, Author at Post Road Magazine

Dora Malech: Two Poems

Face For Radio

As usual I am unusually tired.
All night my fingers double-crossed me,
tangled up in someone else’s hair.
Breakfast is sand with a promise of pearls.
If I were an operation, I’d be fly-by-night
and very bloody. If I were a sow,
I’d be hog-tied. I was born under
the sign of the toy breed, the yapper,
if you will—and I will—on the cusp
of bikini season. Somersaults,
cartwheels. Call me poorly executed.
Call me late for dinner and a regrettable
houseguest, wet towel on the bed.
Call me go-getter, meaning going going gone.
If anyone needs me I’ll be at the arcade
across from the fire station, shooting
the teeth off the cardboard clown.
If you give me a dollar I’ll take
my top off and let you see my heart.

Quick Study

Put a hold on the have and to hold’em’s a game,
bets half-cocked at the big dogs, one shoe
on and running, chicken’s a nickname
and nick’s just a cut. Let me get you

where you want me, paint on some tight pants
and varnish the town. Call means I’ve got
your number. Fold means no chance,
each night cut from the same bolt

of cloth. Never say never mind,
never turn your back to back or show
your hand in mine. What’s mine
is minor but it still feels good to know

you and I could be big blind and small blind,
Adam and odds and even Eden this time.

#GentlemanlyPursuits in Paul Kahan’s Chicago,
by A-J Aronstein

I woke up on the hardwood floor of Tyler’s apartment, twisted into a crumpled pile of chewed up meat. There was blood everywhere. On my shirt, my pants. The tip of my thumb was sliced somewhat less than totally open and had turned an alarming shade of purple. Something (the alcohol) had sucked all the water out of my body and I felt like a dried out iguana. Bits of malignantly flaking skin hung off my lips. I ran my shriveled tongue against the raw roof of my mouth and felt something scrape off. I swallowed, coughed, and sputtered as the earth listed at hideous angles. It was eighty-five degrees in the apartment and near-summer sunlight gushed through the bay windows, activating a violent headache whose pulsations produced a fuzzy blinking purple dot in the upper right hand corner of my right eye. My stomach was still full of headcheese, pork pie, quail, tacos, oysters, and a poisonous soup of no fewer than seven different types of spirits. I probed the eyelid with my fingernail and the dot grew spindles and darkened ominously. It flashed in rhythm with a buzzing noise in my ear that ebbed and flowed.

I passed out.

During the previous four weeks, I’d told a lot of people I was writing a magazine piece about Chicago foodie culture. The basic premise: find a friend and eat at five of the city’s most popular restaurants and bars in a single night, get dangerously intoxicated, and “see what happens.”

Drafting Tyler as my companion had been easy. He has a squarely serious jaw, and despite a slender frame, bears a properly Midwestern affection for large, meat-centric meals. He wears blazers. He’s of Slovenian extraction, making him an excellent and careful conversationalist. And importantly, he can hold his booze. The five establishments we planned to visit were the brainchildren of Executive Chef (slash Chicago celebrity) Paul Kahan and Managing Partner Donnie Madia (along with a group of associates whose complex roles I can’t really figure out). Suffice it to say that on any given night in Chicago’s West Loop and Wicker Park neighborhoods, The Publican, Avec, Blackbird, Big Star, and Violet Hour cram in hordes of Chicago’s good-looking, loud-talking, plaid-wearing creative class.

There wasn’t much of a purpose behind the project apart from wanting to be part of that class. I was bored and close to broke—finishing graduate school, disinterestedly reading a lot of Dickens, living off of student loans, and converting my savings account into quantities of Schlitz and Ten High whiskey. With the exception of an imminently due thesis project on the “usefulness” of contemporary American short fiction, I wasn’t writing much of anything.

I was, however, spending more time online than at any other point in my adult life. Even now, two years and 2000 tweets later, I remain unconvinced that things like social networks make us lonelier than we are already by nature—as if loneliness hasn’t been the singular constant of human existence since before, like, Homer. But when we already feel alone, we eagerly indulge in the fantasy that we can refashion our real life based on virtual connections. The failure of our efforts to translate online relationships into something tangible in the world can certainly end up making one feel like it’s better to just stay in the house.

That is to say, I had recently started an online dating profile. I went out with a girl who—within fifteen minutes of sitting down at a Thai restaurant underneath the L—related her experience of witnessing a UFO in Guatemala (she never called me back). I’d also ramped up my Twitter account and tweeted observations about Aaron Sorkin as I marched through the first five seasons of The West Wing on DVD. I read articles about how to attract followers, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in my underwear. And I spent swaths of record-warm April afternoons on Facebook, indulging in one of our contemporary moment’s favorite pastimes: trying to access photo albums blocked by exsignificant others.

Social networks promise to salve the constitutive loneliness of ordinary life, but instead leave us feeling worse about ourselves. I definitely fell into their trap, even as marked up drafts of an increasingly phonysounding thesis—in which I argued that fiction could rescue us from the isolation and malaise of post-9/11 America—accumulated on the floor of my Hyde Park apartment. No form of media (print, online, televisual) provided relief from this serious case of the blahs.

I realized that I probably needed to get out into the world. I craved an extreme bodily experience. I wanted to disappear into the flesh of happy hour crowds at Kahan and Co’s restaurants: to envelop myself in the damp embrace of a soft upper-middle class enjoying its soft uppermiddling privileges. And because I was questioning my faith in the notion that fiction can communicate deep truths/ideas/emotions to other human beings, the Kahan idea became a kind of lifeboat for writerly ambition. I could instrumentalize writing and make it part of achieving a simple, tangible goal. And, I figured, if I wrote a really good review and managed to publish it somewhere glitzy, I’d get a few years of goodwill—maybe even some free meals.

It turns out that food and wealth and loneliness and social networks and desire (the last of these split off into categories of political, sexual, financial, virtual, whatever) relate to each other in complex ways that obviate a thorough investigation of any one of them—let alone all of them at once. Moreover, although it’s easy to convince someone that you are an important writer (helpful tip: credentials-checking isn’t a primary skill of restaurant public relations professionals), maintaining this charade becomes more complicated in direct proportion to both (a) the amount of alcohol consumed and (b) the length of time the exercise lasts.

This proves especially true when the managing partner of five of Chicago’s most popular restaurants finds out that a young writer is doing a gonzo-style journalistic piece about his establishments, and takes particular interest in ensuring that the writer and his skinny Slovenian friend have a very good time.

