The Old Homestead

Henry noses his SUV into the narrow spot next to a cherry red convertible with the top down. He squeezes out and closes the door before Zeus follows him. The dog lets out a displeased whimper from inside the car.

An older man with salt-and-pepper hair gives him a friendly nod. Henry notices he has a new cowboy hat on the dashboard, the tag still on it. The hat’s small and feminine, a turquoise heart encircled in hammered silver, black twine strands secured with a cheap, plastic toggle. Overpriced tourist tchotchkes.

Its owner skulks out of the convenience store, a teenager with a real chip on her shoulder. She wears pastel pink Uggs, cutoff denim shorts, and a pink and white plaid top. She looks like the kind of girl whose name has too many ys as vowels.

“They didn’t have caramel. Ridiculous.” She rolls her eyes and sets a vanilla Frappuccino on the hood, the glass bottle emitting a high-pitched squeak. The man winces and the girl pulls an iPhone from her back pocket. Henry walks into the store as the man attempts to engage her in conversation, monosyllabic responses her weapon of choice.

When Henry returns to his SUV, large Coke in one hand and a bag of Doritos in the other, the man blocks his path, eyes pleading and desperate.

“Bob,” the man introduces himself, “and this is Persephone, my daughter.”

The girl sticks out her hand, not looking up as she continues to text.

“We thought we’d take a little father-daughter getaway this summer, while her mom’s on a trip,” Bob says.

“Jesus, Dad, she’s on her honeymoon,” Persephone groans. Bob blushes, and his brown eyes grow cold and distant before he wills a too-wide smile to appear on his face. His eyes remain sad, and Henry has a hard time looking at him, the divorced dad who’s miserable but trying to keep it together for his kid.

“Anyway,” Bob forces his voice to sound happy, “Persephone loves roadside attractions — ”

“You like them.”

“— and we’re wondering if there are any here. We got some cold cuts for a picnic somewhere on this stretch of highway. With all that dust on your truck, I’d bet my last paycheck you’re a local.”

Henry nods and asks Persephone if he can borrow her iPhone and keys in an address.

“My family’s land,” Henry explains. “Technically it belongs to Uncle Jim, but he went AWOL years ago so we just let it be. Mama says he always turns up, not to mess with it more’n we have to. There’s always been stories about things that happened there when they were kids, like funny lights and weird storms. The kind of rumors you get when military testing facilities are around.

“Anyway, it’s gorgeous, and it’s deserted and peaceful. There’s an old mailbox at the end of the road; you can put your trash in there. I usually check on it once a month, but I’ll swing by this afternoon.”

Bob thanks him and Persephone gives a shrug of approval.

                                                                                                        ***

That afternoon, Henry almost drives by the narrow split of road. He peels off the main road, another motorist protesting the lack of turn signal with a long, loud honk. Zeus braces himself during the swerve and lets out an annoyed bark.

“Sorry, sorry,” Henry mutters as he glances in his rearview mirror.

The SUV bounces along the dirt road when the sky goes bright — a hot, white light blinding him. A stream of obscenities escape his mouth and brakes. Henry exits the car, blinking until his vision returns. Zeus whines and nuzzles against his leg.

The sky has a lilac tint to it, pale where it previously blazed orange and red, a swollen sun setting on the horizon.

Henry has never seen the buildings in person, though he recognizes versions of them from yellowing photographs that also feature his grandparents, mother, and uncle.

The old homestead, no longer in faded two-dimension but standing, real and in front of him and wrong. Green paint peels from the first building. Behind it, a second building fights a losing battle against time, the roof already caved in.

A low, eerie cry comes from the house and Zeus bolts toward the haunted sound. He bounds through wayward drifts of snow on the ground.

Henry fights the survival instincts that tell him to turn back and feeds that dangerous streak of curiosity, the one that got him rattlesnake-bit at fourteen. In the hot summer sun, he can feel the phantom venom throb and pulse under his hand, but in this odd, ethereal thaw he feels nothing but a compulsion to follow his dog’s lead.

Persephone sits, limbs pale and pulled to her chest. She looks up, brown eyes like her father’s, cold and distant.

“Jim said it’s the crossing-time,” Persephone says, “when he can go back, when things can come over. I wandered away. I guess I came over.”

Henry nods, but he does not want to know. He wants to get her out of here, get her to the authorities, and never know the details. Zeus paws at Henry’s legs, eager for permission to go inside.

“Can you stand up? Can you walk?” Henry asks the girl. “We need to leave, right now.”

The cold bite in the air is more than wind and snow. It is something dark, something unsettling. People pray over things they do not understand, and Henry begins to pray..

Henry gets them all into the SUV when the blinding light comes back. And then it is summer again, a stream of police barreling down the main road.

To her credit, Persephone said she wandered off and fell, and when she came to it was Henry who heard her cries for help. Bob didn’t contradict; he'd searched the land for an hour before going to the police and telling them Persephone was missing. The cops were happy the reunion didn’t require a lot of paperwork; they let Henry go without much hassle.

He pulls out his cell phone when he’s down the road, lights and siren behind him.

“Mama —” he begins, but she interrupts.

