Alone

I never want to die alone, but it seems that’s my fate.

My gramma was found next to her dried up minestrone soup, rotting for three days. Choked on a piece of bread. I guess it was sad and all, but then who’d want to grow old like that anyway and be so withered?

One spring day, Ma overdosed outside a crack house downtown, age 29. It was shortly after Dad blew town, and I went to juvie. I never could resist a shiny red car. Ma was younger, I suppose, and definitely not forgotten, at least by me. But she had her urgent need to sneak out, leaving her with only an empty needle beside her when she kicked it.

Dying alone scares me more than taking my final driving test.

Every spring night, I’m called out to scour the streets freshly lined with fast-food bags from a healthy gale off the Flatirons. Something about that night air and my restless fingers are what tug at me. I become more alert once the heat from the Colorado sun seeps out of the tar roads and the crimson tail lights brighten my night. But I don’t want to be alone.

Tonight, I "borrow" my foster parents’ SUV. Big deal, right? It’s not like they’ll miss the car much, and they definitely won’t notice I’m gone. They’re those “look how generous we are” types who take in “special needs” kids, like me. They feel so bad for the way I was raised that they always forgive me. They’ll definitely forgive me tonight.

Against a beer-soaked bar’s edge, I make two new friends, a couple. Turns out these two lovebirds are college kids. Samantha smells like the spring tulips along the Pearl Street Mall. I didn’t catch the guy’s name. Started with a ‘ch’ sound. The music in the bar is thrumming too loud to hear the rest. When they introduce themselves and their majors, I pretend like I’m someone too, someone they want to know, someone with money and a car. And then, just like nothing’s wrong, we’re friends. They’re so cute together. I want to steal their love and keep it with me always.

They ride around town with me. I put on a great act of not being the teenager I am. We stop at a friend of Chance or Chase or Chad, or whatever. A fraternity party is in full swing, mostly on the perfectly manicured lawn and partially on the roof. Samantha and the C-word guy leave to grab drinks. I hang back like I fit in. My real self reminds me who I am as soon as they leave me alone with a pretty beefy-looking dude who asks my major. I don’t belong here. I’d never belong here. I panic until my friends return with a glowing drink in a martini cup and a shot glass. Once I have that little high from the smaller cup, I sway through the party and pretend I’m someone again. I keep the high going a little by grabbing drinks from the guy dressed in just boxers and a tie who’s cruising around with a serving tray.

I suppose I shouldn’t have had that last shooter. My stomach flips after I pass some guy, who hasn't moved from the juniper bush since barfing. But I can’t let my friends see that I can’t handle the liquor. It might give me away, and I need them.

Samantha asks me for the car keys. She hasn’t drank a drop, she claims. If she has been drinking, she’s a great actress. I can’t think straight, but the hum of the busiest roads aren’t far from Delta Chi and they call to me.

“Nope,” I say, dangling the diamanté-studded key ring just inches from her nose, yanking them back.

The night air cools, and my skin craves rain drops. A spring mountain storm makes every drive a little more fun, a little more dangerous and thrilling. But there are only stars above.

The guy, whose name I now desperately wish I could remember, says I need to walk a line to prove myself. Like I’d prove to him how buzzed I was. There was only one thing I could focus on at the moment, and that was the cherry paint of the foster’s Range Rover.

"Dude, my car. Don’t you trust me?“

“Yeah, come on!” Samantha giggles and hops in back.

After giving me a once-over, he bumps my shoulder and I catch the light, musky smell he applied earlier tonight, now covered over with eau-de-beer. Then, instead of a further fight, he climbs in the back next to Samantha.

He says, "Then let's get this over with. All right?”

I nod. We definitely will be all right. What’s that saying about groups of three? They’re a charm?

The engine grinds a little as I over turn the stupid key. Samantha flirts with the C-word guy in the back. Neither notices anything might be wrong. The tail lights of the car in front of me reflect a feverish glow as I turn on the headlights. I’m so giddy.

All is perfect with the world I realize as I screech out past the neon bar lights where we’d met. We’re out among the cars on Broadway. The smell of newness breezes through the window I’ve opened a crack. These two people, here in this car, are the best friends I’ve ever had, I think. They so trust me.

