Abandonment Issues

We stopped across the street from the building and got out of the basic white rental car, economy-sized, like my budget. I remembered what an Arizona July was like when my hand touched the chrome door handle. “Dammit!”

”What's wrong?” asked the real estate agent. The building was already mine, along with the forty acres of land it stood on. He told me a woman shouldn't be out on the highway alone, and insisted on coming with me. I think he was afraid that, after I saw the place up close, I would stop payment on my check. I wasn't afraid of going thirty miles out of town--I had backpacked alone in areas more remote than that.

“Nothing.” I stared at the building. Most people would bulldoze it. I would rebuild it.

I stood across the street, digging for memories I didn't have. All I knew of my beginnings was a street address on a two-lane highway, Route 66, in the middle of Bumfuck, Egypt. Just being there made me think I should remember my past, but, like every other time, there was nothing but wasted dreams.

I wondered why my mother abandoned me here, at a soda fountain, outside in the August heat, wearing a diaper and a onesie. She must have known I'd grow up to be too tall, skinny, and awkward to be adopted, or for a man to take home to his mother and claim me as his own.

My heart felt a strange kinship with the building, a certain kind of loneliness mixed with pride. Neither of us needed anyone. Yet, we both wanted love and care. Its doors and windows had been boarded against the elements, a wall of protection put up to keep others out. That protection was eroding and, before it was noticed, the building would be taken, reclaimed by the earth. I wondered how long it had been abandoned. For me, it had been forty years.

The cement signpost had crumbled and fallen. There used to be neighbors on either side, a gas station and a curio shop. Both were gone. Not far down the highway stood the crumbling remains of the Sleep Tight Motor Motel. There was a time when Route 66 was an essential, well-used route across the country. Now it was the middle of nowhere and no one would come for a blue-plate special and homemade pie.

It was time to get closer. I didn't bother to look both ways. We'd been out there for ten minutes and had seen no cars. I strode across the street, leaving Mr. Real Estate standing next to the car. He watched me walk toward the building. Rejects like me can feel staring eyes. He'd done nothing on the drive but clear his throat and chain smoke. He was one of those people who smoked and twitched like he didn't need any caffeine, but couldn't get enough nicotine.

Standing at the door, I shifted from one foot to the other, looking down and picking out little pieces of the cement step with the toe of my boot. From across the street the two big windows and shredded awnings glared at me like two hooded eyes. Maybe mysteries would be revealed when I opened the door. Chances were good it wouldn't be the one I wanted, but never needed, to solve, the identity of my mother.

I peeked over the edge of the plywood that covered the glass door. Amazingly, part of the soda fountain was still there, the stainless steel backsplash and counters dusty and dulled by time. Poles stuck out of the cement in front of the main counter. I imagined them topped with red and white vinyl seats to match the deteriorated upholstery in the booths. A jukebox would have played the latest Beach Boys hit, maybe the Turtles or Herman's Hermits. The plastered ceiling had fallen into the middle of the room, all but blocking access to the rest of the building. There had to be a kitchen, at least one restroom, and a back door for disappointed boys to run away through.

I took a deep breath. The door knob turned easily, inviting me inside. My eyes scanned the interior of the building. I imagined the smell of the breakfasts my mother would have made had she worked here. I would have liked eggs and bacon with white bread toast. She would have cut off the crust just for me, her little girl. Today, it smelled like hot dust kicked up by a car speeding away. I reached up and pulled down more of the ceiling. A scorpion fell from above and scurried through the weeds that had sprung up through the tiled floor. With the heel of my cowboy boot, I crushed it with murderous nonchalance and kicked it out the open door with the same attitude. I glanced outside. The real estate agent still stood by the car, twitching. The only thing that didn't move was his helmet of black hair. He didn't engender respect or trust. He made me nervous. I was glad he was no longer needed for my adventure.

I half-crawled over the fallen ceiling, and found two bathrooms and the kitchen. A large and lonely tumbleweed stood in for the bottom half of the back door. Wires from the old lights still hung from the ceiling. I would hang new lights, the color of red lipstick my mother may have worn. I took photos with my cell phone and measured each room with a measuring tape. My mind spun with plans, opportunities. I would make the building alive again, for her, for the two of us together. For the first time that day, I smiled. It didn’t matter that I felt a dusty grit on my teeth.

Contractors would do the complicated work. I would do everything else myself. This wasn’t the first time I had gutted and rebuilt a building, but it was the first time I cared.

I walked back to the car and the twitching agent. “Let's go?”

“Okay.” He got into the car, waiting for me.

I took my time getting into the car, thinking of the vintage, neon sign I would hang outside.

Once we were on the road, he relaxed into the passenger seat. “So, what are you going to do with the place?” Without looking at me, he threw a butt out the window and reached his nicotine-stained fingers into his shirt pocket.

“Make it my home.”



Written by: Julie Hodges
Photograph by: Matt Crump

Standardized Education

“It’s a simple twenty-seven step process, Ms. Dean.”

“Un-huh.”

“None of the other employees in your sector are having any issues.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“We value your contributions, Ms. Dean. You’ve served this institution faithfully for the past seven...?”

“Eight and a half.”

“...eight and a half years. But surely you realize that as part of our continuous improvement process we need to collect exemplars demonstrating actual improvement. It’s quite simple.”

“You’re quite simple.”

“What’s that?”

“Yes, it’s quite simple, I said.”

“Right. Yes. Quite right. As I say, we need to actually be improving to show continuous improvements. And a day like you had yesterday is clearly detrimental to our longitudinal data. So how do you see us moving forward?”

“I feel certain you see the path forward more clearly than I do, and you’ll be delighted to tell me all about it.”

“Just so, Ms. Dean, just so. But we do value your input.”

“Right.“

“To move forward Ms. Dean, first we must move backwards! A full review is in order.”

“Of course it is.”

“Let’s rewind all the way back to the morning of November twelfth when you took step one. Do you remember?”

“Who could forget such a momentous occasion?”

“Ms. Dean. I do have to point out that at times during this conversation your tone has been less than enthusiastically cooperative.”

“Has it? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Yes, well, in fact it has.”

“Well I’m sorry you interpreted my tone as less than enthusiastic. Perhaps a coffee?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Ms. Dean. What would you like?”

“One cream, two sugars please.”

“How terribly neglectful of me. I do apologize.”

“I accept your apology. This coffee is excellent, by the way.”

“Wonderful, Ms. Dean. Now, returning to step one.”

“November twelfth!”

“Yes, November twelfth. On that morning, what were you to do when you entered the Centre?”

