3 4 10 13 14 16 18 19 21 23 24 26 27 r table of contents ARKAI Winter 1970 -71 of pirithous william roen the commons at late evening randy just the sundial john engman writer's crab margit livingston a kiss in monsoon john mitchell fox fire john mitchell the waning war of wally n. wallace nelson... Show more3 4 10 13 14 16 18 19 21 23 24 26 27 r table of contents ARKAI Winter 1970 -71 of pirithous william roen the commons at late evening randy just the sundial john engman writer's crab margit livingston a kiss in monsoon john mitchell fox fire john mitchell the waning war of wally n. wallace nelson son john engman an eat shop fable margit livingston the common man syl jones news from Chicago john mitchell the last things william roen nickel's sally carlson thinking of swansea john engman augsburg via moorhead patricia rockswold song of the reaper william roen new year's resolutions syl jones Lopxrignt Hugsuung College 1970. All Rights Reserved. Show less
staff editor editorial board assistant editor contributing layout editor reader photographs drawings faculty advisor william roen lorraine k. livingston, f. mark davis, boyd n. koehler, david c. wood, sally carlson, anne marie erickson, patricia rockswold, sylvester jones jr., wallace nelson... Show morestaff editor editorial board assistant editor contributing layout editor reader photographs drawings faculty advisor william roen lorraine k. livingston, f. mark davis, boyd n. koehler, david c. wood, sally carlson, anne marie erickson, patricia rockswold, sylvester jones jr., wallace nelson margit livingston anne marie erickson karen sandness tom peterson ann bugbee lorraine k. livingston ARKAI is published by the students of Augsburg College, Minneapolis, Minnesota, with the aid of the George Sverdrup Library and the Department of English. Show less
7““... - m :g‘a Amide 3:2: _ i555 932—45... .; A .—:w 1i? -_Ta_-—ga-’ 4;“.éiir-R‘EM a ‘ #4327111“: 1-: 0f Pirithous Leigh stood with the rope in his hands watching the centaur weave through the frightened cattle. Amber curls framed the heroic face; gray eyes flasneo diSdain at «are man, and on... Show more7““... - m :g‘a Amide 3:2: _ i555 932—45... .; A .—:w 1i? -_Ta_-—ga-’ 4;“.éiir-R‘EM a ‘ #4327111“: 1-: 0f Pirithous Leigh stood with the rope in his hands watching the centaur weave through the frightened cattle. Amber curls framed the heroic face; gray eyes flasneo diSdain at «are man, and on the regular features was stamped a smile of animal goou numor and unhidden vanity. Leigh had long been convinced that his father had leaped equestrian from an antique frieze although it was past his boyisn understanding why the centaur had sprung from marble to beget him. Because his hair was straight as a horse's mane, because his eyes were in- visible, and because his complexion was an unbecoming gray, the boy was forced to bear a constant and inevitably un- favorable comparison. And Leigh sus- pected that all unimpressive sons of awesone fathers learn to hate their beauty as he did---a beauty obtained without making any treaty with unmanli- ness. Leigh 5 father was an allegory of active life; he was strong and come- ly and Sybaritic. He was Homeric. Yet he was a gentle man; he was seldom vio- lent and forever indulgent. Leigh stood with the rope in his hands and gazed at the centaur from be- tween the two great square posts that his grandfather had set sixty years be- fore; they were bottomland elm, cut and shaped by hand, and still bore the marks of the adze. From the ground to the height of a man, the gray wood was stained brown. Two pipes--one station- ary and the other hinged to a concrete piling-~stood between the posts at the end of a long and narrow chute. When Leigh's father drove the calf to the end of the chute,as it pushed its head between the pipes, the rope which the boy now held was drawn taut, and the pipes, like the hind leg of a cricket, closed on the animal's neck, neatly accomplishing tne capture. Leigh had great admiration for the efficacy of William Roen the operation, for he believed that there was sane grace in an unpleasant task if it were artfully done. The boy was fastidiously arranging and rearranging his hold on the rope when he heard his father's voice. "Pull!" he screamed. As Leigh pulled up tight, the cap- tured animal fought against the trap. “The iron.“ Leigh ran to the fire and drew out the not branding iron. The sun was ris- ing in the sky, and the heat of the fire made him feel faint. His father neld the iron against the calf's flank until they smelled flesh burning. When the uoy had returned the iron to the fire, he drew the terrible contraption from a pail of lye water. Its two blades formed a diamond-shaped opening in which the horn was fitted, and long handles closed the opening,scissorlike, cutting the horn neatly from the skull. From two veins cut in the operation, streans of blood gushed, giving the beast a chimerical appearance. It was imperative to free the animal quickly because the pain and fright caused co- pious bleeding. The boy fumbled with the knot, wnich was slippery with gore, as a warm stream struck his forehead and the blood ran down into his eyes. His father roughly pushed him aside. Although beast after beast laved the Show less