The whole thing had started off earnestly enough. I met with Paul Kahan at The Publican in early May, having made it clear that I had no professional affiliation with any magazine and bore no guarantee of publication. For whatever reason (it’s entirely possible that he was just humoring me out of some knee-jerk service industry bonhomie) my favorite Chicago chef decided he’d talk with me anyway.

When Kahan sat down (I was drenched in a gallon of nervous sweat), he dropped a stack of file folders and a four-page staff meeting agenda printed on the back of menus. He had thick black rings around his eyes and his sandy colored hair was uncombed. It looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. A Blackberry sat on top of the pile of papers and periodically vibrated and blinked. Nevertheless, we had a nice conversation about his childhood in Chicago, about the restaurants he’d opened, and about his father’s own forays into the business of purveying high-quality meats in the same neighborhood.

When I walked out of the restaurant, feeling like a bona fide journalist, I got a bonus treat. As many Chicagoans know, when the wind blows the right way down West Fulton Market, the aroma of chocolate from the Blommer Chocolate Factory breaks in waves over much of the surrounding neighborhood. On humid days, the air hangs so thick with chocolate that you can almost feel it sloshing around on your tongue. I remember thinking about Kahan’s father, who had made his living here, and of the gentrification that has changed the area in the last fifteen years. The neighborhood used to be populated by Jews, then by an influx of AfricanAmerican immigrants. All the while, the entire neighborhood smelled like chocolate: Blommer opened in 1939. On my way back to the L, I breathed in the early-spring breeze and felt purified by the conversation and the chocolate smell—the idea that the neighborhood was alive with sense-memories.

That Saturday, the wind wasn’t blowing and there was no hint of chocolate in the air. When I arrived at The Publican for the first leg of the evening, Tyler was standing outside reading Spalding Gray’s Swimming to Cambodia, wearing a blazer, and doing his best to play it cool. We went inside and I started taking notes about the atmosphere, the smell of smoke, the pictures of hogs on the walls. We watched patrons take iPhone pictures of their charcuterie plates. “I’m here,” Jeannie and Greg and Robert and whoever else tweeted and texted, almost manically, about their headcheese, their pork loin, their country ales delivered in goblets on the first truly hot day of the year. It’s this kind of impulse that has always fascinated me—the desire to immediately upload a real moment into the virtual space, which at once is for an audience and is always a mirror for oneself. We seem to be saying: “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here sucking the headcheese out of life and you, reader, are somewhere else.” And in that instant—the instant we preserve and reproduce for all ten of our followers—what do we feel? Together with someone else through the mediated space of their 140-odd characters? More certain of our own presence in the world? Distanced from the people that surround us?

Or just as lonely as usual?

Tyler and I drank another round and ate oysters, and were about to leave for a big dinner at Blackbird when Donnie Madia materialized at our table. He wore a blue suit and a mint green tie, and had the eager posture of a man who understands how to entertain distinguished guests. Tyler and I were not guests. We were graduate students. There was a hole in the crotch of my pants—the only clean pair remaining in my closet. But I’d been writing very conspicuously in a notebook, playing the part of a journalist, and was feeling supremely confident about my observations.

Caught up in the haze of those first strong Belgian beers and the salty food, I may have over-exuberantly (it was an accident if it even happened, I swear) let it slip to one of our waiters that “my associate Tyler and I” were working on a piece for a snooty magazine (NB: I can’t remember if I did, actually, say The Atlantic. But the nausea I feel when I try to remember rather suggests that I did).

If this article ever ended up as a series of restaurant reviews—if it ended up being the piece that Madia thought I was there to write as he stood there shaking our hands and smiling—I’d spend more time talking about his hospitality. About the ride he gave us to Blackbird in his Range Rover. (I did tweet about it—confidently: “Donnie Madia gave me and @TylerJ a ride from #publican to #blackbird in his range. This is going to be a great article”) About the flourish of his wrists as he whipped the tablecloth onto our table and how he brought us our decadent desserts after a dinner of endive salads and steak and quail and martinis, and hailed us a cab to Wicker Park, where he had reserved a table for us at the Big Star (a paradise of tacos and good whiskey for a class of mostly underemployed folks with mustaches or pixie cuts who will tell you they work in “design” and who carry complex-looking messenger bags), as well as seats at Violet Hour (where mixologist Michael Rubel made us old fashioneds from a private stock of bourbon hidden under the bar).

But I guess I want to argue that it can’t be that article, at least not anymore. I can’t separate out the way that I’ve told the story a hundred times from the things that I want it to mean. I have no recollection about what headcheese tastes like (I assume, chicken).

There are things I do remember. On arriving at Big Star and finding a line of fifty people, I remember shouting at the bouncer, “Go inside and ask if Donnie Madia called ahead about a table for A-J Aronstein” and then being rushed, apologetically, to the head of the line. I remember doing shots of whiskey with Paul Kahan—who happened to be at the bar—and talking with him about meeting his wife at a rock show (I can’t remember the name of the band, but the ordinariness of it astounded me). I remember slipping behind the heavy curtains that protect the entrance of Violet Hour, and the flickering of my brain as it began to slow. Dry heaving on Damen Avenue after tequila shots; Tyler shouting “you people are communists” at a table of seven mustachioed designers; holding my arm above my head to slow the flow of blood from my thumb, which had at some point been gashed.

I don’t remember how.

But what point do these fragmented memories have without the shape of a story? I’m trying to make up for memory’s insufficiencies. This is an overdue attempt to reassemble personal history and fragmented events into something like a useful story. To try to assign meaning to what would otherwise make its way into the Library of Congress (they’re capturing all public tweets, FYI) as a series of a few pictures on the internet that depict a superfluous evening of what one might call #gentlemanlypursuits.

Is it therefore a fiction?

About an hour after I woke up at Tyler’s apartment, too hungover to see, I sat in the cab on the Dan Ryan Expressway, flipping through my notebook. My last fully legible entry is a quote from Tyler at 11 PM. “Spalding Gray is way better than Dickens.” Gray exemplifies a style of nonfiction storytelling that presumes audience comfort with a certain degree of truth bending. In light of the way that Gray approaches nonfiction, one might argue that Dickens, master of the sprawling chronicle of life in London, tells similar kinds of truths. But in his case, the artifice is to disguise those truths as fiction.

