California State University (CSU): Open Journal Systems

Pearson, Marlene

Th i s  may be a Cou rt 
Hear i ng but What I hear 
makes More Sense 
This is not a game 
I wi l l  not lose my head 
without a damn good fight 
Marlene Pearson 
One more n ight may be a l l  I have 
before my world blows u p  
unti l I cockroach across sand 
unti l I crow-tumble through a ir  
th ick with lead obscenities 
and plastic phal l ic symbols 
This  is not a game 
I ' l l  not Bleak House next Thursday 
I ' l l  come out sh itt ing purple 
Alpha B its and butterfl ies 
with rent receipts in  thei r  jowls 
or else d iscard such useless language. 
I ' l l  h uddle, a defiant dragon 
brown blanket pu l led over my shedding scales 
brew herbs to d ress my wounded armor 
read candlel i t  tarot 
Pale smoke wi l l  spiral  
th in  penci l  l ine 
from my nostr i ls  to the cei l i ng 
designing new map from ancient legend 
Some d usty lawyer may blue h i s  kn uckles 
knocking u pon my door 
yel l ing his defunct words 
through my key hole 
but I wi l l  not l isten 
forest-deep in search 
of my own ti nder and a match . 
69 


English

This may be a Court Hearing but What I hear makes More Sense

Fem i n i st Books are G iv i ng  
Me Ideas 
"For each of u s  as women, there 
is a dark place within, where 
hidden and growing our true 
spirit rises." 
Audre Lorde 
Marlene Pearson 
She began from beh ind my eyes 
peering at the book whi le I was read ing. 
I am not only a casualty, 
I am also a warrior. 
She chanted the l i nes 
I am who I am, 
doing what I came to do . . .  
march ing out the words ins ide my bra in .  
She was giving me a headache. 
I tried to sit her down 
told her to keep sti l l  
not stretch out her l i mbs so. 
I warned her other people out there 
would cut them off. 
She paused a moment, and l istened . 
Then she shook her head 
reached for my hand 
I ifted i t  before my face 
and pointed at s imi larities 
in  my own fingerprints. 
She stroked my hand 
reminded me that this may take a whi le .  
I d id not resist. 
We both understood . 
She leaned her arm on my eye socket. 
Her hands pushed my l ids open wider 
and she has been read ing ever s ince .  
She wi l l  not stop. 
70 
Pearson/Feminist 
I spend n ights c l i m bi ng in and out of words. 
She repeats chapters l i ke a teacher in my sleep. 
She turns pages l i ke an exercise. 
This morn ing my cover hung from the curta i n  rod. 
When I reached for my watch,  it was gone. 
We l ive on her t ime now. 
We stay up t i l l  dawn 
deci phering poss ib i l ities 
deciding her next step. 
I offer money for books. 
She reaches i nto my pocket 
and takes all she needs. 
She sits at the table when I eat 
plann ing meals bigger than I am used to . 
She says we need the energy. 
She repeats titles l i ke a cadence 
wh i le I wal k  the dog. 
She cleaned out my c loset. 
I cheered as she threw my last pai r of heels 
out the wi ndow. We dress for comfort now she says. 
She tel l s  me when it's time to get on the road . 
I drive the freeway - observing s igns, speed l i m its . 
She grabs the wheel,  coaxing me to be sti l l .  
She would race the a i r  t i l l  she flew off the world 
except the scent of fam i l iar books has caught her attention 
agai n .  
She turns off and we find ourself a place 
with pages fu l l  of new a i r, dr ink ing i t  in l i ke vitam ins .  
I smi le. We breathe deep, stretch wide 
and flex new m uscle. 
71 