“Log in to the platform.”

“And did you log into the platform?”

“Yes.”

“Immediately?”

“Perhaps I took my coat off first.”

“It takes...let me refer to the spreadsheet here...nineteen minutes for you to hang up your coat?”

“It has a lot of zippers. And straps. Also a buckle.

“Really?”

“Yes. And I may have ducked into Mr. Brickelhurst’s workstation across the hall for a quick work-related convo.”

“And what topic would this work-related convo with Mr. Brickelhurst have featured?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Ms. Dean, you are aware, are you not, that our most recent quarterly data roundup revealed that work-related consultations with non-supervisory colleagues were responsible for a 19.7% loss of productivity company-wide? Parallel-level co-workers rarely have answers to work-related questions, and that type of conversation, ‘convo’, as you so charmingly termed it, amounts to a mutual head-scratching session with nothing to show for it. I suggest, as was clearly bulleted on page nineteen of the QDR, that you restrict such ‘work related convos’ to supervisors only.”

“Noted.”

“Moving on to step two.”

“Arrrgh!”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, swallowed coffee down the wrong pipe. Are we going to go through all of these?”

“All of the steps?”

“Yes.”

“Well that was the notion, Ms. Dean. A thorough review. Do you have another idea?”

“How about we skip on to the most interesting ones?”

“Define interesting.”

“The ones where trouble is most definitely a-brewing.”

“I see. You want me to leave off reviewing the routine steps you executed adequately and move on to the catastrophic, is that it?”

“I’m sure those steps are clearly noted on your spreadsheet.”

“Indeed they are, Ms. Dean. But will we miss something, I wonder? Some sort of precipitating circumstance or series of actions that may reveal themselves in the steps leading up to the really glaring screw-ups?”

“Let’s start with the glaring screw-ups, and then at the end, if we feel there are any loose ends, we’ll go back through all the steps and apply the full rigor/tedium treatment.”

“I’m not sure... ”

“I’ll buy lunch. Off site.”

“Really? Fair enough. Let’s see here. Ah! Step nineteen. That was a real doozy!”

“Oh, yeah. I remember step nineteen. Total recall on that one.”

“I mean, to think that after seven years...”

“Eight and a half.”

“Eight and a half years, you could still mix up where the electrodes attached!”

“I know, right? What a dingdong! That was so my bad.”

“I think we can both agree that the misplaced electrodes were the start of the cascade of incompetence and damage that continued...oh where are we? Yes! From steps nineteen through twenty-four.”

“Yep. All of those were unequivocally terrible.”

“The scrambling of the geometry port... “

“Unfortunate.”

“The reversal of the levels dial—third instead of fifth and fifth instead of third.”

“More bad luck.”

“And now we’re left with level five products who can’t tell a rhombus from a trapezoid!”

“A real humdinger.”

“It’s going to take months to sort them back out. Expensive months. Months in which our stakeholders were expecting to receive dividends, not to endure the continued investment of time, energy, and money.”

“A humdinger, as I said.”

“I mean, after all that, what you did on step twenty-seven almost makes logical sense.”

“That’s what I was thinking at the time.”

“Turning the scrambled products loose in the sensory deprivation pit may have seemed like a solution to the disastrous events of the morning. But you do realize the sensory deprivation pit is for special circumstances only, and your clearance level does not authorize you to make that call?”

“I do realize.”

“I’ve heard you and some of the other non-supervisory employees refer to the sensory deprivation pit as ‘Recess.’ I’m sure you understand this is inappropriate.”

“Your face is inappropriate.”

“Sorry?”

“Quite inappropriate, I said.”

“Well, Ms. Dean, I’m glad we’ve sorted this out. I’m scheduling you for a two-hour retraining session, and then we’ll expect you back in the workstation, continuously improving away. Now where shall we meet for lunch?”

Written by: Heidi Nibbelink

Photograph by: Matt Crump

Memorial Day

Nadine had foolishly decided she would join her sister down at the beach for the long weekend.

“No, no, I can leave on Friday. It’s fine,” she’d said. Her sister laughed and warned her about the apocalyptic traffic, but Nadine didn’t mind. It would be worth the hours on the Bay Bridge to see her sister and feel the sand baking the soles of her feet. It had seemed like a good idea a few days ago.

The highway leading to the bay was a parking lot. An accident was only a half mile or so away, and Nadine watched an ambulance wedge its way through the traffic. A school bus merged onto the shoulder, its windows gaping open with teenagers hanging out, watching the scene.

The air conditioning roared, but Nadine’s face still felt sticky. She stretched her hands, popping her knuckles. She had a habit of clenching the steering wheel as if her car might drive on its own and careen off a bridge. Her jaw felt tight, too, another sign of her anxiety and stress. Unlike her sister, Nadine could never be accused of having “resting bitch face”—instead she had a sort of “resting Frankenstein face”—a jutted chin, teeth clenched. When she felt her face hardening, she would wiggle her jaw until her face softened, reminding herself to loosen up.

That’s how she met Dale.

In an effort to relax a bit, Nadine went out to the karaoke bar with some co-workers. “Friends” wouldn’t be the right word for those people, but she liked them well enough, and she had hit her limit with binge-watching sitcoms. When her co-worker, Hannah, lamented how pretty and boring Nadine was, Nadine felt a twinge of agreement. She accepted the invite for drinks and karaoke, surprising both Hannah and herself.

She felt self-conscious walking into the bar, like someone might look up from their drink and shout, “Hey—she doesn’t belong here!” It’s not that Nadine was anti-social, but she preferred to be alone most of the time. Her sister—older, prettier, bossier—seemed to be the sole owner of chattiness and volume, and Nadine was happy to be the quiet, “pretty enough” sister.

When Nadine spotted Hannah and her other co-workers, she felt relief. In the back of her mind, she’d always suspected that she’d end up like Carrie: covered in pig’s blood and humiliation and friendless. She had no reason to think this other than too many hours of high school TV dramas. Hannah waved her over, sliding a beer toward Nadine. “We ordered for you. Hope that’s okay.” Nadine thanked her and took a sip of the beer. The icy bubbles tasted good, and for a moment, Nadine felt some relief from the late May heat. She reminded herself not to clench the bottle too tightly.

