California State University (CSU): Open Journal Systems

Allen, Sidney

Sidney Allen 
Orange Sestina 
I pull up to the red light, 
fish for my wallet as I wait, 
call out, "oranges." 
A bag full is passed through the window. 
I give the vendor a dollar. 
The light changes, I continue to drive. 
Los Angeles is all about "the drive." 
A little water and a lot of light. 
Ideal driving conditions and top dollar. 
Don't wait. 
If you get rich, outside of your window, 
you can grow trees full of oranges. 
There is a sour taste to most backyard oranges. 
Maybe it's the car exhaust, from the drive 
way. But they are nice to look at, through the window. 
You can install a light. 
To see them at night, you don't have to wait 
for the weekend to see the fruits of your dollar. 
If you can spare an extra dollar 
and you don't mind dulling the reds and oranges, 
tint your glass. Save your face while you wait, 
28 NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
during your drive. 
Filter our glorious light. 
Reduce squinting, through the window. 
To be really exclusive, mirror lhe window. 
Another way to express the dollar. 
Anonymity at the traffic light, 
also reduces heat, eliminates orange 
rays. Kind of separates one from the drive. 
Puts you with the heavies that can throw their weight. 
Or you can wank-off, while you wait. 
No one will see, through the one-way window. 
It could liven up the drive. 
Mirrored windows may be a dollar 
well spent, as well as the one for oranges. 
We seem to need something to do with that time at the light. 
Something while we wait, cheap at one dollar. 
Gazing out of the window, dreaming of oranges, 
savoring the drive, drinking the light. 


English

Orange Sestina

Mann, Karen

Karen Mann 
frank 
frank 
is a friend of mine 
we've never actually 
shared a word. 
it's all done through the eyes. 
i recall 
the first time we met 
he ran like a sissy 
through the square. 
i thought 
i don't like 
people who wear brown belts 
especially yours 
so tattered and worn. 
frank 
must have heard my eyes 
because 
he wrote in the dirt 
fuck you 
with the toe of his shoe. 


