refined. His last supper informed his tongue of vinegar, salt, a stone, the taste of tears. When the state buried him in the brand new suit they d bought for the occasion, it s pocket held a kernal of remorse, the remnants of his final meal, the pit of one black olive. PATRICIA AVRBACH 9
Imprisonment: A Domestic Bop monosyllabic grunts pass perfect apathy in this house we ve got good bones could last thirty years comfortably married to the idea of tradition in this tomb we ve well oiled forgetting where love limps and dies daily trying to make believe that it was just a dream there are children here we act accordingly, coming to life in increments, we shine for them bright to blind out our passionlessness we Pinocchio in unison, stringing hope into every how was school, today they bound from front door and to bedroom blocking out our desperation trying to make believe that it was just a dream the vilification of fleeing this type of imprisonment give us the resounding pause of a gavel smack best friends can but promise to be there after escape we re frightened for we ve seen many flee and fail badly and what does the lord say about these type sinful thoughts so hardwired, we continue trying to make believe that it was just a dream DOGLA AG HOTON 11
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CRI LAW ROBRT P. LAWRY TH FIRT TI I T DL L RICO ARIO BROWN, I thought he was going to kill me. He leaned over the table, his hands flat down upon it, and he shouted, The man din t calcalate my time right. He din t calcalate it right! He just din t. A prison guard rushed over, looking for trouble. r. Brown was furious. I was scared. I could feel his hands around my throat. Instead, he punched the air above him. The guard had actually pulled out his billyclub. I winced but waived him away. Del Rico dropped his hands and his head, retrieved his fallen chair, and sat meekly down. It would not be the last time I felt physically afraid of this client. Del l Rico ario Brown was thirty-two years old. Black father never around much and in jail himself a lot. Puerto Rican mother she couldn t control him. He stood maybe five feet four inches tall, weighed at most one hundred thirty-five pounds. He was thin, wiry, but with muscles that bulged. He worked out. A lot. Lifted weights. Punched the bag silly. He could have strangled me in a heartbeat. Or so I felt, every time we were together. With the exception of two stints, one of seven months, the other of eleven months, Del Rico had been in some jail or prison for his entire adult life, landing in his first cell, just days after turning eighteen. Convicted of assault. Paul, my man, you are the F. Lee Bailey in this outfit. I couldn t handle a criminal case if my life - or the poor client s life - depended on it. o be a good fellow and run up to see this... Francis R. Frankie tevens rustled through a stack of papers in front of him, finally finding what he had been looking for.... this Del Rico fellow. He s in the tate Pen. Wants out. How can you blame him? Judge Richter said I needed to show that the corporate bar is willing to take on these kind of cases, so take them on we will. Go to, Pauly. I m right behind you. Give it your best shot. Frankie tevens was the most genial of men, full of good cheer and quick with a self-deprecating joke; but a shrewd and gifted lawyer as well. Grown corporate executives would grovel readily just to be his client. To me he would always be r. tevens, the senior partner in tevens, Henderson & cfarley, when I was a fifth-year associate. It was 1972; there were seventy-seven lawyers at tev-hen, making it the second largest corporate law firm in Pittsburgh. Problem is sentencing. He s mad. Look at these letters he s written to the court. He handed me a reasonably thick stack of paper, many pages of which were letters from the state prison to Judge Richter, the Administrative Judge of the Court of Common Pleas. Go to, young man. r. tevens was on the phone with a real client before I was out of his corner office door. ix months out of Pitt Law chool, I defended a young cousin of mine on a breaking and entering charge. And won. It was a bogus indictment, and I stumbled my way through the case against a less than interested assistant district attorney; nevertheless, it made me a tad famous in the corridors of the firm, as the crim law kid. o naturally, any assigned criminal case in the firm found its way to my desk. Brown s juvenile record was equally depressing. First delinquency charge at eleven. Five more over the next seven years. Life on the streets, snatching what he could, hurting people because he needed to and because he could. He was now in the tate Penitentiary for armed robbery. Wielding a hand gun, he had mugged a citizen, taken wallet and watch, and fled in a broken down stolen Chevy Impala. After crashing the car against a street lamp, and running up an alleyway in Pittsburgh s Hill District, he had been shot by a police officer in both legs. He was in the hospital for five months, because the wounds were serious and got infected. Despite gangrene, the doctors somehow managed to restore him to health without an amputation. The hospital stay was the crux of the case. Brown thought those five months should have been subtracted from the fiveyear sentence he received at trial, which occurred eight months after the robbery. ince he couldn t make bail after he was released from the hospital, there was also the problem of the three months he had served in jail, awaiting trial. The district attorney s office claimed the sentence of the court was for five additional years from the date of the conclusion of the trial. r. Brown says his time will be up in two months because, according to his calculations, the entire eight months needed to be subtracted from the five year sentence. The trial transcript was 13