After the group chatted about the day at work—the boss is an asshole, those customers were rude huh?, I can’t wait for vacation—they turned their attention to the stage as the lights were dimmed. “Hey everyone, I’m Dale!” The emcee raised his beer and continued speaking,

“Welcome to Karaoke Night. If you’re new here, be sure to talk to the DJ and sign up for your song.” He pointed his beer toward a booth off to the side of the stage. “If you aren’t new, do us a favor and sing something different!” He laughed awkwardly, his breath hitting the microphone a bit too hard. He put the mic into the stand and called up the first singer. A young woman in a bachelorette sash climbed on stage and began her shout-singing rendition of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”

The emcee walked over to the group and leaned onto the table. “Hey, Hannah. Can’t get enough of this place, huh?” He leaned closer to her, a dopey grin spreading across his face.

Hannah responded with an exaggerated groan. She nodded toward Nadine and introduced them. “You can have him, Nadine. I’m going to the bathroom.” She slid off her barstool, and Dale sat down, now grinning at Nadine.

“Nice to meet you, Nadine.” He shook her hand and took a long swig of his beer. “Are you new to the group? I see these guys here all the time.” Nadine immediately liked Dale. He was friendly and attentive, and Nadine didn’t understand why Hannah seemed so dismissive of him.

The rest of the night was a blur. She felt her cheeks ache from smiling and giggling with Dale, and when she’d spilled her beer on his lap, he didn’t even flinch. He laughed it off and bought her a new drink. Nadine was pleased with herself, pleased with Dale’s kindness, pleased with the evening overall. They went home together that night and settled onto her couch, Dale polite as he kissed her. They made love that night, and it was sweet, restrained, and appropriately quiet for Nadine’s liking.

They parted ways in the morning with a kiss, and Dale promised to be in touch soon. Nadine believed him. He seemed so genuine. At work that day, she fended off Hannah’s questions and criticisms of Dale. Nadine felt special—not weird, like usual—and she wanted that feeling to last. The work day dragged on, a blur of collating and stapling, and Nadine hadn’t heard from Dale. Her phone buzzed with a reminder to pack that night, but no other message appeared. She worried he would forget about her while she was gone for the holiday weekend.

She had plenty of time to obsess over Dale now that she was sitting in Memorial Day beach traffic. She kept reminding herself that it would be fun. She wanted to tell her sister about her adventure. Nadine was giddy at the idea of shocking her.

The traffic inched on slowly, and Nadine’s car was almost to a large overpass. She wanted to be out of the direct sun, and the promise of shade was only a hundred yards away. And then she saw it: the overpass and the enormous scrawled message. I <3 U. The fuzzy black letters emblazoned on the grimy concrete. The letters were so scraggly and misshapen, she imagined the painter hanging upside down to get the right angle.

She thought of Dale the night before, his slow fingers tracing lazy hearts on her shoulder, how he said he loved her serious eyes. She imagined Dale’s hands swooping together two pieces of a heart on the overpass. She imagined him standing back to survey his work, nodding to himself, and praising his work. The flutter of imagining made Nadine flush with embarrassment.

But why? Why should she be embarrassed? It was possible that a man could become infatuated with her and that he might want to share that with her and everyone else on the highway. He felt so confident that she would know this message was for her, from him. Had he pictured her sitting in her ’98 Corolla, pondering life and traffic, then her serious eyes moving upward to the declaration?

Nadine thought of taking a picture, and for a moment, she clutched her phone, angling it toward the overpass. No, she put the phone away. Free of criticism or speculation—she wanted to keep this for herself.


Written by: Whitney G. Schultz
Photograph by: Matt Crump

Freshmen

We recap the year with pitchers of overpriced margaritas at Chili's, procured less by our fake IDs and more by fortuitous seating in a section manned by a frazzled waitress. Her name tag reads Jessica, but we all swore she said her name was Beth. Either way, she's tilting at windmills trying to get a good tip from that six-top of frat boys.

It's the three of us: Naomi, queen of problem sets and keg stands; Yara, wannabe director, actual drug dealer; and me, future M.D. unless the system breaks me. A third of our freshman class entered in some kind of pre-med track; after four days a week with 7 AM chem or bio from the dullest profs the college could hire, survival of the fittest has whittled it to a fifth of our class.

I'm still hanging in there, but Yara sometimes mentions adding two more to our crew to keep the pre-med proportions right and when she does, there's a good chance Naomi will say something about three-fifths and give me this look.

If we've been drinking it's hilarious like Chappelle's Show, but if we're not it's just sad and awkward, like explaining Key & Peele's magical negro sketch.

I'm about to lose faith in Jessabeth the waitress, but a timely refill of margaritas and bottomless chips and salsa keep her in Naomi's good graces, and Naomi's picking up the tab (with her mom's AmEx).

And oh God, when I think there can't be a more bittersweet moment, when we're laughing till we're crying and refusing to consider how this summer we'll be bound only by FaceTime and Instagram, Naomi slips and mentions Levi.

It's how I imagine a stained glass window would melt in an inferno: searing heat, crackling glass, the vibrant colors pooling together and hardening, a warped lump once beautiful.

Yara's face scrunches up. She's trying not to cry for real this time, and Naomi looks down and we're conspicuously quiet. Jessabeth checks in, but probably because her waitress senses are tingling and she's worried we realized we don't have enough cash to cover three rounds of margaritas and counting.

One of us should say something, break up the mood before we all descend into memories of the great night that turned into a bad morning.

I know I should say something, but I can't.

I remember sickly-sweet vodka, flavors manufactured to market to teen girls. Cake and cotton candy; didn’t even need a chaser.

Bailey was there and I tried to play it cool, tried to make my way over to him gradually. He was all suburban prep: J. Crew closet, lacrosse scholarship, poli sci and econ double major. Such a vanilla choice, but he captivated me with that orthodontia-perfect smile and New England charm.

He offered to make a s'mores shot in my mouth, and when we finally kissed the cigarette smoke on his lips made me taste campfires and cool nights.

We all left and stumbled through the freshman quad, everything in soft focus and blurred to perfection.

Yara and Levi slipped away. I watched them go, her hip pressing into his thigh and his arm around her shoulders, their silhouette illuminated.

Naomi and I made it to the frat house, the bass thumping, a beacon for the wasted. I don't remember much other than Bailey's hands against my hips, furtive kisses tasting less like smoke, more like sweat. I woke up in his bed the next morning, and we didn’t kiss or cuddle.

I don’t even remember my first time.

Maybe I should be more upset about what happened and why we haven't spoken since, but I don't want to think about it, and if you don't think about things they can't make you upset.

I went back to our room, walk of shame mercifully short. Yara was single and heartbroken. Naomi had spilled coffee all over my floor trying to juggle my hot pot and french press.