I cruise faster toward the crossroads of Broadway and Baseline. The green light switches to a warning yellow. I slalom around the cars that slow down and accelerate toward the intersection, light now a glaring red. I’ve finally found two people who can stand me enough to spend more than a few minutes with me, and I definitely don’t want to die alone.

Written by: Leni Checkas

Photograph by: Skyler Smith

Penumbra

I like to remember the way Camryn looked when she made creatures in the snow, arms spread wide like the wings of those honey bees she always loved. In those moments she seemed more wild than I could ever be. She seemed free.

“Kane’s party will be so beyond,” Camryn says. Her hand brushes the fabric of my pale pink skirt, which once belonged to a ballerina.

Late spring snow nestles in Camryn’s hair and eyelashes as we climb the steps to Kane’s place.

                                                                                              ***

“Did I make this weird? Did I ruin your perfect last snow day?” Camryn had asked, snow settling around her.

“What about Aislyn? She’s pretty. She goes to parties. She kind of looks like me, you know?” I’d said, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

And all Camryn had been able to say was,“That’s so fucked up, Len.” And it was.

I focus on that moment as Kane hands us drinks. He disappears into a group of his party goers. He doesn’t see the way Camryn brushes Aislyn’s hair over her shoulder.

“Why do you drink it like that?” Aislyn asks when I spoon the liquid into my mouth.

I smile and stir a lime around my gin fizz, trying to mask the taste of the gin.

“It’s how she drinks her tea, too,” Camryn says. She nudges Aislyn, but smiles at me, and I wonder if it’s because of all those things I’d said.

I could never love Camryn the way she needed me to.

I knew Camryn loved me before she told me. The months between that moment and today feel so full of what I feared would happen. The knowing ruined everything. It was always so much easier to pretend things didn’t have to change, that we never had to change.

“You know I can’t do change,” I say. It’s not a real response because there was never a real question.

“You’d never try,” Camryn says, between sips of her own drink. The way she says those words sounds wrong, too sharp; too much truth for this moment.

Instead of smiling and nodding my head, I tip my drink back, and swallow the rest in one gulp.

“Len, you don’t have to,” Camryn says when I take another shot of gin from some nameless guy.

“I’m trying,” I say. “Just like you wanted.”

“Don’t,” Camryn says, grabbing my hand.

I think she tries not to hold it like she loves me, but I feel it anyway. She’s gentle, but won’t let go. After everything, I know she doesn’t want me to leave her. Camryn needs us to be together, even if we’re only friends. Even if she wants us to be more.

I wonder if I’d feel different in another time or another place. Sometimes I look at my shadow and wonder if she is in love with Camryn. And if that’s true, I hope our shadow selves are happy. But I know shadows aren’t enough because I can never love Camryn that way.

When I pull away, her hand still reaches for me, but I can’t be here with her.

I grab another drink and make my way to the other side of the living room. I take one shot, and then another. The floor shifts beneath my feet, and I understand why our friends drink. Though I don’t know what weighs them down, I know they must like to feel themselves flutter; their pulse and their limbs and their wings. Maybe they need to feel free, too.

                                                                                              ***

“Are you drunk?” Kane asks. I wrap my arms around his neck and use him to anchor myself to this spot and this moment and this life.

“I know, Kane. And I just need to tell Camy, because she needs to know,” I say.

“Yeah? Why don’t we find Cam then?” he asks, helping me weave through the people as they drink and dance.

For some reason I can’t remember when we became friends with Kane. I wonder if he knows what Camryn said, what Camryn wants; all the things I’ve tried to forget. I open my mouth to tell him, but the words aren’t there because they’re not mine.

I try again, but only one word spills out, Camy. Her name sounds distant even though it leaves my mouth and my lips.

When I use her nickname, Camryn cries, but it’s not drunk crying. I’ve been to enough parties to know the difference between drunk crying and real tears.

“Let’s get you home, Len,” she says. She wraps an arm around my waist and we move through her words so slow like swimming underwater. “I’ve got her,” she says over her shoulder, and I know she does.

We’re out the door and on the street with the sidewalk beneath our feet. It moves in waves as we walk. Camryn asks, and I remember she was never the one to cry.

“I’m sure you want me to say I’m sorry. Maybe I am. Maybe I always will be,” I say.