14 a mess. The judge had the power to sentence him to up to ten years; but what Judge Johnson actually did was not clear. However, to r. Brown, what should happen was abundantly clear. Case law, courtesy of Del Rico Brown, regularly showed up in my mail over the next few weeks. I was doing research to write a brief to obtain a hearing - Del Rico was helping me. Not that I asked. He printed in ballpoint pen in his own firm hand on yellow legal sized paper each case that he just knew would help him. ometimes the cases were forty or fifty pages long. He did not know or was somehow suspicious of the citations he could have jotted down, so I could find the case he wished me to read in one of the fat hardbound Pennsylvania tate Reporter volumes, which were methodically filed in our firm s library. No, he needed to print them out in his own hand. And I had better read them. And I had better use them. When I actually filed the petition and the accompanying fifteen-page brief, I did use several of the cases Del Rico had sent Attenson, Attornay Paul Roberts. ome of them, I couldn t cite. Didn t cite. Why din t you cite that Brooks case. Damn good case. Get me out. And that Jennings case. Portant case. You in cahoots with the DA, huh? That it? You in cahoots with the DA? He was shouting again. tanding again. Hands gripping the table. Ready to choke me to death. r. Brown, I assure you, I am working hard and only for you. I did cite the Parker case and the orenson case. Those were your cases. Now, why would I cite them if I were working with the D.A? He sat down again. I exhaled. Why not all them cases? I get up at six in the morning and do my law before breakfast even. Go to the prison library. We got books. And I get tips from the jail lawyers. They smart. They know what works. I didn t answer readily enough. It s bout the power, I know that. Does you think I don t know that? You guys all in cahoots. I mostly missed the second part of his tirade because I was so impressed with the first part. There was a network of inmates who work at the law, trading cases and other useful information about how the law can get them sprung from their jail cells and fly away like birds on air. I was surprised. How would I know such things? y law school education did not include such practical information. oreover, this fiery guy got up early in the morning and spent many hours of every day doing his law. I saw the proof in those fat hand printed pages, but the reality of what it took to produce them did not quite sink into my consciousness until then. r. Brown was disciplined. r. Brown worked very hard. Well, I started to explain. ome of those cases were too easily distinguishable... His dark eyes blazed. I started again. They just didn t fit. You ll have to trust me on this. I went to law school for three years to learn which ones fit and which ones don t fit. Yea, he said, but softly, not in anger. And I be reading my cases for years too! I knew he could be a lawyer, could have been a lawyer. I told that to r. tevens one day, as we were talking of another, feegenerating case. Really? He said, blinking his eyes and pausing for a moment. Quickly, he returned to business. But, now, if I understand your point, your research shows the evidence might be admissible. xplain to me again how this clear hearsay evidence could be admissible. Judge Henry Reynolds twelve years on the bench, experienced, and cranky was assigned to the case. He granted our petition for a full-blown hearing before the district attorney s office could file a responsive brief. He no doubt saw Frank R. tevens name and our firm s blueback attached to the petition, and knew that he had to give Frankie his day in court on behalf of this indigent inmate. Had to. o, I was really not surprised when three days before the hearing, r. tevens phoned me and said: Pauly, I have to make that Del Rico presentation. Won t look good if I don t. Prepare a ten or twelve page speech for me. ake sure you have it double-spaced and all in capital letters. I can read it better that way. It might take me a day to get something in that kind of shape, r. tevens.. Hell, Pauly, take what time you need. Just make sure I have the speech when we trot over to court. Huh? He was not going to study it beforehand? Question me about it? I got it to him on Tuesday afternoon at about three o clock. The hearing was set for Thursday at ten a.m. I called thee times on Wednesday, but r. tevens did not return any of my calls. At about five in the afternoon on Wednesday, his secretary called to tell me her boss wanted me in his office at nine thirty the next day. He was going to read the presentation overnight and quiz me as we walked to the courtroom. Pretty ballsy stuff, even for a litigator as experienced as Frank tevens. o, I was both awed and bewildered when I arrived at his office at nine twenty nine the next morning to see him chatting on the phone with a client. He hung up at about nine forty. Do you have that speech for me? he asked with a wink. It s been on your desk since Tuesday, I said. Oh, yes, I did see it some-
where. Now, didn t I? He laughed, turned over some papers, then said: You wouldn t have another copy with you, Pauly, now would ya? I had six. When I gave him one, he tossed it in his briefcase and we left for the courthouse, two blocks away. I tried, but we just never got to talk about substance. He only asked, All caps, right? Yes, sir. And double-spaced? Triple-spaced actually. Looked easier to read. Good boy. Always helps to have a smart lawyer with you when you go into battle. He paused to chat up a fellow lawyer from another firm, also walking to court. When we got to the hearing room, he whispered to me. How many pages? Fifteen, I said. Too long. He laughed. Remember, it s triple-spaced. There are only two cases that count. And the trial judge s opinion was ambiguous, so it is clearly a question of law. I was trying my best to give him some useful information before he read the argument for the first time out loud and to the judge who was going to decide the matter. He smiled, patted my arm, then immediately walked over to our client, who was in his orange prison jump suit and handcuffed. o glad to meet you, r. Brown. It is a real honor. Paul has told me so much about you. We re going to do fine. The prisoner sat there expressionless. I thought he might actually be in shock. How could he know what to make of this smiling, balding, take-charge man, who was honored to meet him and who was now going to change the man s life? I shook hands with the middle-aged assistant D.A. with whom I had been in contact since the petition was filed. He would be arguing for the prosecution. r. tevens did not shake the man s hand, but simply nodded at him, as if he were an unimportant nobody. The judge arrived on the bench with little fanfare. Good to see you, r. tevens, he said. The court is honored by your appearance here today. Then he turned to the prosecutor. Are you ready, r. Davies? Because his face was completely blank, I wondered if the lawyer had heard. I couldn t tell if he were amused or intimidated or just preoccupied with what he was doing. Yes, your honor, he said. The judge did not interrupt once, but seemed to