At least she wasn’t injured, she pointed out. At least I was here, the subtext. And the evidence: Yara’s blotchy cheeks streaked with tears. She shook with sobs and choked it out: how Levi’d confessed he loved her, but thought he was in love with a girl from her film class.

And I couldn’t say why or what happened, because what would I say? Why would I take the comfort Yara needed more than I did?

"I don't want to talk about him," Yara says, dragging a chip around the perimeter of the salsa bowl, and I know how she feels although I can't tell her why.

"I'm sorry,” Naomi replies. “Guys are assholes. Especially that one."

"Where are you working again this summer?" I turn to Yara. She's told me half a dozen times in the last week but her gray eyes light up, eager to think or talk about anything other than Levi, her first real boyfriend. Her first real ex.

"The community theater at my hometown. They're letting me do some of the programming for the youth performance camp," Yara sips on her margarita. "Oh, and my job from last year. It's so much easier to sell pills there, you have no idea."

                                                                                                   ***

A month into summer and the three of us have talked less than I thought we would. A text here or there, maybe a Snapchat. No phone calls, no FaceTime, no sound other than the static of friendships on hold. We communicate through pixels.

I try to convince myself that I don't feel abandoned, just neglected when Yara texts me from work. Golden arches leer at me in her photo.

Making bank. 1st brunch on me as thx. xoxoxo.

One day I'll tell her things I remember about that night. How I saw a couple wrapped up in each other, backlit by hazy possibility and walking into the future together. How I wanted that moment, to be so caught in it I didn’t know it was happening, dizzy in love and invincible in ignorance, unaware that anyone could hurt you.

Written by: Erin Justice

Photograph by: Matt Crump

Do I?

Hello! May I have everyone’s attention?

I’ll let you get back to guessing each other’s baby pictures and bobbing for nipples in a moment, but first, there’s something I’d like to say to the lady of the hour.

My dearest Amber Beasley. As Jerry Maguire said, “You complete me.”

For those of you who don’t know, that’s our favorite movie. We watched it on our first date, once she told me she hadn’t seen it and I insisted we go back to my place and watch it. I won’t tell you what else happened that night, but let’s just say it led us to where we are today; sorry Mom.

Amber, you are my Dorothy Boyd, and not just because you’re as beautiful as a young, pre-plastic-surgery Renee Zellweger. You embody what Jerry would say is the most important quality in a mate: “loyalty.” No matter what I say or do, you are always right behind me with your special kind of silent support.

Most girls would’ve dived right back into the dating pool the minute I told them my plans to quit my job and create the next Facebook, but you just nodded your head and said, “Go for it.” And just a month into our relationship, when I asked if I could move in with you to save a little money, you welcomed me with open arms and half your closet. Even though Brenda was NOT having it--no hard feelings, Brenda.

Things started off better than I could’ve imagined. You’d go to work, I’d spend the day taking online coding classes, and we’d meet back in bed, where we’d eat dinner and watch Hulu until we fell asleep. Then you started gaining a little weight.

Hold your gasps, folks. It wasn’t her waistline that tested our loyalty. It was the little surprise floating inside that ever-expanding belly.

I found out the Monday after season three of House of Cards hit Netflix. I know this, because I was trying to catch up on all the sleep I lost while binge watching every episode over the weekend--spoiler alert, Frank is a terrible President. The key word there is “trying.” My slumber was disrupted by the guttural grunting of Amber trying to squeeze into her skinny jeans. Understandably, I was a little angry, and I may have said something about her mooing like a cow--those details are a little blurry.

Whatever I said, it did NOT go over well. She turned on me like Siegfried and Roy’s tiger, forcing me to hide under the covers until the pummeling turned to sobbing and it was safe to fold back the comforter and put my arm around her. That’s when she told me I was going to be a father, and that’s when I knew our story was far from over.

It took Amber a little more convincing--to keep me and the baby--but having that argument made me realize my true life’s calling. That same day, I deactivated my Lynda.com account, kissed my SocialGoGo dreams goodbye, and started studying for the LSAT.

Amber, once again, your loyalty was put to the test, and once again, you aced it. You--and your parents, thank you Mr. and Mrs. B--helped me pay for all my books, all my prep classes, all my law school applications--which should be coming back before this little bun pops out of the oven--and I am more than ready to spend the rest of my life paying you back financially, emotionally and romantically--not you, Mr. and Mrs. B, at least not that last one.

Amber, you may not see it now, but I’ve had a glimpse at our future, and it is beautiful. I’m a partner at some reputable law firm, we have a gaggle of healthy children, and you’re sliding back into the same skinny jeans you wore on our first date with the greatest of ease.

With all the loyalty you’ve shown me in our less-than-year of dating, I have no doubt you’re going to be the greatest mom on the face of the planet. I can already picture you: joining the PTA, carpooling our little darlings and their friends to school and soccer practice--or dance, or whatever extracurricular activities they partake in, keeping them on a healthy diet, reading to them before they go to bed, and leaning on me whenever you’re in need of love and support.

In return, I vow to take on as many cases as I need in order to make sure you never have to step foot into an office again. I’ll enforce any rules or punishments you dole out. And, most importantly, I’ll make sure to be a strong, male role model our children can look up to.

WOOOO. Boy. Is anyone else having an allergy attack?

All tears aside, Amber, when I first discovered Tinder, I thought I would NEVER want to get married--I mean seriously, it’s the dating equivalent of stealing candy from a baby--but in the last seven-months, you’ve made a man out of me. A better man. A stronger man. A driven man. And after all we’ve been through: all the surprises, the fights, the financial hurdles, the hospital visits, etc; I am ready to step up to the plate and take charge, like a real man.

This union of ours may have started off on the wrong course, but I’m going to take the wheel and redirect this ship towards a lifetime of love and loyalty.

Amber, to repeat my favorite quote from my favorite--no--OUR favorite movie, “You complete me.” Will you let me complete you by: caring for your every whim and need, protecting you from any physical or emotional harm that may fall upon your beautiful face, “Showing you the money”--eventually, spending whatever time I have left outside of the courthouse with you and our kids, and last but not least, giving you my name?

This is the part where you say, “You had me at ‘Hello.’”

Wait. Amber! WHERE ARE YOU GOING?


Written by: Mark Killian

Photograph by: Matt Crump

Sabotage

“Fred. Fred, wake up.”

He stirs from his wounded slumber as Amelia squeezes his shoulders, shaking him gently. Fred is leaning against the trunk of a palm tree, his eyes squinting at the dry blood on his pants. Every part of his body is sore and he protests from the inside, but Amelia is insistent. He looks up at her, feeling what remains of his existence spill out like water on a hot skillet.