Feminist Books are Giving Me Ideas

Ackerman, Stuart

stuart ackerman 
When the Wolfsbane Blooms 
Even a man who is pure at heart, 
And says his p rayers by nig ht, 
May become a wolf when the wolfsbane b looms, 
And the Autumn moon is bright. 
-- The Wolf Man, 1941 
Standard modern definitions of attractiveness do not 
speak favorably of extensive amounts of hair growing all 
over the body, or oozing open sores covering most of the 
skin. The disadvantages are self-evident Yet, imagine being 
subject to a death sentence merely for acquiring these 
afflictions. The inhabitants of Europe in the Middle Ages not 
only could be put to death for such offenses, but often were. 
They were put to death for being werewolves. 
Legends and myths concern i ng werewolves and other 
were-an imals are some of the most culturally universal 
beliefs that mankind has ever known; but why is the idea of 
the transformation of man into animal such a compelling 
and horrifying topic, even today? The answer may stem 
from our past. Some of our richest historical accounts are 
associated with this sort of transformation or with similar 
accounts of human· like animals. 
The myths begin with Romulus and Remus, brothers who 
were abandoned at b irth, but grew up to be the founders of 
Rome. It is what happened between these two events that 
often escapes the pragmatic historian. Romulus and Remus 
were said to have been weaned by a she-wolf. Acting as 
mother and protector to two human children could certainly 
be considered human· like for such a wild animal as a wolf. 
The comparison between this she-wolf and other animals 
with human qualities ends with her benevolence. Were­
animals are not usually this friendly. For example, there was 
a certain g roup of warriors among the Norse Vikings that 
27 
Northridge Review 
were known as Berserkers. They ordinarily appeared as 
normal Nordics; however, upon going into battle they would 
whip themselves into a savage frenzy, or go berserk, and 
transform into bears. 
The explanation for this probably stops short before the 
realm of magic. The Oxford English Dictionary lists the 
etymology of the word berserk as "bear-sark" or" bear skin." 
This may explain why the Berserkers were perceived as 
bears. Their opponents didn't want to be known as cowards, 
so they told all who asked that the Berserkers transformed 
into murderous, unbeatable bears, when all they actually 
did was wear bearskins in battle. 
Dracula is another early example of a man-into-animal 
legend. Dracula and other vampires were said to have the 
ability to metamorphosize into bats, leopards, rats, and of 
course, wolves. Dracula is often referred to as having hair 
on the palms on his hands. These days, we would say that 
this was the result of autoerotic behavior; in the Middle 
Ages, m isplaced or inordinate amounts of hair were telltale 
signs of a werewolf in human form. Dracula was a real and 
horrifying image to the inhabitants of old Europe. He was 
the first recorded lycanthrope or werewolf. 
Like the Berserkers, the Dracula legend also has a basis 
in reality. Dracula's probable role model was a Transylvanian 
prince known as Vlad Tepes, but also as Vlad the lmpaler. 
Some of his atrocities include: Inviting 5,000 peasants to a 
feast at his castle and, after trapping them inside, burning it 
to the ground to prevent an uprising; nailing hats to the 
heads of foreign dignitaries who refused to remove them in 
his presence; and eating meals of human flesh while watch­
ing the strugglings of people he had impaled on nine-foot­
long wooden stakes in the ground. Vlad could impale these 
people in such a way that it took them two days to die, earning 
him his name, and a place in  the nightmares of generations 
to come. 
28 
stuart ackerman 
It would not take much for some of Vlad's subjects to 
exaggerate these acts into b loodsucking, contracts with 
Satan, and metamorphosizing into a wolf. Bram Stoker's 
Dracula couldn't be far behind these exaggerations. 
One of the most overlooked werewolf stories is that of 
Little Red Riding Hood. Think about it; a wolf plots to kill 
Red's grandma, thinks in order to outwit Red and has an 
intelligible conversation with our heroine- a seven year 
old girl (something most humans only wish they could do). 
These are all very human-like activities, as the name werewolf 
or man-wolf impl ies. 
A great many cultures have a transformation or man-like­
animal legend akin to Red Riding Hood. Men transform into 
tigers in Burma, leopards in Africa and eagles among the 
American Indians. The Egyptians had their Sphinx, who was 
part man, part lion, as well as the sun god Ra, who had the 
body of a man and the head of a falcon. These were-animals 
usually represented some fearful or punitive element, but 
as the legend of the Japanese were-swan proves, this is not 
always the case. 
It turns out that in most of these instances, the transfor­
mation from man into animal was the result of some societal 
taboo. In Serbo-Croatian legend, for instance, werewolves 
were often thus plagued because of sexual relations with 
their mothers. Other activities that caused a person to 
become a werewolf in the Europe of the Middle Ages included 
being born with teeth, born out of wedlock to parents who 
were born out of wedlock, and being weaned before time. 
The most terrifying taboo, and most common reason given 
to explain a werewolf, was arguing that a fellow villager 
signed a contract with Satan. This was the most direct way for a 
werewolf to make evil work in his favor. Within this variab le, 
the werewolf has control over his own metamorphosis. 
Outside these taboos, the avenues to becoming a were­
wolf become more varied and less logical. There were certain 
"sure fire" methods to determine who was a werewolf 
29 
Northridge Review 
based on distinguishing characteristics. If those under sus­
picion had long fingernails, lots of hair, or eyebrows that 
were linked at the bridge of the nose, there was no doubt 
that they were werewolves. If they shied away from light, 
had a wolf-like gait, had wounds that matched a murderous 
wolfs, had any excessive wounds (presumably from run­
ning around the dark forest at night and bumping into 
things), or behaved like a wolf in any manner, that was a 
dead giveaway. Paranoid villagers put scores of people to 
death simply because they had these characteristics. 
If an actual wolf went on the rampage killing a farmer's 
cattle, a shepherd's flock, or even humans, the villagers sim­
ply found the one of themselves who most resembled a 
wolf. When this person was killed, but the wolfs rampage 
continued, it was obvious that they had killed the wrong 
werewolf. The only thing to do at this point would be to find 
another wolf-man and put him to death. 
Unfortunately for the victims, these killings were probably 
not solely based in superstition. There were probably more 
villagers who fit the werewolf bill than previously thought 
possible. A Dr. Lee Ill is has written a thesis entitled Porphyria 
and the Aetiology of Werewolves. In it, Dr. lllis discusses a 
now rare disease known as porphyria The affliction manifests 
itself in several suspicious symptoms. The victims of porphyria, 
a congenital recessive-gene disease, suffer from numerous 
open sores over their entire bodies, and light is intensely 
painful to their eyes. Dr. II lis contends that any superstitious 
villager plagued by wolf attacks during the Middle Ages 
would more than likely mistake these symptoms as direct 
proof of being a werewolf. Considering that wolves get open 
sores from running around the forest on all fours, and that 
they shy away from light, what other conclusion could be 
drawn? And as if these poor porphyria sufferers didn't have 
enough problems, the disease often caused their teeth to 
become a deep red color, obviously from b iting their p rey. 
Those who had contracted porphyria didn't stand much of a 
chance against bloodthirsty wolf hunters. Dr. lllis concludes 
30 
stuart ackerman 
that because of the frequent outbreaks of porphyria during 
the Middle Ages, these villagers probably had more were­
wolves to contend with than they could possibly kill. 
So what could be worse than a disease that made a person 
look like the human version of a wolf? How about a disease 
that made a person look like an actual wolf. There is an even 
rarer medical condition known as hypertrichosis that causes 
hair to grow in excess all over the body. Those who display 
hypertrichotic tendencies have hair on their foreheads, 
cheeks, and almost anywhere else imaginable. They have 
more recently been displayed in circus side shows. Even 
though this condition is extremely rare, it would (and did) 
only take one or two instances of it to perpetuate any fear in 
the likelihood of werewolves. 
Other phenomena that may have bred werewolf paranoia 
include rabid wolves and dogs, feral children (those raised 
by wolves), and lycanthropy. Lycanthropy is a mental disor­
der that causes its sufferer to behave like and imagine he is 
a wolf. Any of these instances alone, or in unison, could be 
used as rationale for putting an innocent person to death. 
The bizarre combination of these diseases and defects 
may be slightly detached from our superstition-free exis­
tence. Even so, we still pump millions of dollars into seeing 
werewolf and vampire movies. We still observe Halloween, 
a holiday originally created to scare away evil spirits like 
those who contributed to the existence of werewolves. We 
are not as detached from our predecessors as we might like' 
to think Just remember to pluck those hairs between your 
eyebrows and bandage any open sores before going out on 
a night with a full moon; you might be considered a scape· 
goat in wolfs clothing. 
31 


When the Wolfsbane Blooms

Coleman, Bobbie R.