After the 11 PM entry, my script morphs into alien scrawls, from which I can pick out only occasional words, punctuation marks, possibly a salsa stain. It looks like Cy Twombly or a three year old or a senile man trying desperately to control his hand had gotten to my pen. There are spirals and something that looks like a deranged smiley face. To cap it off, according to my phone, I called my parents at 3 AM. A distant echo of my father’s voice still pads off my memory. Some gauzy, nasal declaration uttered in the mucusy tones of interrupted sleep. In what must have taken an enormous amount of effort, I had written a few more sentences in half-legible print before conking out: “Are we the generation that calls home? ‘Hey mom and dad its me. I call to say I love you—and then, go back to sleeping.’ The generational difference is. So. Different.” When it comes to operating by lizard brain, my instinct is to skew historical, generational, philosophical. Rather than tweet, I call home, reach out for the solidity of family history.

But history is a sleight of hand, just the same as fiction—both partway fact and invention. Both necessary to mend broken bodies and battered emotions. When we feel confronted by either of them, we are being tricked into having faith in narrative as a means of connection. This is what we do when we write. When we write either nonfiction or fiction, we color history with a deep desire for connectedness. We salve our absolute loneliness, not with the fragments of tweets and Facebook posts shouted into the cacophony of the online masses, but with the attention and engagement with sustained narrative.

A few months after my night in Paul Kahan’s version of Chicago, I went to a concert in the Near West Side underneath a Kennedy Expressway overpass. It was a “secret” Deerhunter show sponsored by a jeans company and promoted via Twitter to followers of the band. The chocolate smell brought me right back to the immediacy of that warm May night. And I became captivated by the story of the Blommer factory. Can the history of the Near West Side be told around a narrative of Blommer? From the company’s founder Henry Blommer in May of 1939, to Paul Kahan’s father in the Sixties, to Donnie Madia driving me and Tyler in his Range in May 2010? Sure. We might even reduce it to a single day and argue that the entirety of the neighborhood’s history revolves around it. Specifically: the day when Henry started up the machinery and set workers to their work at the family Chocolate Factory, producing sweets and candies for Marshall Field’s Department Store.

But what if we imagined a singular moment on West Washington Street—impossible to reproduce historically, to gather facts about, or research—but certainly a moment that took place in May 1939. Let’s say eight-year-old Avram Jakobsen (Abe to his Chicago-born friends), is on his way to school near Jane Addams House, stops and sniffs the mysteriously warm air, which on a spring morning is—as usual—overhung with the soot and grime from machine tooling factories. Can we imagine, for a second, the strange alchemy of confusion and innocent arousal that builds within his tiny frame when, amid the crush of poverty and bodies clamoring for Chicago spring, with the whistles of steam locomotives around him and the almost-stagnant river emptying inland from Lake Michigan, and everything slowly coming back to life, he turns his nose upward to catch the SW breeze?

The noise and the din of the city, and the exigencies of history that Avram hasn’t even begun to consider yet all fall away in that instant. There’s nothing but the body and its senses. Everything collapses into complete conscious feeling of the world: the upturned nose and a smile that builds on Avram’s face as he puts down his small bag, his fingers unclenching, and—could it be imagination? He considers the possibility that his own body is fooling him, because in that moment something magnificent and otherworldly, and altogether unexpected happens. Things like this defy the logic of context and history and narratives, because, as it turns out, sometimes things are literally just in the air for a moment. And there’s nothing for Avram to do but trust that what he suddenly feels must be something like what his parents talk about when they talk about love or hope or God, because some part of him thinks that if he ever loses what this so-sudden sensation feels like, he would die of the resulting loneliness. Think about how much or little it matters that the fire forced his grandparents to the Near West Side; that his father has been losing sleep over an unexpected and persistent pain in his abdomen; that his mother yelled at him for spending three cents that he found in the street at the movies (Dodge City). Right in this instant, the miraculous—think in terms of childhood expectations for miracles here—happens. True or false, historical or fictional, Avram becomes the first person ever on the Near West Side of hundreds of thousands to follow him to feel a particular sensation course through his body, connecting him to every one of them: a single moment of almost impossible joy in the rich air that anyone who comes to the neighborhood knows.

It’s in that moment that Avram smells chocolate.

Why, by Toby Leah Bochan

Because when I was little, my mother paraded around the house naked. I could too until I reached a certain age, until it didn’t seem right for my father to see me naked. I never in my life saw my father fully naked. That was my childhood. Mother dressing and undressing, father in a suit. So this place seems like the natural order of things.

Because I wanted to get over my modesty. Because I’m an exhibitionist. Because I’m an actress. Because I love to dance. Because I’m not talented. I was bad at ballet, tap, modern, jazz. There weren’t many options left.

Because my boyfriend wanted me to. This boy was prettier than me — slight and pale with thick straight black hair and very blue eyes. The eyes were really what did it. Grey blue surrounded by thick black long eyelashes, sharp at the corners and wide in the middle, like some kind of boat. Dazzling.

He whispered, “Do you think you could ever do that?” while we were watching Striptease. In the dark of the movie theater, I couldn’t tell if he thought I could or not.

I said, “I’ve never even been to a strip club.”

So he took me to one. I wanted to see what it was really like. Because it seemed like fun.

Because I needed a part-time job. Because I needed a summer job. Because it was summer and I’d be shaving my legs everyday anyway.

Some guy once asked me if I shaved everything. I said I kept a little bit. He said, “A Landing Strip.” I liked that — that’s how I always think of it now. Right here, right this way, boys! Fasten your seat belts and prepare for take off! There’s even a club called that, but until then I thought it was because the place was close to the airport, and the whole joke was the word ‘strip.’ It’s not as if I was raised to be a porn star or something. Just because I’m a dancer now doesn’t mean I was born with some kind of innate ability to understand that a man giving you a ‘pearl necklace’ isn’t necessarily going to give you a piece of jewelry. But then again, now sometimes he does.

Because of the money.

Because I lost twenty pounds and I wanted to show off. I’m a show-off. I need a lot of attention. I was an only, lonely child.

Because I was raised without religion and I’ve modeled my whole life on the question: What Would Madonna Do? I mean Madonna the singer, of course. I’m going to get bracelets made.

Because the boy dared me to do it. The boy was the first one to take me to a strip club — that was a dare too — we went to this all-nude strip club. I wasn’t twenty-one, but the place didn’t serve alcohol so you only had to be eighteen to go there. And male. They only let female customers in with a male escort. This is true almost everywhere. The excuse they give you is that they don’t want prostitutes soliciting in the club. But the reason is it’s a boy’s club. The boys want the girls to stay out, so they can have their dirty, mudpie fun.