“What is it? Are you hurt?” he asks in a gruff whisper.

“Can you walk, Fred? You have to see them. Their wingspan must be fourteen feet! They’re absolutely breathtaking!”

Amelia is giddy, with cuts on her face and hands as if she had walked through brambles. Without thinking, she kneels and pulls his arm around her shoulders, trying to pull him up to a stand. He wails, stomach churning at the pain. Unphased, she starts to hobble forward, but it’s no use. Fred falls to the sand, too weak to weep.

“Oh, do get up! We may never have another chance to see such magnificent creatures! To think, they live and we thought them to be the stuff of legend!”

Fred feels his consciousness as he rolls over onto his back, his right leg throbbing as pain rides up through his back and down to his toes. He cannot comprehend Amelia’s mania, her inconsiderate obsession with whatever winged creature she happened to come across while he very well might be dying.

“Don’t worry, Fred. You’ll see them. I’ll even bring one to you if I can!”

He doesn’t hear her run off when he blacks out.

                                                                                                       ***

The sun is high in the sky when his eyes flutter open. Amelia must have moved him because he is lying on a blanket next to a small campfire. He hears something boiling when he turns his head to look around. Amelia is squatting about ten feet away, covering her mouth with the back of her hand as she giggles. After some time, Fred realizes she’s speaking French. But there’s no one else around. However, the way she’s carrying on he nearly doubts himself.

“Amelia, dear, who’s here?” Fred asks.

A quick turn of her head in his direction, then she remembers the pot of boiling water over the fire. Amelia removes it, then crawls to Fred’s side.

“Captain, I’ve brought one to you. They speak French!”

Fred’s heart begins to race, jumping to the conclusion that they are rescued. The adrenaline gives him enough energy to sit up so he can behold their rescuers with his own eyes.

“Thank God, we’re saved,” he breathes.

“Fred, this is Malory,” Amelia coos as she gestures past the fire.

There is no one. Fred’s breath picks up and panic begins to set in as it did those first few moments after he crawled from the wreckage of their crash.

“Amelia, I see no one,” he says evenly.

She huffs and walks back to the spot where she had been squatting, pointing with both of her hands like knives to the space in front of her.

“Honestly, Fred. I know you’re not feeling all that well, but she’s hard to miss.”

Amelia speaks again in French, and Fred can feel his heart leaping toward his throat as a deep fear sets in. He searches his memory for clues. There was the crash. There were the attempts at radio communication from what was left of the plane. There was his weakening body as blood oozed from his wound, and Amelia stitching it up. And then there was a fish roasting over a campfire. He could not eat it, but she could. Fred remembers the cautionary tales of eating the heads, that you can lose your mind for hours, sometimes for days.

Fred’s terror gives him the strength to stand.

“Forgive me, Miss Earhart. My vision has failed me since the crash. I can barely see you at all,” he lies.

“Ah, Fred, you poor dear,” Amelia says as she leads him around the fire. “Perhaps Malory will let you see her with your hands.”

And she takes his left hand and runs it through empty space, touching nothing, but Amelia speaks with awe.

“Feel the wings, Fred? A single feather is nearly a foot long. Wings for arms, but they keep everything else. She is the truest representation of an independent woman - a harpy, a woman who can fly.”

It’s too much. The world fades, and Fred’s last thought is the hope to wake up saved.

                                                                                                       ***

Fred wakes up screaming. Amelia’s fingers dig into the stitches on his right thigh and her other hand is wrapped around his throat.

“So, was this your plan all along, Fred? To rip me from the sky as I closed the circle of the globe? Was this part of your plan?”

She rips the wound open and the blood oozes heavily. Fred wretches and weeps, too weak to pull from her, nearly delirious with pain, dehydration, and hunger.

“Malory told me everything,” Amelia continues. “She heard you radio FDR, tell him our coordinates, tell him that you were successful. That you thwarted me. That you failed me as a captain and friend.”

Fred can smell his own blood and the ocean. He can feel the wind and hear the crash of waves below.

“You won’t take my wings, Fred.”

Amelia kicks his body over the edge of the cliff and he tumbles down toward the ocean. She sneers down at the ring of foam on the surface of the water before looking up at the sky. The sun melts behind the horizon and the stars begin to peek. Amelia spreads her arms and breathes deeply, closing her eyes as she recites:

“For life is not the thing we thought, and not the thing we plan; and Woman in a bitter world must do the best she can - must yield the stroke, and bear the yoke, and serve the will of man.”

Amelia leaps.

Written by: Natasha Akery

Photograph by: Matt Crump

Biscuit Sings the Blues

James ‘Biscuit’ Baker sat alone at a little table in his motel room, sipping on a bottle of Lone Star. The clock read ten til six. His curtains, like all motel curtains, would not quite close. Light seeped in from the red neon sign outside, bathing his room in a sanguine aura.

He felt like Goldilocks when he was out on the road these days, the bed two nights ago in Amarillo was too soft, this one too hard. With any luck, the one tomorrow night in San Antonio would be just right. He swallowed a Vicodin and waited for the pain in his lower back to subside. Once the opiate started to work its magic, Biscuit nodded off in the chair.

A knock on the door woke him from his slumber two hours later. He lurched his sixty-year old body out of the chair and lumbered towards the door.

There was more knocking, louder this time.

“Hold the fuck on. I’m coming.”

The hazy, morning sun blinded him when he opened the door, but he recognized his visitor as soon as she spoke.

“Morning, sunshine,” she said in an unmistakable tone.

Maxine, his ex-wife, had a huskiness to her voice that once reminded him of a young Lauren Bacall, but after a lifetime of cigarettes of whiskey, she now sounded more Johnny Cash.

“Fucking hell…what do you want?”

“Aren’t you glad to see me?”

“Oh yeah, you’re a sore sight for eyes.”

“Don’t you mean a sight for sore eyes.”

“Nope.”

“Well, you’re not looking so hot yourself, old man. I see that you got that dickey-do disease going on.”

“Dickey-do disease?”

“Your belly is sticking out farther than your dickey do.”

She chuckled at her own joke. Her laugh sent a chill down his spine.

“Not that it would take much of a belly for that to happen,” she added.

“You know Maxine, I’m sure we could just continue this love fest all day, but what the fuck do you want?”

“Can I come in?”

“No… I’ll come out there. Hold on,” he said, slamming the door.