Bobbie R. Coleman 
Miscarriage 
"You've lost it," the doctor said 
and as I folded 
the maternity clothes 
into the cedar chest 
I watched my stomach recede 
felt the baby let go and fall 
down my vagina to the floor 
limbs and torso and head 
detaching in al l  directions 
floating out to the street, 
slithering down a drainhole, 
being sucked through the plumbing 
into the sewer 
and vanishing 
into space as empty 
as my womb. 
38 


Miscarriage

Jennings, Victoria

Victoria Jennings 
Summer On Puget Sound 
'1 Arrgghl You be quite a scurvy scalawag, says I. I have a 
notion to cut you through the gizzard, matey." 
"Aye, but if you kill me, you'll never find the dubloons. 
Dead men tell no tales." 
"You be a yellow livered coward. Take that." 
I swung my cutless around aiming for his broadside, 
which happened to be his head. He was quick and ducked 
the power of my stroke. I swung again; our si lhouettes 
clashed against the blood red sky of sunset. 
A mean looking scar cut across his face from ear to ear. 
His teeth were rotted and yellow like burnt carmel. The 
scent of his sweat was hot and steamy; it mixed with the 
cool breeze that swept across the water. 
The rotted, splintered boards of the deck creaked 
beneath ourfeet. Metal sliced through the air. Wet warmth 
crept down my arm, leaving the sleeve a darker shade of 
liquid crimson. My sword rang on the deck as the pain 
shot up my arm. With my other hand I clenched tightly to 
the rigging. The bristled rope dug sharply into my calloused 
hands as I reeled around and swung through the air. 
My feet plugged him hard in the chest. He doubled 
over like a sack of fine flour. I swung back and knocked 
h i m  again. The power of my legs covered in Spanish 
leather thigh boots easily picked him off. He fell over the 
side and I heard a satisfactory splash. 
"God-damn it, Giz!" 
I peered over the side of the His panola and stared at my 
brother. I roared with laughter when I saw his butt was 
good and squelched down in the muck near the shore. 
His  face got all red and the veins started to protrude in his 
temples, just below that horrible blonde crew-cut. 
11You're a booger!" 
45 
Northridge Review 
" Oh, don't pee your pants, Whoopie." 
I walked around the old hollowed out tree we call the 
Hispanolaand picked up my spoils of the battle. I planted 
myself good and solid on shore and peeled away the gold 
foil from my chocolate dubloon. I l ingered over it, my 
tongue ran up the sides1 the chocolate oozed and ran 
down my throat. Good chocolate is the best possible 
orgasm. 
Whoopie sloshed his way through the waist-deep goo. 
His wooden cutless we'd made from some old plywood 
dragged behind him. I lifted the patch on my eye to get a 
better look at the damage to him, thus getting a better 
laugh. Poor guy. He was soaked and covered in moss and 
river slime. Personally I thought it was an improvement, 
but he didn't seem to think so. 
"You're a turd." 
"Yeah, I happen to be the turd with all the chocolate.'' 
I stood up and wiped the sand and burrs off the butt of 
the old red bathrobe. I put the remaining booty in my 
pocket and tred towards the winding forest path. My little 
brother slopped along behind; the squish, squish of 
water-logged Keds. 
This was our second summer on Bainbridge Island, 
smack dab in the middle of Puget Sound. We lived in a 
huge Victorian house on the south side of the island; the 
white paint peeling in the hot sticky air. I guess out of all 
the places we ever lived I like this one best, even with all 
that happened there. 
I was twelve at the time, I'd be thirteen in December. 
Kinda a drag to have your birthday so close to Christmas, 
huh? Anyway, my younger brother, Whoopie, we called 
him, was ten. Our real names were Harry and Richard 
Hamilton, but we just went by Giz and Whoopie; there 
were just the two of us boys. I guess our mother was 
46 
Victoria Jennings 
relieved that it was only two, and not more. We were 
holy terrors. 
I think mother dreaded us most on the days when it 
rained, or snowed, or it was just too damn cold to go out. 
Whoop and I would turn our house into a war zone. We 
had a shitload of army soldiers and cannons and the like. 
They were made of iron and were hand painted; each one 
must've weighed a couple of ounces, and boy, could they 
do some damage. There were quite a few dings in the wall 
were an infantry man or captain had been flung. I still 
have a nice bump on my head from when Whoop cata­
pulted one of his cavalry in  anger. We were arguing over 
who was going to be "General Nu i sance." "General 
N uisance" was a joke my dad played on us; told us he was 
the greatest general ever, so naturally both of us wanted 
to be him. We were pretty stupid. 
Some people said it was real creepy to see me and my 
brother together. We had exactly the same face, only his 
was a little fatter. We both had long straight noses and 
high cheekbones, kinda l ike the Barrymore's. Steel blue 
eyes ran in our family, very cold and austere, except we 
were always laughing and hooting around. What made 
people stare at us was that Whoopie had soft golden hair; 
the total Nordic-Prussian-Aryan look, and my hair was 
black as the ace of spades. I got it from my dad who was a 
second generation Scot. 
You could really tell my dad was Scottish even if he 
didn't have the thick brogue that Grandpa did. He sure 
drank whisky like a Scot and he sure used the language of 
one. When mother wasn't around he'd sit us down and 
tell us the best dirty jokes. God, were they salty. But one 
time she overheard him telling us two little sprouts about 
Greta, 'the girl with golden gazangas', Damn, if Whoopie 
and I didn't think she was gonna pack up and leave . . .  
47 
Northridge Review 
11Who do you think is the strongest guy in the world?" 
"Why?" 
"Come on, justtell me! Who do you think is the strongest 
guy?" 
"Where do you come up with these questions, Whoopie? 
O.K., O.K. !  Strongest guy? Cotta be S i r  Lancelot." 
'1 1 think it's Flash Gordon." 
Whoopie always did this, asked stupid questions and 
then made like your answer was completely wrong. You 
know, like his answer was so superior to anything you 
could dream up. I t  always irritated me. 
"Whoopie." 
"What?" 
''Do you know what I would do if I was the strongest 
man in the world?" 
" What?" 
" I'd beat the shit out of you.'' 
We walked through the thick forest, down the small dirt 
trail. The air was fresh with the fine scent of wet pine and 
redwood. We hacked away at low branches with our cut­
Jesses and poked at the nettles and poison oak that tainted 
parts of the walkway. The emerald of the forest was afire 
with the amber and red of the sun's last rays. That sun set 
with such a bril l iance; somehow I knew I would never see 
a sunset that beautiful again . . .  
" Hey! H ey, come on you knuckleheads!" 
It was Boo waiting for us to go swimming out at Zachery 
cove. 
My brother and I peeled out of the kitchen; it was 
already a scorcher of a morning. We nabbed our kits; 
everything a kid could need for an outing. We each had a 
yucky worn out towel mom had given us (way too gross 
for anybody but us kids to use) 1 two bottles of grape pop 
(the kind that coats your tongue with electric purple goo, 
48 
Victoria Jennings 
like you're the kid of alien beings), a liverwurst sandwich, a 
bit of money, and a bunch of miscellaneous junk, like a 
pocket knife, string, rubber bands, junk like that. All  this 
stuff was rolled up regulation army style; Dad had showed 
us how. We picked up our rifles, which were not much 
more than pea shooters in my opinion. You could barely 
make a dent in a slab of butter with one of these. 
I slapped my chalk-white cowboy hat on; God, I loved 
that hat. It had a shiny snakeskin band 'round the brim 
and curved up just above my temple. The best moment in  
my life was when my dad plunked thatthing on my head. I 
looked real terrific; the starch whiteness against my inky 
hair. Whoopie said I looked like a skunk, but that creep 
was just jealous. All he had was an old brown one with a 
simple cloth band. Boy, did it put a burr up his butt 
everytime I put on my hat. 
Boo stood impatiently next to my dad's ol' rust heap of a 
car, shotgun (a real nice one, not like the tinker toys we 
had) and gear in  hand. Boo's real name was Harvey 
Kingsman. Stupid name, Harvey; so we nicknamed him 
Boo. It stood for ' butthead, one and only,' but he never 
knew. His parents owned the only grocery store on the 
is land, real convenient. Every once and a while Mr. 
Kingsman let us run wild in  the candy section. Three 
Musketeers, Unos, Baby Ruths; we'd be sick for days, but 
what a way to go, huh? 0. D. on chocolate. 
"You guys will never believe this. This sucks, totally 
sucks." 
"What's up?" 
