Proving Myself to Uncle Sam

October 7, 2022

I remember my knuckles whitening around the steering wheel. My arms, tense and rigid, felt clammy. I adjusted my seat for perhaps the fifth time. The gear shift held strong as I gripped its shaft and fiddled with its rubber covering. My leg shook for no particular reason. The air conditioning was cool and relaxing. I enjoyed the rumble of my tires against the road and the quiet hum of a sparse highway. I remember the heat of the day distorting my view of the asphalt. It was a suburban mirage. It reminded me of hot afternoons on the basketball courts in middle school when the only thing entertaining me were these familiar ripples dancing on top of the stark black asphalt. I remember the monotony of the clock ticking. I stared at the ceaseless movement of the second hand as it circled around and around. I loved waiting for the inevitable moment when the second hand nudged the minute hand just an increment forward. I remember the stiffness of the line snaking around the building, feeding us into an archaic queue system. A disgruntled receptionist waded through my paperwork. I walked through a maze of plastic chairs to sit down. I remember trying to read Antigone and understanding nothing. Greek tragedies are best read with Sparknotes. I surveyed the room, trying to find solace from Sophocles, but only found stillness. Others shifted in their seats, passing the time in whatever manner suited them. The best thing I could do was read about Greek heroes having sex with their mothers. I remember the quiet shuffling of papers, the ringing of office phones, the strangely loud ruffling of a man’s windbreaker, the sharp clack of a keyboard click, the indecipherable murmurs of a front desk conversation, the flush of a toilet, the tap of a foot, and the sisyphean tick of the clock. I remember watching the time. It must have been sometime in the late afternoon when the oppressive heat stepped back. It took months to get this appointment. It took hours just to get seen. In a few minutes it would finally begin, only taking seconds for me to mess it up. Just three or four clicks of the second hand might spell the end. I remember the agony of waiting. I missed having strangers around me, even if they wanted nothing to do with me, and I wanted nothing to do with them. Sitting in the car, I had never felt so isolated before. I remember an Asian man getting into the passenger seat. I think he was Korean. He was like Steven Yeun, but he worked at the DMV. He said nothing at first – just flipped through his clipboard, methodically. Absent minded small talk flowed from his mouth. He wore a blue and white striped polo, jeans, and dockers. He kept his hair fairly short and spiky: enough gel to make me think of how sticky it would become in the hot sun. I remember turning off the radio and blinking the hazard lights. I remember checking the windshield wipers, the turn signals, and the defroster. I remember flashing my emergency lights, cranking my emergency brake, and stepping on my foot brake. I remember slamming on the horn for the first and only time in my life. I remember slowly coaxing the car out of its shaded space. He wrote something on his clipboard. I remember how much I hated Oceanside roads. I still complain about Oceanside roads when I drive there. The entire road system was designed by a monkey running around with a pen attached to its tail. Anyway, the roads aren’t as bad as they used to be. Oceanside is gentrified now. I remember staring at strangers in their cars. Where is everyone else headed? What do they think about me and my car and my driving? Is their driving up to standard? Am I being obvious? People’s mentals states are often unconsciously reflected in the subtle ways that they move, act, speak, blink, and stand in a room. Do cars carry the same level of expressiveness as the human body? Perhaps it’s not that deep. There is a friendly Korean man with a clipboard next to me. I remember praying. I prayed that the tires missed the curb. I stared at the reflection of my windshield mirror. Those sad suburban Spanish style houses leered at me as I inched backwards. I couldn’t tell what he was looking at. The car did as my hands and feet commanded. He motioned for me to stop moving, and wrote something on his clipboard. I remember an unassuming slip of paper. I remember a gear shift that did as told. I remember the steady thrum of the Five Highway. I remember finishing Antigone. I’m still not sure what it was about. I remember missing the aloofness of strangers. I remember driving to school, alone.

Second Star

Deeya Prakash

October 7, 2022

I’ve only seen Megan Rutheford cry three times in my life. This is a lie, actually. Megan cries almost every day, her knee jerk reaction to humor being leaking water from her eyes like the squeaky water pump at the park down the street. They pool in her eyelashes and sometimes, if you’ve really done a number, they will stream down her face in meandering tracks. Personal victories of mine are counted in just how many times I have made my best friend cry. It’s different when you’ve seen a person really cry. A gear in the complex machinery that is the brain will catch for a moment and it’s as if you’re seeing the world for the very first time. Light snubs out and you’re left wondering if it will ever turn on again. You’re left wondering if it ever should. *** I met Megan in the fourth grade, which is also a lie but feels like the truth to me. I suppose I merely glimpsed her then, doused in makeup and fitted into a pink nightgown, the white frills enclosing her neck and finishing out her puff sleeves. However, I don’t know that glimpse is a strong enough word for it. I experienced her, as she took to the stage as the lead character, Wendy, in Symmes Elementary’s production of Peter Pan Jr. 10-year-old me had never been to a musical before and my awe was shiny and full. The sets were glorious (hand painted cardboard), the costumes were stunning (mothers showing off their feeble sewing skills) and the acting and singing was some of the best I had ever seen (for that age, this might just be true). But what captivated me most of all was the likeness that the leading lady had for her character. Whoever was playing Wendy was absolutely killing it. The playbill was printed on neon green paper, and I still remember cradling it in my hands as I watched the scenes shift and the characters shout and the sets flip around with speed and grace. The front featured a student drawing of Peter Pan and the lost boys, and I remember thinking I could have done a better job, which likely would not have been the case. The back of the playbill was blank, save for the word “autographs!” printed at the top in some font that I recognized as commonly used but couldn’t remember the name. As the show progressed, I found myself enamored, a film I had so reverently watched as a kid coming to life right in front of me. Wendy’s big song, “Your mother and Mine” had always been my favorite, and it was after this number that I turned to my mother and whispered, “I want to get Wendy’s autograph.” I did not end up doing so, for Wendy was played by a fourth grader just like me who had to go home because it was nearly her bedtime, and my mother ushered us out of the theater because I had an early swim practice the next day. But I didn’t forget about the girl who played Wendy in Symmes Elementary’s Peter Pan, and I tell this story with fondness whenever someone asks how I met my best friend. She blushes a little when I elaborate on how she stunned me, and I tease her for her theater-kid era that seemed to come to a fizzling halt in the years after. I thought of her as a celebrity, and she likes to claim that this sentiment has now become mutual. Then it is my turn to blush, and we go on to talk about when we actually became known to each other. The lights in our eyes brighten as we talk about those early days, when the atoms in our bodies swapped with one another and our auras first found themselves. *** Megan is the first person I call when I find out. She picks up the phone and she is crying. She already knew. It takes me a minute to say anything. I wonder if I even should. *** Megan fit me like a glove on a stick— far too big and incongruous, and yet perched on top just the same. This isn’t a lie at all; in fact, I quite like this metaphor. Over time, I learned to grow within her, watching shy and arguably lame Deeya grow to fill the space of confident, boisterous, encapsulating Megan. We were fifth graders, sixth graders, then seventh and eighth-graders, the braces on our teeth reflecting the shine of our teenage aspirations and the number of pets we wanted when we were older. She wanted a goldfish named Fred and a golden retriever named Carol. I hadn’t quite decided yet, but I liked the idea of a kitten. I give Megan a lot of credit for who I am as a person now, which I believe she deserves. Megan was a riot of color, reds and blues and greens following after her as she chased opportunity with the tip of her tongue stuck out in concentration. I, on the other hand, enjoyed sitting on the bench and reading a book, and while I very well could have simply done as much, I was magnetized to the true force that she was. And so I ran with her, sneakers stained by the rainbows at my feet and protective walls shattering as I learned to live outside of the corner. *** She asks me if I’m okay. I think I say yes, and I think she says she doesn’t believe me. I think I then whisper no, and she cries harder on the line. The world is so, so big. I am swallowed by its vastness, and it’s the sound of her sobs that keeps my swaying body from hitting the floor. “Deeya, are you okay? Are you going to be okay?” I am struggling to find words. Megan is crying. Crying. “No.” I say softly. “I’m sorry,” she says. She sniffles. I swallow. We listen to each other breath for a bit, hers ragged and catching, mine even and numb. I give it a minute, and I hang up. *** Megan has been my best friend since fifth grade, when my jaw quite literally dropped after discovering Wendy from Peter Pan Jr. was in my math class on the first day of middle school. This is a lie, but it makes my story a bit easier to tell. We didn’t actually become best friends until high school, but whatever we were, it was good. Math class became a game of how-do-I-become-friends-with-this-girl, which proved to be much easier than it seemed due to Megan’s desire to be friends with everyone. A trait I have since absorbed myself. Opposites attracted; we are however as inseparable as two college-goers on opposite sides of the country can be. We drive aimlessly. Gossip unabashedly. Discuss profoundly. Laugh shamelessly. Judge slightly. Smile broadly. Love naively. Live cautiously. Dream audaciously. Share deeply. I believe Megan and I are the way we are because of small things. I believe it’s the way I make fun of her for eating pizza with applesauce and how she talks me down from a precipice of anxiety after an exam gone wrong and how I tease her for her ugly ex-boyfriend and how she pities my dry sense of fashion and the way I yell at her as she tries to backseat drive me and the way her hair is never brushed and mine is never not and how I wear her sunglasses every time I’m in her car and she fidgets with my rings when she’s nervous and how we communicate through our eyes alone and know exactly where and when and how the other is at exactly every and hour and minute and second of the day. I believe it’s nestled in the details, each overlap catching and holding until we’re an intertwining web of each other, no one able to let go. And we really, really don’t want to. And we really, really cannot. *** Megan watches as someone’s life is cut from mine. She cries, and our threads tighten to a suffocating chokehold, blood escaping our extremities and merging between the two of us. I hold her close and swear to stay wrapped around her forever. She tells me that it’s okay to mourn. I know it is. I tell her that I’ll break if she leaves. She tells me she really doesn’t want to. She tells me she really can’t. *** Megan never leaves. She sits on my bed as I read this to her. She laughs at all of the funny parts. My words are rushing together and I’m only reading her the good parts because just because I always think about it doesn’t mean she has to and I think perhaps she doesn’t until I remember that one time she saw dandelions blooming in the school courtyard and touched the edge of my shoulder as if to whisper “I’m here for you” and I recall that once in a school assembly and the speaker said something and she made immediate eye-contact with me from across the gymnasium and mouthed “are you okay?” and just moments ago when I’m sitting in my room on a Zoom call and the panelist’s name is Delaney and I can feel her wariness like a prickle on my skin. It is then that a terrifying thought crosses my mind– maybe the only reason she ever thinks about it is because I’m a walking f**king reminder. That maybe my constant black hole swallows her too. She debunks these sentiments with a rub of my back, a surprise ice-cream date, a lets-go-for-a-drive. She sticks her head out the window. She yells over the cliffs back home. She tells me there is beauty to sadness and that it’s okay to cry and that it is also okay to laugh and smile and scream and tell the world how much fun it is to be making noise. I see the way she cradles my insecurities and tosses out my self hatred and smacks me in the face with the regret that I seem to always be wearing on my sleeve. Guilt has no place on the altar that she worships, tossed to the floor under the tapestries of memories and giggles and “do you remember when?” I see the way she paints sunshine where she walks and am inspired to live on, my dark spots swallowed by her rays of persistence. I am working towards living like her. *** Peter Pan is a story about growing up, or rather the naive concept that one shouldn’t. Wendy is enamored by the idea of a land with made up fantasies and stunning escapes and a beautiful boy who stays young forever. However, she soon comes to learn that we all have to grow up. Some faster than others. Megan watched me grow up faster than she could say “lost boy” and I fumbled with the keys and chipped the paint near the ignition and nearly broke my wrist but started the car all the same, her annoying backseat driving and incessant conversation a lullaby to my tormented ears. But I drove. I’m driving. It’s working. She is loud and insufferable in the passenger seat but I need every damn word. From the girl who played Wendy. Who, to this day, continues to guide me home. She is going to think this is so corny. I’m smiling just thinking about it.

