by J.E. Beville
I dreamt all night long
That pus was weeping from
Both my nipples, razed peaks
Bubbling up with neutrophils.
Today cramps are trying to do
A week's work in one hour.
For one year give this
Abomination to the men.
When a mourning dove loses its mate
It commits suicide, flies headlong
Into a plate glass window, lights
Immovable in a roadway, sits
Atop a high perch in a lightning
Storm. It is a myth it misses its
Lost love, a fable of the forlorn,
Solitary sounds of loneliness
Issued with longing, misheard and
Misconstrued. They are not sounds of
Mourning heard, but the dove’s own death song,
Cooed by one left alone, preparatory
To a self-devised destiny with death.
About the author, Ned Randle:
My poems have appeared in a number of literary publications such as The American Poetry Journal, The Spoon River Quarterly, Poydras Review, Emerge Literary Journal, Barnwood International Poetry Magazine, The New Poet, Hamilton Stone Review and Four Ties Literary Review. "Running at Night-Collected Poems" was released April 1, 2013 by Coffeetown Press. My chapbook, Prairie Shoutings and Other Poems, was published by The Spoon River Poetry Press, Bradley University.
I also write fiction. My debut novel Baxter's Friends was released June 1, 2013 by Coffeetown Press, Seattle to very good reviews. My second novel Cemetery Road has been accepted for publication. My most recent short story "Potential" appeared in the May 2017 edition of The Examined Life-The Literary Review of Carver Medical College, U. of Iowa. Another, "Clyde", appeared in the Jan. 2016 edition of Soundings Review-Northwest Institute of Literary Arts. "Wild Bill" appeared in Red Earth Review, Summer 2014.
“In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper” – W.H. Auden
Loitering outside taxpayer brain-labs
with hat in hands, the entrepreneur
picks up the gold coins thrown
to the ground by government workers.
When the businessman has manufactured
enough for interest in a certain glow
on the purchase button, pop culture
buys another self-made man.
The mannequins lie through passers-by
teeth that smile in envy.
The crowd in the stadium
had more to do with DARPA
than the concession stand fan thought.
The secret remains deep in the US
with so many contraptions rushing
around town and now in the air
that even the flag waver remains in a fog.
About the Author: Rich Murphy’s poetry collections have won two national book awards: Gival Press Poetry Prize 2008 for Voyeur and in 2013 the Press Americana Poetry Prize for Americana. The poems here are from “Asylum Seeker,” the third in a trilogy focuses on globalizing Western / American culture due from Press Americana in 2018. The first collection in the trilogy is Americana and Body Politic, the second, is published by Prolific Press in January 2017. Murphy’s first book The Apple in the Monkey Tree was published in 2007 by Codhill Press. Chapbooks include Great Grandfather (Pudding House Press), Family Secret (Finishing Line Press), Hunting and Pecking (Ahadada Books), Phoems for Mobile Vices (BlazeVox) and Paideia (Aldrich Press).
by Karl Harshbarger
Jack Ammerman, an associate professor of English at the University of Pittsburgh, had slept with thousands of his female students.
Well, not thousands, but certainly hundreds.
All right, he hadn't actually slept with them. But in a way, in a manner of speaking, he had violated them: He had imagined what it might be like to sleep with them.
And - Ammerman was absolutely sure of this - these young women had also violated him. Because certainly his imaginings weren't all that one-sided. These girls, that is, the ones he imagined what it might be like to sleep with, had certainly maneuvered to place themselves dead square in front of his life. They came into his office or stopped him in the hallway or talked to him out on one of the sidewalks of the university, and somehow, by the tilt of their heads, the tossing of their hair, the tone of their voices, or whatever it is that young women do in these situations, had managed to convey the message: I am dreaming of you.
Not that Ammerman had ever followed up on any of this.
After all, he was a happily married man.
He was. He had been happily married - as these things go - for almost 12 years now.
And, further, he was more than aware there could be consequences. Legal consequences. Career consequences. Worse.
He wasn't crazy, after all.
Also, in addition, he understood something of the psychology of these young women - the ones who maneuvered to place themselves in front of his life. They weren't really available. Because these girls were essentially nice girls, the girl-next-door kind of girls, the truth being they were simply experimenting, trying themselves out, growing toward womanhood. In that sense they were playing a game. And like all games, this game had its rules. For sure (and probably this is why they had chosen him) they were counting on Ammerman to hold up his end of the game. Which meant that he was to remain unavailable. Which meant that he was to remain happily married.
And, so, finally, if everyone, on his side, Ammerman, and on their side, all these girls, played by the rules, it was all very enjoyable and nobody would get hurt.
* * *
Yet that was perhaps about to change.
Because a female student named Cindy Carson had set up an appointment with Ammerman in his office at 10:30 in the morning. Cindy Carson was one of Ammerman's many, many students and was taking his course, "Modernity and Restoration Comedy." She had, Ammerman discovered by consulting his grade book, received a C- on her term paper, a paper she had entitled, "An Analysis of Congreve's The Way of the World." Ammerman assumed she had made this appointment to talk about that C-.
"Good morning, Dr. Ammerman," said this Cindy Carson at Ammerman's office door at 10:28. She smiled a bright smile. As most girls do in these situations.
"Good morning," said Ammerman moving from behind his desk to one of the two chairs he used for consulting with students. "Please come in."
"Shall I close the door, Dr. Ammerman?"
"Yes, could you?"
Ammerman sat down in one of the chairs and indicated to Cindy Carson that she was to sit in the other.
Except she was wearing a short skirt. Actually an exceptionally short skirt. In fact, so short it more than occurred to Ammerman that it would have been far more decent of him to be sitting back behind his desk and not in a chair opposite. Because how in the world was this girl going to protect her modesty as she sat down?
"Here?" said Cindy Carson looking at the chair Ammerman had indicated.
"Yes, please, if you don't mind."