“You’ll never believe who turned up!”

Written by: Erin Justice

Photograph by: Blake Bronstad

The Letting Go

Michael parked next to his office in the parking garage that was built below a Jenny Craig Center and left the keys to his silver Pontiac on the passenger seat. He walked the blocks between Wall Street and the 9/11 Memorial daily for exercise, but today was walking them for experience.

His heels clacked as the concrete rose to the bottom of his shoe. He watched for cracks, grates, and other pedestrian hazards with eyes fixated on the ground.

Michael could taste the lipstick as he ran his tongue over his lips, though the color had since worn off; Raspberry Rhapsody. His black leather gloves hugged his wide hands. They were shaking, but from the bitter fall season or from revival, he wasn’t sure.

The streets were busy, bustling with commuters grumbling and rebuffing one another. Michael walked through them, rebounding from each shoulder-to-shoulder collision. The air was dense with mist that was painful in its dilatory approach from the East River. The balls of his feet ached while he plodded past his favorite coffee shop, beyond the barber he used to frequent, and to the mouth of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Tourist’s cameras clicked in his direction, gathering the streets and avenues behind him and transforming them into digitally-filtered hypocrisy. They might note the existence of freedom in their admiration of the structure in which they stood, but Michael wondered if a ceremonial hashtag was enough.

“Would you mind?” an epicene voice asked. “We’d love to have just one photo of us without our selfie-stick.”

Michael deplored tourists.

“Sure,” he said, thankful they at least spoke English. “The lighting is better from this angle.” He pointed for the couple to turn and face Brooklyn. “The skyline is better behind you.” Manhattan sat perfectly still and tall in the background. “There,” he said as he handed the camera back to them.

The two thanked Michael and continued to snap selfies; fixing their cleavage, sucking in their tummies and duck-lipping.

Michael pushed his blonde hair out of his eyes and began to walk farther across the bridge.

Their voices followed, whether purposely or because there was only one direction to go, but Michael lacked tact.

“Are you following me?” he asked the couple.

“We are enjoying this satisfying view,” one responded.

“I don’t like your fucking tone,” Michael said.

“New Yorkers really are dicks,” the other said.

“Just walk ahead of me, for Christ’s sake.”

The rest of the crowd moseyed past them, inconscient of the intensity on Michael’s face.

His feet were throbbing having walked up and down Dey Street in shoes that were two sizes too small. He took them off and leaned against the railing. He watched the couple until they became inchoate and muddled in with every other body on that bridge.

Michael removed his gloves and shoved them into the deep pockets of his black raincoat. He could smell cherry blossom lotion.

Her cherry blossom lotion.

He wondered how she was doing. Was she lonely? Was she talking?

Michael checked his cell for texts; even if they were admonishing. That means she was processing and he would have preferred evangelizing profanity and resignation to silence.

He’d understand.

Their argument began like most do. She didn’t feel appreciated. She didn’t feel sexy. She didn’t like his drinking or staying out late or his lack of financial prowess, given his job was in accounting. He didn’t like constantly rescuing her from the boat he sardonically nicknamed “Shipwreck;” his tasteless attempt at poking fun at her self-consciousness.

“You never tell me I’m beautiful,” she’d say.

“You’re beautiful.”

“I want you to want to say it, Michael! Not because I am forcing you to,” she’d say.

Today’s argument, though, began last night after his return from the gym and had lasted until he parked his car this morning.

“I found this,” she said, “in your briefcase!” She threw a turquoise, lace, padded bra at Michael’s chest. “Do you mind telling me who the hell this might belong to?”

He stood there in a towel in the bathroom of their 650-square-foot apartment.

“I can explain,” he began like so many men do.

“Don’t bother,” she said. She grabbed what she could fit in a paisley printed carry on.

“If you’ll just--” he said. He extended his arm to stop her from closing her luggage. “Let me just explain it to you. Can I do that, please?”

“You have one minute.” She gritted her teeth. Her cheeks were no longer rosy, her gaze acquiescent.

“Great, okay.” He sat down on the edge of their bed. “I am not cheating on you. And I know that’s hard to believe, but it’s true.”

“Do you think I am stupid? How can you tell me you love me and then bring home some slut’s C-cups?”

“You’re not listening. You told me I had a minute, now let me have it.”

She crossed her arms, fastidious and taciturn.

“I am not cheating on you. I need you to know that.”

He waited for her interjection, but it didn’t come.

“Okay?” he asked for receipt.

She nodded in affirmation.

“It’s mine.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“I bought it for me,” he said, “to wear.”

She let out a hearty, nearly gelastic laugh.

“Just go,” she said. Still laughing, she picked up his green bra and threw a pair of red heels at him. “Take these, too. Red’s more your color.”

Michael got dressed while she called his mother, sharing with her his heaviest secret. She laughed, they laughed together. Before he slipped on his leather gloves, he put a dollop of cherry blossom lotion on his palm and rubbed it in. He skillfully dabbed lipstick on the center of his bottom lip, coloring in the lines and puckered.

Michael closed their apartment door behind him.

“Why don’t you come with us?” Those voices again, calling to Michael from across the pedestrian walkway.