gray elm posts with blood, Leigh now could not hear the helpless bellowing or see the enraged struggle of the tor- tured animals; dunbly and blindly he obeyed. His father's face, as he com- manded the boy to pull and called for tne iron, had long been empty of ex- pression. Although he was a... Show moregray elm posts with blood, Leigh now could not hear the helpless bellowing or see the enraged struggle of the tor- tured animals; dunbly and blindly he obeyed. His father's face, as he com- manded the boy to pull and called for tne iron, had long been empty of ex- pression. Although he was a gentle man, he was a man of reason and not of feel- ing. The wind changed direction, blow- ing tne smoke from tne fire over them; and the stench. the bl00d and the smoke permitted Leigh to imagine the battle of the centaurs and the Lapithae for tne bride of Pirithous. Leigh pulled, and this calf was snared like the others. Like the others. when the horns were cut off 'neatly from the skull, it struggled in pain and fury, but then suddenly the rope slipped. And as the animal leaped and fell. its legs became entangled in the rough planks of the chute, and its neck wedged in the knee of the cricket; it was strangling. The flow of blood became a torrent. As Leigh‘s father fiercely beat the animal, blue veins standing out on his marble forehead, his eyes were fixed on the hatchet that was buried in a plank of the chute. Leigh's father was a gentle man, a kind man; and yet he pulled the hatchet out and, bending over the gasping animal, shattered the skull behind the left eye. Perhaps the beast was dying in great pain, or perhaps, because the heat was so fierce, reason had withered and something ugly grew in its place. but. as the corpse twitched and writh- ed. to the tall, heroic-looking shape, the look of elegant quietude returned. Altnough the fire went out and the centaurmachy ceased, Leigh sat along between the great square posts with the bleeding head cradled in his arms. He wept for the cruelty of beauty and the right of beauty to be cruel. He wept because there is no truth but decay, because beautiful, heroic life is only the distance between two putrefactions. The blood ran down his arms, dried, and turned brown. The Commons at late Evening Taoles, Each square With slender black limbs And walnut faces Hitn wooden expressions. Chairs, bark, austere, and formal With perfect posture Lontemplating one another In suspended conversation. Salt and pepper sentries, Square-shouldered, steel-helmeted; Buckingham guards, Silhouetted atop each table. Gloves Weathered brown leather Lying like limp hands. A purse - collapsed; A deflated lung With no impulse to breath. A whispered conversation LiSps through the air... uies at the ear. A napkin Bearing an orange-red medal Wounded by tomato sauce, Crumpled and asleep. Christmas bells 0f ruffled white paper, Hanging from the ceiling, Ringing tidings of mute joy. Laughter of departing couples Lightly sails the air And softly sinks down the steps. The glossy, upright walnut piano Slumbers against the brown brick wall. A potted palm, Leaves despondently drooping, Siestas in a shadow. From without- In the crisp Christmas air—- Strains of "Silent Night" Sparkle on the horizons of hearing... Randy Just Show less
«» am he". sfia The Sundial Birthless never to remember the drooping cavern's confines or the startling sun as though squatting in a purse suddenly open tied to an empty cord bundled off on a windowless train from that human room floating floating intoxicated by the bumps and swerves but rolling... Show more«» am he". sfia The Sundial Birthless never to remember the drooping cavern's confines or the startling sun as though squatting in a purse suddenly open tied to an empty cord bundled off on a windowless train from that human room floating floating intoxicated by the bumps and swerves but rolling timeblind and giddy towards the dustwomb of impatient earth waiting unawares the crazed uneven sundial's careening shadow. The hairy nazarite squinting but unchained spreads himself like some great bird swollen oaken arms knotted fingers thrust out marblebound the haunting columns stand too wide apart short-spanned maggotmothered man awaits a hoary god's ancient rage or a weightless sparrow settling witless on the roof to bring the indifferent pillars down John Engman Emmi... ‘lL 5" , A. .' . 4 n y#___‘__- mu‘xr’dmcsrm Show less
Writer’s Crab Nelson Algren was not at all the man I had expected. His penitentiary pal- lor. his electrified grey nair standing in two tufts on botn sides of a shiny forehead, nis square, slightly jowly jaw, and his drab green shirt made him look more like one of his disreputable characters from... Show moreWriter’s Crab Nelson Algren was not at all the man I had expected. His penitentiary pal- lor. his electrified grey nair standing in two tufts on botn sides of a shiny forehead, nis square, slightly jowly jaw, and his drab green shirt made him look more like one of his disreputable characters from boxing circles or Chi- cago's seamier side than like a well- known literary figure. At the sane time he reminded me of my first grade teacner, Miss Humpnner. They shared deep-set eyes, long crescent-shaped dimples surrounding a small prune mouth and a generally oenevolent expression. Thus when I first saw Algren that hot July day at a western American writer's conference, I had a mixed reaction-~I was at once repelled by the common qualities and attracted by tne Miss Humphner traits. Nonetheless. I, along with sixty young (and not so young) writers, waited expectantly for his pontifical pronouncements on short stories submitted to nim at the confer- ence. This day was Special for me. For Nelson was not reading just any story five minutes before class was to begin; it was my