follow every word, giving an occasional shake of the head downward, as if in complete agreement. After r. tevens said, Thank you, your honor, there was complete silence. The assistant district attorney rose but was frozen in position before he could approach the podium. I have read your brief, and am unpersuaded by it. Is there anything r. tevens said that you might response to in any way that is different from what is in your brief? The poor fellow was speechless for several seconds. Well? said the judge. The prosecutor cleared his throat. Your honor, I do want to call your attention to the words actually used by the trial judge at the sentencing in this case, he began. You did that in the brief. I read the words. I understand your argument. Anything different? No, your honor. Good. Then I am ready to rule. r. Brown, will you please step forward. Brown stood still, and after a few seconds, I took his arm and helped him up to the podium. He stood beside his six foot two inch, two hundred thirty pound lawyer. r. Brown, I find that the calculation of your sentence by the state was in error. The one hundred and fifty five days you were in the hospital and the ninety two days you were in jail prior to your trial on armed robbery should have been subtracted from your five year sentence. In fourteen days time, you will have served five full years. But, as r. tevens eloquently put it, If anyone has paid his debt to society, then you have. Therefore, it is the decision of this court that you are free to leave the custody of the state immediately upon being properly processed. I understand that you will have fifty-two dollars and twelve cents coming to you to begin your new life of freedom. I also understand from the probation office that your uncle is offering you a job at his warehouse. Work hard. tay out of trouble. Good luck to you. Del l Rico ario Brown did not move. He did not utter a word. Then Frank tevens whipped out his wallet and produced a one hundred dollar bill. I want to add a little something to r. Brown s bank account. Here you go. He handed the bill to the still stricken man, now massaging his wrists, first one, then the other. A policeman had quietly unlocked the handcuffs. And if there is anything I can do for you in the future, the biggest of big lawyers boomed, please don t hesitate to call. The hundred dollars was crazy enough. But even I couldn t believe that last throw caution to the absolute winds statement. Did Frankie have any idea what he was saying? I m still not sure he understood the speech he had just made, the one which had just unshackled his client.. But it didn t matter. Del l Rico ario Brown was a free man - and had a one hundred and fifty two dollar and twelve cent leg up on his precarious future. He also, apparently, had a job. I had worked every family and probation office angle I could to get him that offer. o, for 15
the moment, he had a future. His work and discipline and persistence and anger got him there. ome luck, a little magic, and the way the world works, all combined to do the rest. Less than one year later, I received a call in my tiny Legal Aid office. I had left tevens and Henderson about six months before, unable to get the Brown case out of my mind and heart, crazy as that sounded to my exasperated wife and my upwardly mobile, but now diminishing, list of tev-hen lawyer friends. A familiar voice boomed in my ear. Pauly, my man, how are you? We miss you over here. You can come back whenever you want to, you know. Always need a good criminal lawyer in our kind of work. Frank tevens laughed heartily then, like anta Claus laughs, from the full belly up. I appreciated your saying that, sir. But I m happy here, doing what I can. Good for you, my boy, good for you. Now, Pauly, the reason I m calling is that my secretary tells me she took a message from a man, who called himself Del l Rico ario Brown. Ring a bell? Yes, sir, it sure does. Well, he says he wants to talk with me - but, really, he wants to talk to you. I know that. What do I know that could help a fellow like that? You helped him big-time a year ago. ure. ure. But he needs you, not me, I m not that dumb. ind giving him a call? Of course not, r. tevens. I d be happy to. When I phoned the number I had, a little girl s voice answered. I judged her to be nine, maybe ten years old. When I told her slowly and carefully who I was and that I was returning the call that Del Rico had made to r. tevens, she replied nervously, all the words in a hurry. Ain t nobody here by that name. Are you sure? The name is Del l Rico ario Brown. Ain t nobody here by that name, mister. Well, when he comes in, will you tell him to call me? I gave her my name and number, which I thought she actually might be recording on a piece of paper. You will tell him, won t you? I just wanted to make sure. Yea, I ll tell Daddy Del, she responded, then abruptly hung up. 16
This Is Not a Dream It is here: a tight room, brown and lighter brown, eurat with a flat pencil point plotting out squares and ovals on a dresser top, thick golden curlicues clasping a ponderous mirror of transparent dots, necessary to fake white, to define this room, a tight room, but not without warmth, spreading, connecting itself, unashamed of what it is; with a door, but not a window, a garden without frost, longings one can depend on. ANGLA CONOLO ANKIWICZ 17
Fitzgerald s Wake I listened to a Fitzgerald book today. His language so sanguine, salacious, trying his best to obfuscate his ignorance. agnanimous and obtuse, terrified by the realization that he is still dead, despite rumors of resurrection. KN BINDA Rooms Crushed dreams give new face teal it, mash it into walnut shells, brew it into crustacean casings. The tepid interior of eamless floors soiled with fingernail bits and fastened by cat raked furniture give way to concrete floors and stainless steel penal-ware Too many rooms to just leave as small sounds ushered incident Time an extraneous dictator, enveloped, disrobed, sealed. Wars fought too long to cease, small injuries restfully lodged partan tranquility anesthetizes extracts her arboreal dreams, as she now timidly sleeps. ARINA VLADOVA 18