frank

Dewey, Laurel

A Cand l e  I n  The Wi ndow 
Laurel Dewey 
Matt Calver's old man knew the facts. It wou ld only take one 
n ight where the temperature dropped to an even 29° to ru i n  the 
orange crop.  For three years in a row it was the same story, the 
same wait ing game and the same smudge pots that would burn 
throughout the n ight, trying to hold off the freeze. It was also a t ime 
for the same u lti matums. "God, if I cou ld just know that I was 
gonna have one good crop th is  year . . .  "
"It's a damn no-win situation you got here !"  Roy said as he 
cradled h is hands around his coffee cup. "Seems l i ke you put out 
and put out some more, and i t  gets to the point where you th i n k  that 
it's f inal ly gonna be your year to make a few bucks, and then th is !  
Damn freeze! You know, i t  gets to  where a fellow shouldn't care no 
more ! "  
Al l  the other men sitting i n  the d i ner nodded, but said noth ing. 
Pat came around with a fresh pot of coffee. "How 'bout if I 
warmed up your coffee, Roy?" 
"I'd rather you'd warm my heart, Pat," said Roy, reach ing over to 
grab Pat's waist. 
"You can top my cup off, Pat," said jay, keeping his eyes fixed on 
the table. 
"How 'bout you, George? Need a refi l l ?" 
George d idn't answer. H i s  concentration was focused on two 
burnt wooden match sticks he had d iscovered on the table. For the 
past fifteen m i nutes he'd been rol l ing them between h i s  thumb and 
fi rst finger. The friction had al ready worn the edges round.  
Roy spoke u p .  "Hey, George! If you're f ix ing on starting a fire 
with those sticks, you're gonna have to rub them a whole lot 
harder!"  
George looked u p  and broke i nto a soft smi le. He tossed the 
matches as ide and d rank down the last of his coffee. "No more for 
me, Pat. I prom i sed Mona I'd fix the fl ue on the fireplace. It keeps 
snapping shut when the wind picks u p . "  
"You tel l  h e r  'h i '  for me, George ."  
"Wi l l  do ."  
"And you tel l  that boy of  yours that if he doesn't show h i s  face 
around here before he goes away to school . . .  "
" I ' l l  give h i m  your regards . . .  " George said softly, with a wink of 
h i s  eye. He l i fted h i s  jacket col lar and headed for the door. 
43 
NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
"Hey, George,"  said jay, "you th i n k  you're gonna be out 
ton ight?" 
"Don't know. Depends how far it drops." 
"You cal l me if you need any help, you hear?" 
"You bet. " 
* * *  
George stepped out of the d i ner and i nto the crisp morn ing a i r. 
He snuck a look at the d i ner's outdoor thermometer. A th ick crust 
of frost clouded the glass. With h i s  knuckle, he etched off the ice. 
37°. He checked h i s  watch. 7 :05 AM. G ive or take a degree or two, 
he figured the temperature had only r isen a few degrees s i nce dawn 
- not a good s ign for ton ight. 
Lett ing a long h usky cough fi l l  the a i r, he crossed to h is  p ick-up 
truck. A sharp wind snapped around the d i ner as he pul led the b i l l  
of  h i s  navy blue basebal l  cap closer to  h i s  forehead. George's 
squat, round figure d idn't budge with the sudden uproar. He 
moved l i ke a man who always had a place to go and knew how to 
get there. Lately, his stomach had begun to pour over his belt which 
threw his weight forward when walking.  His hands and fi ngers 
were smal l and p lump with a great mound of calloused skin on 
each palm which made it impossi ble for h i m  to close h is hands 
without a gap appearing at some point. 
George was born to the land. He knew the soil better than he 
knew h i m self, and he was able to tel l  a pri me field without 
touching the d i rt. He was most proud of the fact that he was able to 
make his way with his insti nct for the seasons - when to plant, 
when to hold back, and when to pick the oranges so that the j u ice 
wou ld be at its peak. They were s imple snips of knowledge to an 
onlooker, but to George, they were the means that'had sustai ned 
h i s  fam i ly for over a h undred years. 
As George turned onto the d i rt road that led to h is  grove, he had 
to qu ickly sh ift h i s  truck to position the t i res i nto the ruts that were 
worn deep i nto the ground. I n  the Spri ng, the weeds and wi ldflow­
ers would cover the flat width between the t ire ruts so that the 
bottom of the truck wou ld skim the heads of the flowers, catch ing a 
few of the tal ler ones. 
Mona was outside the front porch, struggl ing with a heavy roped 
rug. Each t ime she tried to l i ft it in the air, the weight of the rug 
would pu l l  her down, leaving a soft d ust cloud beh ind her. 
George parked the truck and headed toward Mona. He grabbed 
one s ide of the rug and changed places with Mona. "Here, come 
on ! You yank on that side whi le  I shake it over here."  
Mona held on t ight  and turned her head whi le George l ifted the 
rug up and down several t i mes. 
44 
Dewey/A Candle 
"All right, that about does it for this one," George said as he spit a 
wad of dust toward the porch .  
" I 'm glad you came home when you d id .  I 'd be bu ried i n  it by 
now!" 
"Why d idn't you get Matt to help you ?" 
"He's busy col lecting h i s  books for h i s  tri p .  He can't find that one 
on the Civi l War. "  
" D i d  h e  check u p  i n  the barn loft?" 
"I th ink  that's where he is now. Oh, l i sten, George, I f igured out 
how we can keep that flue open i n  .the fireplace . . .  "
George wasn't l i sten ing. H is eyes wandered toward the barn 
loft. 
"George?" Mona said, softly. 
"The flue . . .  yeah, right . . .  "
"Are you al l  right, George?" 
"Of course. I just thought of a place where Matt's book m ight be. 
You better get in the house. It's freezing out here ."  
George proceeded toward the barn and started i n  when a bale of 
hay fel l  from the loft, landing a few feet in front of h im.  He looked 
up to find h is  son perched u pon the barn's cross beam, frantical ly 
digging through a mound of d iscarded hay. 
"You al most did me in ,  Matt!" 
Matt turned on h is  heels.  " I  d idn't hear you . "  
"You find your  book?" 
"How'd you know I was looking?" 