sister's Story, “The Last Enemy." And my sister, of course, was the Carson McCullers of the conference, at least so I thougnt and so I thought Algren thought as ne speedread the man- uscript, turning eacn page after a full 7.5 seconds of intense inhalation on his Chesterfield king and sonewhat less intense perusal of the story. This hasty consideration of what I esteemed a piece worthy of katnerine Anne Porter or Tnomas Wolfe caused the first real stirrings of ill feeling toward this prose master witn a dowager's delicacy of features and a flim-flam man's oili- ness of manner. Margit Livingston Still, I was sure that he would judge tne work the best of the three stories distributed to the class for discussion. After all, this same story had gained my sister a fellowship at the conference. Moreover, after rat- tling througn a sleepless night on the train and wiping out our savings, we thirsted to near praise from Algren (even tnougn my sister was now writing plays and never intended that her short story be evaluated at all!) And, finally, tne story had already won Mademoiselle's College Fiction Lom- petition and had been published in the maga21ne. The other two stories, I was sure, had never seen print. The con- ferees had asked Algren to select three stories of varying qualities from the manuscripts suomitted to him and to pass out copies of them to the class. He must nave chosen the others to rep- resent bao and nediocre stories and my sister's to exemplify the successful work, I figured. Nelson had confirmed my opinion the day before wnen ne criticized the poor story, “Venus and Adonis": a bedtime yarn about a neurotic photographer and his lust for a ravishing archeologist wno was digging for artifacts in the Mediterranean. With his mouth twisted downward into a condescending, but not quite sour, smile, Nelson had neatly summed up the story's tragic flaw: "Tnere seems like tnere‘s four people who want to sleep with a lot of other Show less
A. sane-Len v: ‘ r‘ -1»; “Age-h Jays-m 12- i352”; a—&y.::....&... people wno don't want a lot of other people to sleep with some people....You nave a hero whose cnief deprivation seems to be tnat he can't sleep with the most beautiful woman in the world. Nell. wnat of it? A lot of us can't. I... Show moreA. sane-Len v: ‘ r‘ -1»; “Age-h Jays-m 12- i352”; a—&y.::....&... people wno don't want a lot of other people to sleep with some people....You nave a hero whose cnief deprivation seems to be tnat he can't sleep with the most beautiful woman in the world. Nell. wnat of it? A lot of us can't. I really can't shed a tear over it." The second story, entitled “Mrs. Peters' Paramour," had fared little better. Algren had liked its realistic detail about the female protagonist's radiation treatment for cancer. How- ever. the woman's aging boyfriend, he had said, was not quite convincing-- perhaps because his principal occupa- tion was collecting the shoes that hys- terical female basketball fans threw onto the court during games. The story, he had conceded, might have possibili- ties. But I had known that he was just being kind, revealing a bit of the Miss Humphner in him. Certainly he could not have thought that thirty-page tale publishable--with its stilted dialogue, papier-mache characters, endless des- criptions, and absurd similes: "Giddy with excitement, Mrs. Peters looked at Smith demurely, her voice like a broken pitcher of half-solidi- fied syrup filling the room. 'would you like some more cookies, dohn?‘ Put- ting down his brown sack filled with shoes. he responded, his eyes like black bumble bees, 'Hope. Gotta keep in trim for the courts. Rut I'll have a pinch of coffee.'“ I was confident, therefore, that as Algren finished my sister's story and delicately flicked cigarette ash into the deskside wastebasket, he was pre- paring to extol the piece. “Well, what did you think of it?“ he inquired with a benign smile. A scnool teacher from Chicago ven- tured, "It had a rather slow, uninter- esting oeginning-—and a trite plot.“ Philistine, I thought indignantly. I turned toward Algren, expecting him, as Miss Humphner so often did, to smite the loud-mouth with a verbal ruler. But Algren's eyes were flickering, and they m 5 A no longer looked in the least like Miss H's. His lean, grey cheeks gave him a slightly predatory air. "You're right about that," he said. “Remove the whole first page-—all this business about the ship to Europe and cloche nats and all! In fact, you could cut this story in nalf and not lose a thing." I was horrified. I shot a glance at my sister, who, to my surprise, was calmly writing down Algren's comments. I almost raised my hand to protest: But you need the first page to set the scene. I am naturally shy, however, and by the time I had partially recovered froninw shock, a sweet young thing from North Carolina was spouting off: "I didn't like it," she said viva- ciously. "I didn't believe in the char- acters.“ "Uh--yeah--uh--right--," Algren re- sponded, and for the first time I no- ticed his gangsterish quality of speech--the flat, toneless, nasal words slithering out the right corner of his mouth as a puff of smoke emerged from the left side. "Tne dialogue's unconvincing,“ he continued. "And the writer should have the grandfather cone over to the house or take him out altogether. Ah---yeah-- or have him divorce the grandmother.“ But. my dear Mr. Algren, I muttered to myself, the grandmother has alread divorced the grandfather, or didn't 7.! seconds on each page allow you to catch that! It was now too late to silence the carnivorous critics who, encouraged by Show less