1963 Y PARNT WR ALWAY TRRIFID BACK THN. They whispered in their room late at night, asking each other what they should do and how to explain it to the children. That was the year my father built a bomb shelter in our basement and stocked it with soft drinks, Campbell s soup, Dinty oore tew, and toiletries. The shelter was a huge cement room with four bunk beds, two space heaters, and an endless supply of Pepsi cans. On the hottest summer days, we d sneak into the basement to enjoy Pepsi and the dank cool air, pretending the Russians were coming while we lay back on the moldy mattresses and stared at the centipedes scurrying across the cement ceiling. ometimes we d turn on the transistor radio that was always playing the top hits like Louie Louie, urf City, and ugar hack. y brother liked to cut out the lights and tell us that the whole world was going up in smoke while we lay in the dark. How long till we can go back out? I would ask, feeling suddenly chilled and terrified. He said we had to wait until the gamma rays dispersed. That could take anywhere from 3 days to two weeks. No one knew for sure. omeone on the radio would tell us when it was safe to come back out. Prisoner of War I WANNA GO TO VITNA. I wanna kill a Charlie Cong. With a knife or a gun, it s sure to be some real good fun. If I die in combat zone, box me up and send me home, fold my arms across my chest and tell my mom I did my best. ong Joe, the farmhand, sang when he was on leave from Vietnam. In grade school I wore POW bracelets on my skinny wrists, Peace signs, bell bottom jeans, and mod boots, so tight at the toes I could barely walk in them, much less run. (Remember Nancy inatra singing, These boots are made for walking? Well, she was wrong.) I d slip them off when we played Capture the Flag at recess and pretend that if I ran fast enough, or won, I could make Joe and my brother s friends come home for good. Once I stole the red flag from the other team and raced back across the line just in time. veryone circled around me as tuart Delaney shouted, We won! We won! We got the commie flag! I had never captured the flag before then. I don t think I d ever won anything. I can still feel the wind in my hair forty years later, the adrenaline rushing through my veins as I raced on sock feet across the grass, thinking only faster, faster, faster. It s that feeling of winning I think of now whenever I am with the guys, and they start talking about the days when they played football, baseball, track, when they scored touchdowns, home-runs, perfect plays, way back then, once upon a time, when they were all quick enough to save the day, win the war, and free all the prisoners. They never talk about Joe anymore. No one knows what happened to him. (y sister was sure she saw him once on the mall downtown, but when she looked again, he was gone.) Or Ron who lost both arms. Or itch who is still living the war. You can t invite him to dinner without him telling you about it again and again and again. Forty years later, he s still a prisoner of that war. How to Fight TIGHTN YOR FIT, JO AID. Like this. I d never seen a boxing match before that night on arch 8, 1971. Joe, the farmhand was telling me what to expect. He said he hated Ali, the guy who refused to go to Vietnam, who took on a uslim name, and bragged and teased. He moves right quick, he said. But you watch. He s don t move quick enough. I was excited until the fight began. In the sixth round, when Frazier knocked Ali against the ropes and was pounding his head, I leaned over and threw up. That s okay, Joe said, mopping the floor with Lysol. A girl needs to throw up when she needs to throw up. Don t you worry about a thing. He said that he had a lot of practice in Vietnam, with boxing and puking both. It s a skill you might need one day. You never know. Like if someone bad ever comes too close. Know what I mean? And you can t run? I know you can t punch. Puking is the best thing. No man wants a girl who pukes on him. Peeing is next. And shitting your pants. But whatever happens, Girl, don t go still. Or silent. Don t ever be like a cat in the alfalfa field. Crouching low when the mowing begins. It s like standing still or lying in the street when the trucks roll in. Not making a move. You see it all the time with women and cats. It s the strangest thing. They just sit there when danger comes close. They don t run. They don t scream. ven in broad daylight. It s like they think they re invisible. But I m telling you, Girl. ome men are like mowers, come haying time. It s a lucky cat who can walk away alive. NIN ANDRW 19
TH LONLIT AN IN TH WORLD ROBRT J. FLANAGAN H TOOK A FRONT TABL IN TH LONG CLO TO TH PIANO and away from a clot of tourists, gaudy as macaws in floral shirts. Nursing a scotch and soda he text-messaged his co-writer on Life as It Happens Next Door, cautioning him in the rewrite not to take their reality pilot so far into voyeurism that it turned creepy. The balding black man in the white jacket at the white piano toyed with Body and oul, Come Rain or Come hine, emories of Love, adding little runs and variations, keeping himself interested. He emptied his glass and again glanced at his watch. It seemed he spent more and more time lately waiting for her to get dressed, although the final effect was always worth the wait. As it was when she undressed. Behind the bar above a row of bottles was a long, narrow aquarium with neon fish weaving in and out of the wavy green ferns. The piano man worked his way through the chord changes of onk s Well, You Needn t. Looking about for service, he was surprised to see her seated three tables behind him, watching him. Hands spread, he mimed bafflement. He scraped back his chair to stand just as a waitress came to take his order. When the girl left, he stayed put. From her table she gave him a slant smile. One of her pleasures, she d told him early on in their relationship, was eating alone in hotels and feeling no need to strike up a conversation, not feeling lonely but rather private, even mysterious, and taking pleasure in guessing what other diners might suppose about her. Was that what she d been doing just now? Or had she enjoyed observing him unawares? Had she not already known him, he wondered, what might she have imagined him to be? That he was an interesting sort? Attractive in his solitude? Or just another marital casualty adrift in the midlife sea? Holding her look, he speed-dialed her. At the moonlight sonata ring tone she cocked her head to one side what s this? then dipped into a white-beaded clutch to retrieve her cell. Yes? What are you doing over there? he shrugged. A drink sat on her table, something with a pink umbrella. Why didn t you come here? You looked preoccupied. Just waiting for you, he said. And all along I ve been right here. You can t have been there that long, I d have noticed. You want to know the last five piano pieces? I