Of course, Ammerman didn't get up and move behind his desk. He remained seated right where he was. And Cindy Carson did sit down.
While preserving her modesty.
She managed this by keeping her legs tightly together and edging herself sideways into the chair.
No frontal assault.
"So," said this Cindy Carson.
"So," said Ammerman.
He watched her pull at the hems of her skirt perhaps moving them a fraction of an inch forward.
Then she crossed her legs.
And that was a frontal assault.
Because Ammerman saw a flash of white from under there.
After that flash of white Cindy Carson leaned over and pulled her paper out of her rucksack. She placed the paper on her lap, looked up at Ammerman and smiled.
"So?" she said again.
"So?" said Ammerman.
"So?" she said.
This was not going quite to plan, thought Ammerman.
Nevertheless he reached over to his desk for his grade book, opened it and ran his fingers down the names of the students in "Modernity and Restoration Comedy" until he came to the name, "Carson, Cindy."
"Ah, yes," said Ammerman.
He looked up from the grade book to her and saw she was continuing to look right at him.
"Miss Carson, according to my grade book I see gave you a C- on your paper."
"Yes," she said.
"And you're here to talk about your paper?"
"Well, then, perhaps then we should proceed to the business at hand."
Ammerman replaced the grade book on his desk.
"Probably the best place for us to start, Miss Carson, is for you to tell me what you understand to be the central point of your essay."
"Yes," said Cindy Carson.
She looked down at her paper, studied the first page for a while and then turned to the second page.
And now that her attention was fixed on her paper Ammerman had some leisure to study her. First, that short skirt. Really unusually short. Why in the world had she chosen to wear such a skirt to school? Then her long legs, quite well shaped, actually, finally disappearing under her term paper into her skirt. Then the rest of the body, very nice, very, very nice, a tight waist and the tops of her breasts showing at the scoop of her blouse. Blonde hair, too. But the face. Not the most beautiful face. But not the worst either. Slightly pockmarked. Chickenpox as a child?
But overall? Well . . . yes.
And therefore, just for a moment, and only for a moment, and very much in the land of make-believe or other realms that would or could never happen, Ammerman wondered what it would be like to reach out and cup a hand over one of those breasts. That is, without the unfortunate interference of the blouse. Would he, he wondered, choose the right one or the left one?
Cindy Carson continued to turn a few more pages of her term paper.
"That is," said Ammerman returning to the real business at hand, "perhaps you could comment on the main argument you were attempting to put forward."
"Yes," said Cindy Carson.
"Your central idea perhaps. That is, your controlling theme."
Suddenly Cindy Carson deliberately - and there could be no question that it was quite deliberate - turned her paper over and put her hands over it in such a way as to indicate the paper was no longer under discussion.
Having done this, she looked up at Ammerman.
She looked at him and he looked at her.
For 5 seconds, 10 seconds, 20 seconds, whatever.
Then she said, "Maybe you should call me 'Mrs. Needit.'"
"What?" said Ammerman.
"Or 'Mrs. Wishforit.'"
Ammerman wasn't sure he had just heard what he had just heard.
But he had heard what he had just heard.
This girl, after all, was taking his course in Restoration comedy, and these late 17th and early 18th century English plays were populated with not only the usual beautiful men and women in their sexual prime, but also by older, ugly and silly women with names like Mrs. Wantit, Mrs. Wishforit, and so forth, who hungered after lovers.
"Or, perhaps," said Cindy Carson still looking directly at Ammerman, "'Mrs. Takeme?'"
Ammerman kept looking at her and she kept looking at him.
"If you understand my drift," she said.
* * *
Needless to say the rest of the day as Ammerman went through his various tasks and duties he thought of little other than those last words spoken in his conference with Cindy Carson. By four o'clock when he closed and locked the door of his office and left some papers to be copied with the secretaries at the English Department and he had made up his mind.
The main issue, the central issue, he told himself as he walked down the corridor and took one of the six elevators of the Cathedral of Learning down to the ground floor so that he could catch a bus back to his house in Squirrel Hill, was how to extract himself from this difficult, and, if he thought about it, rather comic, even Restoration comedy, complication. That is, first of all, and most importantly, how to extract himself; and then, secondly, and this was also important, how to extract himself without hurting her. That is, how to say to her, no, Cindy, it would really not be a good idea at all to continue on this course without making her feel that he was in any way rejecting her, that is, her sense of herself as a human being. That somewhat pockmarked face, for example.
But, as the elevator descended and stopped at this floor and that floor to let people in and out, Ammerman also thought over the fact that Cindy Carson had, in fact, chosen him. Not some other professor. Him.
Well, and he had to admit this to himself, the truth was he wasn't just any professor, some young type, for example, she had met in a disco who wanted to throw her in bed and get into her pants. He, Ammerman, was of a quite different sort. An older and wiser man. Happily married. Gentle. Kind. Giving. That kind of man.
And it wasn't completely, completely impossible to imagine the two of them agreeing to meet somewhere, a room, and apartment, a place, of course, in another part of Pittsburgh far from the university, sharing a glass of wine from a bottle he had brought, toasting each other, that sort of thing, and finally, after they had both finished their glasses of wine and perhaps were both standing at the window looking out onto the street, she in front of him, he could imagine his putting his arm around that narrow waist of hers, the first touch, and his saying to her, "Well, Cindy?"
Just why not?
Why not? Because the whole damn thing was crazy. That's why not!
Think of the consequences, thought Ammerman. To himself. His marriage. His career. Worse.
The doors to the elevator hissed open and along with the others Ammerman stepped out into the lobby of the Cathedral of Learning.
Someone was calling to him. This someone turned out to be Bill Kyte, an occasional graduate student and an occasional friend, long hair, hippie way of dressing.
"Hey," said Bill Kyte.
"Hey," said Ammerman.
"I'm dumping this joint, Jack!"