' 'My mom said we have to take Fishface with us." 
"Ah, J eez, Boot You're kidding, right?" 
"Shit, I wish I was." 
"What a pisser," Whoopie added for emphasis. 
Fishface was the only other kid on our side of the island. 
49 
Northridge Review 
He was three and didn't have anyone his age to play with, 
so his mother made deals with the Kingsmans and our 
folks to have us play with him. Talk about ruining the day. 
The kid wasn't so bad; he was real quiet and just sat there 
and ate dirt or squashed bugs or watched the snot drip 
down his face. What really got us guys was the simple fact 
we were responsible for the condition he returned in. We 
got such hel l  if that precious little kid returned with a 
hangnail. 
Once I thought Mrs. Carothers was going to have me 
and Whoop arrested. My brother had just gotten this real 
nifty paint set for his birthday: twenty-five colors. Well 
anyway, we were out playing Picasso in the woods, and of 
course we got stuck with Fishface. We gave him a couple 
colors and a brush and let him paint rocks. The stupid kid 
ended up painting his private parts. Mrs. Carothers must 
have shit her pants when she saw her "adorable" three 
year old kid with green genital ia. 
''Couldn't you get out of it?" 
"No way." 
To this day I wish to God we had gotten out of it. 
Three sets of footsteps made their way across the dry 
shadeless road. We cut through a field of chest-high 
weeds. The golden stalks dry and brittle from the heat 
crunched as they collapsed under our sneakers. Sweat 
was already collecting around my neck and under my arm 
pits. You could just tell we were going to be lunch for 
every mosquito in Washington state. 
We go to the Crother's house; Fishface sat silently on 
the porch, all bug-eyed as usual. Boo looked at me - the look 
of sheer distress, almost as if he was going to be crucified. 
H e  took a deep breath and fixed his  eyes on some 
imaginary vortex in the sky. I looked over at Whoopie. H is  
face was a l l  scrunched u p  like a dried u p  ol' raisin. I myself 
so 
Victoria Jennings 
looked very stern, and we waited for it. 
Squeek. The rusty screen door yawned open. The 
petite foot stepped delicately onto the loose wooden 
boards. Every muscle tightened. And then came that 
horrible sound. That excruciating mush, that soppy goo. 
Worse than nails on a chalkboard. 
" Looook, precious! Your little friends are here. Now you 
take care of my swee-eet whittle pumpkin, Clarence. 
He's such a cutey-pie; look at those precious dimples. 
Kiss, kiss. Wave bye-bye to Mommy, honey." 
It was enough to make you want to puke your guts 
out. 
Boo and I grabbed up the precious little twirp, as we 
waved " bye-bye to Mommy". We probably broke Ol­
ympic records everytime we left that place. Of course we 
did make our usual stop at the blackberry bushes on the 
edge ofthe Crothers' property. This was our concession. I 
guess it was a fair trade. Those blackberries were my one 
weakness. Firm, dark, deep purple, they just melt in your 
mouth. They left your hands, mouth and half your body 
covered with those sticky sweet clots of escaped juice. 
We reached Zachary Cove around noon. Boo ran down 
the bank, kicked off his sneakers, and peeled off the 
sweat soaked shirt with a snap. The three of us big kids 
stripped down to our underpants and left Fishface on a 
rock to eat snails or whatever was unfortunate enough to 
crawl his way. That kid would eat anything, old rotten 
shoelaces, weeds, marbles. God, you'd think his mother 
never fed the kid. We made special sure that our guns and 
cowboy hats were well out of reach from the gnawing 
teeth and slobber. 
"YAAAAM W H  000000011 
That was my feeble attempt at a Tarzan yell as I swung 
myself over glass-still water and dropped myself in; cold 
5 1  
Northridge Review 
as dry ice. You got used to it after a while. Boo cannon­
balled in next to me scattering spray in a fifteen foot 
radius. 
11Come on, you pussy!" Boo cried out to a shivering 
Whoopie who was in the process of inching his way in. 
Took him a good friggin' ten minutes. 
Water, for me is the greatest sensation next to choco­
late, the cool si lky feeling of floating in liquid space. I sank 
down and let my ears plug up with water I could hear the 
muted thuds of Boo and Whoopie trashing about. I was 
pretty sure Boo was giving Whoop a good dunking, and 
naturally that brought a smile to my face. 
After 'bout an hour we started getting tired of running 
'round l ike a bunch of nutwads. I stood up close to shore, 
my shoulders just peering out of the water. I glanced over 
to see that Fishface was still alive. I don't know how he 
fuckin' d id  it. My blood turned twenty degrees colder 
than a cherry popsicle as I saw his sl ime coated fingers 
inches away from my frost-white cowboy hat. 
I thrashed as hard as I could towards shore, yell ing and 
screaming and thinking of terrible ways to ki l l  him. 
His fingers clenched onto the chinstring. 
I must have scared the living shit out of that poor kid as I 
came barreling up, red and angry. H e  let out a bloody 
shriek and dropped my hat intothe green below. I dove in 
after it. I twas unscathed. I let out a sigh of relief and stood 
up. I looked over at Fishface; h is  eyes were even more 
bugged, l ike two champagne corks just ready to fly and 
spray foam. I shook my head and looked down. I WAS 
FUCKING STANDING IN A BUNCH O F  POISON IVY! 
T H E  SH ITTY LITTLE BASTARD DROPPED MY HAT I N  
FUCKING POISON IVY! 
I didn't lose my temper. I gingerly placed my hat higher 
on a branch, and ran for the water. I hoped to God I could 
52 
Victoria Jennings 
get some ofthe thin toxic layer off before I ended up look­
i n g  l i ke one of the Carothers's blackberries. Boo and 
Whoop for once in my life were sympathetic. I made the 
best of it; it wasn't too bad. I could feel the itch festering 
at my ankles and on a small patch of my abdomen, but 
that was about it. Lucky me. 
Around three o'clock the t h ree of us guns l ingers 
shouldered our rifles and headed oft into the wilds of 
Bainbridge. Fishface was left behind; Boo chained him to 
a tree with a chewed up dogleash. The clasp was rusty and 
corroded. We thought it was pretty Fish face proof. 
I feel really bad about leaving that kid there now. Even if 
I did hate his guts, I would never really wish death on 
someone. Boo took it the worst out of all of us. He felt re­
sponsible s ince he's the one who leashed h im up. 
Whoopie was just stunned. 
I had only dealt with death once before. I twas when my 
cat, Skippy, died. Skippy was a stray peach-colored 
fuzzball that followed me home one day. He was my cat. 
And even though I was allergic, he slept with me every 
night curled around my face. 
When I was nine I caught the chicken pox. I must have 
had a hundred and two temperature; Skippy was right 
there licking the sweat from my forehead with his pink 
sandpaper tongue, purring away the chills. Another time 
Whoopie had me pinned in a head-lock against the bed­
frame. Skippy jumped down from the bookshelf, where 
he liked to sleep, and dug his claws deep into Whoopie's 
back, drawing two or three d roplets of blood. Damn good 
cat. My best friend. 
I kick myself to this day for the suffering Skippy must 
have gone through. I came down to breakfast, cold. Thick 
puffs of hot moisture misted out my mouth and nostrils. 
The sizzling hickory smell of bacon coaxed me to the 
53 
Northridge Review 
table. Skippy didn't come down with me and I figured 
he'd just gone down early to keep warm. 
I heard his meows. H is  cat screams. I didn't realize. No 
one knew. The screams got louder. More painful. Heat. 
My heart. MEOW! Skippeeel meow. Gone. 
We found Skippy caught under the stove. H is  fur was 
singed and parts were charred black. Burnt blood was 
cooked on his forehead. When my dad pul led h im out he 
was still alive. Barely. His head lolled in my dad's cal­
loused hands. The green eyes, like two almond shaped 
emeralds looked at me. I swear what little moisture was 
left in Skippy's body collected and formed a tear as he  
stared h is  last look at  this world. 
I cried. 
It was the only time I ever cried at death . . .  
We looked for Fish face for an hour after we came back. 
We had only been gone maybe forty m inutes, but he was 
gone. The leash chewed away at. 
We found h im face down i n  the water a couple hun­
dred yards away. He was white and bloated l ike a wet 
marshmellow, with just a touch of blue. We pulled him 
out, his skin was cold and leathery. That poor little bas­
tard. H e  just lay there with that same vacant pop-eyed 
expression he always had, but now he was dead. 
I guess out of all the places we ever lived, I liked this 
one the best. 
Even with al l  that happened here. 
That was my last summer on the Puget Sound. 
54 