tne nefarious delson, moved in quickly 'to cut up tne rest of the story: "The author tells too much." "Ah...yeah...rignt...um...puff,"from nlgren. “The writer doesn't say enough about tne past relationship between the moth- er and the grandmother." "Un-nun---uh---puff---that's true.“ "me didn't... Show moretne nefarious delson, moved in quickly 'to cut up tne rest of the story: "The author tells too much." "Ah...yeah...rignt...um...puff,"from nlgren. “The writer doesn't say enough about tne past relationship between the moth- er and the grandmother." "Un-nun---uh---puff---that's true.“ "me didn't decide wnat attitude the reader snoulu take toward the charac- ters." "Right again...,” flick-flick of asnes. Stupified, I nau ceased to listen to tne voices and tried to imagine why Al- gren snoulu naVe taken such a dislike to the prize-winning story. I was dis- illusioned anu uisencnanted with the conference, the conferees, and Algren. why tnis story? Why? I kept asking myself. Just in tine to hear the now uis- tinctly villainous-looking Algren lac- erate tne last page of nw sister's work, I awoke from my reveries: “An...it's got a prosy, flat tone... un...someone telling you all about the Characters in a monotone," he raSped. “All in all...an, un...it's a dra-a-gi" n drag! I was seething. The class ended, and I vaguely remember leaving the classroom building and seeing nw sister stay behind. A few minutes later I founu myself in the residence hall lobby, and I caught a glimpse of Miss humpnner as I started upstairs. I stopped snort. Algren! I thought, and I turned arounu and headed down- stairs, hoping to overtake him. Hor- mally, my inherent timiuity would have precluded my even greeting such a fam- ous personage. but my wrath drove me on, and I stalked toward Nelson, who was sitting in tne lobby skimming a manuscript. Ifly consternation must have showed in every pore of my face, for upon see- ing my insignificant frame in front of him, Algren remarked a la Miss Humphner “You looked troubled. Is there something I can do for you?“ "I didn't at all agree with your re- marks aoout the story you discussed in class just now,...sir1 I sputtered. “Un....“ he repliEd paternally. "And why not...?," and he wanted to add "little girl," I could see. "I thought it was a good story--well written. interesting,“ I answered al- most peevisnly, his vicious attack on "The Last Enemy“ still fresh in mind. Algren's eyes glinted as he moved forward in his chair. "Did you write the story?" he asked. "No. I did not! I said. descending smile-Vanished. “Uh,...an, er...“ He was off bal- ance. but he recovered. "Nell...I still think tnat story is boring and trite.“ “Boring and trite! That sounds more like 'Mrs. Peters' Paramour'," I coun- tered, recalling that tiresome tale of the day before. "Oh, no," Algren said in his most patronizing manner. "That has real pos- sibilities--and I mean, market potenti- al... Suddenly I realized why Nelson had torn apart my sister's story so thor- ougnly and had left "Hrs. Peters' Para- mour" relatively intact. It was very simple--he had not picked the stories himself but had asked the 'conference director for some representative pieces When he had read “Mrs. P." and “Venus and Adonis“ for the first time the day before, he had decided that the former was tne good story and the latter the mediocre one. Thus by elimination my sister's must be the worst. I turned % E His con- Wei W l%l Show less
"But this story today...well now, do you think it would get published?" he asked. "Yes, yes, I most certainly do." “No. no, it wouldn't," he clued me as he snook his head at the poor, naive little fool seated beside him. “A pub- lisher would read the first page and tossuthe whole thing into the... Show more"But this story today...well now, do you think it would get published?" he asked. "Yes, yes, I most certainly do." “No. no, it wouldn't," he clued me as he snook his head at the poor, naive little fool seated beside him. “A pub- lisher would read the first page and tossuthe whole thing into the wastebas- ket. I decided to hold my K0 punch a lit- tle longer. "But don't you think, Mr. Algren, that if it were revised, fixed up a little, it might be published?“ I que- ried innocently. “Not a chance. It's such a drag!" he said as if that settled the matter. I paused to wind up and then deliv- ered a neat body blow. “But it has been published." Algren recoiled slightly from this unexpected news. The self-satisfied gleam re- turned quickly to his eyes. He still thought he had me. "where?" The Springfield Junior Col- lege uill, no doubt he was thinking. Ma emoiselle Magazine."That was it. He sagged in his chair. “0h, well...I guess all that proves is that I shouldn't be the editor of Mademoiselle,“ he chortled lamely. llWould you like some lemonade?" After he returned with the drinks, he said not another word to me but-went back to scanning the manuscript in his hand. Obviously he's trying to recover from having been kayoed by an amateur featherweight, I mused. Perhaps I Should say something soothing. "Ah, Mrs. Rice," Algren engagingly greeted a rubicund and breathless ma- tron who was seating herself between us on the sofa. "I've just read your man- uscript.fi.ah...and it has possibilities ...uh... No need to say something soothing. I left the two huddled together--the ea- ger pupil and the Chicago tough guy.No, he was not what I had expected, but I decided that I liked him a little even if he was a drag. A Kiss in Monsoon I took your tongue sweet to the lip a bitter tooth soured and bit down Split seeds in a slice of lime, a kiss in monsoon a fluke lukewarm to the liSp of gin and quinine, a wet tongue talking love, damp bitterweed in a field of summer storms. Johnnfltchfll fox fire the night is beginning to move, crawling like daddy longlegs all over our mother and the moon is a dead giveaway. it's not just a slow moving train with its soft spoken pain but the swamp our mother and the moon is a dead giveaway. something's got to give one way or another, and I ain't waitin' brother. move it on over lover. the moon is a dead giveaway. Juhnllnchdl Show less