“Let’s not do this, Len. Not when you’re like this.”

Her words float into lines trying to make themselves into hexagons. They close around us like dwelling walls, like honeycombs ready to keep us together.

“I remember growing up listening to I’m sorry, and it never made anything better. So I’m not sure saying the same thing to you would change anything.”

“And you hate change,” she says. She helps me up one step and then the next. I know we’re at her dwelling place because of the way the door creaks.

“They’ll only make me feel better.”

“You’ll feel better tomorrow,” Camryn says. She tucks her Gram’s quilt beneath my chin, and the flowered squares sway and grow over my shoulders.

“You said, I don’t know how to not be in love with you. Remember?” I ask.

“I’m sorry,” Camryn says.

“Well I don’t know how to be in love with you, can’t pretend everything’s the same anymore.”

“Don’t you know people change?” she asks from the edge of the bed.

All this time I think Camryn’s tried too hard to keep her heart untouched. I don’t think she ever meant to give so much away to me, because when she looks at me, I know she’s not all there anymore. I think we’re both scared of never being whole.

But I don’t tell her this.

I find the outline of my shadow self cast on the wall beyond us. I give my words to her, hoping she’ll know what to do with them.



Written by: Kayla King
Photograph by: Anthony Delanoix

Calculations

I wait for you to say something perfect. Niri finishes stringing the lanterns around the patio. All those colored paper shells look like sugared sweets; a candy necklace for the night. I wish they would melt into syrup and trap you and Kinsey; the two of you ambered together forever. Maybe then you would find something to say.

From my spot in the yard, I’ve watched you fight and kiss and maybe do a bit more. Niri’s parents presented me when she moved into this new place, back when you were with her, and not anyone else. She’s been here for five years, eleven months, and twelve days, but everyone still calls it the “new” place, and everyone seems to forget about the two of you.

But I’m still here. Albeit I’m a little less pink and my ankles have rusted from last summer’s rain. Grandy still tells me I’m beautiful, but I’m not sure I believe him. He’s so much younger than I’ll ever be. Tonight I’m not talking to him because I’m too busy trying to listen to you. And Kinsey. These past few months it’s been Wade and Kinsey at every party.

“Niri!” You yell her name, pulling her in for a hug. She makes a face at me and Kinsey over your shoulder. Her eyebrows rise and say no way, her eyes go wide and wonder what happened. Even I know that you and Kinsey have something.

“Somebody get this girl a drink,” you say, passing Niri off to the others at the party.

Kinsey hands her a glass of your homemade sangria, and Niri dumps it by my feet as soon as you’re not looking. I suck it up through my legs and it makes me feel good, almost great.

“Kinsey, girl,” Niri says.

I smile even as my stomach sloshes with too much sangria and sappy daydreams of what tonight should have been for you.

“And nothing,” Kinsey says. She chews on a soggy orange wedge. I imagine the fruit bursts with booze and saturates her tongue in slime and seeds. When she spits into the bottom of her glass, I know I am right.

“Like, really nothing? Not even hey or hi or you know, let’s fuck?” Niri asks. No one looks because it’s Niri. But if it were me or Grandy, they’d all be like acid trip? And then maybe they’d drink and dance and forget that the lawn ornament said something so profane.

“It’s not like that. We just, I don’t know, and it…he’s just different here,” Kinsey says. I want to say he is different, he gets you, he just gets confused, and I think he might love—

“The dance floor is calling us,” Niri says.

There is no dance floor.

You drink that gin with yesterday’s lips, the ones that talked about Kinsey. You said she was brilliant and beautiful and you finally got that there was something real about her. So where is that guy? Why isn’t he here tonight? Why aren’t you kissing Kinsey and keeping her in your arms? Why are you so determined to fuck everything up?

“Later,” you say to a girl named Kat when she asks you to dance. I follow your gaze to Kinsey swaying, seeped in those lanterns’ colored light. She looks like some sort of mystical creature, and she smiles when she sees you staring.

You still haven’t said anything to her. You hugged everyone but her. You laughed with everyone and just nodded your head when she said the stars, even though we all know that is your special code for let’s talk. Because everyone remembers the last three parties and how you brought champagne because Kinsey loves it and it makes her crazy and it reminds you both of the galaxy.