Because I don’t like to be kept out of places. Because I was a thousand miles away from my family and they would never find out. Because out-of-state tuition was so high.

My first time out I was high as a kite. The boy wasn’t, so he drove. I was going to be in an amateur night. Before the amateurs they were having some kind of competition called the “pole-lympics.” The boy laughed when a girl would do something particularly impressive, sliding upside down the entire length of the pole or swinging around by her knees. He had a loud, high laugh. I told him to go give a dollar to his favorite girl. I gave him the dollar.

He chose this curly-haired, Shirley Temple type, Angel. Angel came by our table and gave the boy and me both a kiss on the cheek. She giggled.

“You dance?” Angel asked.

The boy told her I was there for amateur night. She wished me luck and squeezed my shoulder. I felt the tips of her acrylic nails on my skin.

“I’ve only been dancing three weeks and if I can do it, you can.”

Angel got second place, three hundred bucks.

Did I mention the money? Because the money’s important. I thought it would be entirely under the table, but it’s not — of course, no one ever declares all their tips in any service job.

I had to fill out forms, even at amateur night. The manager checked my driver’s license as the boy went to find us a table. He photocopied my license and handed me a piece of paper to sign, swearing I’d never been arrested for prostitution or drugs and another form, for tax purposes.

“We gotta report if you make money, honey,” the manager told me.

There would be a record of this, I realized. I never planned on working in politics anyway. I signed my name. I was going to dance by Jezebel but it was taken. I put down Rose — the perfume I was wearing that night.

Because I was failing biology and wanted to be good at something that had to do with the body. Because I had a great body. I wanted to see what I was worth.

This is how it went: After they had crowned their pole queen, the manager told me I could go and get ready. But I was already ready. I hadn’t known if I’d get a chance to change or anything. How would I know? Striptease wasn’t exactly realistic. I came in all tarted up — I just had to take off my sweater and put on heels. But I went backstage. It seemed like the thing to do.

I talked to the only other girl who was really an amateur, Cocoa. She had rich dark skin and long thin braids which swayed as she talked. Cocoa was the perfect name for her. I started thinking Rose was a stupid choice for me.

“Don’t worry,” she said to me. “The guys like the real amateurs, that’s why they come.”

Even Cocoa had done amateur night two or three times before. One of the regular dancers there was shaving in front of the mirror with a cordless electric razor. She was very thin and beautiful, like a lingerie model in a fancy catalogue. Most of the girls at that club were. But it was the only strip club I’d ever been to, so I didn’t know there were other kinds of places.

Because I wanted to know. Because there were things I already knew. I was a good flirt. I had a good smile. Because I liked to get done up — to put on my face. I liked the idea of having something to get fancy for every night. If it couldn’t be Christmas everyday, it could be Halloween.

I sat in front of the mirror and put on more lipstick, to look busy. I adjusted my body in the black bustier. The bustier was tight and my breasts quivered, white and pale, from the top. I felt fat. My high heels were too short — only a few inches in a club filled with heels as long and sharp as steak knives. I was afraid of falling anyway, in my short heels. I wasn’t going to swing on the poles. In between songs, the DJ sang the praises of one girl after another, what Joy could do, Leah’s long legs, Desire’s dark beauty. Naked and totally exposed. I was really nervous.

The boy was sitting out there in the audience, watching the other girls and waiting for me. And so were other men, strangers. But they didn’t worry me as much, somehow, even then. They were strangers I would never see again, that didn’t know me from Eve, that never would.

Because I loved the boy. Because I wanted to be the best he ever had. I wanted to be incomparable. I wanted to do things with him that no one would ever do again.

The regular dancers barged in and out of the dressing room, seeming very loud and sure and crazy to me. The girl shaving with the electric razor kept saying things like, “I had to come back and trim my bush,” to the other girls. I tried not to stare, as she lifted her leg to shave her labia, it seemed rude to stare, even though the whole reason she was shaving was because she expected people — men — to stare all night. I had no idea what I would say to this girl if I wanted to start a conversation. She seemed about as different as anyone could possibly be. At the same time, I knew she wasn’t that different at all. There was something about her I admired.

Because there’s something about being the focus of attention. Because I watched myself dance and I was good at it, at this type of dancing. Because I wanted to be a girl who was full of surprises. Because I wanted to be a girl who could do anything. Would do anything.

When it was my turn to go on stage, I was shaking. My first song was “Erotica,” by Madonna. I couldn’t look at anyone. I tried to remember how it had been in my room, watching myself in the closet door mirror. The whole stage was surrounded by mirrors but I didn’t want to look at myself in them. The manager had told me to take off my clothes on stage during the first song, except for my thong which I saved, he said, for song two. I stretched my hand up and threw my bustier aside. I unzipped the skirt and kicked it off.

That was a mistake — I slipped. My legs were unsteady. I started to fall down, but half-managed to make it look like I was trying to do some kind of back bend. The guys were all quiet, watching me. I almost lost it. The beautiful boy let out a long whistle. I knew it was his, the way I knew his laugh or his gait from a mile away.

Because I loved the boy. Because the boy loved me.

The second song began, “When Doves Cry.” I had been practicing to that song since the first time the boy had brought me to the strip club. Because the truth of the matter is, I wanted to do it. I was glad the boy had dared me. From the audience, it looked like a sexy, beautiful world. It sounds silly now, but it did.

Because I wanted to be that woman: that flesh in the sunlight that made a man’s heart rush down. Didn’t every woman want that? I thought so then. Object of desire. Eternal, lusty desire. I wanted to drive in a car with a man’s hand between my legs. I wanted to pull over down a side road. Ten feet away at a party, I wanted the way my dress shifted to call his cock to attention. There was a time when that seemed like a good goal to have, something to achieve.

Touch if you will my stomach, Prince sang. I opened my eyes. I took off my black thong. In the mirrors, I saw myself from unfamiliar angles, dancing, bending. There was my nape, my hair brushing the floor. In the reflection, I looked for the boy. He was staring at me with his blue, blue eyes, smiling. I reached for a pole and leaned back, watching myself. I thought, le arch de triumph.

Because later, we sat in Denny’s and the boy said, “You should have won,” even though we both knew it wasn’t true. “You were amazing. Did you practice?”

“Well–” I said, looking into my coffee, “a little.”