10 The Waning War of Wally N. I step from the bus checking my watcn. A little after seven. Late al- ready. Few people on the streets. Ho friendly faces at this early hour. Morning people to unlock doors, pull up window shades, roll up sidewalks. and oecone invisible when the execs show up at nine... Show more10 The Waning War of Wally N. I step from the bus checking my watcn. A little after seven. Late al- ready. Few people on the streets. Ho friendly faces at this early hour. Morning people to unlock doors, pull up window shades, roll up sidewalks. and oecone invisible when the execs show up at nine. Gnosts. Walking now toward a dingy, neo- classic building. Hy target. Quite of- ficial looking. I take an envelope from my pocket. It reads: Wallace A. Nelson to report to the U.S. Courthouse build- ing at six-thirty a.m. for a pre-in- duction physical. Right building. Wrong time. Seven-fifteen now. marble stairs and in. Deserted halls. Signs and arrows. A Marine salutes me from an enlistment poster. Up more stairs to the second floor. There is a wide corridor with chairs along the sides. Most of the chairs are taken. A few heads turn in my direction. Tired faces. A boy standing in the hall star- ing at some papers. He has on a check- ered flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up around his elbows. His glasses look as though they will fall off his nose. He glances up when I ap- proach. "I'm here for a draft physical.Where do I go?" I ask. “I don't know. I'm enlisting.“ A smile. “Oh. fl Looking around for directions. A boy sitting between his mother and father. The boy is hunched over some papers in his lap. His father, in a t-shirt, is Wallace Nelson I go up the. leaning back against the wall. staring blankly at the ceiling. The boy points to a paragraph. The father sits up and looks down at the finger. He nods.yawns and slouches back again. I walk into an office. "Where do I go for a draft physical?" “Try room 205." In room 205 there are about fifty people sitting with papers and enve- lopes like mine. There are no smiles. I take a seat by the door. rAre you here for a draft physical?" 'Yes.' "Anything happen yet?" "No. II Huh . II A man in front at a desk. Stripes on his arm. large stripes. Ribbons on his chest. Gallantry, bravery, good sports- manship. cleanliness. He shuffles some papers and stands. "All right. when I call your name come to the front. Take the forms I give you and follow the yellow line on the floor across the hall and up the stairs. Give your papers to the man at the desk. Abbott. Darrel F..." His voice drones through the b's and c's. no d’s, e's and f‘s. I look down at the papers in my lap. I read across the page until I come to a Space where neatly and cleanly my name has been typed in. I read my name to myself sev- eral times and think of many things. "Nelson, Wallace A." PW name. Yes. To the front. My pa- pers, thank you. The yellow line. A- cross the nall. Up the stairs to the end of the line. Slowly the line pro- ceeds. Paging through my papers. I look about at my comrades. My face flushes. Embarrassment. To find myself in such an awkward position. I strip to the waist. The man at the desk. IV papers. Pulse. Blood pres- sure. “Give the man behind the screen this Show less
r. egg—EL: _ d x WWWflsfififiE‘gfiJvLC .3 card and take your papers." he mumbles without looking up. The man. The card. cnest X-ray. "Take your card, follow the yellow line to the next room." I go into the room and take a seat at a small cramped desk. Slowly all the other desks are filled. and the... Show morer. egg—EL: _ d x WWWflsfififiE‘gfiJvLC .3 card and take your papers." he mumbles without looking up. The man. The card. cnest X-ray. "Take your card, follow the yellow line to the next room." I go into the room and take a seat at a small cramped desk. Slowly all the other desks are filled. and the door closes. I am alone with my new friends. The diSparate des- perate. The room is rectangular. Along the walls are two rows of desks. Each desk has a partition around it to prevent cheating. The walls are a sickly yellow color and are bare except for two signs. a No Smoking sign and a sign on the front wall saying that by article l2b. section 34, of the military code, any theft or mutilation will be dealt with. I start to consioer the legal as- pects of the latter sign. I can t con- centrate so I ease my consciousness in- to its former state of lethargy. My friends in the room are also rather quiet,except for three boys in a corner giggling. rocking back and forth in their chairs, and punching one another on the arms. Below the No Smoking sign a fat. unshaven boy about nineteen ar- rogantly puffs a cigarette. Menacing eyes. Uull blank faces. Uirty, tatter- ed apparel. I have never seen people like this outside this building. The door Opens. and into the room walks