Tonight it’s like you are trying to put as much distance between you and her as possible. I hope you know that your Kinsey is a philophobiac, and the idea of loving someone, like really loving someone, scares her. But sometimes you are sweet and you sang that one line from your favorite song to her that night she got sick. I think she still remembers that version of you.

Everyone dances and sings another shot before we kiss, but you stand still beside me. You sigh and I miss the end of that line and the one after. But when it gets to the chorus, you whisper the words, and smile. I know you want to join the party, but you don’t. I’m not sure if it is because of the song or because of whatever has happened with Kinsey. You pull your phone from your pocket, start typing into your Notes. How will she get back up?

I know it is about Kinsey because you only write things about real people. They are never characters created from blood and ink. And knowing that, your silence makes sense, but it doesn’t satiate my need to hear it straight from your lips. I want to ask: how do you know she’ll fall? How do you know she’ll care as much about whatever isn’t happening as those of us who know the two of you might add up to something better?

You say “only sunshine” to Kat as you pull her into a slow dance. I wonder if you said “only stars” to Kinsey. I wonder if you will ever just love someone to love them.

When you lead Kat to the porch, we all watch. Kinsey stops dancing and leans against Niri and they whisper back and forth. I can’t hear them from here so I try to read their lips. Kinsey’s mouth moves slow and it looks like she says fudge, but I know she must be saying fuck you because that’s what we are all thinking.

Kinsey doesn’t crumble, even as you lift Kat, and take her into the house. She is so much stronger than you. Maybe you don’t care. Maybe you care too much and that’s why you feel the need to hate fuck strange girls instead of making love to just one.

“It’ll be okay,” Grandy says, nudging me with his little grey wing.

I’m not sure that’s true. Grandy hasn’t seen enough of you to know either way. But I think about how you almost kissed Kinsey at the last party, the way you closed your eyes, and drank in her words. I remember the way you leaned in and whispered something I almost heard, but never would. And now our lives consist of the almost.

Written by: Kayla King

Photograph by: Garrett Carroll
 

The Visitor

I should’ve worn gloves. I was slowly losing all feeling in my fingers, which were desperately clutching onto the neck of a cheap bottle of red wine. Never show up to a party empty-handed. He’s my best friend, he won’t care that it was only $13.99. The tweed of my father’s hand-me-down Brooks Brothers sport coat was barely keeping out the frigid winter wind. When I finally made it to the heated atrium of Greg’s building, it was as if I had never known warmth until that very moment.

Greg, my best friend from law school, was throwing a holiday party slash housewarming in his newly purchased East Village condo. We had gone to Princeton together too, as undergraduates, but had never crossed paths until our 1L year at Columbia.

A choir of conversation poured out into the hallway as Greg opened his front door, yelling his greeting over the friendly din. He took the bottle of wine from my hand without looking at it, as he led me through his foyer, down the hallway, past two bedrooms, and into the living room. Twelve-foot high floor-to-ceiling windows surrounded the elegantly lit space, providing a panoramic view of the entire city south of 14th Street. Greg handed me a glass of scotch, from where I wasn’t sure.

“Your favorite,” he said with a wink and smile before turning to tend to his other guests. He had always been the consummate social butterfly.

Most of Greg’s guests were from the hedge fund where he was working. He had eschewed the law for a more lucrative career in finance. His guests were friendly enough, but the blanket of shared experience that bound them together as a social unit was too strong for a stranger like me to pierce. Every time I made any conversational headway, it was quickly crippled by an inside joke or reference. In any case, I was content drinking by myself and enjoying the view. It was a familiar feeling. I felt like a ten-year-old again, wandering aimlessly around my own house that was full of handsomely-dressed strangers, my father’s friends, attracting brief moments of their attention and feigned adoration before having to find ways to entertain myself.

I was on my third or fourth glass of scotch and was convinced that Greg had replaced his bottle of 18-year-old Macallan’s with J&B, “The World’s Party Whiskey.” Cheap bastard.

I felt lightheaded and the room was beginning to spin. The banter of the fifty-plus guests began to converge into a singular mass of deafening white noise.

“I was having lunch at Gramercy Tavern today, and you won’t believe who I saw there.”

“Yea, I just got back from Bali a few days ago. It was fun for, like, five seconds, but I don’t think I could’ve handled another day on the beach.”