“You’re a natural,” the boy told me. And I saw that it didn’t matter if it was true or not. He believed it. “You’re every guy’s fantasy come true,” he said, and I saw that he believed that too.

“But I only care about yours,” I said, and that was true too, but less so than it had been before, hours before.

Because you came in looking one way and you changed into something else, and as simple as that sounds, it’s also true.

Last, Last, Last,
by Nicholas Montemarano

Would you do something for me? I hate to ask this of you, of all people, especially since I’ve spent most of these last years of my life asking you to do things for me. I wish there was another person I could ask to do me this last favor, and if you can think of such a person please let me know—that would be as much a favor to me as anything else, since nothing would please me more than to see someone other than you just for once doing me a favor. I’m not sure if I’ve said so before now—and please don’t take my saying this as my saying this because I want to try to sweeten you up before I ask you to do for me this last favor—but I’m very grateful for everything you’ve done for me. I mean that. You’ve paid my bills and driven me to the grocery and to see the doctor, and because I have terrible hearing you’ve explained to me what the doctor said to me about what I should and should not do, and because my eyes have seen better days—do you like that one?—that one was just for you—because my eyes have seen better days you’ve read to me what it says on the labels of all the pill bottles I need to take pills from, and one time when you saw that I was choking you slapped me hard on the back until what I was choking on came shooting out of my mouth, and a few times, when I was feeling seriously depressed and took too many pills, you threw cold water on my face and rubbed ice on my chest and forced coffee into my mouth, and for all these things I can’t say enough thank you’s to thank you enough. But I would like to just ask you to do just one more thing for me. That is, if you don’t object. That is, if you can’t come up with someone other than you to do this last for me. As you can see, I’m in no condition to go anywhere or to see anyone. I’m grateful that you were able to come see me today, which I thought would be the last favor I would ever have to ask you to do for me. But it turns out I have this last last favor I’m about to ask you to do for me now, and it might be the most important favor I have ever asked of anyone. What I would like you to do is to bring some messages from me to all those people I don’t have the strength left to go see them one last time. This is very serious and for this you need a good memory. I know you have always had a very good memory. Do you remember how I helped you with your memory? You used to sit on the floor with a pile of colored marbles in front of you, and I would sneak up and snatch up one of these marbles, and I would hold this marble in my closed hand and tell you that you could have the marble back only if you guessed what color it was, and you would cry a little bit and sit there for a while with that pouty face you used to have and ask me please to give you your marble back, and I would say no, you need to earn your marble back by guessing what color, and you lost quite a few marbles this way, didn’t you. The truth is that sometimes you got lucky and guessed the right color and I said wrong anyway and put the marble in my pocket. But you see—this is why you began working on your memory. Am I right? Tell me if I’m not right. Because I’ve always told you you should tell me if I’m not right. Sure I’m right. At some point you must have said to yourself, Enough of this!, because all of a sudden one day I came up behind you and snatched up one of your marbles and held out my hand and told you if you wanted the marble back you would have to guess what color, and you sat there and stared hard at the marbles still on the floor—there may have been I don’t know how many, maybe fifty sixty marbles—and after a while you looked up at me and said blue, and there it was in my hand. So for this reason I think maybe you are the person with just the right kind of memory to do me this last last—I promise—favor. So unless you object to any of this—and I hope you would tell me if you do—I might as well get started telling you what I want you to say to whom. First there is my mother, God rest her soul. What I need you to do is to go to her grave and lay one flower on her headstone and tell her her son is very sorry for what he put her through when he was a boy. If you can weep, weep. But asking you to weep might be asking too much. I mean, beyond what I’m already asking. So just tell my mother I’m sorry for what I put her through. The truth is, I was murder on my mother. I was nothing but trouble from my first day walking. From even before that—the way I used to scream all hours. My mother always used to tell me that I was responsible for every gray hair on her head, and I would like for you to tell her for me that now I know she was right and that I’m very sorry how I used to wander off when she always told me to never wander off, like in the grocery or in the park. She used to turn around and—where did I go? Where did that rascal go? she would say. I would hide somewhere where I could see her, and the way she would get flustered would make me laugh, and you can tell her for me that for this and for every gray hair I put on her head I am sorry and can only hope the Lord does not give me the penance I deserve. Next I need you to take the subway from Queens into Brooklyn—you know the way, the G line or the R line or one of those lines that get you from Queens to Brooklyn—and go find my father’s grave. This is where it gets tricky. You may not know this about your grandparents: the reason my father isn’t buried next to my mother is on account of all the hatred they had between them, and the fact that he died without a penny and blamed my mother for that and for everything. My father always used to say to my mother, I don’t want to be buried next to you. Why would I want to be buried next to you? If it’s the only thing you ever do for me, make sure I’m buried somewhere far away from where you’re buried. My mother in turn blamed me for the fact that there was so much hatred between her and my father and for the fact that my father died without a penny and said such terrible things to her and had to be buried next to the bodies of strangers in a not so nice cemetery with not even a headstone with his name engraved into the stone and the date he was born and the date he died. That’s the other thing. When you get to the cemetery you’ll have to ask the people who work there—maybe they have records of these things?