Biscuit splashed some water on his face, put on a fresh shirt and grabbed the pack of Parliament Menthols that were lying on the table. He closed the door behind him and lit one up.

“How did you know I was here?”

“In Austin? Hell, Biscuit, I do live here, you know. And it’s not like I don’t go to the Continental anymore. If you don’t want me to find out, maybe you shouldn’t be playing at one of the most popular fucking clubs in town.”

They started walking towards the sidewalk.

“I meant, how did you know where I was staying?”

“Because you always stay here. You’re a creature of habit.”

Maxine gestured at the big Austin Motel sign, almost pink in the early morning light, that shot up into the sky.

“I figure it has something to do with that sign. A dick for a dick.”

“Huh…” Biscuit took a long drag of his cigarette. “I wonder what old Sigmund Freud would say about that. I always thought of that sign as a hand, with a big middle finger. Kind of a giant ‘fuck you’ to whole entire world… And you think of it as a dick. Maybe he was onto something with that penis envy thing.”

“Not that you would have anything to envy,” came her retort.

“Touché.”

“Seriously though, did you call Scotty and tell him you were going to be in town?”

“I tried last night when I got in, but he didn’t answer. I didn’t leave a message. I was going to try again today.”

“That’s convenient.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, that it’s convenient how you wait until the last minute to tell him, hoping that he has other plans.”

“That’s not true. I would love to see Scotty.”

“Bullshit. What are you afraid of Biscuit? Failing as father? You already did that.”

“Fuck Maxine, do you have to be so harsh?”

“What? Does the truth hurt, honey? You know what else probably hurts? When your father doesn’t make it to your high school graduation, or when he forgets to call you on your birthday. So if you’re looking for sympathy, you better find a dictionary, it’s somewhere between shit and syphilis.”

Biscuit stared down South Congress Street, searching his memory for anything other than hatred for this woman.

“He’s getting married.”

“Huh?” Biscuit turned to look at Maxine. “He’s what?”

“Getting married. She’s a real nice girl. I think he wants you to come to the wedding.”

“If I’m such a failure as a father, why would he want me there?”

“Because he still loves you Biscuit. I don’t know why, but he still does.”

Maxine put on her sunglasses and opened her car door.

“You know, despite all of our shortcomings, that is one hell of a good kid we have. And before you get all pissy, I’ll admit, it wasn’t just you. I was by no means mother of the year. But somehow he turned out real good. Give him a call, Biscuit. See you around.”

Maxine got into her car and disappeared into the Austin traffic.

                                                                                                        ***

Biscuit walked onto the stage to raucous applause. He sat down on the stool and picked up his trusty old Telecaster. Once the crowd quieted down he pulled the microphone close.

“Before I play tonight, I just want to say a few words. My son is here in the crowd, with his beautiful new fiancé.”

A spotlight was turned on to a table near the back of the small room. A waitress was delivering a bottle of champagne to the young couple sitting there.

“So I just want to say to Scott and Sara, congratulations, and I know I was a shitty father…” Biscuit’s voiced cracked. “Hell, I still am a shitty father, but I love you.”

Scott smiled and wiped a quick tear from his eye.

“Now enough with all this feel good shit. If you want happy music, go to Nashville. My name is Biscuit and I sing the blues.”

“They say that time is money… well, I guess I’m broke as fuck…”

Written by: Ben Cook
Photograph by: Matt Crump

Bring Your Swimsuit

Maggie wondered what it would be like to be a normal person—one whose mind didn’t whir like an out-of-date hard drive, spinning, unable to keep up with the new expectations of the world.

She stared at Audrey Atkins in her pink bikini, its strings hugging the taut, tan surfaces of her neck and hip bones, and figured Audrey’s mind was as blank and free as an empty beach. Audrey probably woke up this morning--hungover, but not feeling guilty about it--wriggled into that bikini, and set off for the pool party. Nothing more.

Maggie’s day started at four a.m., when she woke from a nightmare about the party. In the dream, she’d forgotten her bathing suit and was completely nude. Everyone was staring, and there wasn’t a towel in sight. When she tried to cover herself, her hands shrank and her body kept growing larger until she woke, gasping in her twin bed.

She didn’t want to go to this party, but she’d promised her aunt she would give college life a better try. The sorority thing was not going to happen, but the honors welcome party had seemed innocent enough. Then Dr. Burman--who was supposed to host a cookout in his backyard--had to cancel, and Dr. Morgenthal volunteered to host. “BRING YOUR SWIMSUIT!” the new Facebook message said.

If cellar door was the most beautiful phrase in the English language, Maggie thought BRING YOUR SWIMSUIT had to be the ugliest. She owned one swimsuit, which was more of a swim dress. It was black and ruched “in all the right places,” her aunt had declared as Maggie emerged from the Macy’s dressing room.

“I’m leaving the tags on,” Maggie said, tugging the lycra skirt so it covered her ass.

“You won’t. You’ll need this—didn’t you see that pool behind the boys’ dorms when we did the campus tour?”

Maggie had seen that pool, and she had to admit, if there was one perk of the honors welcome party, it was that Dr. Morgenthal’s pool was not visible from every window of the boys’ dorm--girls splayed out on the deck below like meat.

Audrey Atkins was playing chicken, wielding a foam noodle as a sword to thwack another classmate. Her legs clenched around the shoulders and neck of a guy Maggie recognized from Dr. Peterson’s Calculus class. Calculus guy looked perfectly comfortable being separated from Audrey Atkins’s crotch by only the smallest triangle of fabric.

Maggie turned away. “Chips?” Dr. Morgenthal offered. Maggie shook her head. “Let me at least take your bag.”

“It’s okay. I might—change in a minute.”

“Good! The water’s great,” Dr. Morgenthal said, “and it’s too hot for jeans today.” She eyed Maggie’s outfit—frayed blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and a cardigan.

Maggie’s hard-drive brain whirred again, reciting all the rules she knew to be true:

When you are a girl who weighs 250 pounds, observe the following:
Do not eat in public, except for tiny bites when no one is looking.
No swimsuits, no shorts, no tank tops.
No dresses if you’re going to be walking, or your legs will chafe.
Extra deodorant.
You are invisible, yet people’s eyes are roaming your every roll and dimple.

Maggie planted herself in the shadiest deck chair by the food table. She watched a fly circle the ranch dip, then land in it. In the pool, the game of chicken had broken up in favor of a cannonball contest. Audrey Atkins bounced on the diving board, drew her knees under her chin, and hit the water with a pebble-sized splash.

“Boooo,” Calculus boy hollered when she surfaced. “I give it a four!”