"Your mom." 
"Oh . "  He contin ued d igging.  
"You look over by the ch icken coop?'' 
" It  wou ldn't be there."  
"How come?'' 
"Because I only read about h i story i n  the loft." 
"Oh . . .  What do you read about by the coop?'' 
" Economics." 
"What about the shed?" 
"Chem istry ."  
"How about Agricu lture?" 
Matt didn't answer. He'd had j ust about all he could take of 
agriculture. Every t ime he turned a corner or opened a door, there it 
was - AGRICU LTURE, staring h i m  in the face. There wasn't a 
word that he had read in al l  of h i s  books that could describe how 
m uch he loathed it. All those acres of fine-t i l led soi l  had robbed 
h i m  of any i ndividual ity he cou ld hope to find. He was always 
"George Calver's boy," and he had stopped counting how many 
ti mes the locals had asked h im,  "So, Matt, when are we gonna see 
you sitti ng tal l  in your  Daddy's tractor?" 
There would be no tractors, no groves. He was going to a place 
where he would become something grand, someth ing, perhaps, 
45 
NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
that no one before h i m  had ever dared to become. And he wou ld 
final ly be proud of h i mself, and in that moment, he would become 
whole. 
Over the long, tense years, Matt had come to the conclusion that 
he and h is  father shared noth ing in common.  The s ight, for exam­
ple, of a plump, r ipe orange did not move Matt the way it d id  
George, who could spend hours d iscussing the  merits of  one crop. 
Deep down, there was no thread, he thought, no b ind ing that 
brought them together as father and son. 
George was wel l  aware of the awkward gaps that separated h i m  
and h is  son .  At t i me�, it had made George angry because h i s  pride 
for h i s  land ached for respect. The only time George had ever laid a 
hand on Matt was five years back when Matt pronounced that a l l  
farmers had to be " ignorant cret ins ."  George had no idea what a 
"cretin" was, but if it cou ld be colored " ignorant," it was slander. 
Al l  this host i l ity had bu rned a hole i ns ide of George that grew 
larger with each blow. But, lately, unknown to anyone, includ i ng 
Mona, George's thoughts were in turmoi l .  He had begun to won­
der if perhaps he was that " ignorant cret in" who didn't  have the 
sense to come in out of the rain.  How could one man watch a 
thrivi ng orange grove turn black and dry from too many n ights of 
sub-freezing temperatures and not get out whi le  he could sti l l  get a 
fair price for h i s  land? Al l  around h im,  h i s  neighbors were packing 
up, grabbing thei r  kids and leaving town . For those who refused to 
face the hard real ity of " los ing it al l ," there was a piece of rope and a 
barn beam. For some in George's d istrict, su ic ide had become a 
viable, if not welcome, alternative. B ut George could never have 
taken that final step - there was always someth ing  that held h i m  
back, someth ing i nside that pul led h i m  t o  h i s  groves where h e  was 
able to dish up another serving of optimism.  The opt imism was 
getting harder to find, though, and each t ime he wou ld have to d ig  
down deeper to  pul l  it  free. 
"It's not here!"  Matt annou nced . "I don't know where in the hel l 
it could be!" He turned h i s  lean body n i nety degrees and j umped 
off the beam. He landed firm, feet planted l i ke a gymnast after a 
d ismount. He strode across the barn, picking the th in  prickles of 
hay out of h i s  sh i rt. 
" It  looks l i ke it's gonna be a cold one ton ight!" George said, as he 
fl icked h is  fingers against the barn's thermometer. 
" I t  never fai l s -" Matt said with an a i r  of i nd ifference. 
"The guys down at Pat's Kitchen were taking bets th is  morn ing on 
whether the pots were gonna have to be l i t  ton ight." 
"What's the consensus?" 
"F ifteen 'yes, ' s ix 'no."' 
"Another fun n ight -" With that, Matt turned and left the barn.  
George d idn't follow. He dug h i s  heels i nto the d i rt and felt  that 
hole ins ide of h im cut deeper. 
* * *  
46 
Dewey/A Candle 
By late afternoon,  the wind picked up, bri nging with it an icy 
c h i l l  that whi pped through the groves and encircled the t iny farm­
house. Pockets of green fru i t thudded to the ground, imprinting tiny 
craters in the d i rt. The barn thermometer held at 40°. An unsettled 
sti l l ness fi l led the gaps when the wind was not blowing. Tight, 
unbending tension lay over the groves as the afternoon moved i nto 
n ight. 
Matt had holed h i mself up in the attic, deep i nto the world of a 
favorite book. The cover had been torn off years before and some of 
the pages were m i ss i ng, but none of that cou ld stop Matt from 
s ink ing deeper i nto its spel l .  In h i s  books, he found reverence. They 
were l i ke a beacon in the dark - a place he cou ld go to that would 
hold h im securely and tel l  h im that everything would turn out al l  
right. 
By n ightfa l l ,  George had gone from the house to the groves a 
dozen times. Before return ing to the house each ti me, he would 
check the barn thermometer for the latest drop i n  temperature. The 
winds had subsided a bit, but in thei r  place, a frigid layer of air was 
sett l ing upon the groves. A l ight frost started to form on the leaves 
and the oranges began to take on a dry, opaque tint. 
"You plann i ng on cal l i ng jay about com ing over tonight?" Mona 
asked George as he returned to the house .  
"Can't say. He offered. B ut, he 's  got h i s  own to th i n k  of -" 
"That's never stopped h i m  before -" 
"The freeze could break anytime."  
"But, i f  i t  doesn't, you can't work the pots and the wind machines -" 
"I can't even say if I 'm gonna put the damn th i ngs on ! ! !" George 
stopped . He turned away from Mona and got control of h imself. 
Carefu l ly, he spoke. " I  need . . .  to know." 
S i lence. 
Mona started toward George but he moved to the door and left 
the kitchen .  He slammed the door so that the square panes of glass 
echoed as it shut.  
Several hours passed and not one smudge pot had been I it . Mona 