“No,” Michael said. “No, thank you.”

“Honey,” one said, “red is so not your color.”


Written by: Alicia Randazzo
Photograph by: Anthony Delanoix

The Divorced Man

The divorced man, recovering from the social inadequacy that was a product of his recently dissolved marriage, attended an event for single lovers of literature at an Upper West Side bookstore. The gathering, organized by the latest dating app, took place in a reserved section of the shop’s second floor, in a wide row splitting memoir from fiction, where the hosts from the hot-or-not app had set up tables with finger foods and cheap wine.

First to arrive, the divorced man poured himself a plastic cup of dry white to avoid tooth stains and browsed the Zs on the last fiction shelf. He picked out a Chilean writer he’d been meaning to read and the fluorescent light reflecting off the paperback’s glossy cover made him uneasy. The place was too damn bright, surely enough to illuminate the asymmetrical tendencies of his face: the tip of a slender nose leaning left, a right ear higher than the other on the side of his head, and stubble growing only on one cheek he’d forgotten to shave before his morning commute. He knew, though, this was his best shot at landing a date in this isolating city, this island that imposed its identity on and induced a debilitating loneliness in the most unsuspecting residents.

Even in a dimly lit Brooklyn dive bar where his physical flaws wouldn’t be accentuated, the divorced man wouldn't know what to say to a cute girl confident enough to catch his attention with her fuck-me eyes. They couldn’t be meant for him—maybe she was squinting?

It was excruciatingly difficult for the divorced man to reconcile his physical desires with his decision to vacate that oath-sworn relationship. After all, a divorced body was nothing else but neglected and in dire need of affection.

The divorced man hadn’t been inside a woman in months, not since he’d tried to outrun the heartbreak of his failed union by fleeing the nation’s capital. Best-case scenario: literary conversation would be the sexual catalyst he needed it to be. At the very least, he wanted simply to feel noticed. To feel a flirtatious hand squeeze his arm, hear the sincerity of a woman’s laugh at his sorry jokes.

He read and re-read the book’s first page, but the arrival of other dating-app users prevented him from retaining any of the minimalist prose. He was facing the staircase, feigning interest in the book and nonchalance toward the women, heartbeat accelerating each time heels clicked on the hollow steps.

When men reached the top stair they would nod at the divorced man, not in solidarity, but as if to communicate their status as competitors. We are here for the same reason, their looks said, therefore we cannot be friends. They would puff out their chests and strut over to a single lady, cups filled and ready for a practiced toast to their favorite dead white writers. It looked effortless, like they picked up more women than books at these events, an easy lay for every hardcover lining the walls of their hip lofts.

The divorced man could hardly afford to fill his one flimsy bookcase, let alone the drafty room he rented from his Dominican landlady-slash-roommate in Washington Heights. She was a sweet woman with kids his age and had been married once too, but he hadn’t confided in her—or in anyone else—the emotional pain of losing his best friend and the person in the world he most loved.

The room was crowding and his wine drying up, so the divorced man poured himself another cup at the table, where a woman he hadn’t seen asked his name. She was wearing flats and thick-rimmed glasses, blouse tucked into a skirt that flowed from her hips to her ankles, a pen holding her dark hair in place.

Underneath HI! MY NAME IS, the woman wrote the divorced man’s name in cursive with a smiley face and pasted the tag on his shirt, smoothing it out over his chest. They made small talk while standing next to shelves of writers who disclosed every dirty detail of their lives; however, he had no intention of dropping the D word to a woman who lived in a city where marrying as young as he had was taboo.

While the woman shared tales of learning to hang with New Yorkers, the divorced man noticed how she talked with her hands and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and curled her lips when she laughed. He wanted to take her in an unoccupied aisle of the shop, between the pages of love stories, to lift the back of her skirt and pull aside her panties.

Upon her request, he recounted silly adventures like getting lost in Queens, ending up in the Bronx after falling asleep on the express train, and having a bagel so good he chewed it slowly to prolong the deliciousness. The woman took hold of his bicep, a look of surprise on her geometrically proportionate face, when she realized she’d had the same artisan lox bagel with a thick layer of cream cheese at the same Park Slope deli and had also eaten it slowly.

Two refills later and buzzed, they found themselves half-naked in the divorced man’s apartment, on the bed he’d inherited from the previous tenant, their bodies entwined beneath the covers.

                              —What’s wrong? the woman said.

She’d stopped kissing him.

                             —It’s been a while.

                             —Then this shouldn’t be a problem.

                             —I guess you have a point.

                             —Did I do something wrong?

                             —No! No, you’re perfect.

He lay beside her and slipped his hands under his head and closed his eyes and listened for a moment to the honks of Broadway taxis filtering in with the fall breeze through the open window.

                             —But you’re not my wife, the divorced man said.


Written by: Eric Zurita
Photograph by: Anthony Delanoix

Touch of Grey

I glance at the stack of messages my secretary just handed me. The name on the top one hits me like knuckles to the solar plexus.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I stare at the name, scrawled in her barely legible scribble. Walt Bowman.

“Mr. Willett?” Her voice wavers. “Did I do something wrong?”