Excerpted

Caroline Sassan

September 30, 2022

Dear X., So I took my time, which isn’t to say that I ever gave it away. You have to understand how much I hate the thought of that. But I gathered it against my bones, and there we were, flattening this out into some derivative universe toward which I can fall with my arms outstretched. There’s a subtler meaning there. But now I’m thinking of forgivable heights, and time like a series of knots on somebody else’s bracelet, somebody else’s wrist. *** Dear X., Listen—it’s not transactional: You give me the color orange, and some days, I give you nothing at all. I give you the corrugated metal of this body leftover from the day or the worst possible choice of a security question of the three you listed just because I think it’s the funniest. I give you the slap in the face that preempted our friendship, or maybe I make you tea. *** Dear X., Thinking of the soft pine needles yesterday, and today the frozen baths. Like a bucket spilling and spilling over the rocks, and the others barefoot in the back seat. Thinking too of green wood, which is young wood that can bend, that can snap back, and thinking of how green is operating here: twice, or with two chances, if you’re the sort of person who allows that sort of thing. *** Dear X., They ran out of free samples at the store yesterday, but that’s the price you pay for calling something fictitious. I need your opinion on something—write me back please. *** Dear X., Today I’ve been thinking about that Tony Hoagland poem with the excess blossoming, a profusion near profanity. I looked it up: “A Color of the Sky.” Funny because the titular line used to be the one stuck in my head, but today while walking through the green with you I could only think of the ending, the bit about nature making more beauty and throwing it away; making more again. *** Dear X., Grand notions in ample time; things that stretch to fill their medium. Including: any story of yours on the seven minute walk to dinner. *** Dear X., The funny thing about epistolarity is that it creates a separation between when something is spoken and when it is heard. The funny thing about honesty is that it makes this gap look awfully comforting. You’ll see what I mean. There are things that are easy and there are things I should say to your face. *** Dear X., You’ve asked me to write about home, so I’ll tell you that there were days that glinted like cold metal, and those when my hands grew calloused from the weighing of broken things. But there were also the birds flying south past the steeple. There were the splitting faces. It wasn’t that long ago, remember? We were both there. You were standing in the crooked field, and I was under your skin. *** Dear X., Yes, I was afraid. “For crying out loud”—you always liked that phrase. *** Dear X., You start at the source of the bleeding. That’s what I would tell you and S. would tell you and probably someone else whose name here would be signified with the first initial only. That’s the answer clear as day. I don’t remember the question. S. thinks it had something to do with history. *** Dear X., Now hang on just a second—I might be wrong about that part, might have been wrong this whole time. Which would be incredibly good news, I think. It cracks me open to think about the possibility that you felt some other way. But I think I heard it in your voice yesterday morning, when we were standing by the water. *** Dear X., A couple months ago, on a day she didn’t know was difficult, a friend told me she’s not very religious at all but still writes “G-d” every time. Some names you shouldn’t erase. Call that conviction or call it a security deposit—regardless, it’s something I can get behind. *** Dear X., Just so you know, I think I could pass a lot of time listening to the same sounds with you. *** Dear X., Thinking about that damn fish, the beta, that Nick wanted to name after Grandpa. I don’t think we told human Ted when the fish died. It felt like a bad omen. Fish Ted’s last afternoon was one of the most distinctive times I can picture us all gathered in one room. It was almost Christmas. We had just gotten him a new tank. I’m not sure what you ended up doing with it. When human Ted died, I found out in the morning before school, back in Minnesota standing next to the kitchen counter. It was probably 7:30 or so. You had just hung up the phone. The last time I’d seen him, I was crying and you were not. You took a minute to talk to him before you left the hospital room, but when you left you were not crying. *** Dear X., The times I wanted to tell you most were the times I wanted most for you to see that I wasn’t broken, that you aren’t a person who breaks things. *** Dear X., The sun today—the sun was here! All that sun, and something new on the breeze. Thinking about how spring used to be my least favorite season. But all that rain and all that meltage are necessary to wash things away. All that washing. *** Dear X., When I’m writing, I’m making a list of places I’ve been. Fuck an action verb, I’m talking real perlocution. I’m building the walls, see. I’m laying the foundation. You can come on in whenever you like. When I’m writing, I’m making lists upon lists. I’m living through the day. There’s the morning, crashing in with all those shock waves. The break of dawn, the break of a dish; the one the waiter dropped onto the pavement in Brooklyn. The one I dropped in the kitchen standing on little feet, when I first was told it’s easier to sweep up the dirt after it dries. I get in a car. I get on a bus. I step out of the doorframe. I’d like to believe I’m going to meet you somewhere. *** Dear X., My entire day changed at the lunch hour today, sitting in a booth across from someone I love and arguing about what belongs in a smoothie. *** Dear X., Sleeping on your shoulder with the light flickering in. Filtering in. Sleeping somewhere sunny, somewhere warm. And light filtering through the window. Light falling off the tops of the buildings, tumbling into the street, as we weave through fruit vendors and chase down the parade. And me, left wondering how many frames per second we were allowed. If someone, somewhere, was breaking the rules for us. On the bus, summer is coming and that is good because I’d like to wake up, even knowing that I’ll wake up older; knowing that this is a price I’m willing to pay, that maybe this isn’t a price at all. *** Dear X., We listed our favorite oxymorons, but there comes a point when you need a better rhetorical device. Or something stronger. If you give me a second, I can explain. *** Dear X., Here’s a thought experiment for you and me: What would it be if the walls were made of fabric? Probably a whole lot of fluttering, but I’m choosing not to believe in cardiology. Not curtains, but the daffodils this morning: pale soaked tissue, defining where the room starts and ends. Then we’d have to make a list of things we could or couldn’t set on the table. We’ve had lists like that before. We called them house rules, and I’ll be damned if the look on your face wasn’t at least somewhat universalizing. *** Dear X., This is a story about abundance. Layers and layers and layers down, slicing into the snow. I’m thinking about the tree again, X.; the flowers it keeps pulling from its sleeves. As for memories, I don’t need them all, but let’s not shut down the tracks. I think death without aging would be like counting cards. Something I’d like to see. *** Dear X., I’m walking down a sidewalk after this morning’s rain and quite enjoying it. I’m crossing the street. I suppose I just wanted you to know. *** Dear X., One Wednesday, my history professor was talking about crises and wars and things that happen over and over again. She paused to say, If there is something exceptional, this is what is exceptional. How nice it would be for someone to always tell you these things. If there is something worth saving, this is what is worth saving. If there is something worth doing, this is what is worth doing. If there is somewhere everything floats, no matter its weight, you’ll go there. I’m sure of it. I’ll walk myself over and find you. *** Dear X., One night, the rain: Water running from the gutter, drops colliding with the sidewalk. These are words, yes. You heard them too. But still I was thinking about protection. *** Dear X., And you can have the whole thing, by the way. Just ask.