Summer on Puget Sound

Ritchie, Margaret

Margaret Ritchie 
Gambler 
mom plays poker 
in old pajamas, pastels 
in her drawer keep them smelling 
sweet as brandy stains 
flannel worn transparent 
at the elbows 
it's not a question of win or lose 
she's practicing 
smoke rings 
alone, she blows 
red chips, blue chips, white chips 
the opponent, a long ash 
fallen in the empty chair beside her 
"stacks up," smoke 
still swelling 
like a bruise, mom's yellow 
teeth and the purple 
speckled stains of loneliness dribbling 
down the front of flannel 
worn transparent 
at the elbows. 
57 


Gambler

nan a 
guts the turkey, the liver 
staining her thin fingers poking 
at its behind with severity 
her small hand finally driven 
past the tailbone into the open cavity. 
i remember the dentist 
trembling as he pulls back my lips 
exposing my pinkish gums. 
i know the age spots on his head like the planets. 
i know that red round globe from a moveable chair. 
and his probing was painless 
his fingers longer, 
sour and softer 
than my breath. 
nana boils water in a tin pan 
for tea, sets places for the three of us: 
44 
papa, her and me and i watch her 
at the cutting board, her hair white 
as the porcelain sink, carving 
a cooked chicken. 
it is this-
the time she takes now 
that makes me cry, 
those lovely fingers. 