Bill Kyte threw the information at Ammerman: He was off, shagging a trip to Mexico, maybe the rest of Central American, maybe gone for two months. Maybe longer.
"Really?" said Ammerman.
"Want to come, Jack?"
"Oh, sure. When do you leave?"
"Tomorrow, Jack, tomorrow."
"Don't know. Got some classes to teach."
"Toss it all, Jack. Toss it all."
They walked out through one of the revolving doors to the courtyard outside the Cathedral of Learning.
"And your place?" Ammerman found himself suddenly asking. He had been over to Kyte's apartment in Shadyside a number of times to drink a beer or even sometimes share a joint.
"My place? Why you asking? You need a hide-away, Jack?"
"No, no. Just wondering."
"A little nest for a bird?"
"Not at all.”
"Come on, Jack. No fiddling with me. You want a set of keys?"
"I don't think so."
"Come on, Jack."
"Well . . . ," said Ammerman.
Bill Kyte pulled out a ring of keys and extracted two of them.
"This one opens the front door of the building and this one opens my door."
"Just in case," said Ammerman.
"No stains of the sheets, Jack."
* * *
All this was developing something like a novel, thought Ammerman as he got off the bus the next morning and walked toward the Cathedral of Learning along with the streams of students. First the girl makes the blatant approach to him. Well, perhaps not blatant, but at least an approach. Actually, though, pretty blatant. Then, out of the blue (how often had this ever happened to him?) he is offered a hide-away apartment. In the novels Ammerman taught the protagonist always thinks these fortuitous events leave him no choice but to continue on the path of his adventure. But Ammerman knew better. The protagonist was always free to extract himself.
As he, Ammerman, certainly was.
Yet, on the other hand (and wasn't there always an "other hand?"), all right, here was the truth: He did desire her. He wanted to cup his hand over one of those breasts. He wanted to slip his hand between her legs under her skirt.
Walking along the sidewalk with all the other students, the tower of the Cathedral of Learning looming over him, Ammerman realized he was beginning to get an erection thinking his hand under her skirt.
"Hi, Dr. Ammerman!"
"Hello, Dr. Ammerman!"
Two female students from one of his classes.
"Hi, there!" said Ammerman.
"Great morning!" said Ammerman.
And, suddenly, there she was in front of him, Cindy Carson, going in one of the revolving doors to the Cathedral of Learning, carrying her books in the crook of her arm, in jeans today, but still the long legs, the tight waist, her blond hair flowing down over her shoulders, the next event of the novel unfolding right in front of him.
He followed her through the revolving doors as if he had no choice and then followed her into one of the main elevators again as if he had no choice, even allowing himself to be pressed by other people beside her at the back of the elevator, again as if he had no choice. Their bodies were actually touching.
She turned and recognized him.
"Hello," she said.
"Hello, Miss Carson," he replied.
They rode together, side by side, bodies touching, not saying anything, the elevator stopping at different floors to let people on and off, and as it was stopping at the floor for the English Department, Ammerman said "Oh, Miss Carson, perhaps you could step into my office. I have that paper for you now."
He said this in what he hoped was an official enough sounding tone of voice.
He wasn't sure she got off with him, but as he walked down the hallway toward his office he heard her following him, and when he got to his office door and stopped to insert the key, he turned and saw it was, indeed, she.
"Won't you come in, please?"
He opened the door, she came in, and he closed the door behind her.
Even though she was wearing jeans and not a short skirt, she still sat down in the chair opposite Ammerman's chair in that sideways, edging-in way keeping her legs together.
Ammerman adjusted himself down into the other chair.
"Good morning," he said to her.
"Good morning," she said to him.
They looked at each other. For 5 seconds, for 10 seconds, for 20 seconds, whatever.
It came to Ammerman that this situation was getting a bit out of control.
So he decided to put it back in control.
"Miss Carson, listen to me. I've thought about everything. I've thought about everything a lot. About you and me. And I want you to know. I find you very attractive, I do. You are a very, very attractive young woman. And in another time and another place, well . . . . But . . . and you know as well as I know . . . we can't go any further with this. I'm your teacher and you're my student. Do you understand?"
"Yes," she said.
"And that's all right?"
Cindy Carson stopped looking at Ammerman and instead turned to her rucksack at the side of her chair. Ammerman watched her as he reached into her rucksack, found a tissue, then pressed the tissue into her eyes.
She's crying, thought Ammerman.
Ammerman glanced out the window of his office door into the hallway where he could see people passing by. A girl student crying in a professor's office . . . well, that sort of thing happened.
He waited until the crying eased, occasionally glancing at the window of his office door.
Suddenly she looked right at Ammerman. It was almost as if something physical had hit him: the redness, the pain in her eyes.
"You!" she said.
She began to get up.
She sat down.
"Cindy, I've found a place."
"I've found a place."
"What do you mean, 'a place?'"
"A place. For us. For you and me. Where we can go. Together."
"It's a nice place. I've been there many times. It belongs to a friend of mine. But he's moved away for a while. To Mexico."
"A friend of yours?"
"Not really a friend. Someone I know. And he gave me the keys. I've got them right here."
Ammerman pulled out his own ring of keys and showed her the two keys on it Bill Kyte had given him.
"Those are the keys?"
"Those are the keys."
"For the place?
"For the place."
Once more they looked at each other.
Then she lowered her eyes.
"And you . . . ?" she finally said. "Do you want me to go . . . to this place?"
"Yes, Cindy. I do."
"Yes, I'm sure."
She raised her eyes to his.
"You're very sure?"
"Cindy, I am very sure."
* * *
They arranged for two mornings from then at nine o'clock. Ammerman explained to Cindy Carson exactly how to recognize the apartment building. He even drew her a map. Next to Mom's Eatery on Shadyside's main street, the red door to the right. He would get there a little early and she was to ring the bell marked for "Kyte." Then he would buzz her in.