Perceptions

Lily Lustig

September 23, 2022

Prologue: Blur I am a pair of slender, purple-rimmed spectacles. I make for simple mornings and effortless evenings. I offer color and clues. I am a sight and I am sight itself. (More literally, here in 2011, I am a 10-year-old girl with glasses and the author of this piece. But the first part is more important.) March 8, 2021: The Appointment (Part 2) (Gold Aviators) In the words of Les Misérables, “The time is now / The day is here.” My new optometrist has just returned to this bleak, grey-cloaked examination room. Dr. Joseph Isik defies everything that I’ve come to expect of an eye specialist: he can hold a conversation, trusts my judgment, and has the dimensions and radiance of a fluorescent lamp. He has revealed that I have a nevus on my left eye. He has gone so far as to compliment my irises, despite seeing dozens of them each day. (“They’re just hazel,” I mean to say, but his praise has transfixed me.) “Alrighty, the moment of truth,” he sings. Opening his palms like the magician he surely is, Isik reveals two teeny plastic cartons. I have spent months pining for their contents. I have spent a decade fearing them.. Do I fare well with any entities or substances coming even remotely close to my eyes? No. No. In fact, I react quite poorly in such situations. But it’s decided. I have committed to joining the mainstream. No more clouded vision. In order to turn a new leaf, I must cast aside my anxieties and embrace the subtle art of jabbing my fingers into my eye sockets. Passing me my first lens, Isik gives a brief demonstration of the task at hand. Appears easy enough. Perhaps, the doctor ponders, we can begin with a simple exercise: touching my index finger to my naked cornea. Sounds somewhat doable. I give it a shot. I nearly throw up. My squeamishness, it would seem, has not faded away as gracefully as I had hoped. But before I can apologize for being so shamefully sensitive, Isik has begun prying open my lids in an attempt to insert the contacts himself. It is a Clockwork Orange waking nightmare; it is the sincerest act of care. And though I lightly squeal and squirm, I certainly handle myself better this time around. Blinking profusely, I come to, glance around the room, and realize that I can see. September 16, 2014: Practice (Part 1) (Black Ray-Bans) They noticed that I was pretty good with my feet, so they made me field hockey goalie for the season. The whole thing reeks of desperation: their star keeper’s in high school now, whereas two years ago, after completing 21 shuttles of the PACER test (out of, like, 150), I started hacking like the victim of chronic asbestos exposure. I’m no athlete, and they know it. But they need a goalie on their roster. I’ve signed my name, and – to be honest – I’m more than a little jazzed to be part of a team. Today’s our first practice and here in the claustrophobic girls’ locker room, I’ve donned all the fetid, chunky, garish orange gear. (There are pads, quite literally, everywhere.) Only one component remains: the brain barrier herself, my helmet. And here she comes! She’s jet black, she’s heavier than a newborn baby, she carries the aroma of a dead squirrel. Oh, she’s just grand. Coronate me, coach! And as the crown descends upon my head, I wish my former self well, knowing that a new epoch has begun. Goodbye, horribly-cliché-13-year-old sob story, and hello – “You’ll need to take off your glasses.” Cue panic. “Oh. Um. But then I won’t be able to … see.” Nice one. “You have contacts, don’t you?” I do not. “I do not.” “Well for God’s sake, kid, how did you think this was gonna go?” Ahem, you came to me, remember? And if you don’t let me play, you’re screwed, lady. “I’m so, so, so, so, so sorry! I promise I can make it work! Can we loosen this? I’ll just cram the glasses underneath. See?” Breathing labored and frames askew, I have sealed my fate for the next two months. “Look, as long as your vision’s intact, you can do whatever you want.” Alright, I’ll take it. But just know that I will never, under any circumstances, get contacts. March 9, 2021: Practice (Part 2) Day 2 with contacts. Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Yesterday, you wore them for five minutes, and you neither put them in nor took them out yourself. Today, you have yet to attempt insertion. Because you’re absolutely mortified by the prospect of it. But that’s why you’ve set aside 30 whole minutes before class! You cannot possibly take half an hour to do that which a normal person does in 10 seconds!! That would be downright ludacris!!! Crack open the first case. Scrub your hands until they sparkle. Now dry them until they burn. Place the lens on the very tip of your index finger. Look in the mirror but for the love of God, do not look yourself in the eye. Align your missile with your target. Ignore the faint ringing in your ears that suggests you’re losing consciousness. Ignore the faint taps of your housemate at the door – yes, you’ve overtaken the one shared bathroom, but dammit, she can wait. Allow your soul to leave your body. Aim. Fire. AND BAM! You’ve failed in the most pathetic fashion imaginable. Not only did your manic blinking block the contact from your cornea – it has also caused the lens to drop directly down the drain. And somehow, your unscathed eye still stings like an alcohol-dabbed wound. It’s fine. You have dozens more. Repeat the process. Repeat the process. Repeat the process and praise every otherworldly being for preserving this lens, no matter how averse it is to suctioning to your face. Repeat the process and WAIT, something’s happening here, blink blink blink, the contact’s not on your finger anymore, and now there’s a new kind of stinging, as if your eye has developed a tumorous growth, and you want nothing more than to expel this foreign object from your person but you fight the urge to perform the “Out, vile jelly!” scene from King Lear and would you look at that! Praise be! You’ve done it! Equipped with 20/15 vision, you have officially defied all odds. Revel in this moment for as long as it takes to regain your sense of awareness. Now use this mediocre eyesight to check the time, and thank yourself again for factoring in that healthy half-hour cushion. Squint. Let the clock come into focus. Class started 6 minutes ago. May 24, 2018: The Appointment (Part 1) (Tortoise Frames) In the words of Les Misérables, “The time is now / The day is here.” I’ve mustered up the courage to tell my optomotrist – Martin Newman, whose patients praise him online as “an older, relatively obese man who has absolutely no personality” – that I want contacts. I suppose “want” is an overstatement. But I’m ready for my big reveal, my Velma moment; the time when everyone who’s seen my face almost every day for the past 7 years will finally, truly, see my face. Newman’s making sure that my prescription hasn’t changed. The alarming proximity of our faces is made even more distressing by his severe breaths. They’re more a thunder than a wheeze; they resound straight through to my retinas. As he rolls away on his miniscule, one-moment-from-imploding-under-his-intense-and-highly-concentrated-weight stool, I make my own shuddering exhalation. Here goes nothing. “Dr. Newman, I was wondering if I might be able to get contacts today.” The word “contact” precludes him – in every possible irony – from meeting my gaze. “…Do you think that would be possible?” And suddenly two bratwursts (later recognized as Newman’s fingers) are tugging at my eyelids, while two more squeeze a chartreuse fluid into my now-gaping sockets. I go berserk. “EEEEEEEEEEERRRRGHGGGGGGGGGRGGGGGGGGRGGGGGGGGGHHHH,” squawks the incapacitated girl to her merciless assailant, flailing slightly and causing the liquid to fall like tainted, toxic tears. “If you cannot handle that, young lady, you cannot handle contacts.” Ah, how swell. I suppose now’s as fitting a time as ever to hit rock bottom. March 13, 2021: Driving Lesson This is My Year. I relinquished my “minor” status two years ago, but Today I am an Adult. Because I have Contacts. And before long, I’m going to get my Driver’s License. And right now, I’m Driving, training for my Road Test, while wearing – you guessed it – the Contacts that I put into my Eyes this morning with Relative Ease. Life is going So Well. So Well! Am I…the Best Driver Ever? The Most Independent Person? Whocaresthatmydadislegallyobligatedtobeinthepassengerseatrightnow? I have Matured. Kind of funky that my head is … Pounding right now. That the street sign a few feet away is … Illegible. That, upon closer consideration, my distance vision has … Gone Completely to Shit. Okay. It’s Totally Fine. Maybe if I just rub my eyes a little … here at this red light … Rubrubrubrubrubrub. Fuck. It appears that my Left Lens. Which is decidedly the wrong prescription. Has dislodged itself from my cornea. And found a home under the gas pedal. I Abhor Contacts. March 29, 2020: Fog (Part 2) (Blue Translucent Frames) To step outside is to be blinded. To take one breath is to envelope yourself in a weighty, pervasive cloud. To live through a pandemic is to become your most melodramatic diarist. What I mean is that glasses and KN95s do a great job of prohibiting each other from carrying out their basic functions. Even more simply: mask + glasses = major condensation. And yes, I’ll take foggy vision over risk of infection any day. And yes, this minor inconvenience is even more insignificant in the context of a global health crisis. And yes, there’s an easy fix to this minute hindrance. I’ve been rethinking my vendetta against contacts. November 15, 2018: Fog (Part 1) (Blue Translucent Frames) A passage from the first book of The Aeneid, translated today in class: “Venus surrounds the walking men [Aeneas and his friend Achates] with a dark cloud, and the goddess enveloped them with a great cloak of fog, so that no one was able to discern them, nor to touch them, nor to construct a delay, nor to ask the causes of their coming.” “Discern” is a potent word, states my Latin instructor. It means to see someone for who they truly are. It goes beyond mere sight. I would like to be seen. December 8, 2021: In My Eyes A planet drifts within each pool of milk. Their crusts are a stormy cerulean, their mantle a soft chartreuse. Their outer core is a rusty brown, their inner core an impossible black hole. I couldn’t distinguish such subtleties before; perhaps I hadn’t even tried. But no longer must I gaze through window panes, with their smudges and cobwebs and – figurative – bird droppings. Never have I observed life with such ease. Staring at a mirror, into my own pupils, I can discern a faint reflection. She’s hardly abstracted. She’s distant, yet she couldn’t be closer. I think she looks rather lovely. Epilogue: Blur It’s terribly odd to be recognized. Does my current image not differ from the one that exists within your memory? Have I not, in turn, transcended perception? In this choice, did I seek conspicuousness or invisibility? And what does it mean if I see differently and see myself differently and yet am (seen) just the same? Defining yourself by a flimsy pair of frames is a mistake. Electing to abandon those frames is psychotic. It leaves you with no choice but to build from scratch – to redesign and reconstruct your entire person. It’s the self-inflicted identity crisis that you thought you could hold off for at least a few more years. But what, then, does it mean to find comfort in this current state? And balance, knowing that you have not completely cast aside that other way of life and may switch between your two modes whenever you see fit? At my bedside, the gold aviators sit neatly in their case. Oh, please. With each metaphor, you dig yourself deeper into the world’s most shallow abyss. Sure, you switched to contacts at age 20. But when were you planning to tell them that you still can’t ride a bike?