nana

Schulz, Hart

Hart Schulz 
Taking Pictures 
The jeep hurdles train tracks and jolts us. It's dawn, and 
coastal fog is a smoke in the orange trees. Something has turned 
over a truck full of them-now, of course, it's quite empty. But a 
few stubbornly have found nooks in the rusted concave of the 
truckbed. They are inside half-a-tunnel. Others spew their seeds 
to a road. We'll fmd some later, seeds, wedged into the tread like 
limp nails, at the South Lake Tahoe motel. They will have held on 
for four hundred miles of gravel and dirt and pavement. This may 
be a new way for orange groves to propagate. They'll have to drop 
out somewhere. My sister once sprouted a lemon seed in a paper 
towel stuffed into a waterglass on a windowsill. When water hits 
them, they're like popcorn in hot oil. Alongside the road people are 
hurrying for free oranges even before the sun. It is like a battlefield. 
One man has the face of a raisin. He has worlced the longest and 
hardest and probably will get the most oranges. The jeep keeps 
rolling as if it knows. We have a long way to go, little rest ahead 
of us, and no time at all for oranges. For a moment we are 
tempted-oranges would be perfect when the desert pounds into 
the convertible around noon-but we go on. Later we will wish we 
had taken a picture of the bright oranges in the grey air on the almost 
TAKING PICTURES 5 1  
black road with its fluorescent, bloody spine. Two years hence, I 
will pride myself that the smell of orange blossom is a reminder! 
My best friend Trig has climbed up on the white monument 
to pose for a photo. This place is a graveyard, and the photo is 
unfortunate because shadows have hidden his face. Just the same, 
I use the jeep as a tri-pod and it crosses my mind that the heat of the 
engine, of the sun on the metal, may harm fllm. A lizard has found 
the shade of a wheelwell. There is no expression on Trig's face 
because it's blank with the darkness. Behind him two things 
loom-jet-black Japanese letters that climb up the chalky needle, 
and the grey angles of the Sierra. Neither of them are in the shade, 
but Trig is. Manzanar is the graveyard for interned Japanese­
Americans. There's real cause for concern about barbed-wire, 
rusted and hidden just below the desert dust. Neither of us would 
want to change a tire! We're looking for the lake. Even though it's 
over one hundred shining degrees, the water is cold. They used it 
to drink. When you jump in, you worry about your head. It's  
possible to have a stroke! And there 's broken glass on the bottom 
too. Kids from Bishop, kids who don't know about bad luck, come 
here to get drunk. Looking through the camera, you can follow a 
trail of junipers and sagebrush, green and purple, that creeps like a 
line of hair to a navel, to the shallow, blue reservoir. It makes a nice 
picture. But you have to watch out for rattlers-they're every­
where. And a man with a camera is easy prey. 
It's  a good place to sleep, and juniper fires bum long and 
hard. Mountains become the black froth of land or a headstone for 
the flat, historic desert. Trig has seen a ghost in the underbrush. But 
it turns out to be a quick, slanted field mouse. There may not even 
be underbrush. This is a desert, a place of empty cans and skeletons. 
The sand is an old mountain that died. All this is too much so we 
are in the 3 1  Flavors in B ishop. They really only have 27, and 3 to 
52 NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
5 are specialty ice creams. Tonight High Sierra Caramel, Root Beer 
Nut, and Bar-B-Que Chicken. A small blond catches Trig's eye. 
She is another angel in the crowd. The girls at work wear chocolate 
dresses with strawberry and vanilla bibs. They are required to wear 
hats too. And scooping ice cream is serious business. At 1 Opm, one 
of them will polish and scrub on her knees in the empty store as we 
watch from the jeep outside. There are three people now lapping 
ice cream, and I 'm worried about my seatcovers. They are new and 
cost $50 each. The lighted storefront is a nighttime desert jewel, 
and the people inside are like animals captured in a funny kind of 
picture zoo. The blond is saying, whispering, that she likes ghosts 
and can't believe B ar-B-Que either. She calls 31 Flavors "B and 
R 's" because she 's from Backeast. 
Our friend Royce has a picture above his television. It is 
his brown-faced father in a sunny kimono and holding a samurai 
sword. There are other men, and maybe they were drinking when 
the photo was taken. To a little kid, the photo doesn't make sense. 
Behind them are the Sierras in the winter. There is thin snow on 
cardboard boxes. These are their buildings. There is a tiny woman 
with a broom too. I am only fifteen and when I go to his house to 
play guitar I feel uneasy. I can't help it, and nobody talks about it. 
Royce teaches me everything he knows about the guitar. He plays 
and shyly sings "Sweet Baby James". It is the sound of an angel. 
James Taylor's eyes are like cameras. Everything in the black and 
white photo is black or white. ''The Birkshires seemed dreamlike 
on account of the frosting-With ten miles behind me and ten 
thousand more to go." 
The angel in the crowd has pulled her sleeping bag down 
below bare breasts and sat up. Her hair looks like the jeep in the 
wind. The sand behind her is blond too in the morning and the little 
lake is thrilling! All this makes a good photograph. Her breasts are 
TAKING PICfURES 53 
small and point outward, away from a flat, hard place. She was 
sexually abused by her father. Two days later Trig will mention her 
perfume on his sleeping roll ,  and we '11 destroy the photo because 
she's only seventeen when she said eighteen. Trig stretches his 
arms out at the sky and suggests we all take a picture at the 
monument. The auto-mechanism trips the camera off the tri-pod 
and scratches the jeep on its way down the desert. The girl has 
climbed to the top of the needle wastefully. It is the work of a 
Japanese prisoner. 
My body is a corkscrew and I'm driving a golfball into thin 
desert. We don't know how they got enough water here to keep it 
green. I 've taken off my shorts and Trig is taking a dramatic picture 
of me with Mt. Whitney in the backdrop and this golf course with 
tiny white flowers in the rough. We are playing golf naked. A car 
rolls by and honks. Cottonwood blossoms drift about like butter­
flies. It's hard to tell the cottonwood blossoms from the ball as it 
hovers high above an artificial oasis. Someone has planted alfalfa 
and it's growing like mad! We have hit two balls into the thick, 
green swamp. Our ankles are muddy but the smell is cut hay. At 
the 1 5th we are completely nude but for bulky, black cameras 
dangling from our necks. 3 1  Flavors has sponsored one of the 
benches, but its shining, tin banner is too hot to lean against. At the 
1 8th I lead by one stroke and am just off the green. Trig is 250 yards 
from the hole. We are poor boys playing a rich man's game. His 
driver glints in the sun. He has hit a billowing ball. It flies beyond 
the reach of fragrance and into an invisible jet-stream. It is so high 
I have time to aim my camera, to put on a sun-filter. Trig's ball is 
waiting to fall onto the green! The feeling is eerie. It feels like 
there 's war and there's  been a stop in the action. It has travelled 250 
yards in the desert. If I look away the ball will fall and roll into the 
hole and I will lose. So I stare down the golf ball and become its 
captive. 
54 NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
I take a hit on 18. To my right the guy with the cigarette 
draws a 4. The woman to his left is wearing a Hawaiian print 
MuMu. She 's had three twenty-ones in a row, and this is her third 
mai-tai in 25 minutes. The room is a cloud of sparkling, silver 
smoke. To my left a suited man is waiting for me and counting 
cards. His long, black lips move automatically and silently. He 
looks at me like a bad memory, the look of scorn. But I draw a deuce 
and I have beaten the dealer's 19. Trig is playing slot machines with 
a cowboy he met. The cowboy's truck has a bumper sticker that 
says "Shit Happens." Trig wins a great deal of money in a short 
time, so we leave. "I may be ugly, but I'm not stupid," the cowboy 
says. He's not a real cowboy, but he wears a tall hat and calls his 
pick-up Bessie. At three in the morning I awake to hear him puking 
in the bathroom. Nevertheless, the three of us are smart gamblers. 
And the big lake beyond the shining casinos, with the moon in its 
heart, seems to be waiting. 
This is Northern California and the deer have come down 
to our camp. We are laughing at the starry sky. Would it be funnier 
to get up and piss on the other's sleeping forehead with or without 
his permission? It's clear it would be funnier with his permission. 
The darkness is a hole we've climbed into willfully. We are 
walking, feeling the dome of the road with our feet, hidden from the 
moon by the canyon. Neither of us can sleep so we're off to find 
my swimming hole. I 'm leaping off a cliff into warm, black air, 
then into the lock of cold water. My forearm scrapes the gravel at 
the bottom. I have never felt so free, this being like a trout inside 
the stream. If l could take a picture it would be a deep, black swirl. 
Trig loves the pool too and we are overcome with euphoria. At the 
bottom of the pool, I dream of someone I once knew. Each night 
my mind fills with pictures of her dying of cancer. First it is a 
walnut at the base of her back; then, she falls onto a hard kitchen 
floor in slow motion and loses her eyes. 