sat asleep in the fam i ly rocking chai r  nearest to the fireplace, one 
hand hopelessly trying to prop up her c h i n .  Only the crackle of a 
few dead embers in the fireplace cou ld be heard throughout the 
house. 
U pstai rs, Matt went over each registration pamph let as he had 
been doing every n ight for the past s ix weeks. It d idn't matter that 
he knew them verbatum - it was more a calming tool than another 
lesson. A bit ing wind sudden ly picked up, smash ing the branch of a 
tree against Matt's bedroom wi ndow. Startled, he let out a sl ight 
yelp and h u rried to secure the window. Rol l ing  an old towel 
lengthways, he stuffed it along the bottom crack of the wi ndow. 
47 
NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
Matt tried to exam ine the tree that d id  the damage, but it was too 
dark outside to even see an outl ine.  H is  eyes wandered toward the 
d i rection of the groves. B lack. He put his hand flat against the 
wi ndow pane and a freezing c h i l l  burned through the glass. He 
looked toward the groves aga in .  Coal black. How many times had 
he stood at that window and watched the t iny fl ickers of l ight fi l l  the 
groves? For as long as he could recal l ,  the s immering pots were a 
symbol of Wi nter's wrath and a testament to h i s  father's wi l l  for 
holding off the freeze. 
B ut, tonight, there was only darkness. 
Matt started to pu l l  back when his eye caught a t iny point of l ight 
com ing from the barn . I t  was so faint that he had to strain to make 
sure it wasn't a reflection cast by the moon.  He donned his over­
coat and decided to investigate. 
Snapping the porch l ight on, he creaked the screen door open a 
few inches and leaned out into the yard . The l ight from the barn 
was a l i ttle brighter now. He considered the cold, and, pu l l ing h is 
coat around h i s  chest, crossed to the barn . 
He leaned into the large barn door. The d i m  l ight was sh in ing 
from a small  lantern that was placed at an angle on the work bench . 
H i s  father's back was to h im ,  bent over the work bench.  Matt stood 
si lently for a moment, waiting for h is  father to turn. Somehow, the 
s i l houetted scene sent a sh iver through h im.  He waited for h is  
father to make the first move. 
Noth ing. 
" I  saw the I ight," Matt said, more as a question than a statement. 
" I  found your book," h is father said with an eerie stra in  to h is  
voice. H is  back remained to h i s  son. 
Matt became uncomfortable. "Yeah?" 
His father looked u p  and pu l led the book from in  front of h im .  He 
closed it, marking h is space with a d iscarded strand of a lantern 
wick. 
"You can read it  i f  you want. I mean, it's no big dea l .  I j ust have to 
have it when I -" 
"You l i ke this barn?" George said, getting u p  and crossing away 
from Matt, back sti l l  turned . 
"The barn ? Sure . . .  I t' s -" 
"Qu iet. It's very q u iet, " h is  father said softly, letting h is eyes scan 
the shadowed wal ls .  " I t's  very peacefu l . "  He paused and h i s  smoky 
breath fi l led the air .  "I can see why you read your  h istory in here. Of 
a l l  the wal l s  on this land, these hold the most h istory. Sometimes if 
you c lose your  eyes and l isten, you can hear all the words that were 
spoken on this very spot. A l l  the plans that were made, the deals 
that were struck, the hopes . . .  the love. And they didn't judge one 
move . . .  they j ust l i stened . . .  and somehow, they believed ."  
George turned to h is son, h is eyes hoping for understanding. 
48 
Dewey/A Candle 
Matt saw the fear in George's eyes. He tried to th ink  of someth ing 
- anyth i ng, to say, that wou ld wipe out the fright, but his m i nd 
drew a blank. 
George crossed a few steps toward Matt. He moved his round 
palm agai nst the wood benc h .  "You know, in all my l ife, for as long 
as I can remember, I only wanted one th ing - a candle in the 
wi ndow. Some smal l l ight in the d istance that would tel l  me I was 
gonna be okay. Some secur ity. Someth i ng that would tel l  me that I 
wasn't stupid and that I could sti l l  be proud of what I've bui l t .  I need 
to know, Matt . . .  Everyday, I need to know if it's sti l l  there . . .  "
He dropped h i s  head . 
It a l l  came too fast for Matt - the I ight, the book, the words. He 
stood very sti l l  and waited for h is father's next move. Always, 
always, George made the exit and del ivered the verdict. Now, 
there was only a ti red, sad man, bent over a d im lantern. 
Matt spun around and started toward the house. He threw open 
the kitchen screen door and grabbed onto its a luminum frame. One 
foot lay firm on the concrete step and one was planted in the soi l .  
H i s  knuckles streaked wh ite from the pressure o n  the door. With 
one angry swoop, he swung the door c losed. Taking long, deter­
m i ned strides, he crossed to the power box that was h idden beh i nd 
the shrubbery. He snapped up each l i ght switch us ing qu ick, even 
strokes. The yard became flooded with l ight. When the panel 
switches were all u p, Matt ran to the shed and l i fted the metal arm 
which released the large beams that poured i nto the groves. He ran 
to the center of the yard and stood, eyes d i rected toward the barn. 
" I t's sti l l  here !" Matt bellowed, reach i ng down i nto the pit of h is 
lungs. "You hear me? Your damned groves are sti l l  here! And you 
w i l l  d ie  before they do!"  He took a breath .  "Are you gonna die 
ton ight?" H e  stood, letting out q u ick fogs of a ir .  
Matt ran toward the groves. In  a thrusti ng assembly l i ne fash ion, 
he ign i ted each smudge pot. The h uge wind mach i nes came next, 
each one jo in ing the former in a loud h u m  that grew with i ntensity. 
The grove exploded with l ight and sound . 
George stepped i nto the l ight and watched as Matt, poised upon 
a fence post, a l igned a wobbl ing wind mac h ine. 
Matt j um ped off the post and stood sol id,  whole and proud. 
George moved to a pot and carefu l ly  adjusted the grid. Tiny 
candle poi nts poked through the metal . He turned to h is  son and for 
one brief moment, they were one. 
49 