I shift my gaze to her. She’s a temp, but besides her poor handwriting, she has been doing a fantastic job. Sadly, this makes her one of the few bright spots of my life at the moment. I do my best to regain my composure.

“No, Darlene, you didn’t do anything wrong.” I try to smile at her to put her at ease.

“Whew, you had me scared there for a minute.” She lets out a nervous laugh. I know she needs this job as much as I need some sort of stability in my life right now. She puts her hand on my arm, a warm grandmotherly touch. “I know I shouldn’t pry, but is it something to do with the divorce? I know how hard it can be.”

I shake my head and hold up the message.

“No, this is just a name I haven’t seen in a long, long time. It’s probably just a coincidence anyway, I’m sure it’s not even the same guy I used to know.”

I close the door to my office and think about the first time I saw Walt Bowman. In his torn jeans and ragged Grateful Dead t-shirt, all eyes were on him as he came sauntering through the door of Ms. Faber’s freshman English class. As he searched for a seat, he scoured the class, taking in all the Beverly Hills 90210 clones in their Z Cavaricci jeans and Oxford shirts. And then he spied me, sitting in the corner, about as non-descript as you could get.

“What’s up, I’m Walt,” he said, sliding into the desk next to me.

“Eric,” I replied.

“You like to get high Eric?” he asked, eyebrows raised, a pimply grin spreading across his face.

“Uhh…” I glanced around the room, full of kids that I had known most of my life, but who seemed to have forgotten my name through the years. I thought of my mother and the look of quiet sadness she would get whenever she asked why I never invite any friends over after school. I turned to Walt, and tried to sound as cool as possible. “Yeah, I love to get high, who doesn’t?”

“Good,” he said.

My God, Walt fucking Bowman.

I notice my fingers tremble a little as I punch the numbers into the phone. My heart beats faster with each ring.

“Hello?” My stomach drops, the voice doesn’t sound familiar at all.

“Is this Walt Bowman? My name is Eric Willett.”

“Eric! How are you doing? You remember me, right? Hayward High, freshman year?”

“Of course I remember you. I just never expected to talk to you again. What happened to you? You just disappeared.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” He chuckles. “My dad was pretty mad when the cops brought me home. He moved us to Albany to live with my grandparents.” He chuckles again. “Man, what were we thinking?”

Thinking? I remember us thinking Spring Break warranted something more exciting than sneaking a half of a joint in the alleyway behind my house, like we had done most days during our three month friendship.

I looked above me at the two street signs above me, in awe of the fact that I was standing on the corner of Haight and Ashbury.

“What did that guy say to do?” I asked.

“We put it under our tongues and let it dissolve.” Walt looked at me. “Ready?”

I took a deep breath and popped it into my mouth. After a minute I spit out the soggy remnants of the paper.

“Feeling anything?” Walt asked.

“I don’t think so,” I responded. “You?”

“Nope. Damn it, that fucking hippie ripped us off, man. Come on, I want to go check out City Lights Bookstore.”

By the time we had walked the three miles, my world had turned into liquid dream. I stared at the historic building in front of me as it melted and swirled in a kaleidoscope of color. It was too much.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” I mumbled to myself. I grabbed Walt and threw my arms around him. “I can’t handle this shit. Help me. Please, help me.”

My paranoia sent Walt into a fit of maniacal laughter.

I fell to my knees. Walt tried to pick me up.

“Cool it man, or you’re going to get us busted.”

I scanned around me. I saw the horse, but not the policeman on top of it.

“Are you okay, son?”

I screamed. “The fucking horse is talking, Walt. It’s talking.” I collapsed to the ground.

By the time I got out of rehab, Walt had vanished, never to be heard from again. Until now.

“So how have you been?” Walt asks.

I look at the pictures on my desk. I want to tell him, to unburden my soul on this stranger who once, a long time ago and for a very short period, was my friend. Well, let’s see Walt. Ever since my soon to be ex- wife found out I was fucking my now ex- secretary, my life has turned to absolute shit. I’m living at the Motel 6, my kids won’t talk to me, and just this morning I found out my former secretary/lover is suing me for sexual harassment so I’m probably going to lose my business. My life is just grand.

“I’m okay, I guess. How about you?” I say.

I try to picture him as a forty year old version of the fifteen year old kid I knew. I imagine him sporting a graying Mohawk, chain-smoking Camels and quoting Nietzsche. More than anything I want him to say “So do you like to get high?” But he doesn’t.

“I’m good,” he says. “Actually better than good, I’m great. Wife. Kids, the whole bit. I’m in the insurance game these days. Speaking of which, how are you doing with life insurance these days? I was wondering if we could sit down and discuss your portfolio sometime. You can never be too careful these days.”

I put the phone receiver down and lay my head in my hands. The tears fall from my eyes and form little pools on my desk. I faintly hear Walt’s voice.

“Hello? Hello? Eric, are you still there? Hello?”

Written by: Ben Cook
Photograph by: Steve Harlow

I'm Positive

You deserve this.

After countless days and nights spent scouring every byte on your external hard drive for the most pixel-perfect representations of your photographic eye, you deserve this.