Taking Pictures

Durham, Charela

Charela Durham 
tEscuche Y Viva! 
I wake with song of the sun-bleeding the horizon-a voice as 
sweet and solaced as the nuns of my parish-My face, a wrinkled 
brown onion-! comb my black hair generously streaked with 
silver-! look at my mouth-my tongue, my teeth gold pebbles in 
a gray, pink bowl-My back like my teeth refuses to straighten­
My kitchen plumbing reeks gray water on the floor I cover with 
newspaper-walls gray in a cloak of shadows and light of one 
waning light bulb--dark, damp-the belly of a whale, perhaps the 
one who swallowed Jonah 
and I remember the day I came here/ fleeing a 
banana farmer/ my betrothed/ a hunchback thing 
whom Papa owed money/ came coyote/ paid a keg 
of cerveza and a stroke of my youthful breasts 
"Quiero buscar am or." 
waitressed downtown near Olvera Street/ met 
Charlie/ a tall, thin man with coal black skin 
showing only the whites of his eyes/ but I loved 
him/ married the day Roosevelt died in a 4th floor 
tenement off Normandie/ Charlie played Bessie 
Smith on the old victrola/ he was drunk/ he took 
me in his arms/he went to war/ I conceived a lump 
42 
in my belly like a possum hanging from a tree/ I 
read M ein Kampf/ hated Hitler and you wrote of 
Mussolini' s music/ blood bathed trenches/ bodies 
strewn about like peaches rotting in a southern 
sun/ VROOOM! overhead/ dragons in the sky that 
vomit their fire breath on the petrified people 
below/ you told of drunken bouts/ poker in the 
barracks-the stench of war in your sweat/ 
nightmares . . ... you are headless/ torpedo through 
your neck/ you congregate with coloreds-just 
like home you know your 
place 
awake on a whining bed thinking of you, an ocean 
away in the arms of an Italian prostitute/ and when 
you peaked that mountain . .. .I hoped you cry my 
name/ funny eh? V -Day came, but you did not 
"Ando Sangrando" 
I bore Coco your only legacy 
"Quiero buscar amor" 
Daughters like mothers more than they know I She 
!overed a tall, dark man and one evening evapo­
rated-her sick daughter behind that I must muster 
into woman 
I now return to the God of my mother-mass on Sundays­
always-pious in the pews a praying mantis to Our Lord-One can 
not blame God nor others for the fate one chooses-when tossed 
rags, sew quilts 
"Nana," a small voice chokes and severs my thoughts, "I can 't 
breathe. I can't breathe." 
(and neither could I, My heart whispers) 
"Silly girl, forgot your medicine," I say. 
43 
her nostrils snuff the magic stuff-her tight chest loosens and raspy 
breaths subside-she falls in my arms, eyes closed-! wipe the 
sweat glued hair from her temples-! strain to hear above the 
snatches of Mexican market women through my window. I listen 
to the rise and fall of life in her chest-back and forth like the leaves 
of the palmetto trees and the shores of Belize I watched as a girl. 


¡Escuche Y Viva!