“Hey!” she said, kicking a wave of water toward him. “Like you can do better!”

“Magnolia Clark!” a voice boomed. It was Dr. Peterson, her Calc professor.

“Maggie,” Maggie mumbled.

“So how’s freshman year treating you so far?”

Dr. Peterson was graying and wore crooked glasses. He also wore a Life is Good t-shirt and Hawaiian floral swim trunks.

“Fine,” Maggie cringed. “Are we still having a quiz on Monday?”

“Please, no school talk now! Did you bring your bathing suit?”

Jesus, will it ever let up?

“You know what?” she said, “I think I’ll go change now. Be right back.”

Dr. Morgenthal’s bathroom was pale yellow, and everything in it was plushy. The bath mat, in the shape of a rose, was softer than new carpet, and the toilet paper was the quilted kind Maggie’s aunt always said was a waste of money.

Maggie stripped off her clothes and stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror. Her mind whirred through all the usual insults—the names of animals she’d been called in the past, the clinical terms her doctor had used, concern knitting his brow. The words she knew weren’t healthy—words like disgusting and worthless. Constant, looping words. She shimmied into the bathing suit and snapped the straps over her arms. Ham arms, her mind spun.

Now comes the next phase—sitting ensconced in a towel, repeating “I’m letting my food settle,” through the next ten conversations to avoid unwrapping.

But before she could reach for her beach towel, the door to the bathroom swung open. A lithe body scurried inside, slammed the door, and locked it.

“Excuse me?” Maggie said.

“Thank God it’s you,” Audrey Atkins said.

“I’m in here?”

“Sorry. I had to—holy shit, I can’t even believe it. Maggie, he is such a pig!” Audrey’s face screwed up into a knot, her eyes swimming.

“You know my name?”

“Um, yeah? From orientation group? Everybody else was like, really lame? But shit, even the professors want to talk to you.”

“Oh.”

“He is such a pig,” Audrey repeated, sinking down onto the rose bath mat. “I never should have worn this.”

“Wow, no—I don’t know what happened, but if that guy did something to you, a swimsuit is not an excuse.”

“Do you know this is actually my first time ever wearing a bikini? God, I am such an idiot.”

Audrey stole Maggie’s towel from the floor and wound herself up in it like an exotic cocoon.

“The string,” she sniffed, “slipped when I dove off the board. And Nick—he said my boobs looked like—" she gulped.

“You don’t have to say it,” Maggie said.

“Will you—come sit with me outside? I can’t leave. My roommate gave me a ride, and she’s being a bitch right now. She actually laughed when my top slipped.”

“Some friend.”

“Hey, the tag’s still on your suit,” Audrey said, and before Maggie could stop her, she stood and snapped the plastic loop with her teeth. Maggie cringed, anticipating the judgment when Audrey saw the size. But Audrey just tossed it in the trashcan.

“Okay,” she said. “You look great, but are my eyes super puffy?”

As she looked at Audrey, her barely-red eyes, her wet hair piled on top of her head, the pink bikini string peeking from behind the bulk of the beach towel, Maggie let her mind stop whirring.

“You’re good,” Maggie said. She opened the door and followed Audrey back to the pool.

Written by: Dot Dannenberg
Photograph by: Matt Crump

1:1 - Matt Crump

interviewed by Mark Killian

Welcome back to 1:1, the second interview in a series of conversations in which 1:1000 sits down with 1 writer or photographer, and forces them to spill their creative secrets.

Last week I chatted with Matt Crump, the photographer behind behind “You Only Live Once” and “Finding Faith at 30,000 Feet,” while hiding in the luggage compartment of Lady Gaga's tour bus as she fled SXSW covered in vomit. With a pound of Pop Rocks and a hundred miles of I-10 behind us, Matt was finally ready to explain why his Instagram account looks like something out of one of Katy Perry's teenage dreams.

1:1000: Candy Minimalism. Is that your term, or are you one of a handful of Candy Minimalizers?

MATT CRUMP: I started using the term "candy-colored minimalism” to describe my style about a year ago. 43k Instagram followers later, I launched the Candy Minimal movement with the hashtag #candyminimal. In just a few months, candy minimalists from across the world have tagged over 11,000 deliciously colorful photos. I feature the best ones on @candyminimal (which is the sister to my main account, @mattcrump).

1:1000: Wow. Two plugs in the first answer. You've come prepared.

MC: You can take the boy out of advertising but you can’t take the advertising out of the boy.

1:1000: So what came first, your photography or Instagram?

MC: Instagram came first. If I hadn’t joined IG, I doubt I would’ve become a candy minimalist, or even a photographer.

1:1000: Well thank God you did. What's the first thing you remember photographing?

MC: My first Insta-post was of my friend @rygal. It’s an awful photo. She’s overexposed, the background’s underexposed, the composition is crap, and I used Earlybird, the worst filter with an even worse frame. I thought frames were pretty cool back then.

1:1000: Ha! Frames. It's encouraging to know that even a pro like you was once trapped by that four-sided barrier. However, how DARE you besmirch the good name of Earlybird! How else am I supposed to soften my latte art at sunrise?

MC: You are literally the most pretentious person I know.

1:1000: What-evs. Moving on. From where and/or who do you get your inspiration?

MC: I have tons of Instaspirations, but I credit @mollymgrubbs as my first influence. As for what inspires me: wide open spaces. Being in a wide open space is freeing. Think about that field in The Sound of Music. I would’ve frolicked through it just like Maria. Wouldn’t you?

1:1000: I prefer to think of the battle scenes in Braveheart, but to each his own. Speaking of battles, a little birdie (aka your Twitter account) just told me you recently slaughtered your advertising career in the name of Candy Minimalism. What was stronger, your disdain for the ad world or your devotion to your craft?

MC: Advertising has taught me a lot about creativity. What people like, what people buy, and how to sell things—the very tools I need to run a successful business. There is plenty to hate about advertising (focus groups, amiright?) but I appreciate everything I learned. I’d never have left if it weren’t for my Candy-Minimal passion.

1:1000: What was the straw that broke the camel's back? What made you say, "Eff it! I'm focusing on my passion?”

MC: One morning at, IDK, 2 AM, I was finishing some spec work for a client presentation. I knew the work was going to die. Everyone did. So the next day I put in my two weeks notice.

1:1000: And did it?

MC: Yes. RIP.

1:1000: Well, you fought bravely. What was the most encouraging piece of advice you received while making your exit?

MC: "If you fail, you can always come back to advertising."