After staging sit-ins in all of your teachers’ offices until they agreed to write you a glowing letter of recommendation, you deserve this.

After considering your competition–Shelly, the Sepia Queen; Oscar, the Overexposer; Lauren, the Lighting Illiterate; all the other hacks who call themselves photographers just because they own a DSLR–you definitely deserve this.

Then you get it, the envelope you’ve been checking the mailbox for every day since your submission. It’s thinner than you expected, but hey, how many pieces of paper does it take to say YOU’RE ACCEPTED?

You can’t answer that. All you know is it takes one to say you’re rejected.

You’re speechless.

You check the envelope to make sure it doesn’t say Shelly or Oscar or Lauren. All you see is your name, a name you’ve never been that fond of, and in this moment you absolutely fucking hate it.

You hate your parents: for giving you that name, for not giving you a camera until your freshman year of high school, for getting divorced.

Whoa. You’re spiraling.

This isn’t about them. This is about you. You suck. You failed. You should kill yourself.

No, no. You shouldn’t kill yourself. You should go back inside, your neighbors are watching.

You need to turn over the letter. Maybe it says PSYCHE on the back, and you’re actually accepted–those kooky artists types. Nope.

You get a text. Did you see Shelly’s Instagram?

You didn’t, but you will now.

SHIT! Why’d you do that!? Couldn’t you tell by Sam’s syntax that you were walking into a trap?

Guess who’s going to be posting a ton of pictures from RISD? This girl!

No shit, Shelly. We could infer from your stupid, sepia-toned selfie and that giant Rhode Island School of Design envelope you’re holding in your non-dominant hand that you are This Girl! You WHORE! You should kill yourself.

Not YOU, you. Shelly you.

You should find a distraction. Video games? TV? Pornography?

No, no. You should lie down. You should stare at those fan blades until they suck up all your pain and chop it into teeny tiny little pieces. Never mind. It’s summer, which means they’re moving counter clockwise. Which means you should stare at them until they blow your sorrows out the back of your skull like Marvin’s brains in Pulp Fiction.

You hear that? It’s a car. Your mom’s car. You should hide.

No, no. You shouldn’t hide. You should just tell her. She’s going to find out sooner or later. She’s going to know something’s up when fall semester rolls around and you’re still lying on her couch, staring at fan blades.

“Any news?” she says, every syllable drenched in hope.

You should lie. Tell her no. Buy yourself a little time.

Too late. She knows. She knows if the answer were no, you would’ve said so by now. She knows if the answer were yes, you would be flipping your shit like when you were a onesie-wearing, teeth-missing little brat and she asked, “Did the Tooth Fairy pay you a visit?”

“I’m sorry, Sweetheart. Mommy’s here when you’re ready to talk.”

You wish you didn’t feel that tear hit your forehead when she leaned over to give you a kiss. You wish your pain was yours alone, and that it didn’t pile on to the heap of hurt she’s been carrying since her marriage toppled over like a crumbling wedding cake, but empathy is at the heart of every great parent.

You wait until she leaves the living room and grab her keys.

“I’m going for a drive,” you say.

“Whatever you need,” she answers from the kitchen.

You fire up the engine and promptly turn off the Sheryl Crow CD she’s had on heavy rotation since the day she and your dad finalized the divorce papers.

You pull out of the driveway with no destination in mind. You just know you have to steer clear of your favorite coffee shop. Beth is working, and she can’t find out what a shitty photographer you are. Not yet. Not until you’ve helped her put together her modeling portfolio.

Sam. You should try to find Sam so you two can talk shit about Shelly until you’ve convinced yourself that the only logical explanation for her acceptance is that she must’ve blown the Dean of Admissions.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?

Shelly has never been anything but nice to you. Shelly has never been anything but nice to anyone. Maybe that’s why she’s going to be a huge success, and you’re going to die a miserable piece of shit. You should try being nice for a change, starting with Shelly.

Shelly, what’s something nice you could do for Shelly? Oh! You could like her Instagram post!

You scroll to the photo and hover your finger over the empty heart while trying to drain the dangerous mix of envy and spite from the one in your chest. You go against your wicked nature and press the button. A giant heart eclipses her post and another photo pops up on her feed. It’s her camera lense, shattered across the pavement like your hopes and dreams.

This celebratory photo shoot is not off to a good start :(

You smile, but quickly wipe it off your face. You’re nice now, remember?

You text her.

Hey Shelly. Congrats on RISD! Bummer about your lens though. You can borrow my extra for the summer if you want?

Thanks Gareth! That would be amazing! Are you sure?

I’m Positive.

You’re my hero! I’ll be sure to drop it off at your dorm ;)

I’m afraid that’s not possible. I didn’t get in :(

WHAT!!!!!!!?????? But you’re like, the best photog in our entire class! Maybe even the entire WORLD!

Ha! Well, now I guess you are.

Ha! I guess so.

Fuck it. You still hate her.

Written by: Mark Killian

Photograph by: Josh McGonigle

Fishing Lessons

I went to live with Uncle Gil the summer before I turned seventeen. Ma and Dad had parted ways and then split for points somewhere east and west. Like God shoving apart sin, they had to get as far away from each other as possible. Nana ended up with me in the immediate fall-out, but she was moving into the local home for the elderly come September. So I was inducted into the world of fishing on a rickety boat in the Gulf covered in fish scales and fish guts and reeking to high heaven.