A Candle In The Window

McKinley, John

Untitled

Green, David

david green 
The Scar 
SCENE: Place-somewhere nearby. Time-right now. Two men. 
friends, are laughing and talking, eating and drinking beer. Their 
names don't matter-we know who they are. MAN 1 is finishing a 
joke. 
MAN 1 :  So, the president says, "That's because I'm standing on 
my wife's shoulders." (LAUG HS) 
MAN 2: I don't get it. 
MAN 1: Don't you see, the vice president th i n ks the president is 
gett ing off l ightly, since he's not as deep in the f ire and 
brimstone, but it turns out the president is just as evi l in 
hel l  as he was on earth! 
MAN 2: Oh yeah. Ha. Yeah, that's okay. l guess I'm not into political 
hu mor. (MAN 2 REACH ES FOR SOME POPCORN ON 
TH E TABLE BETWEEN THEM, EXPOSING AN ARM­
LENGTH SCAR RUNNING FROM HIS SHOULDER TO 
HIS WRIST. IT IS WHITE AND WIDE AND WAS OB­
VIOUSLY THE RESULT OF A DEEP AND HORRI FIC 
WOU ND.) 
MAN 1 :  Jesus! When d id  you d o  that? 
MAN 2: What? 
MAN 1: Get that scar. I 've never seen it before. 
MAN 2: Oh, yea . . .  (HE F INGERS THE SCAR, NERVOUSLY AND 
SOMEWHAT APPRECIATIVELY.) Ha .  I have no idea. I 
just noticed it last week. 
MAN 1: No, seriously. How did you get it? 
MAN 2: I tel l you, I don't know. I was shaving  Tuesday morn i ng 
when I first saw it. I was so surprised, I cut my face. 
27 
MAN 1: Oh, come on. You can tell me to bug off if it's embarrassing 
or private, but don't tel l  me you don't know. That's a 
serious wound; it must have been very pai nfu l .  
MAN 2: I guess it was. I honestly don't remember. 
MAN 1: Haven't you tried to f ind out? You must have thought 
about it. I can't bel ieve you haven't thought about it. 
MAN 2: What's the big deal? It's my scar. What do you care? 
MAN 1: I'm your friend. I've known you for fourteen, fifteen years, 
and you wal k in with a cut from . . .  I don't know, a meat 
cleaver or something and you�re too-what?-embar­
rassed? to tel l  me what happened. 
MAN 2: I don't know what happened. It must have been when I 
was very you ng, maybe an infant. It's been here a l l  a long 
and we've taken it for granted. Now, for some reason, 
we've noticed it .  Re-noticed it ,  sort of. That's a l l .  
MAN 1 :  Do you th ink I 'm stu pid? I don't forget things l ike that. 
MAN 2: It's the on ly possible conclusion. 
MAN 1 :  Why? 
MAN 2: Because I can't th ink of anyth ing else. 
MAN 1: So you just accept it? 
MAN 2: Why not? It isn't important. 
MAN 1: Because it's a l ie. You know that scar wasn't there the 
last time I saw you. Remember? I went to g ive b lood and 
you would n't go with me because you didn't feel l i ke it. I 
grabbed your arm and joked about your healthy veins. 
There was no scar. 
MAN 2: Maybe it was the other arm. 
MAN 1; No, no it was that arm! I remember it d isti nctly. You 're 
h id ing someth ing from me, you l iar. 
MAN 2: Why are you so upset? It isn't important. I thought about it 
28 
and I can't remem ber. It doesn't hu rt now; it rea l ly  doesn 't 
affect me. So who cares? It may as well be on your  arm. 
MAN 1: If it were, I 'd want to know how it got there. I'd ask everyone 
if they knew when or where I did it. I 'd ask my doctor . . .  
Did you ask you r  doctor? 
MAN 2: No, I d idn 't. . .  That's an idea. Maybe I ' l l  ask h im  on my 
next visit. 
MAN 1: Maybe? On your next visit? Let's cal l  h im now. Let's go 
there. I, we, must f ind out. Maybe it's not a scar. Maybe 
it's cancer. Maybe it's eati ng you, spread ing through 
your  body. Maybe it's k i l l i ng  you .  We must find out. Let 
me look at it  closer. 
MAN 2: No, it's just a scar; I 'm sure of it. 
MAN 1: Let me see! (HE GRABS MAN 2'S ARM AND EXAMINES 
IT WHILE MAN 2 LOOKS AWAY, BORED.) It's so deep. If 
it is a scar, it must have happened some time ago to have 
healed by now. 