And that's where Ammerman found himself in two mornings: in front of the red door. He'd even gone into Mom's Eatery and gotten himself a coffee-to-go. A couple of students in there had recognized him. "Hi, Dr. Ammerman," they had said. "Tanking up?" He smiled at them and said "hello." Probably no problem there. That is, that he was recognized. What was wrong with dropping in at Mom's Eatery in Shadyside for a cup of coffee-to-go? A perfectly natural thing to do.
He inserted the key in the lock of the red door. But what was this? The key didn't turn the lock.
Of course! The wrong key. He tried the other key, and, thank God, it worked.
Ammerman quickly stepped in, closed the door and climbed the wooden stairway. It curled around to the first landing, past doors which he assumed were for other apartments, then up another flight and more doors and up to another flight until he reached the top landing. Here there was only one door in front of him and it was covered by a poster of a SCI FI version of an almost naked woman holding ray guns in both her hands. Ammerman inserted the key in the lock (he chose the right key this time), turned the key and the door opened.
A heavy-set woman of about forty or forty-five, wearing a pair of men's pajamas, looked up from a table at the kitchen-end of a long room where she was drinking a cup of coffee.
Ammerman stopped in the doorway.
"Hi, there," said the woman. She must have just gotten out of bed because her hair was all over the place. "You must be the prof whose having a fling."
What in the world? thought Ammerman still standing in the doorway.
"Not to worry," said the woman. "I'll be gone in ten minutes."
"No, I'm leaving," said Ammerman.
"Leaving? Leaving? Hey, no reason to flee. I'm out of here."
Ammerman knew he shouldn't. That is, enter this apartment. He knew very well that he shouldn't. That perhaps he had been compromised.
"Hey, come in!" said the woman.
But, even knowing that he shouldn't, knowing very well that he shouldn't, Ammerman stepped through the door into the long room.
"Coffee?" said the woman.
"No thank you," said Ammerman.
He walked by the table where the woman was sitting to the more "living room" section of the long room where he sat down in one of those chairs made out of old orange crates. In fact, all the chairs in the room were made out of old orange crates as was the coffee table.
"Which department you in?" said the woman from the “kitchen” part of the room.
"Humanities," said Ammerman, trying to disguise his actual department, English, and telling himself at the same time that it had been a mistake to come into the apartment and that what he should do, right now, in fact, was to get up and walk out the door.
"I was a student at the University once. Years and years ago. An eon ago."
"That a fact?" said Ammerman.
"Things pretty much the same?"
"Pretty much the same."
"Same old crap?"
"Same old crap."
Ammerman looked at his watch. Only five minutes before Cindy Carson would show up.
"You got some tomato coming up?" said the woman.
"I beg your pardon?" said Ammerman.
The woman stood up, took her coffee cup over to the sink, rinsed it out, placed it on the drying rack and went down the hall to the bathroom. Ammerman knew it was the bathroom because he could hear bathroom-type noises coming out of it. Finally she emerged, now only in her underwear (the woman had huge hips), and went down the hall and into another room, most likely the bedroom.
Ammerman had been checking his watch all this time. Nine o'clock on the nose. Which meant that at any moment he would hear the bell. He knew he should leave. On the other hand, he had to be here to answer the bell, didn't he? He couldn't be halfway down the stairway when Cindy Carson rang.
At exactly six after nine, finally, the woman came out of the bedroom, dressed all in black, her hair still all over the place.
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do." She went out the front door and Ammerman could hear her going down the stairway.
Thank God she was gone. Although again Ammerman told himself that he should leave. This woman being here. But now the damage, as it were, was done. She had seen him. And if the damage was done, he might as well stay.
Even if it was all a little crazy.
He looked at his watch. Eight minutes after nine.
Perhaps, it occurred to Ammerman, the bell at the front of the apartment house wasn't working. He hadn't thought of that.
He went over to the window on the street side of the room, opened it and leaned his head out. He was just in time to see the woman emerging from the building.
But no Cindy Carson.
He caught himself. He wasn't being careful. That is, leaning out the window like this. He might be seen. An associate professor of English leaning his head out the window of student digs.
He pulled his head in, and then timed himself so he only leaned out of the window once a minute and then for only the shortest time possible.
At fifteen after she hadn't arrived. At twenty after she hadn't arrived. At nine-thirty she hadn't arrived. At nine-forty-five she hadn't arrived.
It was clear.
Even Ammerman admitted this.
She wasn't coming.
* * *
That afternoon Cindy Carson, as usual, attended Ammerman’s class on "Modernity and The Comedy of Manners." He noticed her in her usual seat, second row, three chairs over from the aisle. "Noticed," was the word he used for himself. Because he had decided that in the future that's how he would relate to her. He would "notice" her. No more. She would receive the very same attention due to any other student.
This new resolution was immediately tested because right after the class he "noticed" she was following him to his office.
"Won't you please come in," he said.
This time he sat behind his desk and watched her sit down on a chair on the other side of her desk. Again she edged in sideways keeping her legs together. But it didn't matter because she was wearing jeans again.
"Well?" he said.
Nothing from her side.
"I was there," said Ammerman. "I was there at nine o'clock. In fact, I was there at ten of nine."
Still, nothing from her.
"Correct me if I'm wrong. But didn't we have an understanding? For nine o'clock?"
"Yes," she said, but so quietly Ammerman could hardly understand her.
"I didn't hear you," said Ammerman.
"I . . . thought you didn't want me to come."
"I thought you didn't want me to come."
She didn't answer him.
"Why did you think that I didn't want you to come?"
"When I woke up. This morning. I just thought . . . you didn't want me to come."
She lifted her eyes and looked at him. She was beginning to cry again.
"Cindy," he said.
She reached in her rucksack, pulled out a tissue and held it up to her eyes.
Finally she stopped crying.
"So?" said Ammerman.
"So?" she said.
"Here we are," said Ammerman.
"Yes, here we are.
"What happens now?"
"Yes, what happens now?"