Gil was short for Virgil, and he wasn’t actually my uncle. I had lost track of how we were related—or even if we were. Nana’s version of our family tree snarled together like the yarn she sorted, running knotted strands through fingers spotted by time. I had half a mind to tell her that I was almost seventeen and didn’t need any looking after, but we were already at the bus station. Then she sent me off with a peck on the cheek and a squeeze that surrounded me with the lingering scent of dead roses and baby powder before the bus pulled away.

Gil was somewhere between my parents and Nana in age, with hair that might have been white or just bleached by the sun. It hung well past his shoulders, but when he pulled it back with an elastic band, the gesture was always masculine—unlike the smooth sweep-and-gather the girls in my high school had mastered. Even with a ponytail that would cause most women a pang of envy, no one could call Gil feminine. Maybe it was an aggressive act of self-defense against his name—which Nana said he thought was “a sissy name.” I later learned that while Nana paraphrased a lot of the things Uncle Gil said, she could never quite master the flair of his swears. They were downright Shakespearean sometimes. I’d never heard “fuck” used as every part of speech with such ease.

He was standing with his arms crossed and his feet spread wide when the bus pulled up, like he was on his boat instead of the parking lot and the asphalt was rolling beneath him. He didn’t shake my hand or try to take my beat-up duffel bag as we walked to the truck. I was tempted to hold my arm up next to his. His skin was the deep red-brown of dried blood after decades spent outside. Tattoos crawled up the back of his neck and covered his arms from shoulders to wrists. His worn yellow tank bore what looked like a naked woman wrestling a many-tentacled creature, but sun and salt had faded it to almost nothing.

“Know anything about boats, Cale?” he asked after half an hour of silence as we rode in his truck. We drove with the windows down. The air tasted like the inside of a grill—salt and hot metal.

“No.”

“Fish?” The skin around his eyes and mouth were webbed with white in the places where the sunlight didn’t reach when he squinted against the sun and spray.

I shook my head, unsure if he was asking if I fished or if I knew anything about them. Either way, the answer was no. The rest of the ride passed in silence. I’d come to consider myself something of an expert on silences. That’s how Dad and Ma fell apart—their silences started out as a few minutes at the dinner table and stretched into weeks of dead air. Silence could sometimes say more than shouting. Our whole house rang with it.

When we reached Gil’s ramshackle beach house, he showed me the spare room that would be mine. I was surprised to see a frame and a box spring rather than just a mattress huddled on the floor. There were even a few hangers in the closet. I dumped my duffle on the bed but didn’t have time to look around much. Gil told me to put on my swim trunks if I’d brought them. We were going out as soon as we’d had a bite to eat. I didn’t question filling my stomach with the cheeseburger I ordered from the roadside stand before setting sail, licking the rivulets of grease and pickle juice off the backs of my hands.

Gil’s boat was small and more than a little worn. I could barely make out the painted name peeling off the back – Jezebel – and wondered if I’d ever get the courage to ask about it. Gil jerked his head at me and gave terse instructions as we unmoored the boat from the dock and then backed it out of the marina. The water was steely gray, tinged by the muddy backwash from the Mississippi. As we motored farther out it turned a darker blue-gray and the sun turned the wave tops chrome. Gil told me what we’d be catching and how to use the gill nets, one brown hand on the steering wheel and the other tracing arcs in the air to match his descriptions. I thought about the sunscreen I’d forgotten to apply and wondered how many sunburns it took to turn my skin into the same rusty cowhide that encased Gil’s ropy muscles.

When we dumped the first catch of silver-sided fish into the boat, they cascaded around our ankles, fins twitching and big liquid eyes flat and staring. I wondered if they knew in their tiny brains that it was all over. If they felt fear or pain. If they felt torn from the ocean, their essence. When the day was done and we headed back towards shore, my hands were burning from hauling nets and my cheeks were sore from squinting against the sun. Gil hadn’t said more than a few hundred words all day but as the salt spray lashed our faces and the sun bronzed the waves behind us, it felt like the beginning of a hundred conversations.

Written by: Hannah Sears
Photograph by: Blake Bronstad

The Mission

It's Tuesday, and today, The Mission Thrift Store will put its new merchandise on the floor. I make a point to stop in each week to browse the new goods. Rice cookers, unopened undershirts, mismatched sheets—I like to pick through the shelves. I'm amazed by what people give away.

Do you know how many picture frames are donated to The Mission? Hundreds. And nearly all of them still have photographs in them. I don't know why the staff doesn't take them out. Maybe they think it's too sad to discard the photos; maybe they hope someone will feel inspired to replace it with their own photograph. I've never purchased one of these frames, but I make a point to visit the back corner shelf where they're all stacked.

I visit every Tuesday, but I find myself at the store a few times a week. When it’s slow at the office, or I can’t watch any more TV at home, I make a trip to the store. Some people go to church to reflect and find peace. I go to the thrift store for the same reasons.