Sliding Doors

Srikar Dudipala

September 23, 2022

In 1994 my father was 27 years old and late to Mumbai International Airport. It was probably the worst possible time for him to be late for a flight. You see, my father had always dreamed of coming to America after getting his Ph.D. in chemistry. But after six years at a small university in central India, he hadn’t gotten a single post-doctoral offer from the states. He had, however, received a single offer from The University of Tokyo. It wasn’t America, but the pay was good, and it was a new and exciting locale that my father wanted to explore. The plane he was now running to catch was his ticket there. I remember every vivid detail of his harried journey through the airport after listening to him recount it countless times as he tucked me in for the night as a child. The stress-induced check-in as the gate assistants seemed to purposely move as slowly as possible. Gratefully getting through security without a hitch. Running to the gate with shoes and belt still in hand as they announced that the final boarding call for BOM to HND was now underway. And then, the call. The call that changed his life forever, and consequently, changed mine. In the middle of sprinting down the terminal, my father’s phone rang. An incredibly old, yet sturdy and reliable Nokia. The call was from Mark Davis, director of the Chemistry Department at Case Western Reserve University, offering my father a postdoc job. Right then, right there, my father ripped up his plane ticket. Two months later, it was BOM to JFK instead. And so, instead of growing up in a high-rise in the urban sprawl of metropolitan Tokyo, attending an international school and eating monjayaki and unaju on the weekends, I grew up in a white-picket fence suburban neighborhood outside of Cleveland, getting myself shoved into lockers in middle school like any other socially awkward pre-teen in America that went to public school. I think about that every single damn day. Life is full of sliding-door moments. Sometimes, you are able to squeeze through right before the chance is lost. Others slam shut right in front of your face and all that is left to do is wonder what could have been. They might re-open twenty years down the road. Or click—the lock slips shut, and before you realize it, the seemingly inconsequential moment that could have defined you as a person has forever passed. Some aspects of life seem to have more sliding-door moments than others. Like love. Love is a 15-foot glass door separating the kitchen from the backyard patio and I am the squishy-faced French bulldog running into it at full steam every 15 minutes, expecting it to one day disappear so that I can explore the outside world beyond. Fifteen years ago, I had a kindergarten crush on Ayana, my only friend in the ESL program. She had the roundest glasses I had ever seen in my life and sharp black hair that framed her face in a pixie cut. On the last day of kindergarten, she kissed me on the cheek and said that we were going to get married. We didn’t get married. One month into summer vacation her family moved away and I never saw her again. To Tokyo of all places. In an alternate universe, there’s a first grade Srikar living in Japan who met her and fell in love. Six years ago, I wanted to ask Lauren, the cute girl with wavy blonde hair in my English class, out to Homecoming. But tenth grade me, being terrified at the very thought of talking to girls, made a quick pit stop to the bathroom before walking over to her locker with flowers and a poster in hand. What followed next was honestly, something out of a romantic movie. As I rounded the corner, I caught sight of Mason, another classmate in our English class, posing with Lauren as she held flowers loosely in her left hand while her friends took pictures. He had asked her to Homecoming thirty seconds before I had arrived. If my bladder had just cooperated for once, I wouldn’t have been there standing like a dummy in the hallway, mouth agape. I went back to my locker, stuffed the flowers and poster inside, and went to class as if my poor teenage heart hadn’t just been snuffed out like a candle. Years later, I grabbed coffee with Lauren, now married, and asked her if she would have said yes back then. She gave a light laugh. “Of course. I thought you were cute.” And so, instead of dancing the night away with her, I spend Homecoming 2015 night at home playing Mario Kart for three hours. Three years ago, I had a crush on my best friend. After an entire semester and a half of working up the nerve, I finally decided to ask her out on a date. I knew she loved live music, and so I was planning on taking her to the Indie Rock Live festival in Pawtucket. I had it all planned out. And then, on what should have been a beautiful April weekend, a storm rained out the entire east coast and forced the festival, and my plans to ask her, to be delayed by a week. A week in which another friend decided to ask her out instead. She’s still my best friend, but every single time it rains I think about how that one storm changed my entire college experience. April showers bring May flowers, but they also bring a lifetime of wondering if you just missed the chance to be with your soulmate. At least I ended up selling the tickets for a nice profit on Facebook Marketplace. If the last six years have revealed anything, it’s that I need to be more punctual. This past summer in New York City I was on the 2,3-line traveling uptown back home after work. In that tightly packed, unbearably humid train, I locked eyes with the girl sitting across from me. She was about my age, carrying a tote bag from The Strand, and had the brightest green eyes that I had ever seen. Even though her mask obscured her face, I could tell she was smiling. I offered a small one behind my mask in turn. We stayed like that, eyes locked, offering hidden smiles to each other for 5 more stops. Should I ask her what her name is? Maybe see if she wants to grab coffee? Is she actually looking at me or is she one of those people who sleeps with their eyes open? At 79th street she stood, appeared to hesitate, and then quickly spun and hopped off the train just as it was about to leave. Sometimes, the sliding doors are literal ones. Most people lie awake at night thinking about the big things. Where do we go after we die? What is this all for? What is happiness anyways? And why the hell am I working seventy hours a week as an investment banker in New York City? Not me. It’s the little things that get to me. Because, in life, it’s the little things that are inherently important. Behind every major decision are hundreds and thousands of inconsequential moments that create the foundation for your life. What if I got on this train rather than that one? What if I walked to work using a different route than the usual? What if I ended up attending that club meeting instead of skipping it? All of these questions eat away at me as I wonder if I just missed out on something small that could have been responsible for something big. That’s why I always try to live life as if every single moment, no matter how incidental, could be the moment that changes my life. For those of you who don’t live life that way, well, I have no other advice for you. Other than to never refuse a call in an airport.