"Cindy, look, I think we have to be honest with each other. Are you listening?"
"Yes, I'm listening."
"Please listen carefully."
Ammerman explained the whole situation as completely as he could. In the first place, he pointed out, it was very, very clear that she was ambivalent about going ahead and meeting him and, well, to be frank, doing certain things together. Which was totally understandable. Her ambivalence. More than totally understandable. And, as a matter of fact, she should know that he was also ambivalent about meeting her, as well as doing those certain things together. Which was also understandable. Very understandable. And, therefore, since they were both so ambivalent, since they both didn't know if they should go ahead with this, certainly the most logical thing to do was call everything off. After all, she should understand that he was happily married, loved his wife, and there was absolutely no chance in the world that he might leave his wife.
"Yes," she said. "I understand."
Then she said, "But if I were to come some other morning . . . ?"
Ammerman looked at this girl.
"If I were to actually show up. This time. You know. Show up at that apartment. In Shadyside. Well?"
"Would I what?"
"Would you . . . also be there?"
Ammerman knew as well as he knew anything in his life that he shouldn't say it. Still, he said it.
"Yes, Cindy, I would."
* * *
Two mornings later Ammerman found himself in front of the same red door on the main street of Shadyside. This time he didn't go into Mom's Eatery for a coffee-to-go. Why risk being seen, he reasoned.
After looking up and down the street to see if the coast was clear, he chose the correct key, inserted it in the lock, opened the door, climbed the three sets of stairs, put the other key in the one door in front of him at the top of the staircase and opened it.
A bigger surprise this time.
Two people sat at the table at the kitchen end of the long room having coffee. One of them was the same heavy-set forty or forty-five year old woman from two days ago wearing those same, oversized men's pajamas. The other person was a younger man, somewhere between twenty and twenty-five. He was dressed only in his boxer shorts.
"The prof," said the woman.
"Hi Prof," said the young man.
"I beg your pardon," said Ammerman.
Ammerman didn't come in. He wasn't about to repeat the same mistake as last time. In fact, he turned around to go back down the stairs.
"Hello? You're not leaving?" said the woman.
"We got lots of coffee," said the young man.
"Sorry," said Ammerman. "My mistake."
"Hey," said the young man getting up from the table and coming out on the landing, "friend of mine took you. Several years ago. Said you were a damn good prof."
"Oh?" said Ammerman stopping half way down the first flight of stairs.
"Jerry Balkwell. You remember him."
"Well, he thought you were a great. Most profs, you know, they just repeat the same thing year after year. But not you. You had a certain quality. That's what Jerry said."
"Well, that's nice to hear," said Ammerman.
Just at the moment he heard someone coming up the stairs from below.
"So," said Ammerman starting down toward the next landing. "Thank you for telling me that."
"You're not leaving?" said the woman who had also come out to the landing.
That's when Ammerman saw Cindy Carson coming up the stairs. They almost bumped into each other.
"Someone let me in the front door and I . . . ," she started to tell him, but then she saw the man and the woman at the top of the stairs looking down, the woman in oversized men's pajamas and the man in boxer shorts.
"It's all right, honey, we're leaving," said the woman. "Come on, Ed."
They both disappeared into the apartment.
"Who are those people?" said Cindy Carson.
"Those two?" said Ammerman.
"Who are they?"
"Just people. They're leaving."
"But who are they?"
"It doesn't matter."
"I thought you said . . . ."
"It's all right," said Ammerman.
"It's not all right."
"It is all right!"
"It isn't all right!"
Cindy Carson started back down the stairs and Ammerman caught up to her at the next landing.
She whirled on him.
"Shhhh! Not so loud!
She started down the stairs again and again Ammerman caught up with her at the next landing.
Again she whirled on him.
"Cindy, believe me. I'm sorry . . . ."
And what was this? Suddenly she was sobbing in his arms. Absolutely sobbing. Heart rendering. Her arms up around his neck. Him having to support most of her weight. Ammerman held her to her.
"You folks don't do anything I wouldn't do," said the woman coming down the stairway and passing them on the landing. Glancing over Ammerman saw this woman was again dressed all in black and again her hair was all over the place. The young man followed behind her. He had changed to jeans and a T-shirt.
"Hey, said the young man stopping on the landing and not paying any attention to Cindy Carson sobbing or the fact that she had her arms around Ammerman, "it wasn't Jerry Backwell. It was Tom Backwell. Remember him?"
"No," said Ammerman.
"He was real tall."
"I don't remember him."
"He sure as hell remembers you. Said you were the best damn prof at the university."
"Fun, fun, fun," said the woman from down at the front door of the apartment building. The young man gave Ammerman a thumbs up sign and went down the stairs to join her. Ammerman could hear them go out and he could hear the door close.
"Well, thank God!" Ammerman said. "Gone!"
Slowly she took her arms away from Ammerman, pulled a tissue from her purse and held the tissue up to her eyes.
"It's just . . . ."
"Take your time. It's all right, Cindy."
"It's just that those people . . . ."
"I know," said Ammerman. "Terrible people."
"I didn't think they would be here."
"They're gone," said Ammerman.
And then he said, "Cindy?"
He pointed up the stairs.
She looked at him and he looked at her, for 5 seconds, 10 seconds, 20 seconds, whatever.
"If you want," she said.
"I want," he said.
Cindy Carson went ahead of him up the stairs. The door of the apartment had been left open. Ammerman closed it behind them.
Inside Cindy Carson went towards the end of the long room, the part that looked more like a living room, and sat down on one of the chairs made out of an orange crate. She slid down in the chair this time, no edging sideways.
"How about some coffee," said Ammerman.
"Coffee? Yes, that would be nice. I guess."
Ammerman went over to the percolator on the stove and saw there were at least two cups left. He poured her a cup, set the cup in front of her on the coffee table, carried the sugar over and found some cream in the refrigerator.