already know them. o do I. `Body and oul, don t you love it? o, are you coming over? Too close to the music. I like a little distance. When the waitress brought his drink he tipped her, put away his cell and picked up his drink. He stepped to the piano and folded a five into the tip glass. Thank you, brother, the man said, not looking up from the keyboard as he tapped out llington s ood Indigo. He took his drink to the rear table. You having fun? Here? she asked. You ve been somewhere else? No, she said, I mean here in the lounge? Or here on the island? Here, spying on me. Was that what I was doing? Not just that. I see you ordered a drink. he shook her head. He looked at her glass, his eyebrows lifting. I have a drink, yes. But you didn t get it? he shook her head. omeone bought you a drink? he nodded. No. Really? Who? The loneliest man in the world, she said. How many of those have you had? Drinks? Just one. Which somebody bought I said. The loneliest man Right, he said. Over the rim of his glass he glanced at the other tables, 20
father had remarried within the year, to a plain, even homely, woman. Not much to look at, he d told his son, but good company. What does that have to do with you? he shrugged. You re as far from plain and homely as any woman I know. Just company, he said, that s all he wanted. he poked at the ice in her drink with the tiny umbrella. He looked so sad it made me wish there was something I could do. You don t mean go off with him? No, but something. Heading for the exit the group of tourists swarmed about their table, laughing and blathering. y, what a grand time they were having! I could get a camera crew to follow him around, he said. Put together a reality pilot. `Adventures in Loneliness? Don t, she told him. He caught the tone in her voice, the way she got at times. Once she closed up there was no way to reach her, not even in bed. Then even sex was nothing but more friction. Why didn t you tell him you were with someone? He could see that I wasn t. Not at the same table, but Look, I m sorry, but I can t believe all this went on while and I was right over there, waiting for you. Her eyes drifted past him, over his shoulder. Wait a second. He s not still here, is he? They snapped back to him. It doesn t matter, she said, he s given up. He s at the bar? Please. No heroics. e? You ve got the wrong guy. You d only be protecting yourself, not me. o he is here. As he started to turn she touched his wrist. Here, she said, taking a black clamshell compact from her purse and tucking it into his palm. Act like you have something in your eye. Opening the compact, he held it at an angle from his face and maneuvered it to take in the bar. Two men sat side by side on stools, hunched over drinks. A third stood at one end of the bar looking out a big tinted window at the swimming pool. Crowded during the day, the pool was nearly empty now. That s him, the guy standing? he nodded. You re sure? Yes. Why? He shrugged and shut the compact. He d pictured the character as being closer to his own age, not someone in his thirties with a full head of hair. Did you see his eyes, she asked, the circles? He can t sleep. h-huh. He slid the compact across the table. But if you d sleep with him he d feel better. You think he s wrong? That you know better? No, no, not at all. Look, let s just drop it, all right? I m glad you put him off, glad that we finally got together. He drained his glass. But if you ask me, he looks sick. Like someone with a disease. Loneliness, she said. For all you know he could have the plague. he glanced at the bar and away. One of the things she feared most was catching a disease from someone. When they first began sleeping together she was constantly worried, despite his assurances, that he might pass something on to her from his wife, some sickness that neither of them knew he had. Wrapping up Caravan, the piano man announced a break and left the room. Probably it s rotting his brain, he told her. I mean, the loneliest man in the world -- it s such a pathetic line. Who d fall for it? Lonely people. He took a breath and let it out slowly. Right, he said. Like we used to be before we found each other. he bent her head slightly; nodded, maybe. He stood. Why don t we go someplace else? he looked off in the direction of the aquarium, the windows, anywhere but at him. He knew what was coming and braced himself. 22
HAPPY NDING ABBY NAPOLI I: Wake up in the morning, stumble on my life What a horrible feeling; the feeling of losing time. No, not losing time, but the time that I lost. II: And half of what I didn t do could be different, would it make it better? y foot is still hovering over the pedal. I have a full tank of gas, I m in a sports car, and there are only infinite miles of open road ahead of me, with but one diminutive stop light between me and this endless highway. And countless times the light has turned green, and just as many countless times I have stood still at the light as I wait for it to turn red once more. Other cars are speeding past me; eager to move forward and get on with their journey, and are one mile closer towards reaching their final destination. And though I desperately want to accelerate ahead like the other cars, my foot doesn t move an inch. The light exchanges from green to yellow, and when I finally resolve that really I should be going, my foot only proceeds halfway to the pedal before the light screams red, and I have to surrender my attempt to start the same vicious cycle of waiting all over again. IV: In any other world you could tell the difference Her wide hazel eyes are now fixed straight into mine as they command me to move out of her way. Though even as they are glowering, they still manage to maintain their glittery sparkle. The same, stupid self-conscious thought arises in my head every time I look into them. y eyes are every bit as green and brown as hers. Why don t they sparkle? V: Don t scream - there are so many roads left xcuse me? Yes, I am so sorry to bother you, but I am just so incredibly lost. The first pause. Well, you see, I was told to go and find myself, and I don t even know what the address is. The second pause. o do you know which path I take? I am just so tired; these burdens that I place upon my shoulders are wearing me down. The third pause. Well, I think I am going to endeavor this way now anyways. It feels right, and I must keep going. The fourth pause. And one more question: if I do manage to find myself, how will I know I am there if I haven t the slightest idea what I m looking for? Can you tell me what I should see? The fifth pause. Oh yes, I have heard that it is indescribable. The first smile. III: A little bit of heaven, but a little bit of hell I look at the sky; a ribbon of pink and orange wrap around the earth and embrace it before black engulfs the day. I bring my head into my hands. I do not want to witness something so beautiful being conquered by such darkness. 23