MAN 2: See? I told you. 
MAN 1: But I tel l you i t  wasn't there last week. How can you be 
sure it 's a scar, if you don't even know when you got it? 
MAN 2: It looks l i ke a scar. You said so you rself. 
MAN 1: What if it isn 't? 
MAN 2: So what? If it's a scar, it's a scar. If it's a cancer, I 'm going 
to d ie. Well, I 'm going to die anyway, so why worry about 
it? 
MAN 1: Because maybe you can f ight it. 
MAN 2: Ugh.  Strapped into a bed, tubes a l l  over my body, hair  
fal l i ng  out, eati ng with vei ns instead of my mouth,  a bottle 
su pplying food, drop by drop. I'd rather die in peace, with 
d ign ity. 
MAN 1: Don't be so dramatic. 
29 
MA N 2: Wel l I would. 
MAN 1: Who says you have to die? Maybe they can cut it out. 
Maybe it's not cancer. Maybe it's someth ing else. 
MAN 2: Like a scar. 
MAN 1: Maybe it's something e lse. 
MAN 2: Like what? 
MAN 1: I don't know. Let's cal l the doctor and f ind out. 
MAN 2: No there's no reason for it. I real ly don't want to know. 
MAN 1: Why not? 
MAN 2: It's too much troub le. I have other th ings to do. 
MAN 1: God damn it, I want to know! What if it's not a cancer? 
What if it's a contagious disease? What if I get one? 
MAN 2: Then you can find out for yourself. 
MAN 1: Selfish  p ig .  
MAN 2: Wel l what do you want me to do? It's too late now. 
MAN 1: (GASPS) It probably is! ( INSPECTS HIS ARMS.) What if 
it's a deadly vi rus? There could be an epidemic. 
MAN 2: I'm on ly one man.  What can I do? I've already got it. 
MAN 1: Do someth ing ,  anyth ing. Act! Act! Act! 
MAN 2: It's only a scar, for chrissake. Scars don't go away; scars 
aren't contag ious; wounds may be fatal ,  but scars on ly 
happen when the wound is not. Why don't you calm 
down ,  have another dri nk? 
MAN 1: You . . .  you are not going to pacify me. I want to know 
what that is ,  where it came from. 
MAN 2: Wel l ,  you can't. 
30 
MAN 1: So you do know! Tel l me, or I ' l l  k i l l  you. 
MAN 2: Now who's being dramatic? If you do that, then you ' l l  
never know, wi l l  you? 
MAN 1: I don't care; it's the pr inciple. 
MAN 2: Principle, shminciple. Besides, that's not why you can't 
know. 
MAN 1: Why? 
MAN 2: Because it's a mystery, an enigma. Like those people 
who bleed l i ke Jesus. 
MAN 1: That's no mystery. There are medical reasons. 
MAN 2: Some say. 
MAN 1: There are! Just as there's a medical reason for your  scar. 
How can you call it an enigma when you won't even see 
a doctor? 
MAN 2: Don't you see? It was meant to be, not to be explained. It 
is a miracle. It's a mystery for the ages, l i ke the appearance 
of Mary in that church in Kansas. 
MAN 1: Are you crazy? It's j ust a scar! 
MAN 2: Maybe. 
MAN 1: You're making a mou ntain out of a moleh i l l .  
MAN 2: Me? 
MAN 1: Yes. I j ust asked you where the scar came from, and 
you 've bu i l t  it i nto a rel ig ious experience. 
MAN 2: Only because you wouldn't accept the truth. 
MAN 1: You haven't told me the truth. 
MAN 2: Yes I did. The truth is, "I don't know." 
MAN 1: That's no truth. 
31 
MAN 2: Are you saying it's a l ie? 
MAN 1: I 'm saying ignorance is not a substitute for truth. 
MAN 2: No, it  i sn't a substitute. It is the truth. 
MAN 1 :  Never. It can't be. 
MAN 2: Take it or leave it. 
MAN 1: Fine, I 'm leaving. Good bye. 
MAN 2: Don't you want to d iscuss it some more? 
MAN 1 :  I 'm getting nowhere with you. 
MAN 2: Let's talk some more. We can accomplish someth ing. 
We can come to an understandi ng. 
MAN 1: I 'm going to ask around, f ind out for myself. 
MAN 2: Wi l l  you let me know what you f ind out? 
MAN 1: No. Find out on you r  own. Good bye. 
MAN 2: Wel l ,  suit yourself. Have a nice day. 
MAN 1: I hope you choke on it. (MAN 1 LEAVES, SLAMMING 
DOOR.) 
MAN 2: (LOOKING AT SCAR.) Maybe it wi l l  go away if I ignore it. 
END 
32 