He sat down opposite her and watched her take her first sip.
"And?" he said.
"We aim to please."
She looked around the long room.
"This is a bit of a strange place."
"More than a bit."
She drank the rest of her coffee.
"More?" said Ammerman.
He poured what remained of the coffee from the percolator.
"You know," she said after Ammerman had sat down again, "I was just thinking. It would be so nice if you were my actual father.
"I was just thinking. It would be so nice if you were my actual daughter."
"That maybe you lived in this apartment and I had come to visit you."
"Or, more likely, that this place was yours and I had come to visit you."
"Yes," she said, looking around again. "I see what you mean."
"Of course, I would be disapproving of the way you lived here."
"I would be afraid of your coming over and seeing how I lived."
"'And who were those two strange people, Daughter?'"
"'Oh, those? They were only here for a few days, Father.'"
"'Daughter, I want you to be careful who you associate with.'"
"But," she said dropping this little play, "it is better this way, isn't it? Don't you agree?"
"Yes, it is better this way."
Ammerman got up and went over to the cupboards above the sink and found what he was looking for. A bottle of whiskey. He also found two shot glasses and poured a little whisky into each of them.
He brought the glasses back to the table, but she waved hers away.
"No?" asked Ammerman.
"I don't think so."
"Probably you're right."
He sat down with his glass in front of him.
"A question," she said.
"A question," said Ammerman.
"Even though you're my father, even considering our new relationship, and that it's better this way, you still find me attractive."
"I can hardly keep my hands off of you."
"That's nice. That's so nice to know."
"If I were a younger man . . . ."
"If I were an older woman . . . ."
"And me?" said Ammerman. What about me? You heard what that young man said. Do you find me a good professor? Or just run of the mill?
"Oh! I agree. I think you're one of the best."
"Cindy, don't lie. You must tell me the truth. Do you really believe that?"
"Come on. You only say that because you're my daughter. All daughters think their fathers are the best."
"No, no. It's not just me. Lots of students feel that way. Something about you. Some quality."
"Some quality. It sets you apart from the others."
"That's nice. That's really nice to hear. Because sometimes, well, sometimes I wonder."
"Don't wonder. Believe me."
Ammerman looked at this girl. This girl who up until recently had just been one of his many, many students and who had turned in an essay entitled "An Analysis of Congreve's Way of the World. Who had a slightly pockmarked face.
"So, do you mind," said Ammerman, "if I drink to our health."
He held up his glass of whiskey.
"Well," she said reaching over for her glass and lifting it up as well, "maybe also a sip for me."
"Just this one time?"
"Just this one time."
They touched glasses.
"To us," she said.
"To us," he said.
About Karl Harshbarger: I am an American writer (living in Germany) and have had over 100 publications of my stories in such magazines as The Atlantic Monthly, Ploughshares, The Iowa Review, The Antioch Review, The New England Review and The Prairie Schooner. Two of my stories have been selected for the list of “Distinguished Stories” in Best American Short Stories, thirteen of my stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and I have just received a nomination for Best of the Net.
by Robert Boucheron
In June 1978, I graduated from the Yale School of Architecture and started my first full-time job in New York as a drafter-designer for the firm of Harold Buttrick, a gentleman architect on the Upper East Side. His office was in the English basement of his townhouse. He designed apartment renovations and new houses for his well-to-do friends and neighbors, with forays into their private schools, charitable projects, and carriage-trade shops. His wife, a granddaughter of the New York architect Stanford White, was also an architect. She raised their five children and drew residential projects of her own upstairs.
Buttrick was a benevolent despot to his staff of five. They included a secretary named Amy, an office manager named Hal, and two other drafter-designers. We three and Hal occupied the front room, with a door and window on the street. Amy was somewhere in the middle, and a library-conference room was in back, along with a private office for Buttrick. He was often out meeting clients and possible clients, socializing and drumming up business, a chancy pursuit.
“There’s many a slip twixt the cup and the lip,” he said.
We drew in mechanical pencil with graphite leads on vellum, a translucent rag paper that came in large sheets or rolls as wide as three feet. For a presentation, we traced in black ink using filament pens which often clogged or made blots. Drawing in ink was a slow and nerve-wracking task. We used a T-square or a parallel rule, which ran on wires attached to the drafting board, a triangle, a compass, and an array of templates. We wore dress shirts and neckties, professional attire which got in the way. Each man devised his own solution to the necktie—flipped over the shoulder, stuffed in the front pocket, clipped to the shirt front, or tucked in military-style. Ink and graphite got on our hands and clothes. Old photographs of drafters show them wearing sleeve protectors, sheaths that covered wrist to elbow.
From the vellum sheets, we made prints on newsprint coated with photosensitive chemicals. An improvement over the blueprints that showed white lines on a blue field, these blueline or blackline prints were easier to read and better for marking corrections in red. A large office had its own machine to make prints. Buttrick’s firm sent drawings to a printer located near East 42nd Street. As the youngest on staff, I was the office boy who took drawings downtown by subway. In the heat of summer, clutching big rolls of paper that grew limp from humidity, I boarded decrepit subway cars covered with graffiti like psychedelic circus wagons. I returned with fresh prints that reeked of the ammonia used to develop them.
A young architect serves three or more years of apprenticeship before he or she can take the state examination to qualify for a license. Hal, the office manager, gave me on-the-job training. In his thirties, he was short and stocky, smart and blunt.
“You ask too many questions,” he said. “Instead of constantly interrupting me, use the library and figure things out.”
Hal taught me the basics of architectural drafting, how to measure an existing building, how to inspect a construction site, and a little about the methods of getting a project built. Early in his career, he said, he was sent downtown to City Hall to deliver a sealed envelope to the official in charge of granting permits. In the 1970s, he used the high-priced services of an expediter, a person skilled in the New York City Building Code and the personalities who administered it. A quick-sketch artist, Hal drew a caricature of this man, named Nat Silberman, as a buzzing gnat.