a young. pimply-faced soldier in a crumpled uniform. He is nervous. without a word he walks around the room tossing pencils on the desks. He exits. I page through my documents. Never sign papers without the aid of counsel. I have certain inalienable rights guaran- teed to me by the constitution of these United States. Ah, an Un-American Ac- tivities Oath. A person cannot be forc- ed to testify against himself. Self- incrimination. Never weather a Supreme Court battle. Where the hell are the bright-eyed.ivy-leagued A.C.L.U lawyers in this improbable, far-removed corner of civilization? Another soldier enters the room. He Buzz-click. One "5.1-" a... MA" I » 4-- is about twenty-three and more command- ing than the last one. He casually saunters to the center of the room, strikes a relaxed pose, and raises a fist of documents over his head. "Allllllllrrrrright," he drawls.“re~ move tne paper clip from the corner, place the top document before you and the others in the upper-left hand cor- ner of your desk. In box one print your last name first. first name, and middle name. Present address in box two. The date in box three." I print. "Answer questions one through fifty? I answer. “Sign Un-American Activities form? I sign. “Fill out.“ I complete. "Lastly the armed forces I.Q. exam.“ I find it difficult. wallace Nelson, this day you have flagrantly, willfully, and knowingly compromised yourself. How do you plead? To the above I plead decidedly guilty, in the name of expediency. I fall back on the tried and true behavioral pat- tern of quitting the arena of action in times of trauma. Do not list your 11 Show less
12 grievances against me yet, however. The indignities have just begun. ...and when I pass my fuzzy-haired draft counselor on the street I shall cast my eyes to the ground and blush. My papers are checked, and I follow, obediently, a blue line that takes me to a locker room. I take down a wire... Show more12 grievances against me yet, however. The indignities have just begun. ...and when I pass my fuzzy-haired draft counselor on the street I shall cast my eyes to the ground and blush. My papers are checked, and I follow, obediently, a blue line that takes me to a locker room. I take down a wire basket and deposit in it my shirt, t- shirt, pants, and socks. I remember the difficulty I had that morning choosing my attire. I mean, what do you wear to a draft physical? 0n the wall of the locker room is a sign saying: "We Cane not Be Responsible for Lost or Stolen Property.“ If they aren't responsible, who is responsible? I enter a line to be weighed and measured. My group stands clad in shorts, shoes with no socks, and papers in hand. The more modest use the pa- pers as fig leaves. There are fat pink bodies, a few lean tan beach boys and myself,a bit conspicuous with red stal- lions galloping across my boxer shorts. My group, a rather curious lot fully clothed, is now totally inane. Also a- bout this time the last remnants of my rational processes escape me. A soldier scribbles down my height and weight. I read the figures, and I am once more a- mazed to discover that... I occupy Space. Farther along the blue line I take a position at the end of a long, slow- moving procession. I finally arrive at a device to measure my vision. My left eye betrays me by not being able to read lines four or five, and I have to settle for the large print in line six. I then take a seat on a long narrow bench for another long wait. At this station groups of seven are led into a large black box. It has a heavy door that swings shut and locks with a metal latch. It looks like a meat locker. I am with the last group to enter. The heavy door swings securely me. There are no windows. from small dim bulbs. I sit on a small folding chair and stare blankly for- ward. So this is it. An inglorious end. I look about for shower heads. Six mil- lion Jews and a Swede. There is a sign on the wall: “Remove the headset from the wall. When you hear a tone, depress the button on the ledge in front of you. Release when the tone ends.“ A temporary reprieve. I put on the headset. Beeeeeep. Presss. Beep. Beep. Press press. Softer. Beep. Press. Softer yet. Beep. Beep. Those clever draft people. No fooling this machine. Press press press. Beep. Press. Almost imperceptible now. Beep beep. Press press. I sit for some time pushing the button in a Skinnerian manner. Where are my food pellets? Must be piling up under my chair. I'm very good at this. There is a tap on my shoulder. Every- one has his headset off and is looking in my direction. I remove my headset and put it back on the peg. I sit star- ing at the wall in front of me. In the silence I notice a faint ringing in my ear, a sound that must have caused me to keep depressing my button. The door opens and we file out. In the next room are more grey benches for more waiting. The corridors and rooms are all painted monotonous cream colors. The ceilings are low. It is very surreal. I am entirely disori- ented. No sense of direction. Wander- ing deep in the bowels of this building I could never find my way out alone. I shut behind Light comes Show less