spotting no men on their own. The bar stood directly behind him and he didn t want to turn to look at it in case the character was watching them. If what she said was actually true. he tended to embellish. But who didn t? And her flights of fancy, he recalled, were one of things that had attracted him. It struck him then that she was the one who d given him the idea for the Life Next Door pilot. Not consciously on her part, but just in being who she was. Whether telling her that would please her or make her feel used, he didn t know. o he was hitting on you? Don t sound so surprised, she said. I m not. But the loneliest man? What a pathetic pick-up line. He wasn t trying to pick me up. You just said Not then. By then he d given up. By then? He tried more than once. While I was here? There. I was here, you were there. He came here. Introducing himself as the loneliest he shook her head. At first he just said, hi, all alone? And you said? I said, yes, by choice. To his all alone? Yes. nappy, but not exactly true. No? No. We re here together. Not then we weren t. But in general Look, why didn t you just join me like any sensible person would? That s what sensible people do, join you? You know what I mean. He had first noticed her at the travel agency on the ground floor of the building in which he rented an office. Her desk sat near the window where the afternoon sun caught the red highlights in her hair. You knew I was waiting for you, he said. Why didn t you come over? Obviously I m not a sensible person. Though separated, he still was married the day he stopped in to ask her to lunch. Then he came back, she said, a second effort. `You look lonely, he told me. But I m not, I told him. I should hope not. The third time he said maybe I didn t know my own feelings. No. He actually said that? That deep down I was a lot lonelier than I knew. He could tell just by looking at me. He knows what you re feeling even if you feel you re not feeling it? `You just don t know it yet, he said. `It hasn t caught up to you on the conscious level. Or you re afraid to let yourself face it. At which point I hope you told him he was full of it. Then the last time was when he called himself the loneliest man in the world. Not only because he was lonely but because he could sense it in others. Like a drug-sniffing dog, he said. Not that he wanted to. No. It was painful to live with. The only thing that helped was human company. If I could spend some time with him, he said, go for a walk, talk, it would be a comfort to him. m-hm. He tapped fingers on the table to llington s It don t ean a Thing (If It Ain t Got That wing.) He told me that when his mother, a true beauty, died, his 21
C H A P T R 1 1 LPING IN ( X C R P T ) COTT LAX DRING TH FIRT YAR OF TH NW ILLN- NI, Thor ngvald asked himself how many other New Yorkers, especially those who lived near downtown, had slept through not one, but both planes hitting the Twin Towers. How many others had turned off their cell phones in a Bushmill ssoaked stumble shortly before passing out slightly before dawn, only to awaken more than six hours after the planes hit? Thousands? A few hundred? Dozens? One or two? None? To maintain his sanity and move beyond the question that he asked himself for half a decade, Thor settled on none. He was, he decided, the sole wretch who had been so hung over that he slept through the worst crisis in his city s history, not to mention one of most heinous mornings in his country s, not counting any given morning during the Civil War, the Indian genocides or Pearl Harbor. Guilt over country Thor could manage. Why worry about a country that, nine years after religious fanatics attacked America, a waddling swarm of live-ammo, holsterwearing, brick-throwing, basketball gutted, middle-aged American fanatics raged against a president that was one generation removed from his African roots. This was as opposed to their own, which went back less than a hundred thousand years, when their ancestors, along with the president s, left their ast African villages in search of one thing or another. In 20, Thor wished the brick-throwers forebears had stayed put. Between the sun-baked necks of the waddling swarm and the tanning bed-tinted orange mugs of their congressional defenders, their skin-tones were often a deeper shade than the president s a fact not lost on a Thor, whose winter-white pigmentation turned brown easily in the summer. omething about a Laplander and Great-grandmother, he d heard. Thor wondered if his bitterness at the land of the free existed merely to lessen his guilt over profiting off those who still had their millions or billions. It wasn t remorse from his heists from which he needed relief, rather his sense of turning on one s own tribe, however marginalized he was from it. Redemption from the sin of stealing wasn t in the cards for the Nordic Lutheran-turned-marauding heathen, which is how he d come to think of himself. He hadn t been to church in a dozen years. ore than once he d cursed his Viking blood, and more than once he handled his guilt in the only way he knew how by plundering yet another wealthy acquaintance on the pper West or pper ast ide. (He left downtown untouched; enough damage there already, he figured.) Thor felt the worst about his Jewish friends, for they d suffered as New York City had suffered, but for centuries, not merely a decade. till, it didn t stop him. But he was no Bernie adoff, he reasoned: he left them with their bank accounts intact, if lighter in the cash and carry department. motional attachment to things aside, Thor rationalized, the only entities that really took a hit from his thievery were insurance companies. They were tied into the treet, to the banks, and for these reasons any guilt that sneaked up on Thor was giddily overcome by a quiet euphoria, as if he had not only tackled the star quarterback behind the line of scrimmage, but also forced a fumble and knocked him cold. In Thor s shimmering reverie, the star quarterback was a mouth-breathing bully, especially to the girls at school. He deserved what he got, and Thor gave it to him. In his better moments, Thor thought himself a quiet hero. Falling asleep by dawn s sallow light, he half-dreamed that by the time the girls who had been elusive to schoolboy Thor tried to thank him, he d be gone. o what if dark heroes like Batman and Thor had intimacy issues? They were still heroes. Though not having the somnambulant lure of a Bat Cave, sleeping in at his loft was nothing new for Thor; he d been fired from Lehman seven months before that crystal blue, horrific eptember morning. Just as his severance pay had run out, 9-11 happened, and he began living off his grandmother s modest trust fund. Grandma had instructed that the fund would move on to the next generation except in the case of extreme emergency. For Thor, a childless only child, a next generation was an increasingly remote 24