“Did you see Amy’s new Prorsum trench? I’m so jealous, my regular Burberry one looks so pedestrian in comparison.”

I was beginning to sweat. It felt as if the flame from the pit fireplace was licking at my skin. My sport coat began to feel oppressive. I slid open Greg’s balcony door and stepped out into the cold February air. It was refreshing for a change. The balcony was enormous, obscenely so. Roughly the size of my studio apartment in Queens. And the view of the urban cosmos, beautiful from inside Greg’s condo, was breathtaking from his unlit balcony. Each star, each illuminated window, represented at least one human life.

“Do you realize we are staring, quite literally, from our ivory tower at two monuments of poverty.” I turned to where the voice was originating on my left, not realizing that I wasn’t alone. He was leaning against the glass railing facing the east side, his back to me. I followed his gaze towards two towering housing projects several blocks away, deep in Alphabet City.

“Well, literally, this is a tower of glass and steel.” I replied drunkenly.

The voice turned suddenly, “I’m sorry, I thought Greg was still standing there.”

“Luke,” I stuck out my hand in introduction.

“Yes, Greg’s friend from law school, right? We’ve met a few times. I’m Albert. I work at the fund with him.”

“Oh, geez man, I’m sorry. He has so many friends, I have trouble keeping track.”

“It’s fine, he is quite social.” Albert gave a smirk before continuing, “Your father’s a partner at Monroe & Greeley, right? Richard Adelman? He’s pretty famous in finance circles. Are you at the firm with him?”

“Legal Aid actually,” I replied.

“Ah, sorry.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” Albert said quickly, “I really admire the work that Legal Aid does.”

I chuckled, “I’m just giving you a hard time.”

“I think you may be the only person here not in finance though. Aren’t you supposed to hate people like us?” He smirked again.

“Nah, my father always told me, ‘We live in a city of kings, built by kings.’ If it wasn’t for finance, this city wouldn’t exist.”

“You sound skeptical,” he said. “And what about them?” He turned his head towards the housing projects. “Isn’t this their city too?”

For a moment, I thought I recognized the tone in Albert’s voice. That of doubt and uncertainty.

We stood next to each other, staring over the balcony’s edge. From eighteen floors up, the honking horns and police sirens and all the auditory debris of the city sounded like nothing more than a distant backdrop to Greg’s soiree, another accessory for his condo.

For a little while, that was the only noise on the balcony before Albert continued, “Why Legal Aid? With your dad’s reputation, you were probably guaranteed an Associate position with Monroe & Greeley. And Greg said you were one of the smartest students at Columbia.”

I’d been asked that question many times before. “I don’t know,” I said, “I guess I was just sick of feeling like a visitor in my own home.”

“And now?”

The lights in the housing projects were flickering off. It was getting late. I decided that it was time to leave.

Written by: Sam Chow
Photograph by: Jane Silvia Park

Connect to Charger

--100%--

This is the happiest moment of my night, and it will be ending any second now.

*Knock, knock, knock*

Speak of the Devil.

So long, chair. We will meet again.

--99%-- 

“Happy Birthday, muddahfuckah!”

It’s Brent, some of his college buddies and a group of girls who may or may not be above the age of consent.

“Brent, I told you in the text, my birthday is two weeks from now.”

“And I told YOU in the text, I don’t give a shit. It may not be your birthday, but we’re gonna party like it’s your birthday!”

Brent clearly didn’t know how I party on my birthday.

“Where do we put the keg?”

“You got a keg?”

“Hell yeah! I spare no expense for my best-work-buddy’s birthday!”

“It’s not my birthday.”

“Then why are you holding THIS?”

Brent tossed a plastic chalice, with “B-DAY PIMP” emblazoned around the rim, in my direction.

I didn’t catch it, and it cracked.

“DUDE. What the fuck? That thing cost me like, twenty bucks!”

“ONLY twenty bucks?”

--68%-- 

The number of people in my apartment has quadrupled since Brent and his entourage invaded my personal space, which is why I’m surprised William, our colleague, has decided to cling to me like the stench of fried food on my corporate-mandated apron.

“This is an epic birthday party, dude.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, man! You’ve got a keg and everything!”

“It’s not even my birthday.”