Sandler, Scott

Scott Sandler 
Custer 
Grandpere. It's French for grandfather. My grandfather's 
French. Actually, I wouldn't have to tell you he's French. You just 
look at him and you can tell. He's got the classic goatee. He wears 
a beret. He looks like a struggling artist. As a matter of fact, he is 
a struggling artist. Scratch that. He is an artist, a painter, but he's 
not struggling. 
Most of the time he's sitting back in a gray reclining chair and 
he's eating strawberry yogurt off of a tray. He crumbles graham 
crackers into his yogurt. He has to eat soft food. Hard food hurts 
his teeth. Because of this, my mom usually winds up making two 
dinners. One for Grandpere, and one for my brother, who often 
complains that he is tired of food he can't chew. Dad says two 
dinners are a good idea-it makes for variety. "Besides," he says, 
"there's no reason we should suffer just because he can't eat right." 
The last time Grandpere tried chewing hard food, a crown came out. 
He didn't realize he'd lost it until after dessert. My mother had to 
dump all the trashbags on the kitchen floor. She was rummaging 
through the empty cereal boxes, leftover turkey, cans of dog food, 
and cans of orange and pineapple Crush, when my dad came in. He 
said, "Look at this mess." He said, "Jesus, how could you lose 
something straight out your mouth and not notice it?" I was going 
to stick up for Grandpere. I was going to remind everybody about 
how I lost my glasses and didn't realize it until fifth period, when 
I couldn't read the assignment on the chalkboard. I was going to say 
50 NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
this. Grandpere would have smiled and said, "You see." Dad 
would have said, "That was fifty dollars." And Mom would have 
said, "Why bring that up now, can't you see your father's upset?" 
My older brother would have given me a dirty look. 
It doesn't matter how I would have reacted, because I didn't say 
it anyway. I always find myself saying things to myself, practicing 
what I should say, or must say, and then never saying a word. When 
I don't say anything, I stare off into space, tum on the TV, and don't 
exist. 
My grandfather exists because he's got a goatee. He's French. 
He's got a trademark. 
My dad's got a trademark, too. His anger. You always know 
when my dad • s in the room. Even if you don't look at him, you can 
feel him. Just a few weeks ago, he threw Grandpere out of the car 
because he refused to wear his safety belt. When Grandpere came 
home an hour later, out of breath, coughing, and smelling of 
gasoline, Dad was already asleep. Grandpere still has the cough, 
and Dad has never apologized. 
My brother exists as well. He, like everyone else, has a 
trademark. His name. Custer. Like the general. He meets people 
because they walk up to him and say, "Custer? Is that your real 
name?" My dad named him Custer after watching "They Died 
With Their Boots On" on KCOP. 
Errol Flynn played Custer. Dad says that our Custer is just as 
handsome as Errol Flynn, even more. My mom was upset. She said 
Custer was a murderer. Dad said that he was a general, and that's 
what generals are supposed to do. Mom said that Custer was a loose 
cannon, out of control. Dad said that's what he likes about him. He 
likes him because he was out of control. People out of control get 
things done. They get noticed, get in history books. He told Mom 
that Custer, our Custer, would be in the history books, like Custer, 
the other one, was. He will get in the history books, and no one will 
fully understand him, because he won't be simple, he will be out of 
control. 
Dad says that Custer and I are like the north and south poles and 
maybe he's right. I don't have a clever name like his. My name is 
Matt. I don't do funny things like Custer, either. Custer asked 
CUSTER 51  
Grandpere if he knew how to French-kiss. Grandpere laughed, said 
he was too old. Custer demonstrated it to us on his girlfriend, Julie. 
The whole family gathered around as if he were doing some sort of 
magic trick. Julie's face was red. Dad was on the floor, hysterical. 
He thought it was so goddamn funny that he was going to tell Karl 
at work tomorrow. 
I'm not out of control, like Custer is. In my dreams, however, 
I'm a maniac. Like one time, Custer was slapping Julie around. I 
could hear her screaming, so I broke the door down, gave Custer a 
black eye, and kicked him in the nuts. Another time, I pulled her 
out of a fire. Another time, I saved her from a bullet, and got shot 
myself. She stayed with me in the hospital all night, brought me 
flowers, brought me candy, said she loved me. Most of the time, 
though, I have falling dreams. Y'know, the kind where you're 
falling, falling, and you never, ever, really hit the ground. I've 
heard that if you do hit the ground, you die. But that's not true, 
because just the other day I hit the ground, and nothing happened 
to me. 
Grandpere is mixing the graham crackers in his yogurt when 
the phone rings. He is listening to Django Reinhardt. Django 
Reinhardt is a French guitarist. He has a trademark, too. He is 
missing two of his fingers. I think that his two missing fingers are 
more exciting than his guitar playing. Grandpere is listening to the 
music, smiling, and ignoring the telephone. For a minute, I think 
he's enjoying the ringing as though the telephone were just another 
instrument, playing accompaniment, adding to the sound. I pick up 
the receiver, and Grandpere says, "Can you get that for me, 
Matthew?" 
I say, "hello," and Grandpere turns around and looks at me. His 
brown, copper colored eyes are magnified behind the hom-rimmed 
bifocals. He says, "If it's for me, I'm not here." 
It's not for him. It's about the dog. She's gotten into the 
neighbor's yard and is digging up the lawn. I get Ruby and put her 
in my room. I shut the door so she can't leave. She whimpers. I 
pick her up and put her on my bed. I lie next to her and, hooking 
her neck with my arm, shove her head on my chest. She is growling. 
I clamp my hand around her nose and she is whimpering again. 
52 NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
Everyone is asleep when I wake up. I stare at the small green 
digital numbers-2:38 a.m. I tum on the lights, and see that Ruby 
has found a new spot, near the clothes hamper. She stretches her 
paws out, exposing her dirty nails, and then readjusts herself into a 
curled position. 
I open my door and head out to the living room. Although I 
have lived in this house over ten years, I still feel uncomfortable 
with it. It's dark, but I can tell where each piece of furniture is: the 
four wicker chairs surrounding the parquet table, the counter with 
the liquor bottles lined like books in shelves, and the many pictures 
which my grandfather painted. My favorite one is "Tigers in Red 
Weather." Grandpere painted it after reading a Wallace Stevens 
poem. He says it represents imagination. He sounds like a teacher 
when he says this. The red weather looks like fire to me. It is the 
fire I pulled Julie out of, and it is the fire which burnt off Django 
Reinhardt's fingers. 
I feel like I am in the middle of some museum that has been shut 
down for the night, and now, more than ever, I feel like I don't exist. 
I turn on the kitchen light. White linoleum is spread out before me. 
Stepping on the floor in bare feet is like stepping on a bar of ice. By 
the time I reach the pantry, my feet are numb. I pull out the Raisin 
Bran, only to find that the box's empty. I settle for some Spoon Size 
Shredded Wheat. I read the back of the box-"no added sugar, no 
added salt." It seems to take ten minutes to read the back of the box 
in order to get everything possible out of it. I look up the word 
"riboflavin" in the dictionary, and then go to bed again. 
When I wake up, Custer's standing above me. 
"Wake up, ya little shit. I need you to hold the ladder. I know 
you're awake, ya little shit. Wake up." 
It's past noon and I'm holding the ladder for Custer, who 
overshot the hoop (and even the chimney). "I got it," he yells, and 
bounces the ball on the roof. As he is climbing down, ball in hand, 
I think I could kill him, couldn't I? I could pull the ladder out from 
underneath him. He would fall, crack his head open, and then I 
would exist. I would be known as the one who killed Custer. I 
would be thrown in jail, be wearing stripes, spit and swear a lot. Dad 
wouldn't want to mention my name because it would hurt too 
CUSTER 53 
much. I would be known as the black sheep of the family. 
Custer hits the bottom rung and says, "Thanks, schmuck." I 
should have killed him when I had the chance. So many missed 
opportunities. He wouldn't have died, though, even ifl had pulled 
the ladder. He would have instead made a fall-away jump-shot in 
mid-air, and he would have never hit the ground. 
As Custer shoots from half-court, Julie pulls up. Julie wears her 
hair in a pony-tail, and looks younger than she really is. Custer 
bounces the ball to her, and she misses a shot. He laughs, rebounds, 
and lets her try again. She misses again and he laughs again. He 
walks up to me and says that I put on too much cologne. He says, 
"You smell like a girl." Julie says I smell nice. "He still smells like 
a girl," Custer says and grabs Julie by the waist. He starts to French­
kiss her, and I go back inside. 
Grandpere is sick. His face is all red and he is shivering. Mom 
gives him a glass of water and his bathrobe, which he pulls tight 
around his body. Dad goes to the store, gets a bottle of aspirin, and 
I watch as he gives it to him. 
Grandpere spits the chalky, white, saliva-filled pieces of aspi­
rin into his hand, and says, "I can't." 
"Swallow, don't chew," my dad tells him. 
Grandpere rinses out his mouth and tries again. He reluctantly 
puts the tablet on his tongue and takes a drink of water. 
"Hold your head back," my dad tells him. 
He holds his head back and, in a matter of seconds, he goes into 
his, now tiring, series of convulsions. He jerks his head back and 
forth like a cat does when it is plagued with fur balls. He spits into 
his hand again and his voice shakes when he says, "I can't." 
Dad reaches for the bottle of Anacin. "I can't and I won't," 
Grandpere says. 
"Fine," Dad says, and throws the bottle. It ricochets off the 
freezer, misses Mom's head by inches and hits the floor, scattering 
tablets all over the white linoleum. "Then you'll just have this 
goddamn flu forever, that's all," Dad says and goes into the living 
room. When he comes back into the kitchen, he is wearing his coat. 
"Pick those up," he says, pointing to the floor. He storms out 
the back door. 
54 NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
Mom is on her hands and knees, picking up the aspirin and 
crying. She mutters something underneath her breath. It is at this 
moment I realize something. Mom doesn't exist either. I think 
Mom stopped existing when she gave in to the name Custer. 


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