How to Succeed at Lying Without Really Trying

Srikar Dudipala

September 16, 2022

I don’t ever really mean to lie. I promise. Okay, so maybe that was a lie in itself. But I definitely know that it’s wrong to lie. Why do people lie sometimes anyway? You know the lies I’m talking about. Not the ones that have a very specific, almost desperate purpose, like denying cheating on a test or hiding the fact that you just stole half of your cousin’s Halloween candy even though she’s only six years old and you are 22 and can definitely just buy your own damn chocolate. No, I’m talking about the lies that leak out of you in low-stress environments, the lies that happen for no clear reason at all, the lies that are entirely unnecessary and yet still keep happening for some strange, godforsaken reason. My mother, as most mothers do, instilled the importance of honesty in me from a tender age. Although perhaps not always in a tender way. And yet, whenever I do happen to slip into falsehoods, I never really think of it as lying. Rather, becoming. I am an author simply telling a story, and those listening simply don’t realize that they’ve picked up a fantasy novel rather than a memoir. The first time I lied and became someone else it was—and I swear this is the truth— entirely an accident. It was my first day as a camp counselor for Flying Horse Farms, a summer camp dedicated towards serving children with cancer. I was admittedly quite nervous. Despite my passion for serving these kids, I couldn’t help but feel stage-fright at the thought of being their mentor for the entire week. What if I’m not cool enough for them? On the first day of camp one of the campers waddled over to me with chubby cheeks and grubby hands: the entire toddler package. As he looked up at me with wide eyes, he immediately proceeded with the rapid-fire interrogation only 5-year-olds and professional CIA operatives have mastered. “What’s your name? Are you a grown-up? My mommy and daddy are grown-ups too, do you know them? How old are you? Is this week going to be fun? I always have a lot of fun playing baseball, do you know what baseball is? Do you pee your pants at night too?” Befuddled, I pointedly ignored the last question and instead decided to focus on the first. Should be easy enough, right? And yet, I panicked. I didn’t want to be Srikar in front of these kids. What if Srikar wasn’t fun enough? “Stanley,” I blurted, without thinking. Wait. Stanley? That’s not my name. Too late. The kid had already waddled off. And so, for the rest of the week I was Stanley “Almost a grown-up” Duncan, camp counselor of the Red Unit. And Stanley was a damn good camp counselor. Stanley got ice cream for all of the kids and jumped in the deep end with a huge CANNONBALL!! to the glee of his campers. None of the kids ever batted an eye when the other counselors called me by my real name; they were too engrossed in this one persona that I had become. Usually when I become someone else, it’s never in a high-stakes situation. Where’s the fun in lying when there are actual consequences for your actions? It always works best at massive parties filled with drunk faces I’ll never see again, or whenever I happen to interact with a stranger on the street. Quick, casual moments when I’m too lazy to really be myself. Who knew that constructing a fake identity was less work than presenting your real one? There’s something unburdening about not having to work about being your true self. Becoming just slips out of me without thought, much like responding with “thanks, you too” after the McDonalds drive-thru worker tells you to enjoy your meal. One moment your brain takes over in autopilot as you are unsure of how to deal with a perfectly not-stressful scenario, the next you are left to wonder why the fuck did I just say that? The first and most important step of becoming is to come up with a name. Not just a name per se, but also an identity, a persona, a backstory, a set of morals that defines you. All in just a few seconds. The moment you are approached by someone new at a party or you are waiting in line for a cup of coffee and a stranger wants to chat, you must be fully in character from the first syllable that leaves your lips. I’m Lee. Went to Georgetown. Family is from Greenwich, Connecticut. Old money, the kind where I went to brunch since I was five years old and host dinner parties that aren’t actually about the food. So you got to give off a real preppy, almost snobby kind of vibe, like someone just stuck a smelly fish under your nose. No, that won’t do, the clothes I’m wearing right now aren’t nearly nice enough. Fine. I’m Lee. UCLA graduate (my beard is grown out far enough to look 23), played volleyball in high school, golden boy of the family. It’s important to nail the Cali vibes, a kind of relaxed, casual fit like you live on the beach and you have a 4.0 GPA without even studying. Supreme confidence. That’s our persona. We can work from there. Becoming is like breathing. If you think about it too much, you start getting in your own head and wondering how you even do it in the first place. You have to feel your way through it purely by instinct, and tailor who you have to become as the conversation continues. My two favorite places to become someone else are Uber car rides and barbershops. Short-lived interactions, relatively inconsequential, yet incredibly fun because no one loves to learn more about you in a quicker amount of time than drivers or hairstylists. It’s their speedy questioning that really allows you to become an expert in crafting entire life anecdotes from the unexpected. Once on a 5 AM Uber ride to the TF Green airport, I had a driver with an incessant chattiness level that was inappropriate for the absurdly early hour. Over the course of the twenty-minute ride I became a burgeoning stand-up comedian who was off to New York to run a couple gigs for the weekend. I can’t tell jokes for shit, but the driver didn’t seem to notice. It’s always a problem when you have to meet someone multiple times after becoming someone else. As I said, lying’s only fun when there aren’t any consequences. To this day, I have to remember that at my local barbershop back in Akron, I’m Jay who goes to Ohio State when it’s Denise working, but Fabio who has his own online start-up if it’s Eric cutting my hair. When I first started becoming, I would run into problems with so many co-existing versions of myself. Not anymore. The trick to remember is that you aren’t yourself—Jay is Jay and Fabio is Fabio, and neither of them are Srikar. Now, even when I make an identity mistake, I just seamlessly chalk it up to an entirely new persona. Lately I’ve been wondering why I take part in this mostly harmless, yet somewhat morally compromising pastime. Again, I swear, I don’t really try to. It started like how I imagine most people start lying: to protect myself. Growing up with an incredibly shy personality made it hard to reach out to new people and put my personality out there, so I didn’t. I simply put out someone else’s personality instead. Whenever I became Stanley, or Lee, or Jay, I felt as if there was an extra blanket of protection between me and the harsh blizzard of the real world seeking to delve into and expose my every flaw while leaving me frozen in the cold. Over time, I began to gradually inject more and more of my own being into each persona, until one day, I didn’t have to become anymore. To be frank, I’m not sure if I actually stopped, or if all of my personas simply merged into myself. Nevertheless, I attribute my little lying escapades as the reason why I, as my real self, have become much more comfortable with talking to others and engaging in social environments. I no longer have to become. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that I still don’t want to. Nowadays, I don’t feel the need to protect myself or to hide. I choose to become someone else to escape from myself for a little bit, to pass the time when I’m bored, or just because I want to have some fun. After spending so much time with my own personality in a single burnt-caramel skin, it’s nice to be able to be someone new from time to time. It’s a chance to explore all the people that I could have been in life but chose not to, and live in a multitude of alternate realities, even if only for a few moments. The last step of becoming is learning how to stop and return to yourself. How to keep what happens to Stanley Duncan isolated in Stanley’s life, and not Srikar’s. When I was younger, I made the mistake of letting my identities bleed all over my life, staining the whole thing red. I told the whole class in fifth grade that I was born in Pittsburgh to explain the fact that I loved the Steelers. In reality, I’ve always lived in Akron, Ohio. I kept up the charade all the way through freshman year in college, to the point that some of my closest friends to this day believe that I’m a Pennsylvania native. I started genuinely forgetting where the falsehoods were in my personal life. Where do I end and another version of me begin? Is something still a lie if everyone in the world believes in it? After enough time, you start to believe it too. I think those are the best lies of all. And who knows, maybe this whole piece was a lie and I’ve never actually become anyone else at all. If so, don’t be mad. I promise I didn’t mean to.