The Scar

Comenas, Cathy

cathy comenas 
This Week 
catherine bleached her  hair 
when she got to San Francisco 
looking l ike some ivory toy baby 
she met Janie 
They got a place together 
at the Geary street apartments 
that's when they came into some money 
Stripping paid 
From this side of the door 
1 hear laughing under music 
but every time I knock 
they tell me no one is home 
They've just f in ished a porno movie 
seventeen-year-old Catherine 
gets butt-tucked by two black men 
who haven't any teeth 
th is week they're shooting up codeine 
33 


This Week

Westerbeck, Dortha

dortha westerbeck 
Skeletons + Sugar Frosted 
Fla kes 
Prism-eyed 
waiting to detract 
glances sought 
+ found far too late 
P iecemeal hangman 
sure of vowels 
They're all paying homage to each other 
A world at your feet 
You, love, are poised with a peel ing back cover 
held between l ines, 
so many pressings of pens 
Looking for a home 
a door to stir my coffee beige 
connected to the world 
chased by pigeons 
Eager to smear 
+ drop 
All upon you r  head 
If I cal l  you with 
shutting eyes 
ashamed to see what's done 
wil l  you s l ip  through 
the screen 
carried long-breezed 
towards me? 
47 


Skeletons + Sugar Frosted Flakes

Buller, Richard

richard buller 
To Flame Without Burning 
Revisiting Brideshead, West Egg 
Asia magazine annual, 1 927: 
Through a megap hone darkly, the 1920's. 
The Cover: brown, Decoed beauties, 
anglophiled and alluring, 
like chocolate Flappers in the heat of day, 
Where Deneuve i n  The Last Metro 
("The apparition of these faces in the crowd; 
Petals on a wet black bough") 
Goes back a war, to wear, 
look on page 63, 
pink and silver gauze. 
Hear the harp, tenderly plucked: 
Nostalgia of sleep. 
There! on page three, 
Julia and Charles 
in a yellow coupe: 
smoking, 
speaking soundlessly 
of bat-squeak sexuality. 
Sebastian is there, too, 
on the rough outskirts, 
ever the outsider looking in, 
always watching, 
always hoping. 
"Though hast nor youth nor age 
But as it were an after dinner 
sleep dreaming of both" 
7 
Northridge Review 
Gaze more at the book. See page 326: 
A gentleman! 
Standing at the crowded summer shore, 
sporting blanched Gatsby slacks, 
a t ie toussled by breeze 
(do I spy a postage-stamp design?). 
Our gentleman looks away, 
Not taken by the mob-beach, 
Parasol vanity. 
Here, he thinks, the ult imate: 
Flapper holocaust. 
All, all a feral seasick c ircus. 
Look beyond the illusion, 
observe the horizon. 
See from your fedora perspective 
the flawed gardens of what is not. 
The tragedy of a dream: 
how the waves want to devour everything; 
how you look one way, the w ind blows another. 
The sunbathers cry their throaty chant: 
How dare you stand alone! 
Do not- hey l isten you!­
do not look to the water. 
You must never turn away. 
Play! Play! Play! 
All is created for enjoyment­
why be obtuse? 
8 
"I have left behind 
illusion . .. " 
richard buller 
see page 148: a party! 
Apparition of Flaming Youth 
(Now burnt-up used pocketed 
passages hidden deep in once· 
read folios). 
Take heed to the book: 
"Gay blue seas of the south . . .  
rippingjazzrhythms from far-away orchestras . . .  
Don't travel this winter . . .  " 
The far-off murmurs of niggardly 
warnings deeply tendered. 
But we are young! 
RIPPINGJAZZRHYTHMS! 
Let us sing! dance! 
Where the manual on 
How to Flame Without Burning? 
Hear the fading celluloid rattle: 
The sky is too Pink; 
The sea is overly Turquoise; 
and these Men have no faces, 
only Masks of an age long-vanished. 
The striped beach towel may 
hide aging, but it will 
pale, like the yellowed rattle; 
it, too, will be discarded. 
"Here . .  . 
I began to be old . .  . 
Here my last love died" 
9 
Northridge Review 
To page 237: a War Hero! 
selling automobiles. 
A hero, certainly a chap, 
- bu_t the memories of war too quickly wither, 
and reputation dies with the fickle pompous soldier 
who sick-wallows with the sick-
Who is this man, this relic of death's grotto, 
who poses to sell Packards? 
His eyes sparkle g reen: 
the motto of the modern world! 
Freedom in order to sell more. 
Do you hear Rupert Brooke and Wilfred Owen? 
Then move on!  To page 1 043: a night club. 
The Cafe Noir-
coffee house of misplaced youth. 
See how smoke swirls round the cabaret clown; 
see his white pasty grin, 
thick with closeted sensuality. 
He mourns for wounded birds: 
As far as sparrows are concerned, 
I am a dove. 
Enable us to fly! 
"So we beat on, 
boasts against the current, 
borne back ceaselessly into the past" 
You have noticed my wounds? 
Perhaps that is dust you detect, 
but it is the talc of humanity, 
a pure lethal powder that once was my heart, 
crushed pharmaceutically by 
time, 
squandered passion, 
and You: 
Lustrous . . .  animated . . .  overdressed. 
1 0  
"Nowhere, beloved, can 
world exist but within" 


To Flame Without Burning: Revisiting Brideshead, West Egg

Aroni, Ruth

Ruth Aroni 
Subm erged 
He does not know 
that I smoke in bed. 
Crouching in the bathroom 
of a quiet French restaurant 
I puff. 
And in  the tub, scratching 
years of stain 
I submerge my head i n  
the tepid water, 
looking for a miracle. 
And at the mirror I scrub 
my grayed teeth and smear 
paint, an egged Indian. 
My perfumed body smiles 
in disgust. I am unprepared 
to greet him. 
80 