possibility. His grandmother s estate at- mid-2003, Thor s thoughts turned solely habit of scouring the Times for high so- torney and executor, who had lost three to supporting the modest if cosmopoli- ciety s underbelly of excess in the guise friends in the Towers, quickly agreed to tan lifestyle to which he d become ac- of largess. the emergency and loosed the vault. customed. Had it been the late seventies, Not until Thor turned fifty, in the For Thor, jobless but not income- when he d first wanted it, Grandmoth- early autumn of 2008, before the Crash less, the nihilism of 2002 New York had er s trust would have been adequate to took down many of his former col- led to his own 21st Century reprise of his keep him well clothed and coiffed in leagues, did he realize that his life-long 1980 s weekday nightlife and consequen- Chelsea and avoiding Wall treet. tendency for sleeping in was an asset, not tial sleeping in. This, he relearned He d realized that, in the bright new a character flaw. ure, he d missed 9-11 quickly, was empty. It reminded because of his circadian him of decades earlier, when rhythm he reckoned a he d walked into tudio 54 recessive gene from a cave- during the daytime, months dwelling night watchman after its fall from grace, and accounted for the quirk found just another nasty bar and the consequent late- smelling of Lysol, grease and night stories at barrooms the perma-smoke of a thou- and parties that went along sand nights. with being a survivor. Yet He thus quickly aban- his advantage was that he doned this sad foray into ca- was already out of the sys- rousing as if scraping dog shit tem and working as an old- off his shoe and hoped no one fashioned thief when the would notice, much less re- treet crashed and sent his member seeing him step in it; past co-workers and school- and no one did. He was too old mates into the gutters of to register in the brains of post- self-loathing in which he d post modern Harvard and been living part-time for iddlebury grads that were on seven years. their own decade-long bender, If nothing else, the as if by a decree that overrode Crash finally allowed him to any sense of Getting erious not care about never speak- About Life in post-9-11 Amer- ing up during the What I ica. And, too, Thor s lingering Was Doing When The dignity made him invisible to Planes Crashed conversa- the opaque, sagging, half-century and millennium, tarnished by tragedy as it tions. Now the money crowd talked older night creatures those that hadn t nonetheless was, his post-firing monthly about What I Was Doing When The died from powdered, pill or liquid con- stipend wasn t enough to get him a walk- Dow Crashed, replacing 9-11 as their sumption who still trolled behind up in Harlem, much less keep him in raison d être for getting wasted. fraying velvet ropes, waiting in vain for Chelsea. After Lehman kicked him to By Christmas 2008, Thor ngvald, the return of the glory days of China the curb, he managed to hang on to his whose father s father had refused to Club and Columbus; waiting in vain, as it happened, for the same psychic minipits of hell that they d unearthed in the pre-web era. His retro-recklessness quelled by loft by taking the odd bartending job or helping Geoffrey hadn t he been Jeff in college? do his art installations at nonprofits that Thor had never heard of, even though he d made it his unday change his name at llis Island; Thor, the stubborn, hulking Norwegian who had never really fit in at The Pennington chool, or Yale, or at alomon Brothers, and later at Lehman, was seven years 25
ahead of his freshly financially-fucked same place he lived after his net worth ach tighten. Now my body decides to former friends. went up by a thousand fold. The loft set its own clock? And for the first time While those former friends were drew no attention, for just as he had since he awoke to the hours-old televi- reeling, Thor ngvald was stealing. Not done when he went from high six-figure sion images of the cause of the deathly that the public knew it: the victims trader to mid-five figure trust-funder, debris-cloud outside his window nearly didn t want it publicized, and the FBI Thor went about his life without any nine years before, Thor is afraid. despite the OT WANTD posters noticeable change in his behavior. That His fear lasts only a few minutes, of sama bin Laden and nine other so- he had a streak of his grandfather s per- because his adame Bovary, Holly Go- ciopaths in post offices and on the FBI s verse Norse pride and practicality lightly, untold number of rappers and 1990 s-platform website gladly obliged turned out to be a gift that served him rockers mid-day schedule is, on some the upper crust s penchant for anony- well in his new life. level, still a schedule. He has a body to mous victimhood. maintain and feed, plans to make, rou- The New edia, in its amorphous THOR AWAKN at seventeen min- tines to keep, alibis to fashion, a storage idiocy, collectively thought it covered utes after one on a glorious Wednesday locker to fill, and orders to ship. everything that mattered, yet had not afternoon in the early spring of 20. Whatever cavern of guilt he had even come close to catching on to the That he has begun waking at the same carved in his soul two years ago when big blond man that had stolen approxi- time has been freaking him out for he began his pillaging has been filled mately fifteen million dollars in cash, weeks. ntil recently, wake up was as his Lutheran traditions having kicked jewelry and objets d art at parties, fund- random as bedtime: it could be any in with a sense of duty. Twisting Kant raisers, weddings and sundry gather- time after eleven A twelve-thirty, in the philosophical wind, Thor s duty