—where exactly my father is buried, and when you find the right place you can tell my father for me that I’m very sorry that I came into the world the way I did—I was born with a crooked hip—and caused him so many headaches—for years I had to have all sorts of doctors trying to fix my hip—and left him penniless with not even a stone to mark where he was buried. You can also tell my father that I’m very sorry for tripping over some of the lines I was asked to read at his funeral and for leaving out the last part of the prayer I was supposed to read for the repose of his soul because I didn’t think to turn the page and see that the rest of the prayer—probably the most important part—was sitting there right on the next page. And now that I’m thinking about it, when you’re in the cemetery in Queens saying sorry for me to my mother, you can add that to the list of things you’re telling her I’m sorry for—my messing up my father’s funeral and embarrassing her by not knowing enough to turn the page to find the rest of a prayer, and in the process maybe putting my father’s soul at great risk. For that last part maybe I don’t need to be so sorry to my mother. But you better mention it to my father while you’re there in the cemetery in Brooklyn—how if I put his eternal soul in any danger by skipping the last part of that prayer, I’m very sorry, and I can only hope my own soul can be forgiven for such a terrible mistake. Also, you can tell my father that I’m sorry that when I was a boy I stole some of his favorite hair gel and brought it to school with me and squeezed some of it on Mrs. Gilfeather’s seat and laughed with all the other kids when Mrs. Gilfeather sat in the gel and stood up and didn’t even know she had gel on the seat of her dress. Which reminds me. If you can somehow find Mrs. Gilfeather’s grave—I don’t know how you would go about finding it, but you were always a very smart boy and I know you’re the best person to figure something like this out—if you could find her grave and lay a flower on the stone and tell her I’m sorry for what I did that day with the hair gel, that would be just as important to me as telling my mother and father I’m sorry for what I did to them. Because if I was murder on my mother and my father, I was just as much if not more murder on Mrs. Gilfeather. I remember one time—and you should tell Mrs. Gilfeather I’m sorry for this too—she came to school with a small metal box hooked around the top of her skirt and coming out of the box were these wires which she told us were attached to her chest and had something to do with her doctor wanting to know if her heart was skipping beats. So every time Mrs. Gilfeather turned to write something on the chalkboard I made fart sounds with my mouth and when she turned back around I sat there in my seat as if nothing was wrong, and pretty soon her face turned red and the box hooked around the top of her skirt started to make all sorts of beeping sounds and she ran out of the room crying and didn’t come back to school for a week. Please, if you can remember, tell Mrs. Gilfeather I’m sorry for that and for anything else I may have done to her ever. Then there is my sister, your Aunt Helen, who last I heard was in a rest home up on Bay Seventeenth Street down in Brooklyn. This is on account of her leaky valves. She can walk from here to there, maybe, but beyond there she’s no good. So if you could go down there and tell her for me—she’s also hard of hearing, so don’t be afraid to say what you have to say extra loud for her—tell her for me that I’m sorry for not keeping up with her these last years or ever going to see her for a visit and helping her walk from here to there or even calling on her birthday to say how’s shakes and ask her how her leaky valves are doing. Also, when Helen and I were children—God, I was murder on everyone, and for that reason alone should be flogged—when we were little kids, I used to take Helen’s favorite doll—the one with eyes that opened and closed—and make like I was making out with this doll and sometimes lick up and down this doll’s face until Helen cried and my mother or my father came in and cuffed me good and told me what a good-for-nothing I was. My sister Helen used to get up early in the morning, before even my mother or my father, just to pretend to feed this particular doll its breakfast and to comb its hair and talk with it and so on, and I was just the kind of monster back then to want to ruin her love for this doll. Some might say I’m still a monster, though a different kind, for never once going to see my sister at the rest home down in Brooklyn, and for never once giving her a ring to say how’s shakes, sorry for what I did with the doll way back when and for what I used to say to you about all the blotches you used to have on your face. That was the other thing I did to my sister Helen. I used to catch her looking at herself in the mirror and tell her it was no use because looking at yourself in the mirror will never make all the blotches on your face go away, and she would cry and cry, and then my mother or my father would come in and cuff the side of my head and call me a no-good monster. Or . . . wait a second . . . was that—was that you I used to say that to about the blotches? I don’t remember now. It’s hard to remember sometimes. You can grant me that much, can’t you—that it’s sometimes very hard to remember when you’re at as late a stage of the game as I’m at? Who knows? Maybe it was you I used to say that to. Because I remember you went around for a while when you were a kid with all sorts of blotches on your face, and it’s quite possible, sure it is, that it could have been you that I caught looking in the mirror and said what I said about looking in the mirror never being able to take away blotches. Well, I said that to someone, and now I don’t know who it was. So when you see my sister Helen down in the rest home, just to be safe, tell her I’m sorry for saying what I said about her blotches, and what the hell—when you’re talking to my mother for me in the cemetery in Queens, you might as well tell her I’m sorry for saying what I said about her blotches, because now that I’m thinking about it it could have been her I said it to, and when you’re saying sorry for me to my father in the cemetery in Brooklyn, why not throw in an extra sorry about my saying something about his blotches, because now I’m remembering that my father didn’t have the greatest skin in the world—I mean, my father was never someone who people used to say about him that he had great skin—and Jesus, when you’re over there with Mrs. Gilfeather, wherever she happens to be buried, go ahead and tell her I’m sorry too for saying in front of the whole class what an ugly blotchy face she had, because it’s very likely that’s something I may have done, since I was such a monster and since Mrs. Gilfeather’s skin was some of the worst skin I have ever seen. But this is all just in case, because, like I said, it may have been you I was saying all this terrible stuff to about what blotchy skin you had, and if that’s the case then my mother and my father and Mrs. Gilfeather and my sister Helen will have gotten one more sorry than they should have gotten. But when you think about it, I was such murder on all of them that even if I give each of them one hundred extra sorrys I will probably not have given each of them even close to the number of sorrys a monster like me should give every single person he ever came into contact with. Then there is your mother and all the lies I told her. I want you to go see your mother down in Jersey and tell her I’m sorry for all the lies I told her. But the thing is she doesn’t know about all the lies I told her. So when you’re there telling her how sorry I am for all the lies I told her, you might as well tell her what the lies were and what the truths I should have told her were. Not so long after your mother and I started dating I was kissing her goodnight one night and shortly after the kiss began I pulled away from her just a little bit, and she asked me, she said, Honey—that was what she called me back then before we were married and had you and grew to hate the site of each other—she said to me, Honey, what’s wrong?, and I said to her, Nothing is wrong, why, what’s the matter, what makes you think something might be wrong?, and she said to me, The way when we were kissing you pulled away from me like that, and I said, Like what, and she said to me, Like you just did, the way you pulled your lips back away from my lips as if something was wrong, and I told her she was imagining things, why would I want to go and do a thing like that with my best sweetheart, and she said, What do you mean your best sweetheart, does that mean you have other sweethearts?, and I said to your mother, Come on baby, come on, now you don’t think—, and she looked