I would be lying if I said I didn't also go there to see Sara. She's been working there nearly every day since I moved here four years ago. She works at the processing counter. It's Sara's job to decide what stays and what goes. She seems to understand the needs of the town—who might need a futon frame or a prom dress or copies of Chicken Soup for the Soul.

I round the corner and keep my head ducked from the cold. Spring feels far away today. Last week, I stopped by The Mission wearing only a t-shirt and shorts. Today, I'm bundled in an overcoat I bought for six dollars last fall. I reach the store and enter it, catching the door before it slams behind me.

Sara looks up from the counter and waves.

“Mike!” She smiles. She always manages to sound surprised to see me, but thrilled that I stopped by. I walk up to her counter and survey the box of junk in front of her. “I was hoping you'd stop by,” she says, “New merchandise today.”

She digs through the box and pulls out a curling iron. The cord is frayed and crimped, and the barrel is covered in rust. “I mean, who wouldn't want this?” She laughs, tossing it into a trash can behind her. “It's nice to see you,” she says.

“It's nice to see you, too,” I say. I want to tell her about the cherry blossoms frozen to my windshield this morning, how I thought they were perfect and complicated. Something about the last trace of winter mingling with spring, something like that. I want to tell her how I thought the mix was sad and beautiful and confusing—like her. But I would never say that.

I wouldn't even tell her how I thought of her when the cherry blossoms first bloomed a week ago. How the surge of pink and snow outside my window was a surprise: a new color against the bleak winter sky. What I want to tell her is that she looks so cute in her green apron, that the color makes her eyes sparkle. That the fluorescent overhead lights makes her hair shine, that her perfume somehow cuts through the musty smell of old clothes and furniture.

I want to tell her how each Tuesday, I linger in the back corner of the store looking at each photograph she sends to the shelf, what she deems worthy of keeping. “It's nice to see you, too,” I say again. I tap my hand on the counter and back away. “I’ll be in the back, checking out what’s new.”

Sara's digging through the box, not looking at me. “Mmhmm,” she says. “Have fun.”

I walk to the home goods section and begin to pick through the linens and hand towels. It's all so familiar, the usual thrift store fare: pineapple tea towels, green and khaki plaid sheets, personalized pillow cases: Some Bunny Loves You, Jeremy.

I arrive at the art and picture frame area. The shelves are especially full today. I spot a red bound photo album, reach for it, and open to the first page. The book itself is beautiful, hardly marked. Inside, photos are tucked between the cellophane pages. A family smiles back at me; three children are tan, hair sun-bleached and wavy. I flip through the entire vacation, then I close the book, feeling guilty for looking into their memories.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a large, shiny frame. It's pearly and silver, like a frame for a wedding photo. I pull it off the shelf to inspect it. My throat goes dry. Looking back at me is a young woman with dark hair piled on top of her head. A long cathedral veil covers her face and drapes over her shoulders and strapless wedding gown. Her face is covered, but I know those eyes.

It was her idea to start coming to The Mission Thrift Store. She wanted us to have a ritual, she said. So, each week, we would get coffee, stroll the main drag downtown and end our evening browsing the shelves. Her favorite game was to make up stories about the people in the photographs. Kate could create a story from the top of her head—tangled, complicated stories of love lost and found, births and deaths. She would make me laugh so hard that Sara would have to shush us from the front of the store. We were married three years before she left.

Maybe she’s happier now. I always pictured her living out west—somewhere more dry and predictable than the east coast. I imagine her barefoot in a backyard somewhere, pinning clean sheets and undershirts to a clothing line. She has two children, maybe, and a dog that her neighbors tease her for. “He's too fluffy to live in the desert,” they laugh. She has everything she's ever wanted.

I peek over the shelves to see if Sara is watching. She isn't at the counter. I unbutton my coat and slide the frame under my arm. As I'm buttoning my coat, Sara appears. She says, “I'm sorry, Mike.”

I start to speak, to wave off her apology. How could she have remembered about Kate after all this time? I shake my head, but before I can speak, Sara says, “I'm sorry, Mike, but you can't just take that.” Our eyes lock, and I clench my hands into fists.

“Excuse me,” I answer, my voice low. I shove past Sara and push through the front door, and a blast of cold air hits me. I march down the street, the frame still stuck under my arm. My heart races, and I feel the sweat on the back of my neck as the wind whips around me. I look over my shoulder, but Sara isn't following me.

Written by: Whitney Gray Schultz
Photograph by: Emily Blincoe

You Only Live Once

I’m standing in line for what my son and in his friends call the “YOLO-Coaster of Doom,” and my son's cutting me that slicing teenage glance that lets me know this is my one opportunity to prove myself. I've got my pup tent clearly parked on the border between Lame Dad and yo, Michael, your dad's all right. I am determined to end up in the preferable camp.

I’ve worked hard since Joanna and I split to cultivate a look that says I’m with it. Half-zip grey sweaters. Hair wax. NPR glasses, which Jamie, the optometrist's cute assistant, swore make me look thoughtful. I’m trying too hard, but at least I know I’m trying too hard. And shouldn't I?