Aquamamt have.been groping through obscure pas- sageways of a giant submarine that has descended to the bottom of a deep, cold ocean. Sitting on the bench, I watch the slow progress of T.S.'s claws scut- tling across the floor. Nine of us line up against the wall. They check our hands for fingers... Show moreAquamamt have.been groping through obscure pas- sageways of a giant submarine that has descended to the bottom of a deep, cold ocean. Sitting on the bench, I watch the slow progress of T.S.'s claws scut- tling across the floor. Nine of us line up against the wall. They check our hands for fingers, feet for toes, mouths for teeth. and asses for holes. The next ordeal is a medical interview. In the front of a large room are tnree glass cubicles, each contain- ing one doctor. You give the doctor your medical papers and talk about any ‘bodily defects the physical has not covered. real or imagined. This is where the four-f's and one-y's are doled out. In the center cubicle we watch one of our group wildly flailing 'his arms. jumping up and down, pointing to various parts of his body. He is in there for about twenty minutes. It is a fine performance. It is kind of a tiger and princess thing. Except that there isn't necessarily a princess at all. I get a bastard. He pages through my doc- uments. scrawls his name at the bottom, and bids me leave. I go to the locker room and dress. My name is called and I enter a short line. The last line. "Hey. did you pass?“ the boy behind 'me asks. “I don't know." "Look down here,“ he says pointing. Across from a box someone has check- ed is the statement that I have been 'found acceptable for military service. "Too bad," he says. "Yeah." I say weakly. I am thinking of Canada. Winnepeg would be nice to see again. I remember sitting in a drugstore next to a park there. I was drinking coffee and listening to three kids who were sitting across from me. Two of them were describing a chicken they had seen hit on the highway. "You should have seen that thing." the boy said. "It was all over." "Yeah," the girl added, "it looked like it was in Viet Nam." Thfiy all laughed heartily. At the sounds of the heresy I quickly looked around for the F.B.I. Wait. no need for that. This was Canada. These people weren't at war. Those kids didn't have to fight foreign intruders. They could just grow up. God. how refreshing! I feel as if my draft card is glowing in my back pocket. It seems to me that I am being watched. “Your papers?“ a man at a desk asks. "Yeah." handing him the papers. “What's this?"he asks paging through a medical report. "I have bad knees.“ “You can't run?“ “I can run but not very fast or for a long time." "You going to school?" "Yeah." “We can't use you till you have them Operated on.“ "on . II I leave the building walking quick- ly. I don't look back. I sit in a dark bar quickly downing my second brandy. I order a beer and ‘watcn the foam slowly settle in the glass. The alcohol courses through my veins and begins its subtle assault on my brain. My head feels warm. Slowly, imperceptibly I cease shaking. .Laz, .{v -’ «r ‘\ \_ l) \pl 9"”; \_”J_» m r \ Son My anxious child is waiting. My living ghost is in the air. He'll shadow my features. like a sheet, and suck the color from my hair. Johnlafirnln 13 Show less
14 an eat-shop fable Chins wag in the Chin Nag. Staring: at the white dangling lamps, the muscle golden boy Spreads his arms, bares his teeth, Screams "It's big! It's big! Nails tap in the Chin Hag. Blaring: from the silver juke box, the sugar bass voice Moves the sweatered bodies, leaps off... Show more14 an eat-shop fable Chins wag in the Chin Nag. Staring: at the white dangling lamps, the muscle golden boy Spreads his arms, bares his teeth, Screams "It's big! It's big! Nails tap in the Chin Hag. Blaring: from the silver juke box, the sugar bass voice Moves the sweatered bodies, leaps off square white bricks, Moans "Baby. Baby. Baby." Feet bounce in the Chin Nag. Loping: over the hard grainy bricks, the brown lunch pail Scrapes the red pillar, swings from the purple arm, Flees the cruel cacophony. Eyes search in the Chin Wag. Groping: through the slick Playboy pages, the electric dark curls Touch the wispy beard, hang above the lean bare girl, Beam over the nude curves. Drawings by Becky Show less
MORAL: Spleens open in the Chin Nag. Hating: toward the whiteopants guy, the green-eyed girls Purse their thin lips, grin at his sweet fair face, Kill his long-legged lady. Brains whirl in the Chin Wag. Grating: out the long-drawn names, the clipped black mustache Munches ham-and-lettuce, tooths... Show moreMORAL: Spleens open in the Chin Nag. Hating: toward the whiteopants guy, the green-eyed girls Purse their thin lips, grin at his sweet fair face, Kill his long-legged lady. Brains whirl in the Chin Wag. Grating: out the long-drawn names, the clipped black mustache Munches ham-and-lettuce, tooths an overfull pipe, Plans his political parties. Mouths suck in the Chin Wag. Smoking: on a slim rank fag, the grey fakey fur Tilts a corn-blond head, twitches in an orange plastic chair,l Muses on the latticed vent. Chins wag in the Chin Nag. Choking: in the thick ash air, the small silly I Tastes the acid Coke, smells the scorched ground beef, Hears the shallow talk. If you want to shake the earth, Avoid the eat shop's mirth. But if to dally is your bag, Join those pink young chins that wag. Margit Livingston 15 Show less