at me in that way you may have seen her look at me as if she doesn’t believe a word and needs more reassurance, so I said to her, Come on, you can’t possibly think—, and she smiled and I kissed her forehead and told her I had to get back home so I could dream about her—some lovey nonsense like that—and we said goodnight and that was it. But the truth of the matter—and this is one of the things I want you to tell your mother for me—is that I really did have other sweethearts, and what was worse was that one of these sweethearts was my best sweetheart, and I wanted to get home so I could lie in bed and think about this other young lady, who I would see on the nights I was not seeing your mother or any of the other lesser sweethearts, and while you’re at it you could tell your mother that the real reason I pulled my lips away from her lips was on account of the bad breath she had—it was nothing to do with the food she ate, it had something to do with something in her stomach, I mean something deep in the juices of her stomach, for which you would need to see a special doctor and get special medications or something. I know this because there were many nights I would offer your mother peppermint suckers—Take a few, I would say—and she would ask me, Is it my breath, my God, tell me the truth, is it my breath?, and I would say, Come on baby, you’re my number one sweetheart, and she would suck on these suckers I would give her, but when it came time to kiss her goodnight there was always this—I don’t know what to call it—this stale aftertaste to her mouth, and I would find myself pulling my lips away from hers and saying some lovey nothing into her ear. So that’s how come I know your mother’s bad breath had nothing to do with her mouth and had everything to do with her stomach. Why I married her with such bad breath was because she had lovely skin. Your mother had—and probably still has—some of the loveliest skin I have ever seen. I suppose you could also tell your mother for me that the time I grew a mustache was because I knew a woman I worked with was attracted to men with mustaches. Your mother said to me, What made you decide to grow a mustache?, and I said, Because I thought you would like it, and she said to me, I don’t very much like it, it prickles my face when you go to kiss me goodnight, and I said to her, Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know that, and whenever I went to kiss your mother goodnight she would say, Ouch, or, Watch out with that mustache, and I would say, Sorry, I keep forgetting, I’ll shave it off tomorrow, and as you can see I never shaved it off and I never had to kiss your mother goodnight any longer than it would take her to say, Ouch. And do you remember the time when you were maybe seven years old and I told you I was going to take you to the park to teach you how to throw a frisbee? You said that you didn’t want to go to the park or learn to throw a frisbee, and I told you that all the kids were going around throwing frisbees, so you were better off coming with me to learn how to throw one before you were put in a situation with some kids your age where you might be embarrassed if you didn’t know how to throw one, and your mother said to me something like, Leave the boy alone, if he doesn’t want to go he doesn’t want to go, and I asked her if she knew just how many kids were out there every day throwing around a frisbee, and she said, No, and I said, Well then. So we went. Do you remember that day? How I took you to the park and set you up with a frisbee and told you to keep throwing it as far as you could and to keep running after it and picking it up and throwing it again? Well, what I want you to tell your mother for me is that I pushed so hard to bring you to the park that day and all the other days—even after you knew how to throw a frisbee probably better than any other kid—because I had already made plans to meet my number one sweetheart—who I didn’t want to marry because I wanted her to stay my number one sweetheart—and needed an excuse to get to the park where I told her I would meet her. So while you were chasing around the frisbee, I was off with this lady, and I want you to tell your mother for me how terribly sorry I am for being that kind of a monster and for setting up her son with a frisbee and leaving him out of my sight while I was kissing this woman who had lovely skin and a fresh taste in her mouth. Tell your mother I should be murdered for doing something like that. And it would be an extra special favor to me if you could also try to find this lady I went to the park to see—her name is Rose Fischetti, and if she’s still alive she probably lives in the Bronx—and tell her I’m sorry for telling her for so many years I was going to leave my wife for her and then when your mother and I split up running off with some other sweetheart I had found. I’m pretty sure she’s the last person I can think of right now who I need to say I’m sorry to, though I’m sure there are others out there. In fact, after I’m gone, if you ever run into anyone who tells you they knew me, right away tell them for me that before I died I said I was sorry for whatever I did to them. Jesus, if I could go back in time knowing what I know now about how it feels to be dying with so many sorrys to say to so many people. Wait a minute—I just remembered. You can also tell her—Rose Fischetti, I mean—that I’m sorry about the one time I refused to go into a restaurant with her on account she had so many runs in her stockings. She had lovely skin and a sweet taste in her mouth, but she was always running around with runs in her stockings. But the most important thing is that you tell your mother for me about those lies I told her, and that I know I have always been a monster and will die a monster and certainly deserve more than anyone else the wrath of my Maker. Take now, for instance. I asked you to come here to see me as the last favor I would ever ask of you, and only when you got here did I tell you that I had this last last favor to ask you to do for me. But the truth of the matter is that I knew before I even called you that I was going to ask you to do this last last favor for me, and Jesus Christ, I didn’t even offer you a glass of juice. What kind of monster am I that I’ve had you here for how long and I didn’t even think once to offer you a small glass of juice? If only I could have known five or ten minutes ago what I know now. But the last thing I want you to do now is to get up from where you’re sitting and get yourself a glass of juice! Because the only reason—God help me—I started to feel sorry for not having asked you if you wanted a glass of juice was because I started to feel thirsty and thought to myself that I would like a glass of juice, and I thought the best way to get you to get me a glass of juice would be to offer you one, and this way while you were in the kitchen getting your glass it would be no problem for you to bring me mine. But this is just business as usual for a lifetime monster, and it kills me to think that I couldn’t just for once think of someone else and want you with no strings attached to have a simple glass of juice—Jesus, oh Jesus, what have I done, oh God, oh Jesus God, what have I done with my life, oh Christ, oh Christ Almighty, I can’t breathe thinking about everything I’ve done, my throat is closing up on me, Jesus Mary and Joseph, I can’t breathe, I can’t swallow, oh Jesus, oh Son, oh my son, would you do for me a favor, please, I’m begging you, your father is begging you, I can’t breathe, my throat, oh Son, I promise this is the last last last favor I’ll ever ask of you, I promise, the last last last, would you go into the kitchen for your father, please, hurry, and get for him what might very well be, God help us, his last glass of juice?