When the woman you've mostly loved for seventeen years drags your name through a mixture of mud and sewage, you have to become the kind of dad your kid isn’t embarrassed to be with in public. But so far it's easier to get approval from the optometrist's assistant.

So here I am in line for the YOLO-Coaster of Doom. Michael's a respectable distance ahead, goofing off with his stoner buddies who I am trying hard not to judge, as they've got the power here. Dan, the taller one, doesn't say much, but laughs a fakey huh-huh at everything the other two say. The second half-bake, whom everyone calls Squirrel, is busy ogling a busty park employee escorting a Make-a-Wish group to the front of the line.

"They're like! They're like! Torpedoes!" Squirrel booms, and Michael makes that explosion sound with his mouth, the one he's been perfecting since he was six.

"Huh huh," Dan laughs.

Now Michael's cutting me another glance to see if I'm going to shut it down. To see if I'm going to pull a Joanna and remind them about the connectedness of the universe and the equality of humanity. To remind them karma's a total bitch.

Using only my eyebrow, I send Michael a look that says, "You make your own choices."

My son. My son, who is angry and has the right to be. My son, who has just transitioned from smoking pot at the end of the driveway to the bold test of smoking pot in his bathroom with the window open. Who has taken to sporting a ridiculous Rasta hat. Who complains when he comes over to my shitty rental, grumbling, “You should’ve fought Mom for the big TV.” He loads each action, each rolling eyeball, with a dare.

The line’s finally moving.

“You’re not gonna puke, are you?” Michael asks.

“I think I can hold it together,” I say.

“One time? I was here on Halloween? This lady was drunk?” Squirrel starts, his voice getting higher at the end of every phrase. “She puked EVERYWHERE.”

“Huh huh,” Dan laughs.

“Sick,” says Michael. “You better not puke, Dad. But just wait for the corkscrew. It is insane.”

“I’ve ridden a few coasters in my day,” I say, realizing this phrase has the opposite of the intended effect. In my day. Jesus.

The park employee with the boobs ushers us into the boarding area. Squirrel and Dan fist bump as they score seats in the front of the coaster. Michael looks vaguely sullen, but then elbows me.

“Buckle up,” he says.

The coaster cranks into motion. We start up the first hill and grind toward the top, each click and jolt of the machinery pushing us farther into the morning sky. I button my glasses into my shirt pocket.

“Your hat,” I say to Michael, but the coaster is toppling over the edge now, and Michael just grins and holds a hand to his head.

“Woooooo!” whoops Squirrel.

The YOLO-Coaster is everything. The first drop is perpendicular with the ground, and I’m suddenly relating to that warning about old-timey scuba suits—when you cut the air line and it depressurizes too fast, your internal organs force up into your helmet. But I don’t barf.

The corkscrew isn’t much better. The ground and sky become a giant loop. Squirrel is still Wooo-ing, and I look over at Michael, who is clenching his Rasta hat in one fist. He’s gritting his teeth. Is he—crying? Without my glasses I can’t tell. Maybe it’s sweat, but I swear it’s a tear, sliding from his eye and clinging to his cheek, despite the g-force wind pulling his skin against his bones so he looks like a corpse.

After I moved out, Joanna and I dividing our possessions like picking teams in gym class (Her: Give me the couch. Me: I pick the grill), Michael did what all the divorce websites said he would. He didn’t cry. He started acting out, failing tests and getting caught with pot on school property. Joanna would text me from work, and I’d go down to the high school and do the dad thing. I’d stand in the principal’s office and say, “We’re going through some stuff at home right now,” while Michael grabbed his crap from his locker to prepare for a two-day suspension.

Sometimes, before Joanna met Suraj at her yoga class and all the shit went down, we’d rent a convertible for a few hours, and I’d drive us, fast, out in the country. Her hair would whip in the wind like a commercial for youth and happiness, and I’d catch her crying, overwhelmed by the rush. She’d put her feet up on the dash, even though she knew it could kill her if we wrecked. But we would never wreck.

But that was before. Before Joanna met Suraj. Before I met Ashley Kletzinger, to get Joanna back for Suraj. Before even my friends took Joanna’s side, saying stuff like, “It’s really not for me to judge, but how old is Ashley?” Before I broke it off with Ashley and told Joanna that love was a choice I was committed to making. Convertible rides and happiness were before she said she was choosing to direct her love somewhere else, and I should probably come over and clean out my half of the closet.

The coaster jolts to a stop back at the boarding zone.

“Duuuuuude!” Squirrel bellows.

“Epic,” Dan grunts.

“You were right,” I say to Michael. “That was insane.”

Michael wipes his face with the back of his hand.

“I think I got a bug in my eye,” he says.

“Bummer,” I say.

“Hey Dad,” he says.

Thanks for bringing us here, I want him to say. Let’s ride it again, I want him to say. Then I’ll know he’s okay, that the half of him that’s Joanna was feeling free and alive, and he’s happy. Or what I really want to hear: I still love you.

“Yeah?” I answer.

“Can you give us money for the midway?”

“Sure,” I say. “Whatever you want.”

Written by: Dot Dannenberg
Photograph by: Matt Crump