A Shooting at Dartmouth

Sam Hawkins

September 16, 2022

“We are haunted by the what-ifs.” Note: Names have been changed to protect identities. “When are you pulling up?” His forced-deep voice crackled through my cell speakerphone as he crunched into another potato chip. “I get off work Friday at 3:00. What is it, a two-hour drive for normal people?” I opened my crusted eyes to the blurry morning light and threw my blanket back over my head. “I’ll be there by 3:30.” “Wait, for real?” “Nah, bro. I have better things to do. Gotta sit in my room alone and watch YouTube.” Bruce choked. “You absolute loser. Yo, Brendan’s actually planning on coming Friday. So if you’re done being an asshole, you should actually come up. Think Steve could come too?” Steve’s house sits in one of those quaint Massachusetts neighborhoods where the taxes cost more than the homes themselves. I pulled into his driveway, narrowly avoiding the tall stone walls framing the pavement. I watched him open his home’s front door from on top of a hill. He lugged two bags over two broad shoulders. He flicked black hair from his face, keeping dark eyes on me as he slowly sauntered up to my vehicle. He stopped right before the car, looking me deep in my eyes and smirking. He paused. “Did you get fatter?” I scoffed. “Did you hit puberty yet?” His smirk became a smile. “Not yet,” he replied. “Some day though.” He threw his bags into the open trunk. Burrito juice snuck down my forearms as I raised my voice to battle down the pandemonium of early-night college drunks. “So, Bruce.” I devoured a wrapped chunk of beans, chicken, and rice. “I heard you joined a frat?” My strained vocal chords weakly combatted blaring mariachi music. “Not yet, buddy.” He wiped beans on the sleeve of his gray V-neck. “I’ll be rushing in the Spring.” “Ah. How fun.” I thought back to high-school Bruce in dorky plaid shorts and bright-colored Under Armor tees. “So you think you’re cool now?” “You do realize 70% of Dartmouth kids are in frats? If I don’t join a frat, I won’t have any friends at all.” He picked his burrito up an inch, opened his mouth, and threw the food back down. “You know Sam, I’m curious how things are going for you with girls recently. Bet you’re getting too many to count over there on that gap year, working at Bertucci’s and playing that cello.” He paused for a moment. “Oh, and how’s your ex doing?” I choked on a throatful of hot sauce, pausing for a slow drink of water. “I appreciate your concern, Bruce,” I said, “but you have bigger things to worry about. Looks like the freshman fifteen is not just a joke; consider switching to light beer, champ.” Steve laughed and Bruce chuckled. Brendan was still quiet on his side of the table. “Brendan, how has your freshman year been so far?” Steve licked dripping cheese off his fingers. “Oh it’s been good,” Brendan replied. “You have a good crew and everything?” “Yeah. It’s good.” Brendan ripped a chunk out of his chimichanga. “Cool. That’s good.” Steve paused for a moment, then returned to his feast. Bruce reached into his closet and dug out two hats, Mario- and Luigi-themed. “We’re not getting anywhere on Halloweekend without costumes, boys.” While Steve and I argued vehemently over which one of us was Mario, Bruce threw on a construction helmet, and Brendan wore his favorite Brady jersey. In a miniscule, darkly-lit, ugly-poster-adorned, dirty-clothes-littered dorm room, we traded jokes, jabs, and drinks. The air reeked of spilled beer and unwashed clothing and our eardrums burst with screamed lyrics of Mo Bamba. The pelting rain leaked into my shirt and covered me with a coat of wet cold, but we warmed the night with laughter. Steve and I jokingly commiserated about the solitude of gap year life, and Bruce and Brendan traded freshman stories. Bruce’s friends guided us left, onto a side street. Bruce walked ahead of Steve and me, and Brendan walked behind us. “So Bruce, are you going for that brunette girl?” I asked. “Not just going for – it’s gonna happen, Sam.” “Quite the confidence there, big man,” Brendan laughed. I could hear Bruce’s friends laughing ahead of us. One girl turned and smiled back at us. “You think I have a shot?” Steve asked. “No chance,” I answered. My reality shattered only because my senses were relaxed. My ears cracked first when the BANG rang out. “What was –” “Ah, FUCK.” Brendan exclaimed. Brendan’s body crumpled to the pavement, his hand clutching his stomach. My ears rang and my head rushed with blood. The white-trim windows of the blue house across the street were dark and wet. I saw no one there but at the end of the street I watched a man grab a girl’s hand and run with her. Brendan lay crumpled, groaning in the dark rain, curled in the fetal position, alone with his hand on his stomach. Naïve bravery and survivalist cowardice harshly debated one another in time-slowed, primal self-dialogue as I considered whether to help him. I saw Steve dive for cover out of my periphery and I figured he knew better. I dove too. We waited. Brendan lay alone, crumpled, wet, and groaning on the cold pavement. Steve and I flattened ourselves on the dirt floor. After a few moments, Steve started towards Brendan. I followed. Rain pelted my eyes. “What do you think that was?” “It almost sounded like kickback from a car,” Steve answered. Dark rain pulled his black hair over suddenly sober eyes. “There was a car?” “What, you didn’t see it?” “You see that red leaf on his back?” We approached Brendan. I knelt down. “Brendan, you okay?” Brendan groaned, his body curled fetal, his side to the cold pavement, his face staring down into the muddy sidewalk. “I’m fine, I’m just gonna lie here for a second.” I lifted up his jersey around the lower-right side of his back where the red leaf lay. A breach in his skin, puckered and folding over itself, spewed a steady stream of dark red down his pale back and onto the pavement below. I put his Brady jersey back down. I took off my hat. “We need to put pressure on this – can someone give me their sweatshirt? Or your flannel or something Steve?” Steve stood in the dark rain with his Mario hat still on and tossed his shoulders out from under his flannel. He passed the crumpled shirt to me and I shoved it underneath Brendan’s jersey. “That sounded like kickback from a car,” Bruce said. Apparently he had come back too. His construction helmet rested in his hand. “That’s what I said,” Steve replied. “I thought it was a firework.” Blindly hoping my efforts were having an effect, I flexed my arms hard into his back. “I’m going to call the police,“ Bruce decided. “No don’t call the police I’m fine,” Brendan protested. “Brendan I’ve gotta call—“ “Don’t call the fucking police, I’m fine bro it just hurts a little in my stomach.” “Brendan, even if it was like, shrapnel from a car or something, we still need to call the cops.” “I’m fucking fine, I feel nothing don’t call the fucking cops.” “Can you move?” “I don’t really want to. Don’t call the cops. It just feels kind of weird in my stomach but don’t call the fucking cops.” “I’m dialing.” Silence rang heavily. Bruce’s friends surrounded us as we hovered around Brendan. The smell of fresh rain coated the air. Droplets pelted the pavement around us. Soaked, freezing clothes lay heavy on our backs. “God damnit Brendan. I liked that flannel,” Steve joked. Brendan tried to chuckle, but the breath caught tight in his lungs. “Could whoever’s putting pressure on my back ease up a little? Really hurts.” “Shit, yeah, my bad.” “Hang in there Brendan, ambulance should be here any minute.” Steve, Bruce, and I spent the next two hours hiding in a nearby sorority as all of Dartmouth campus received a text stating that the school was now in lockdown. Bruce went upstairs to comfort his friends. Steve and I sat on the first floor in an open closet with a direct view of the front door wondering what we would do if they came back. Eventually we were informed nothing but that there was no reason to be afraid. We were driven to the hospital in the backseat of a police cruiser. For a few moments of his life, Brendan was tipsy, filled with painkillers, injected with morphine, and slit open with surgical knives. Eventually, the knives found the bullet. We entered the blinding white room and saw him lying in the bright white bed in a blue-white hospital gown like an angel resting in heaven. I was amazed how quickly they had completed the operation. “How you feeling, Brendan?” Bruce asked first. Brendan’s bulging eyes scanned confusedly around the room. “Brendan?” “Oh, yeah. Yeah. I’m good.” None of us were sure quite how to talk, what to say. All of us were trying to dislodge the tension but none successfully. Bruce moved in to break the silence. “The operation fully done?” “Oh, yeah, it’s all done.” “And? Any synopsis?” Bruce chose the chair beside Brendan’s bed. “Oh, apparently I’m lucky. The bullet entered my lower back.” Brendan swallowed. His eyes stared forward, avoiding our gaze. “But I was lucky. The bullet went between fat and muscle. Which means it avoided any bone. If it had hit a quarter inch anywhere else I might have been paralyzed. Or worse.” He straightened his back. “I’m lucky.” Steve and I drove left-lane down bucolic, forest-bordered New Hampshire roads. The greens and browns of thick evergreens flashed past our passenger windows. “Dartmouth’s food is shit,” I declared. I pushed the accelerator. “True. My breakfast sandwich was sandpaper.” “Facts.” Silence sat for a moment. “Think we’ll be heading back to Dartmouth any time soon?” I forced a chuckle. “I’m still trying to process what happened.” “I know. Me too.” “The odds of Brendan being completely okay are so low.” I swallowed. “I don’t know if lucky is the right word, but the bullet could’ve hit him elsewhere, could’ve gone through him and hit one of us, could’ve—” “I know, I know. I mean good news, I guess, is statistically speaking, we’ve experienced more than our fair share of random shootings for a lifetime.” “Isn’t that too bad.” A truck became my rear-view mirror and I tossed us into the lane to our right. The truck passed and I pulled back left. “I guess we reacted the right way. You giving up your flannel, me putting pressure on the wound, Bruce calling the cops.” “The odds of so much going randomly right in such a randomly wrong situation. Not just the bullet’s lucky placement, but the fact they caught the guys that same night… and on the other hand, the odds it’s us who get shot at, the odds the kid who gets hit is a visiting student, the odds of a shooting happening at all in Hanover, New Hampshire.” I decelerated. “Think this will stick with us?” “Maybe. Could’ve been far worse though, remember that.” “Brendan. Of all people. Nicest kid you’d ever meet.” Steve had no response. The pair of us rode back home alone together. “During Wednesday’s sentencing, the victim’s mother read an impact statement describing the trauma her family has faced over the past three years. ‘We have cried so many tears,’ she said. ‘Our hearts are broken. Our sense that people are intrinsically good is shattered. Why would these men try to kill our child? We are haunted by the what-ifs.” – WMUR