Architectural lettering was a stylized way of writing notes on drawings using straightedge and triangle. You flattened the lead to a chisel point by rubbing it on a scratch pad or sandpaper. You wrote in block capitals in evenly spaced lines. Verticals were vertical, and horizontals had an upward slant. It was considered good form to line up notes on the left in a column, and not to scatter them across the drawing. Arrows from the notes to the things they described could be straight or curved, but like electrical wires in a circuit, the arrows must never cross. There were symbols, abbreviations, and rules. The number “8” for example, was made of two ovals. A string of dimensions had to be straight, and the feet and inches had to be checked several times to be sure they added up. Some drafters used a non-print blue pencil for guidelines. You could draw curves freehand, but a novice was advised to use the giant ellipse template or the French curve. Like a monk in a scriptorium, I labored over my drafting until Hal approved.
One morning, Buttrick hailed a cab and took me across town to the Dakota, the famous cooperative apartment building on Central Park West at 72nd Street. He left me to measure the kitchen, pantry, and service rooms for a modernization. Preparations were underway for a formal luncheon in the palatial suite on the park. As I sketched and inserted my tape measure through the hubbub, a tiny woman dressed in black darted here and there. She ignored me, and I said nothing. Later I learned that she owned the apartment.
Other projects on which I helped were the eighteenth floor of the Chrysler Building leased to a law firm, a penthouse atop a grand apartment building on Fifth Avenue, a baboon exhibit at the Bronx Zoo, and a billiard room over a garage on a Long Island estate. All that first year, I felt elated. I was working in the profession I had chosen, on interesting projects, in the city to which I aspired. After seven years of higher education, with their arbitrary demands and expenses, partly met by a series of odd jobs, at last I was earning a salary.
As for a place to live, I made shift. My first week in New York, I slept on a sofa in the apartment of an acquaintance. The apartment was high in an old building on Riverside Drive, with a sweeping view of the Hudson River. A museum administrator, Lila was married. Her husband was away on business, and she was absent most of the time. Witty and gracious, she owed me nothing. She got nothing in return when I decamped, suitcase in hand.
The Buttricks had a schoolteacher friend who left town for vacation in the months of July and August, a single woman who sublet her apartment. Miriam accepted me without question as a subtenant. The apartment was on East 89th Street in a quirky brick pile built as a residential hotel in the 1890s. Walls were massive, windows were hard to open, and bathroom fixtures dated from the period. The apartment was crammed with antique furniture and knick-knacks. I worried aloud that I might break something.
“There’s nothing valuable,” Miriam said. “There is, however, a box on the mantel that contains love letters my father wrote when he was courting my mother. He was aboard a ship in the South Pacific. You might enjoy reading them.”
I got through the summer without damage and without reading the letters. Excited to be in the big city and on my own, I walked the streets of Greenwich Village, trooped through museums, jogged around the Central Park Reservoir, and rode the Staten Island Ferry.
As September loomed, I looked for an apartment. To afford it, I would share with a friend from Yale, a man who worked for the federal civil service. We found a place on West 21st Street near Ninth Avenue in a renovated tenement. A bedroom window faced a light well. Street windows faced the rear of Public School 11, a dreary prospect. It was also noisy, as children played in the school playground. We were not prepared for the squalor of low-budget city life. We were not well-matched, either. Domestic life became strained, and after a year, he stopped talking. I looked for another berth.
A new friend lived in Brooklyn. I visited him on Wyckoff Street, walked the neighborhood, and checked ads for apartments for rent. In March 1980, I moved to Strong Place, in the area called Cobble Hill.
South of Brooklyn Heights, Cobble Hill is much like it, with a stock of brownstone, brick and stucco row houses, “one of the city’s finest collections of nineteenth-century houses,” according to The Encyclopedia of New York City, by Kenneth T. Jackson and Philip Kasinitz. Built up between 1835 and 1860, the twenty-two blocks are low-rise and intimate, with plenty of trees, several old churches and a synagogue, and a few apartment buildings and schools. Long Island College Hospital occupies the northwest corner, and businesses line the boundary streets: Atlantic Avenue, Court Street, Degraw Street, and Hicks Street, which parallels the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. The New York City Council created the Cobble Hill Historic District in 1969 and extended it in 1988.
Turned ninety degrees to the prevailing grid are six blocks formed by streets one block long: Cheever Place, Strong Place, and Tompkins Place. Henry Street and Clinton Street run through. The arrangement discourages traffic, while it encourages safety and privacy. Even more private is Warren Place, a mews-type development off Warren Street. Two rows of diminutive cottages, eleven feet wide, line an alley planted as a common garden. Philanthropist Alfred Treadway White developed Warren Place and the nearby Towers and Home apartment blocks on Hicks Street as affordable housing for the working class in 1876. Romanesque Revival in style, an early example of such housing built for profit, they were restored in 1986. Most of Cobble Hill, however, was built for the middle class: bankers, merchants, and lawyers who commuted by ferry to lower Manhattan.
History had come and gone. The Battle of Long Island in the Revolutionary War was fought here, but its earthworks were erased. The western edge, toward the harbor, was fortified in the War of 1812, also invisible. The hill that gave the area its name was cut down long ago. In the early twentieth century the area declined, and immigrants moved in. Cobble Hill took on an Italian flavor. The Catholic church of St. Frances Cabrini stands at one end of Strong Place, where I lived. By the 1950s, new buyers were renovating houses, and a revival was underway. In 1963, a tiny park was carved in the middle, between Congress Street and Veranda Place.
By chance I stepped into an urban wonderland, a pocket of architectural style. The one thing missing was public transportation. To reach the nearest subway stop, I hiked a mile to the north or east. Remoteness may have been the reason Cobble Hill survived intact. But the daily commute on trains packed full was an ordeal. The transit strike of April 1980 made matters worse for the ten days it lasted. Stranded commuters shared cabs, walked, bicycled, and stayed with friends in Manhattan. I did some of each. The Brooklyn Promenade, the elevated walkway with its spectacular view of New York Harbor and the towers of Manhattan, was a great place to stroll. And I loved the domestic scale of Brooklyn. Could green space and historical charm outweigh inconvenience?