1:1000: And the most discouraging?

MC: “If you fail, you can always come back to advertising."

1:1000: ZING! What's on the horizon for the leader of the Candy-Minimal movement, other than stand-up comedy?

MC: So much, Mark. So much. But that’s classified. What I can tell you is that I’m launching a how-to guide at candyminimal.com for anyone interested in candy-minimalizing their own work.

1:1000: WHOA, WHOA, WHOA! You can't give away the secrets to Candy Minimalism! That'd be like Coke teaching everyone how to give little kids diabetes! That's your thing, man! You've got to hoard it.

MC: That’s exactly what my mom said! But candy minimalism inspires a lot of people, and I love seeing how people interpret it. So what if I tell them how to find the hue adjustment in Photoshop? It's the least I can do for the supporters of Candy Minimalism.

1:1000: Well while you're being all generous about it, will you Candy Minimalize me?

MC: Is the sky not blue?

1:1000: Anything else you'd like to tell our readers?

MC: Get involved in the #candyminimal movement! Tag your photos, check out my accounts, buy some of my work.

1:1000: If they ask nicely, will you Candy Minimalize them?

MC: For a nominal fee.


Interviewer Note: At time of publication, Mr. Crump had yet to Candy Minimalize me.

Finding Faith at 30,000 Feet

I found God on Jetblue flight 794 to JFK.

Figuratively, of course.

We didn’t breach a cloud to find a bearded man in a flowing white robe shaking his omnipotent fist at us like we were teenagers doing donuts on his front lawn. It wasn’t some cinematic near-death experience where a high-school wrestling coach thwarted a terrorist by putting him in a full nelson. And the pilot didn’t heroically land our faulty vessel on the Hudson River—which is good, because I refuse to swim in un-chlorinated waters.

Nope, I’m afraid my epiphany was much subtler than that. Kind of like how a parent’s silence hurts more than the back of their hand—but in a good way.

Wait, wait, wait. I’ve, “shot my wad,” as they say. For this spiritual awakening to actually mean something, it’s going to need a little backstory.

First, an introduction. My name is Larry, and I’ve been hopelessly neurotic for as long as I can remember.

Good. Now that we’ve been formally introduced, allow me to take you back six-months before my fateful flight. Join me in the waiting room of Dr. Spellman, M.D., the finest General Practitioner within my healthcare network.

Dr. Cold Spell—a nickname I gave him after a particularly frigid prostate exam—was my first line of defense against any inexplicable pain or sensation. If my stool changed color, I made an appointment with Dr. Spellman. If my nose was bleeding for no discernible reason, I made an appointment with Dr. Spellman. And every year on October, 23rd, when I’m re-eligible for my free physical, I dropped trou, turned my head and coughed for Dr. Spellman.

This visit, however, had nothing to do with irregular bowels, bloody nostrils or testicular fondling. The fear du jour on this occasion was an odd and persistent metallic taste in my mouth. It was similar to the one you get when you floss like you’re strangling your molars with piano wire, minus the bleeding and sensitivity to popsicles.

Yes, I already consulted my dentist. No, he didn’t have a clue. As a matter of fact, he gave me nothing more than a compliment on the pinkness of my gums and a complimentary toothbrush. Once again, my fate and sanity were in the poorly circulated hands of Dr. Spellman.

My name was finally called. But first, I had to pass the gauntlet of preliminary tests. I took off my shoes, stepped on the scale, lifted my tongue, rolled up my sleeve, and all of the other things one must do to see the all-knowing individual in the white coat. The only obstacle that stood in my way was the most trying one of all, the Wait of Indeterminable Length.

What would it be this time? Five minutes? Fifteen? Thirty? AN HOUR?

Knock, knock.

HURRAY! Dr. Spellman is here to tell me exactly what’s going on in my mouth—while wearing his usual you should save your money for a psychologist expression. Proceed, Dr. Spellman.

Huh? You CAN’T say what’s causing the taste? You’re PRETTY SURE it’s not brain cancer? You DON’T see the need to run anymore tests?

Join me the following morning at 3:38 AM, as I fire up my laptop while my cat lets out a hostile “meow.” Sorry, Zeus. I tried to go to sleep, I really did, but I just couldn’t get the fear of death out of my head. Unlike you, I only have ONE life.

After my dentist and Dr. Spellman offered nothing more than a shoulder shrug, I turned to the one source I knew would at least try to give me an answer; Google. Alright, Google, what’s this “persistent metal taste in mouth?”

I have a brain tumor. OR, I have a rare blood disorder only found in Eastern European livestock. OR, I can ask Dr. Plath, the Manhattan Diagnostician whose close rate is second only to Dr. Gregory House. I choose option “C.”

That ALMOST brings us up to speed. It explains why I’m heading to New York. It explains why my cat now sleeps in the bathroom. But what it doesn’t explain, is how I found God at 30,000 feet. I will now reward your patience with an answer.

There I was, enjoying a Superman-eye view of the world, when it hit me; something’s missing. Nothing tangible, like a neck pillow or an iPad. Nothing crucial, like my credit card or driver’s license. It was something I’ve never lost before. It was my sense of fear.

How, in this tiny, airborne compartment where people pop anti-anxiety medication like breath mints, am I finally at peace? The answer is surprisingly simple: it’s out of my hands.

I am 30,000 feet in the air, hurtling through Earth’s atmosphere like Zeus’s disapproving hiss, and there’s nothing I can do but sit back, chew my Terra BLUES® Potato Chips and hope for the best. As anticlimactic as it sounds, that’s how I found God.

Not a Christian God, or a Muslim God, or one of the umpteenth-thousand Hindu Gods—they can keep their talking serpents and 72 virgins. I’m simply referring to an almighty entity that’s keeping this minuscule shuttle we call Earth safely coasting through our infinite universe.

WE are suspended in spacetime, perpetuating an existence not even our greatest scientific minds can fully explain, and there’s nothing we can do but sit back, play nice and trick ourselves into thinking we have some say over our destiny.

Depressing? I say LIBERATING.

Tomorrow, instead of asking Dr. Plath for a THIRD opinion on my mysterious ailment, I’m going to wake up bright and early. I’m going to put on a comfortable pair of shoes. I’m going to walk to 189 Spring Street. I’m going to stand in a ridiculously long line. And I’m going to wait until I successfully replace this tell-tale taste with the supposedly unparalleled flavor of a Dominique Ansel Cronut. I have faith that God, whoever (he/she/it) is, will take care of the rest.

Written by: Mark Killian

Photograph by: Matt Crump

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