Windows

Kristoffer Balintona

March 4, 2022

Beauty Rarely do moments of clarity arrive: ephemeral gifts recognized only a beat too late. As an exercise in free association, my memory draws, once again, to that thunderstorm. It materialised slowly yet caused me little alarm, not unlike my relationship with my dear window. I think its gradual pace is the reason why I didn’t notice it. But what I did notice was a feeling. An intangible awareness. The winds shivered ever so slightly, a seemingly imperceptible turbulence in the air. I find this feeling akin to a fun-fact I read years ago. Buried in a forum thread is a comment that reads something along these lines; I work as a paramedic. I have a lot of experience with these kinds of situations. From my experience, we have some sort of inherent sense that something is wrong. When a patient tells me they’re going to die, or they have this intense fear in their eyes — not the normal kind, but a deep, infinite kind — something bad happens very soon. Something fatal like a heart attack, for instance, strikes minutes later. The human body just knows. I can’t corroborate this fact or the anonymous tale, but its veracity is irrelevant — I entertain a faith in this phenomenon. Almost like a dog instinctively barking at a brewing tornado, I felt a compelled certainty. Entranced in my chair, I watch the flash seep everywhere. It confirms my gut instinct. With it passed, and my brain rebooted, I recognize this as a familiar yet confusing scene: Shouldn’t there… CRASH! The off-beat thunderclap shook me. In this tiny space, I feel, for the first time, like I was living in more than just the room I call mine. The label of ‘room’ became inappropriate. It was at this moment, from a mere open window, that I learned sensations could be so raw. Such an oceanic largeness on its other side; an immensity that demands humility. I wondered: Why have I just now noticed this? Discomfort The season: Summer. The temperature: Scorching. The consequences of that heat are especially urgent on my soles. Not the entire flat of my feet, just two spots: one where my first and second toes wrap around the wire of my flip-flops, and another near my heel where the wire inserts into the sole. These particular points dig into my skin at every step. Jutting from the landscape of my East Coast campus are spurts of hills and plateaus. Unfortunately for me, Google Maps apparently demands the pain of managing uneven terrain perfectly conducive to the pricking of soles. The twists and turns in these narrow, one-way streets don’t help either. “My god, why is Providence so damn hilly…” I can’t help but feel disadvantaged for having been raised in Chicago, the land of ‘unchanging-altitude.’ That’s the acute discomfort. Demanding my focus chronically is the humid stickiness that permeates every surface of my body. At this point, my clothing feels more like soggy paper. The household walls across the street and close to my right are high, variegated, and annoyingly bare. With no passerby in sight so far, there is no escape. I am alone in this mundane struggle. The only saving grace from the incessantly burning sun is the relief of my first in-person class. I’m not bubbly or giddy, just expectant mixed with a tinge of nervousness. I welcome the sun’s immense and uncomfortable pressure. It’s too good of a coincidence that the heat advisory warning overlapped with this momentous occasion — already delayed by two weeks, in fact. I tend to entertain myself with my own humor nowadays. I think it’s a habit I developed who-knows-when during that swath of solitude. All-in-all, I consider the sun’s grace a harsh “welcome back.” Inquiry I admire it. My window has an audience. A picture frame of a poem gifted as an off-to-college present from my mother; a duet of flasks, one tall and skinny, the other short but wide; a metal cup with a handle, perfect for tea and water; my ivy plant, whose leaves number more than seven times the initial five it started with when I brought it to Brown. Behind the main characters of the stage — the foreground you could say — is the unsuspecting setting. Unclear glass muffled from fingerprints and residue. A pure guess, I assume that the frame is wood coated with white paint. Contrasting the aged glass is this wine-like wood: age evident but not distasteful. A grid screen sits just behind it. It stops the bugs from getting in, and me from falling out. Most of the time the pane is lifted more than a foot above its closed position. How wonderful such a simple change has been. Shallowly, this story is about the way my window has dyed the color of my first year of college: positively. Deeply, on the other hand, is a commentary on our sheltering, which twists sanctuary into captivity. What have we isolated ourselves from? Without Someone I knew once said, “I started playing chess when I was five.” “Oh, is that why you’re so good now?” “I’m not that good.” “Your rating is literally 1800!” In Freshman year of high school, I met someone who had been a gymnast since the third grade. One of my close friends had been playing piano since kindergarten. It’s a usual occurrence for these outliers to broadcast themselves on YouTube or Instagram — a knack for art paired with an intractable sum of dedication. That isn’t me. My idols, none of which I’ve actually met, tend to have a childhood filled with something. I did not. Vacuous is how I’d describe myself. But this description is all retroactively applied. I say this now with the knowledge of a bigger world, filled with more stresses and joys alike. I picture my young environment as hollow because time didn’t really exist. My memories of a time when urgency was an undefined sensation are fond: such a stark contrast to life now. That basement and even tinier living room was my world, my detention. Existence was what was immediately in front of me: the TV. “Today on How It’s Made, we’ll learn about how erasers first…” “The Kid’s Next Door!…” “But Finn, you can’t…” Although I reimagine myself as being silent and unnoticed, it was the other way around: the world around me was unnoticed. Unnatural. That infinitesimally small space was only so because I couldn’t see something larger. I couldn’t see more of the world — physically and metaphorically. There was much, much, much more beauty to behold. So much more chaos and serendipity. So much more to appreciate and wonder and stare at. When your world is the only one you know, you can’t see anything but that. Comfort DRRRING!!! DRRRRRING!!! DRRRRRRING!!!… There are things that cannot be done when you are in a rush. Waking up is one of those things for me. Waking up is tormenting. My mind resists being rustled. Far too easily, I shove my late-night reminders behind the warming luxury of blankets. In my struggle, a break in the clouds becomes apparent. Literally. I listened to a podcast a few months ago about how light rays, especially those that hit your eyes directly from the sun – those not refracted and scattered through a window’s glass – are essential to the wake of the body. I keep my left eye a tenth open but the right completely shut. The left one can’t even do that for much longer than a few moments before its accumulated nocturnal debris grows too troublesome — but it’s enough for me to find the outline of a certain black rectangle. I need to shake it because I use a special alarm clock app. It’s a preventative measure for a chronic over-sleeper. All that matters is that it’s been doing its job. The fact that I’m conscious enough to have this thought proves my point. I couldn’t help but notice the unfettered rays peering through the opening. Stopped a foot above the windowsill is the bottom of my blinds. I’m reminded of my foresight last night to lower them so that my present self’s retinas wouldn’t be burned. I mentally pat myself on the back for it. I then laugh at myself for mentally giving myself a pat on the back. At any rate, the sunlight demands my attention. It is bright but balanced by the darkness of the crevices it cannot reach on my messy table. The area is bright enough to stir yet dark enough to soothe. I’m surprised at how natural this feels — was it always like this? No, my old room didn’t even have a window in the first place. In my trance, I realize the coherency of my thoughts. I rather quickly raise my upper half from under my tempting sheets, rub both eyes with either hand, and check the time. Unnoticed If your second semester in college was unexceptional, then yours wasn’t so far off from mine. Mostly monotonous weeks passed until any novelty arose at all. But only an inkling, a turning ambiance: an inappreciably small shift. I stand at a distance, across the room, far from the window. Peering through it produces in me a feeling I never knew I yearned for. Even as I type this paragraph several weeks later, I sense a radiating, motherly familiarity. An inanimate object, this window reminds me of our fickle randomness. Unappreciated. Unmoved. Unnoticed. Our myopia dawns on me. We stumble through life, deceiving, loving, becoming learned, then sputter out within the span of a dozen tree rings. What possesses you? Is it your career? Your homework? Money? Has gasping for breath at the workday’s close become routine? Reflect on your day-to-day: has a moment ever penetrated into you as much as this window has into me?

Once You've Wrestled

Sam Hawkins

February 28, 2022

“…Everything else in life is easy.” – Dan Gable A ref’s whistle is not swayed by how much work you put in. It cannot read the horror on your face as you step on the mat, cannot register your strong humility against an opponent’s weak arrogance. It only knows the wind from the ref’s mouth: the anxiety-ridden starts and the ego-brutalizing ends of each ruthless period. Coach gripped his belly and tucked it around his seatbelt so he could turn to see my bruised face in the van’s wrestler-cramped back seat. “Could he beat you in chess?” Hell no he can’t beat me in chess. “In checkers?” Coach, if I could beat him in chess, do you really think he could beat me in checkers. “Can he beat you in school?” You act like you didn’t hear him speak – the kid’s GPA is probably negative. “Uh… in writing? On the cello?” Yeah, my creative talents really helped when he was crushing my windpipe between his bicep and his knee. “How about… how about, in social interaction?” I get it coach – “Yes, coach, I got it, thank you.” I decided to cut my losses and just shoot a blast double. But it was not a “shot” as shots usually go – it was more a half-assed attempt at a lunge where half my body went forward and half my body stayed put. He laughed. He literally laughed, stepped out of the way, and as my center of gravity rose again by a single millimeter, he eliminated me. Goodbye. He had me on my back, my neck in his elbow crook, pulling my shoulder blades to the mat. But I refused to quit. I’ve eaten next to nothing in the past 24 hours. I weighed in 3 pounds underweight, stupidly. And I’m tired. I’m nervous, and hungry, but so damn nervous, about to get beaten up in front of hundreds of people, I can barely think, barely process – For about a full minute straight, he just bullied me. He sat heavily on my back with his knee in my spine, wrenching my left arm behind my back so my left hand rested where my right pocket should be. He actually giggled as I squirmed beneath him, unable to shift my weight anywhere. I should’ve stuck to cello, I thought to myself. I hated that whistle. It only ever blows when you don’t want it to. It blows when you or your opponent’s shoulder blades kiss the mat; and after the ref spits saliva-breath through those horrible plastic holes, he smacks the mat with an open palm, just so you’re doubly sure that you lost. Just in case your crushed ribs weren’t enough of a tell already. The kid’s waist was invisible, and his quads looked like anacondas wrestling and suffocating one another up his entire leg. His calves somehow equaled the width of his legs. And then across from him there was me, the guy who had never squatted once, who had spent the summer exclusively bench pressing and bicep curling in the hopes of scoring girls’ attention at the beach. Wrestling meant something more to me than those other things. It’s a different kind of pain and endurance that even the worst of wrestlers has to bear. It’s flexing every muscle in your body for six minutes straight, contemplating both your defense to his offense and your offense to his defense, considering complex techniques while your mind is drenched in adrenal-fear, your heart maintaining a steady 210 bpm, your lungs exhaling too rapidly for you to inhale – all this while you stand there as close as humanly possible to buck-naked right in front of all your best friends. I hooked my elbow onto his. I shifted all my weight to my right, and threw our tangled bodies into a vicious sideways roll. Finally this bout was turning in my favor. I could sense myself on top, could see my points on the board – yet as we spun, I realized we were spinning too far, that he was making us spin too far, and it hit me that he had rolled my roll. I did not know this was possible. “I’m sorry — what, coach?” “What else can he beat you in?” The ref smacked the mat. I checked again for my singlet. Yeah, of course I remembered it. That’s why my entire body itches. Goddamn singlets. Wrestling itself is humiliating enough, and then they want us to do it wearing a fucking onesie. Wrestling was good for me because I never would have learned discipline without it. As a cellist you just frantically practice to figure out some piece in order to impress the teacher your parents pay for. With wrestling you don’t practice and your skull gets caved in by some man-child taking out his childhood anger on your sorry ass. So you learn to practice. One shift of his weight, and my neck was back in his elbow crook. Somehow my right foot was next to my right ear, and my throat let out a sad, choked-out yelp of distress. I was able to hold off the pin for approximately one second, which angered him immeasurably, pushing him to cut off my airway completely. The whistle blew. Of course I get stuck with the number-1-ranked 182-pounder in all of New England as my first damn match of the tournament. “Uh oh,” Coach muttered. Alright, well… game plan, I guess, is survival.