The house on Strong Place had three stories with one apartment on each floor. Seventeen feet wide, it had a square-shaped stair in the middle, with a skylight. My apartment was on the second floor, with a big bedroom in front, a galley kitchen and a little sitting room in back, and a narrow passage between. On the passage was a bath as compact as an airplane lavatory. Built for a single family, the house had been adapted.
The new owner lived on the first floor with his wife and two young sons. Dan wanted to restore the house, but for the moment he needed the rental income. He apologized for the archaic cast-iron radiators. He promptly fixed some plaster damage—there was a leak at the front window. He said I could climb the fire escape in back to the flat roof, since I had no balcony. One summer day, I did climb to the roof, though getting past the cornice was tricky. From up there, I looked into fenced back yards, a comparative study in private gardens. I lay on a towel with a book, fell asleep, and woke sunburned.
The landlord was friendly, but we saw little of each other. The neighbors threw an annual block party in the fall. Caught by surprise, I wandered through, sampled the spicy ethnic food, and said hello. Long-time residents were wary. I did not connect, and I was unsure where I belonged. What I am sure of is that odd apartment of less than five hundred square feet was the first place I could call my own. Up to the age of twenty-seven, I shared a bedroom with a brother, a dorm room with a student, or an apartment with roommates. There were episodes of house-sitting and solitude, but this was my first crack at making a home.
I shopped for furniture in Brooklyn antique shops. I measured the apartment, drew the floor plan, and sketched possible arrangements. I still have the drawing in pencil on yellow trace paper. I also have a map of “Cobble Hill and Vicinity” that I drew in pencil. I gave photocopies of it to Manhattan friends I invited to visit. One of these, scornful of the “bridge and tunnel crowd,” said I had become “geographically undesirable.”
The antique mirror, chest of drawers, brass bed, cast-iron lamp, and colored prints I bought were of no great value. My one find was a Morris chair, an early type of armchair recliner invented by the English artist William Morris. Stripped of green paint, my Morris chair turned out to be made of mahogany, with front feet carved as lion’s paws. I discarded the worn cushions and had new ones made, covered with a Liberty of London fabric. I bought the chair for thirty five dollars and kept it for many years, through many moves. It showed up in an antique shop last year priced at three hundred fifty dollars.
In the bedroom, I laid a flush hollow-core door across a low bookcase and a filing cabinet to create a desk and drafting board. Young architects yearn for independent projects, and they often moonlight for extra money. During my stay in Brooklyn, my parents left upstate New York for rural Virginia. They bought land and asked me to draw a new house. This I did, with visits to them and the wooded site. They built the house in 1981, and they lived there until my father died in 1994. I drew other projects, and I wrote poems and stories on my college typewriter.
Nightlife in Manhattan was a problem. Taxis were extravagant. The New York City Subway ran all night, but with long waits and anxious rides. Then there was that long walk home from the station. Once after midnight, full of nervous energy, I walked home across the Brooklyn Bridge. Halfway I saw what a risk I had taken, but by then there was no turning back. No one else was abroad. It was winter, the sky was clear, and the steel suspension cables shimmered. The fresh air cleared my head. Warmed by exercise, I took off my jacket and slung it over my shoulder. I reached home safe and ready for bed.
About a year after I started work, Harold Buttrick moved his office to a rental space in Midtown, and a nephew of his wife joined the firm. Six years older than I, a Harvard graduate, Samuel White had greasy hair and a slight lisp. He affected striped shirts and Italian shoes. My mentor Hal, who had hoped to become a junior partner, perceived his doom. He left the firm to pursue independent practice. I was laid off briefly, then wrote in a letter:
I went back to work Monday at Harry’s request, though I saw no sign of work overload. That day after work, Harry and Sam and I went out for a drink at Crawdaddy, a swank restaurant. To me it was a puzzling conversation. On the one hand, they were both critical of me for not speaking up more, Harry because he misses the benefit of my opinion, and Sam because he senses controlled resentment. On the other hand, Harry dropped a hint that some sort of promotion may be coming my way: when a project small enough to cut my teeth on comes along, it will be mine to follow through construction. I suspect Sam called the meeting, as he was negative and threatening.
Soon after this, Buttrick invited us again for a drink after work, this time at the Harvard Club on West 44th Street. In brown leather armchairs in the vast parlor meant to resemble a baronial hall, he again praised my work. Sam, as if to make casual conversation, quizzed me on my plans for the future. He then suggested I might be happier employed somewhere else. That night I made a panicky phone call to Hal.
“You have to face reality,” he said. “It’s not the end of the world.”
I searched for a new job, found one, and gave two weeks’ notice. Buttrick was sorry to see me go and asked for a delay. Again, there was no turning back.
At the firm of Edward Larrabee Barnes, a prominent American architect, I joined a team to develop the design of the new Dallas Museum of Art. The environment was high-style, and the staff of fifty architects was a little United Nations. They came from Turkey, Finland, Pakistan, England, Venezuela, and especially China, thanks to John Lee, the second-in-command, who came from Shanghai. A Chinese classmate from Yale worked for Barnes, and she welcomed me.
Weary from the job hunt and the longer commute, with no family or other tie to Brooklyn, and with a higher salary to pay living expenses, I looked for an apartment in Manhattan. I went to crowded showings, filled out rental applications, put down deposits, and crossed my fingers. At last I nabbed a rent-stabilized studio. I returned to Chelsea, to better subway access and a fifth-floor view.
I joked about my year and a half of exile. Now I remember Cobble Hill and sigh. I hope that Dan restored his house, and that he and his family lived there happily ever after.