ings of those whom Thor regarded two-twenty, whenever his body was to himself becomes his prison; having without contempt as Philistines. None fully rested from the pale bleak world of slept in through most of his philosophy of the beautifully dressed Philistines pre-dawn anhattan. class at Yale, he cannot remember the were ever there with something as base An old-fashioned alarm clock with rest of Kant, but a vague duty is as a cell phone from which to take a hour, minute and second hands on it, enough to drive him to wherever it is photo or do anything that could thwart sits on his bedside table; it is an alarm he s going. what was once romantically known by clock he never sets. But it s clear enough As evening approaches, he passes the upper half-percent as a high society to him that after a couple of weeks that men on the sidewalk on his way uptown burglar. Wealth trusts wealth, and it s no coincidence that wake-up is 1:17 he is too old to imagine women as Wall Thor, though on the lower end of that P, whether digital or analogue or not treet crooks and Thor sees his life as class, was trusted in the best way possi- looking at the clock at all. a kind of universal duty to take from ble for him: shabby-chicly tousled and Today he checks it against his cell them that which they have taken from rugged, he was invited by hostesses as phone, which is no longer shut-off, but so many others. That much he knows, an amusement, but essentially ignored, on silent. He does not like this as much for he reads the newspaper, dutifully. which gave him time to forage for because he can see who calls while he On this fine spring afternoon, Thor treasures. sleeps not that anyone ever does ex- walks uptown more than a hundred Thor s stolen art alone, easily cept for fences and end-customers. His blocks. Halfway he stops and walks fence-able to clients in the iddle ast, social invitations are by paper or across Central Park. He wishes he could astern urope and Japan, was enough e-mail. There must be some term more share the bounty he will score tonight to not only keep in him Chelsea, but pay insidious than loner, Thor thinks, for with the bum that sleeps at the entrance for a significant housing upgrade. Yet he remained in the same loft he d once tried so desperately to hold onto, the same place he d lived before he had figured out his new line of work, and the that indicates a kind of romantic solitude. In his case, it s merely because he lives a lie, and a criminal one at that. One-seventeen. Fucking satellite time, Thor thinks. He feels his stom- to trawberry Fields. hould I take his name and bring him a money order? he wonders. He knows he cannot; the bum would rat him out to the cops in a heartbeat to avoid jail on some other 26
day when it s his own time to be taken off the streets. His philanthropic urge assuaged, Thor arrives at the soaring pper ast ide brownstone of aggie and Todd Rosen for a party that promises a five-figure take. A credit card in a small handbag left on a table here; a piece of jewelry from the master bedroom there. When aggie went to Yale with Thor she was aggie Hartwick. Thor has followed her trajectory of Yale to NY.F.A., to teaching in the inner city, to the Times wedding announcement of marrying Todd Rosen, son of Dr. and rs. Irving Rosen of New Jersey. Todd Rosen is now an unindicted, if nervous principal of one of the treet s biggest firms. Todd opens the door. Like Thor, he is in good shape physically and financially. Like Thor, he makes his living taking things from other people. Like Thor, he has the easy smile of money and comfort. nlike Thor, Todd has been working closely if reluctantly, and sworn not to tell his wife, who did so adore Thor in college with the FBI. Thor enters the brownstone and immediately relaxes from the overwhelming sense of wealth: the paintings by famous artists, both living and dead, seem to welcome him; the intricate woodwork embraces him; the soft lighting of the eight thousand dollar lamp on the table in the hallway is like the smile of an angel from heaven. Yet Thor is confused as he looks around: he hears no music or chattering guests, and sees no one there but Todd, who wears a pair of Paul & hark jeans, Izod sweater and John Lobb lace-ups. Just before Thor is knocked somewhat considerately to the floor by three FBI agents, with two more holding guns to his head, he wonders if aggie still likes to drink Rolling Rock from the bottle, and observes that Todd s shoes are too dressy for the rest his outfit, but doesn t have the heart to tell him. He likes aggie and Todd, just as he s liked nearly all of his victims. As he s being put into the FBI s large blue Ford, Thor looks back at Todd, who holds a half-filled crystal whisky tumbler and stands expressionless on the steps to his brownstone. Thor, in handcuffs, smiles at Todd and attempts to wave. He doesn t feel any anger toward Todd. He wants to tell Todd that he hopes he continues to get away with his crimes, not because he approves of the treet stealing billions from the common folk, but because he can t imagine incarceration for Todd. Passing laine s on the way to the FBI headquarters downtown, Thor smiles to himself. He remembers a particular bowl of tasteless pasta he ate there in the mid-80s but it didn t matter because he was laughing with who was it? He can t recall. The FBI car moves past the Park going south, and Thor tells himself he s had a good run. He s been able to sleep in through his early morning classes in college, and often enough during his days on the treet, which seem an eternity ago. He asks himself if sleeping all day on 9-11 screwed up his karma and threw off his life s real purpose. He wonders, as he watches the pper ast ide go by, in all its softened nighttime elegance, its quiet power of unlimited money and privilege behind those golden windows, if perhaps it was all meant to be, after all. He got to sleep in, gloriously, covered in the rare silk of morning slumber, oblivious to the rest of New York to the world that was so very busy being productive. And then that world was destroyed, and then nothing was the same, and sleeping in was something he could no longer be proud of while still part of that world. He passes through mid-town and the lights grow brighter; Thor knows he cannot go back. He hopes those he has robbed got their possessions replaced. And he begins his new plan for sleeping in one that, this time, will not be interrupted by anything, not even prison. 27
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