Let me show you the (SUB) way

Gabby Sartori

February 20, 2022

Ah yes, the city that never sleeps. “Fuhgeddaboudit,” so they say- how’s my accent? Do you know where I am yet? You guessed it, “New Yawwk City” baby. There’s so much to see and do in the Big Apple, from visiting the Empire State Building to taking a leisurely stroll through iconic Central Park. Maybe you want to visit the Statue of Liberty, walk across the Brooklyn Bridge or take in a Broadway show. You really can’t go wrong in New York. However, you need a way to get to these places. I really don’t recommend an overpriced taxi that’ll charge you ten bucks for going one block over. The best mode of transportation is the only one thing that keeps New York’s wonders connected and in touch. What if I told you this transport was a magical place beyond all these fantasies? A place that provides all their splendor and more in one place, that’s right ONE PLACE. What I proudly present to you is the most extravagant ride of a lifetime, more riveting than any amusement park ride you’ve ever been on: the New York City Subway. For a brief overview, riding the subway is like riding a bike; it’s scary at first but you get used to it after a while. If you can read a map or use the Google Maps mobile app, you can use the New York City subway. Officially, the subway is known as MTA or Metropolitan Transportation Authority. Each train line has a color-coded letter or number. There is even a large map on the wall of every subway station, and upcoming stops are easy to see when you are on the train. It’s recommended that you use Google Maps or another good map app. The app will give you step-by-step instructions for getting from where you are to where you want to be, using subway trains, buses, and your own two feet. Underground subway stations are probably the first thing people think of when talking about this mode of transportation. It’s much larger than expected and busy at all times. These Manhattan stations generally have several entrances and serve multiple train lines on multiple levels. If you know the train you want and the direction you want to go, it’s pretty easy to follow the signs to the correct platform. Subway trains in Midtown Manhattan may be crowded every day, all day long, hence why they call this line “Midtown Mayhem.” At rush hour, there is no personal space. Everyone just squeezes in because the next train won’t be any better. The subway is the most iconic, accessible attraction we have. It’s our premier people-watching spot. At the end of the day — or rather, all day long — millions of people from every pocket of society navigate a system where the rules are simultaneously never-changing and constantly in flux. It’s like a cocktail party where everyone’s invited and only half of the guests are drunk. You haven’t really experienced New York City unless you’ve swiped a MetroCard, whirled through the turnstile, and grasped a pole to mitigate the sudden twists and turns that can make getting to your destination feel like a tightrope walk in high winds. When riding the subway, you are quickly greeted by the sights and scents of the station itself before departing. As you peer over toward the rat whisking away its own New York slice, smells fill the air with roasted chestnuts complimented by the occasional urine and marijuana combo as you catch a glimpse of the doting New York commuters enslaved by their 9 to 5s. Here’s a tip, don’t talk to them because they most certainly will bite. “Excuse me, when’s the next stop downtown?” Now, you may be a little startled by your response, but a typical answer would be “Go fuck yourself.” Don’t worry, that’s “New Yorker” for “have a nice day!” The subway might seem like a lonesome place, but I promise you it unifies people only under certain circumstances. Riders all have a common enemy and it certainly tests the survival of the fittest. This challenge is known of as the beast itself; the mechanical train door. New Yorkers will use their newly shined shoes or bare hands to try to stop the mechanical doors from closing when they see someone who’s sprinting to catch their ride. Folks wrestle with steel doors even as conductors implore them not to, because we all know what it feels like to have left the house early and still wind up late to a job interview, a doctor appointment, or any relative place that involves punctuality. No, these doors aren’t as sympathetic as elevators who give you a second chance and reopen when you stick your hand out of desperation. Just like that New Yorker who was willing to bite you before, the mechanical doors do the same. Only this time, they won’t hesitate- you stick out your arm and you find yourself wrestling with an alligator’s mouth. We’ve all had to take the gamble and if you fail, the next train might show up in time to get you to your destination- or it might not. The breathless latecomer to the train car who has just single handedly held up hundreds or possibly thousands of people will draw eye-rolls, but they can’t lie, they’ve all been that person. And even though their successful sprint adds one more silhouette to a car that’s already full to bursting, it’s that shared experience — no matter who you are, no matter what stop you’re getting on at — that keeps them from killing each other and may be the closest thing to unifying New Yorkers. As we continue our voyeuristic journey through the underground, the enclosed train car is populated by people who will just have you scratching your head wondering what is going on. I now present to you the people who really keep New York up and running; the Subway Creatures. Now, when I say “subway creature,” I’m not referring to the mosquitoes gnawing at your ankles as you’re drenched in your own sweat on a hot summer day from just making your train. I’m talking about the guy next to you who decided to reenact his pole dancing routine on one of the safety bars in the middle of the train car. Don’t believe me? See for yourself: You probably won’t get that lucky with a free show nowadays due to the new warning signs that at least attempt to stop people from doing so. Don’t believe me? See for yourself: Aside from the shenanigans ensuing all around you, the journey on the outside is one worth encapsulating. Each station, each train, each route has its own sights and sounds. On a letter or numbered line, heading uptown to downtown, east to west, and into the outer boroughs, the subway is a means to an end. In New York City, the subway is the best mode of transportation we’ve got. Every commute has its problems, but every line also has its dazzles. One of the most interesting subway rides is the F train to Coney Island. In Manhattan, the ride is that of a standard underground variety. However, a couple of stops into Brooklyn, the train emerges and rides high in the sky. If you look to the harbor, you will get a view of Lady Liberty herself. The station at Smith and 9th Streets is the highest in the entire subway system. The elevated stop has one of the best views of the city. If you take the downtown-bound 6 beyond Brooklyn Bridge/City Hall, you’ll pass through a beautiful abandoned station. And Hoyt-Schermerhorn, which hosts the A, C, and G trains, is just kind of fun to say. As you embark on your journey from Smith, the train dips back underground, only to emerge again. This time, you get authentic views into the various back yards from neighborhoods in Mid-Brooklyn. The train terminates at the Stillwell Avenue station, which is designed to be environmentally friendly for the most part, its cleanliness is satisfactory. This could feel like a long ride so if the ride’s got you hungry, no need to fret. Right across from the station is Nathan’s Famous. Get a couple of franks with mustard and sauerkraut and celebrate a wonderful ride. Hit the boardwalk, ride the Cyclone and enjoy the ocean breezes. The beautiful sights may very well be the stops of some A-listers you’ll be lucky to ride along with, having an opportunity to scope out a celebrity or two. Known for traveling public transport are the stars who look to laid-back Brooklyn neighborhoods to get away from the chaos in Manhattan. One of the most star-studded areas in the borough is Brooklyn Heights, where John Krasinski and Emily Blunt, Matt Damon, Jennifer Connelly and Paul Bettany, Mary-Louise Parker and Paul Giamatti all reportedly have homes and have in fact traveled the subway system. The subway is a memory-making machine. It’s a place where marriages have been officiated, where lives have begun, where you might just share a seat with a soon-to be platinum singer-song writer, and where, even if you’ve only paid the price of admission once, you’ll leave with your very own tale to tell. Sure, weddings, births, and errant celebrity sightings are as rare as the screaming, cautionary headlines on the opposite end of the transit teleprompter, but when an obvious tourist or apparent recent transplant successfully swipes through the turnstile on the first try, pauses to applaud a subway creature, or perks up when the train pulls into a station adorned with an unexpected army of rats, it reminds us to take a moment to appreciate those things. It’s a beautiful thing to see when a new commuter is about to experience the ride of a lifetime. So sit back, and take in the beauty and chaos all around you. It’s a pleasurable ride for the most part, just as long as everyone stands clear of the closing doors.