“But Brent said…”

“Brent’s an idiot. He just needed an excuse to get wasted and I was foolish enough to let him know it’s my birth month.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

--59%-- 

Will and I broke our awkward silence by taking a sip of our drinks. As I peered down the ribs of my red-plastic cup, Angela passed through my sights. What was she doing here? If my stalker-ish calculations were correct, she should be visiting her boyfriend this weekend.

“Will, it’s been a pleasure, but I need a refill.”

“Want me to get it for you, Birthday Boy?”

“No. No I don’t.”

“Alright, man. I’ll be here.”

“Good to know.”

Note to self, avoid that area for the rest of the night.

--51%-- 

“Angela?”

“Hey!”

Oh, God. She’s going in for the hug.

“Happy Birthday!”

It feels like it.

Oh, man. She gives good hugs.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“Yeah, well, Blake had something to do this weekend, and I didn’t want to just stay home alone on a Saturday night like some kind of a loser.”

“Totally.”

Liar. 

“This is a great party!”

“I spare no expense for my birthday.”

“I can see that. You got a keg and everything.”

“YOLO.”

“Totes!”

Kill me.

“I really like your apartment.”

“Thanks. Me too.”

Another uncomfortable silence and another sip from my cup. As I lowered my drink I heard a raised voice coming from the bathroom.

--44%-- 

“EWW! GROSS, DUDE!”

“Angela, it’s been a pleasure, but I need to see what that’s about.”

“No problem. I’ll be here.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Note to self, immediately return to that area.

--42%-- 

“Oh no.”

“Jake threw up EVERYWHERE.”

“I can see that, Brent. Jake. Jake. Come in, Jake.”

“He’s out, dude.”

“I can see that, Brent. Get him out of here so I can clean all this shit up.”

“I’m sorry, dude. I really am.”

“Yeah, well, you should be.”

And just like that, Brent was gone. So was Jake. It was just me, a bucket and the second coming of our “award winning” baked potato soup.

Through the door I hear Brent persuading William to give Jake a ride home. Will was the newest addition to the wait staff, thereby making him everybody’s bitch. His sheepish demeanor wasn’t doing him any favors. I guess that’s why he flocked to me. We wear a similar wool.

--27%-- 

Things were shaping up. The puke was gone. Will was gone. And as far as I could tell, everyone assumed I was gone. My insignificance was working in my favor. Now, to keep my presence unknown while I take these vomit cloths to the dumpster.

--22%-- 

“Oh.”

Shit. It’s Karen.

“HEY!”

She “discreetly” discards her cigarette and goes in for a hug.

“Happy Birthday!”

Even in the great outdoors, her breath smells like a bowling alley.

“Still smoking, huh?”

“Come on, it was just ONE. Give me a break.”

“Hey, I’m not your oncologist. Puff away.”

I used to be more vocal about her deadly habit. Then she started mistaking my general disapproval of self-destructive behavior for genuine interest in her well-being. And now, I’m her Angela.

“Need help with those?”

“No thanks.”

“Want me to walk with you?”

No thanks.

“Sure.”

--13%-- 

Karen talked from the dumpster to my doorstep. About what, I had no idea. I put my social skills on autopilot and let my mind drift off to a happier, lonelier place.

As we came in, Brent was on his way out.

“Hey, man! I was looking for you. I think me and some peeps are going to get pancakes. You down?”

“Nah. I think I’m going to stick around and tidy up a bit.”

“Want me to help?”

“Thanks Karen, but I’ll be fine by myself. You go enjoy some breakfast food.

“I’m not really hungry.” 

“Well, I’m pretty sure they have a smoking section.”

The light in Karen’s eyes extinguished like the cigarette she smashed into the pavement.

--9%- 

The door closed with Karen, Brent and Brent’s peeps on the other side. I checked to see if Angela was still lingering around the kitchen.

She wasn’t.

It would’ve been nice to take one more swing at wooing her from Blake, but beggars can’t be choosers. All I’ve wanted to do since Brent knocked on my door was return to my lonely throne and let the solitude rejuvenate my spirits like a cold compress.

Just let me step over a few empty beer cups and…

Oh, yeah.

--Charging-- 

Photograph by: Jaemin Riley
Written by: Mark Killian