Submerged

Sidney Allen 
The Shell Station 
I turned off the ignition, reached under my seatto get my leather 
gloves. I must have known before I went into the trunk. I had to 
open the trunk because the owner of the station insisted I leave my 
spare tire there on account of being four cents short on the gas. He 
took my tire, I took a crowbar out of the trunk then closed it. I 
walked to the comer of the building and began hitting it as hard as 
I could with the crowbar. It bounced right off. That old building 
was tougher than it looked. 
I guess I felt betrayed. It looked so very much like the old 
service stations of my youth. It was, after all, a Shell station, not a 
cut rate, convenience store, or mom and pop. His statement that he 
had done nothing to provoke me was partially correct. He had done 
nothing but demand my tire over four cents, and it provoked me. He 
sat in front of that station wearing a uniform, disguised as an 
attendant. He wasn't fit to tie an attendant's  shoes. It was a 
beautiful station, three separate garage doors, the roll top kind, with 
glass in them. I went for them right away. He got off his fat ass 
when they started popping. For a moment he came after me, 
however, seeing the vigor of my swings or the crowbar, he turned 
and ran for the pay phone. 
The service stations of my youth were the guardians of the 
roads. The attendants wore bow ties, trousers with tuxedo stripes, 
and hats, the kind that soldiers wear. A grease rag in one pocket 
would be used to check vital fluids. They checked your tires, hoses, 
THESHELLSTATION 83 
belts, even if you didn'tbuy anything. Anytime, anywhere, you just 
drove in and said, "Excuse me, can you tell me how to get to, 
wherever?" They knew where every street in their city was. It was 
a point of pride with them, the way construction workers feel about 
their suntans. I� you did stump one, he would look it up for you, 
show you the proper route on a map, then give you the map. Those 
days were never viewed through a crappy windshield. When you 
entered a station, the attendant would spray real window cleaner on 
your windows, then polish them with soft blue paper towels which 
would be thrown away after each car. Nothing like the slop they 
slosh across now, if you can even get them to do that. Oh god, we 
took them for granted. 
I kept swinging the crowbar, first like a baseball bat, then like 
a golf club a few strokes, then overhead. A huge crowd formed 
almost immediately. Every time the crowbar hit, a yell would go 
up, like "Yeah" in addition to clapping, stomping, and whistling. 
When the owner got to the phone, there were several people 
bunched around it. Standing directly in front of the phone was a 
woman holding an iron skillet in one hand and a really long nasty­
looking bar-b-que fork in the other. "Wait a minute, don't you 
remember me?" 
"Let me by," he said. 
"Not so fast." She lowered the fork menacingly. "I'm hurt you 
don't remember me. It was about seven months ago. I had just 
moved here, I didn't know anybody. My phone hadn't been 
installed yet, my baby was sick, you don't remember?" 
The owner tried to step around her. The crowd moved closer 
and blocked him. 
She was making small circles in the air with the fork. "I could 
never forget you. I was standing out here waiting for the doctor to 
call me back. You told me to go away. I tried to explain, you were 
really rude, remember now? The cops came. While we were 
talking to the cops the doctor called. The cops didn 't like that I 
84 NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
answered the phone. They made me lay down on the asphalt. Face 
down on the asphalt. What did you tell them? That I was a whore? 
That I got tricks here every night or something? I'm sure you 
remember." 
He was backing off a bit. 
"Well anyway, my point is, what we learned that night was, 
nobody uses the phone, this phone unless they buy gas. I didn't see 
you buy any gas." 
"Yeah," some others in the group chimed in. "This is your rule 
man. Yeah customers only, remember?" 
He really backed away then, kind of ran away. 
I was worn down rather quickly. I stopped to catch my breath 
and admire my work. Another woman stepped out of the crowd and 
asked for a tum. I gave her the crowbar and turned around; that's  
when I saw the crowd. The TV news was there, a safe distance back. 
I smiled into the camera. Later I was surprised to see how good I 
looked in the footage. The sweat was running down my face, into 
my eyes, sticking my hair to my head, but I was positively glowing. 
A tremendous cheer went up from the crowd, the TV camera 
swiveled to the driveway, where the forklift from the market across 
the street was slowly pushing a part through the crowd. Two or 
three of the market employees were hanging off of the lift, cheering. 
My sister was driving. She had it in for that guy ever since the time 
her car conked out in front of his station. It was during rush hour, 
two guys pulled over, jumped out of their car, and pushed her car 
into the station. That was another time the owner jumped out of his 
chair, to run between the car and the garage doors, which were 
open, yelling, "No more cars today, come back in the morning!" 
My sister was pretty good on the lift. On her first charge, she 
skewered two of the pumps. She raised them high over head, then 
backed off a bit, scraping them off with the overhead lights. She 
went for the remaining pumps. 
The police arrived, perhaps they were flabbergasted, or were in 
sympathy with the crowd; they really hung back. Maybe they were 
waiting for assistance. The station was half gone, and people were 
still pulling over and joining in. There were people pounding on or 
tearing up that station with every kind of tool. Axes, hammers, 
THESHELLSTATION 85 
crowbars, chains, broom handles, bats. Fan belts and hoses were 
passed along the crowd like beachballs at a "Dead" concert. 
Containers of coolant and oil were stomped on the ground. One 
huge guy took a pump hose that still had a nozzle attached, swung 
it round and aro)Jnd, like a hammer thrower. When he let it go, it 
crashed through the thick glass of the cashier window. He got a 
rousing cheer from the crowd. 
Helicopters were hovering low, the police, a large number of 
them by then were using bull horns to try to keep traffic flowing. 
Someone ran over the fire hydrant with a four-by-four, causing a 
geyser of white water and a fine mist. The mist was very refreshing. 
The Fire Dept. had the water under control in about five minutes. 
By that time, the station was as flat as a can run over by a bus. 
The crowd slipped away as quickly as it had formed. Every one 
was in terrific spirit. Smiling, giving high and low five signs, even 
hugging. The police left, little by little. The News were about the 
last to go. They interviewed my sister on the forklift across the 
street. At first it was rumored that the owner had suffered a heart 
attack. As it turned out, he had just fainted when he saw the forklift 
coming. 


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