Gentility, by June Unjoo Yang

Evenings, he teaches an amateur watercolor class at the local community college. His students are housewives baffled by the proper use of perspective, their foregrounds peppered with importunate saucer-eyed spaniels, fox cubs huddled in foliage, deer. They’re wounded, says Barb, a new divorcée. Get it?

Yes, he gets it, averting his gaze from her short skirts with slits up the front and slightly off to one side, fashionable five years ago. He leans over her easel and sketches in tree trunks, the papery bark of a white birch, rings in a cut redwood. She presses against him with the tops of her breasts spilling over her pushup bra, purple lace visible through the weave of her blouse. There are freckles in the folds of her skin. Old skin. He could tell her, lay off, she’s barking up the wrong tree, but he adds a pond to her forest scene, a riot of Spanish moss and shy creatures watching from their dark nooks and crannies. He likes Walden, the last book he read in its entirety; could he, like Thoreau, go it alone and never regret the decision? He wonders. Sometimes he thinks he could tenant a cave, a garden hewn in limestone, the slow drip of stalactites to mark time passing.

Like sightless fish, he shrinks from too much sun, sweltering beneath an afghan crocheted by an aunt who had raised him when his parents died, her sitting room crowded with kitsch: heart-shaped candy dishes, ashtrays spoofing urns, and the porcelain drummer boy he detested for its rouge and Clara Bow lips. One day he aimed a baseball at that mail-order cherub and knocked it to kingdom come. A red-letter day; he couldn’t stop smiling at the memory. He’d never apologized to his aunt for it, either, but when she died, she left him the house and everything in it, as if scolding. He has filled it with his paintings of saucer-eyed children. He used to have visitors, young friends he chatted up and asked to model for him, but he never ever touched them. He bought them gingersnaps and watched them stuff the crumbs into their mouths with plump fingers, fists. They gave him pleasure, just watching. Now he buys cookies for himself and eats them every night, alone, with a glass of milk on his bedside table.

Sometimes he brushes his teeth, sometimes not. Before retiring, he likes to swill tepid water against his teeth to revive the old gingery flavors.

A Huge, Old Radio, by Ander Monsen

Josh waits his turn, shirtless, in the dark. He hears his friends’ voices tossing back and forth in the quiet, wet air up ahead, punctuated by spurts of canned music and talk coming from behind, open car windows a hundred feet back on M-26 through Baraga, through L’Anse, by the Reservation. They’re here to jump off the rushing spout of Canyon Falls into the pool below. An early winter rite. A flashlight trolls across the rocky pathway and disappears. A brief ‘Cannonball!’ and a second of silence, then a muffled two-tone splash—ba-whoosh—somewhere up ahead.

It’s October. The first snowfall hit last night and was gone by morning, burned off by a warm late fall sun—probably the last day before real, sticking snow. The snow here comes and goes, piles up and gets burned off, until it settles in for six months, collecting dirt, salt, and urine, blackening on the sides of roads and plowed driveways.

The cars parked in the short two-rut road off the highway are in states of disrepair. Jelly’s Aerostar with the driver’s side mirror bashed off, hanging by a black cord, taken off on a birch tree driving home from the Breakers last summer. Dan’s old key-scratched blue Ford Fairlane running only through the grace of God he says, kept with a King James Bible and a Virgin Mary figurine in the cracked dashboard recess. People feel up the Virgin Mary and tear out the pages in the Bible when they ride with him. Because the car’s metal body is so rusted out from road salt and extended winter, you can see the space in the walls and the floor. There’s a huge hole in the back of the roof in which rain collects, spawning bugs and mosquitoes that bite backs and necks.

Josh has taken his dad’s climate-controlled company car without permission, a Lincoln Mark VIII with speakers and working sound. This is the only still-whole car in the group, but no one will ride with him—he doesn’t have a full license yet. Only half the group likes him. He’s a week shy of sixteen.

Throwing a quick hopeful glance over his shoulder, he can’t make out the vehicles hidden in the black air. It’s so dark, he can smell boys’ bodies clearly up ahead but can’t see. No one’s speaking. The line is halted. Thin Rupert must be up ahead, teetering on the edge, his breath stuck, his fingers grasping in his pockets for his inhaler. “Hey guys?”

“Jump, you fuck!”

Chuckles echo from someone else up ahead.

“Who’s that up there?”

“Listen—”

Paul is telling the Goat Boy story again.

Everyone knows the story; everyone listens. Laughter breaks out from the line when he gets to The Cross! The Cross! part. It’s not as funny, though, this time. Josh can hear wet, asthmatic hacking from below. Like something from a movie or a book. Like emphysema and the breathing machines his grandfather had in the last month of his life. The story doesn’t work as well in this place, this particular dark. It feels like they’re in something’s mouth.

The words get lost in the wet air, among the birch trees that populate these woods like huge white vertical bars. Paul’s mom died last year. Nobody talks about it. The image of her offering fruit salad in a big red bowl to everyone at Halloween, face wide in a cherry-lipsticked smile, keeps coming back to Josh, breaking down his laugh, making it mechanical, dysfunctional, strange.

He feels stupid.

Tiny pinpricks of cold all over his neck and back. It must be snowing again. The cold makes his skin feel hot. Move ahead.

He hears a half-caught breath and reaches out ahead of him to touch Paul’s skin, but finds nothing, feels the air swirling. A splash down below.

“Yeah, that shit.” Rupert’s voice comes up reinforced from below.

A dash of laughter cut off in the middle. A smell like old dirt under a house, moving, filled with pill bugs and sticky worms.

“Ya fucking shitball.”

Tiny hairs poke out, erect, from his legs,

“God it—”

He can feel the edge falling away, disintegrating under his toes. There is a honk from the road. A tire-squeal. The air from below moves against his chest, melting the snow before it hits his body, so he’s crowned with hundreds of tiny drops. From below it might look bright and gleaming, like sweat when the flashlight moves across. He thinks he might look like Jesus. He’s the last one in line.

“Get your ass…” The flashlight vanishes.

It’s different up here against the edge. Everything below is hidden in the swirling, gently snowing darkness. Josh can hear their broken muttering coming up from below. For an instant, he thinks the world might be a huge, old radio, alive and electric with voice and squeal, the crossover of stations bleeding into one another. Like the kind Paul has in his living room, with a big luminescent dial that clicks when you turn it, and a knotty wood cabinet—the signal coming in clear then breaking up into a static hush, repeating.

“Shouldn’t…cold…”

He’s steaming now. Like pasta in a colander. Or breath coming out in winter. A breast fresh from the bath seen through the old keyhole in a door. Like a kidney pulled right out of the body. The air around the freshly dead. Like microwaving all the water out of a potato until it’s dry, a rind.

The flashlight comes up against him again, illuminating the air around his thin wet chest. Smoking, burning off. He wonders how he looks, who he is right now. Inhales, raises his arms, lets the pits breathe. A shiver. Strobe effect. Sublime. He thinks about his mom, and Paul’s mom, tries to summon a sharp clear image of them both at one time but can’t hold it, starts to breathe out, leans forward, and lets himself go—drops like a spinning cat’s eye marble in a deep, deep well—into the cooling black air. He falls. Dark. Free in this moment. Then light. Down. Melting. The stars disintegrating in the sky. The radio waves through and through him. The air below warming with his passage, moving up. Conversation and convection. Slices of Bon Jovi. Everything steam and motion. Filter. A vector. Depth and car alarm. Snow and snow and snow.