16 The Common Man While 'standing at a bus stop one evenihg I met a man wno was waiting for a ous. We stood side by side and trad- ed silent glances for nearly ten min- utes. He was a fair complexioned black man with curly brown hair. His face was nicked badly as if he had cut himself a dozen... Show more16 The Common Man While 'standing at a bus stop one evenihg I met a man wno was waiting for a ous. We stood side by side and trad- ed silent glances for nearly ten min- utes. He was a fair complexioned black man with curly brown hair. His face was nicked badly as if he had cut himself a dozen times while shaving. His nicks were scarlet from irritation, and his complexion was slightly ashy because of the residue of what must have been some kind of medicated lotion. Many times you and I have stood next to someone who looked interesting but who remained silent despite occasional penetrating glances. Many times you and I have wanted to say hello to him, just to prove that we were not afraid. But a confrontation of this sort is many times too crucial to be risked. What if we Spoke to him, you and I, and he became offended and stormed away? What if he glared at us dubiously, turned his back, and pretended to be studying the crosstown traffic? 0r,even worse, what if he looked at us with haughty piercing eyes, chuckled softly to himself, and then began to laugh, first softly, but then building to a rapid crescendo of hilarity? What if that happened to us? The man looked at me as I paced ner- vously along side of him. His eyes fol- lowed me as I walked. His glance was steady, as if he was observing a tree instead of a human being. He did not seem to think that I would stare back. He was right. “You still in school?“ he asked as he glanced admiringly at my books. The sound of his voice shattered my securi- ty. "Yes. I am,“ I replied. "You goinf on to college,ain't you?“ "Definitely," I replied. His counte- nance softened noticeably, and he Sleones smiled. "You know, I never even finished junior high scnool,“ he said. "Wow that's bad.“ I noticed his clothes. They hung on him in the sloppiest man- ner, but I was not embarrassed. There seemed to be an excuse for his shabbi- ness.He was a depression baby grown old who had seen plenty of whiskey and more of the world than he cared to remember. His coat touched the bottom of his left knee, the top of his right, because one leg was shorter than the other. The coat was black and housed at least two summers worth of dust. The man wore baggy pants that overflowed at the tOp of his black, unpolished shoes. As I studied him, I caught a glimpse of his zipper. It was wide open. I immediate- ly assumed that it was broken. But he saw my youthful eyes staring, and he noncnalantly pulled it closed. “What are you interested in?" he asked. “Writing. I'm going to be a writer," I said. “You‘ll probably be a good one too. Yeah. that's a wide open field, a wide open field. There's always something to write about.“ he said. "Learn to ob- serve.“ He was very serious. As he turned to look down the street in ex- pectation of the bus, I caught sight of the top of a flask hidden in his back pocket. The top itself was not visible, but it could be discerned through the outline it etched on the coat. He smiled sheepishly and said to me, “Vou know. I wanted to be a mathematician, Show less
man I II “I can't handle self." I responded. “Don't ever say what you can't do. Don't ever say that. You can do what- ever you want to do, if you just put your mind to it. I never used to be any good at history or English. You pretty good in English?" I said yes. "I nev- er was. Until I took an... Show moreman I II “I can't handle self." I responded. “Don't ever say what you can't do. Don't ever say that. You can do what- ever you want to do, if you just put your mind to it. I never used to be any good at history or English. You pretty good in English?" I said yes. "I nev- er was. Until I took an interest in it. When I'started liking something,I could do it. The man had succeeded in loosening me up in less than ten minutes of con- versation. The bus came, and we boarded it together cheerfully. He fell down into his seat heavily and tried to cross his legs. But his muscles were so tired that they could not reSpond, and he had to be content with stretching his legs as far out as he could. I sat in the seat across the aisle from him. As the bus rambled through the dirty, broken city streets, through the slums and into the suburbs. I noticed that a change had come over the man. A stout, grey-haired woman stumbled onto the bus those figures my- with two overflowing shopping bags. Her appearance inSpired pity. She could barely see the seat in front of her as she turned to sit down. In the process she stumbled over the man's foot,and he swore at her violently. She had meant no harm. and yet the man took what seemed to be deep offense. I watched him as he settled back in his seat and brooded. His hand searched for the flask in his pocket. Out it came into the open air for everyone to see. The liquid flowed over his tongue, and some of it spilled on his coat. Bitterness caused his brow to furrow intensely as he scowled at the timid passengers. As time passed,he cleared his throat and let out a loudyhappy yell. His eyes were bloodshot, but they sparkled like a child's. I stared at him in amaze- ment. He caught my eye and looked away. The passengers squirmed in their seats. A young housewife sitting in front of me turned around and gave the man a look of disgust which he defiantly ignored. Once again he let out.an ec- static roar of approval. Thls time one of the well-dressed ladies in the front of the bus murmured. I'I wish he would shut upl" Everyone sighed with relief. The woman had spoken for all of those who had been seething in the cowardly waters of silent disgust. But the man was not to be denied. He stood up,wob- bleo unsteadily, and fixed his terrible glassy eyes on the cringing woman. "Woman!" he cried. The bus screeched to a halt. “You can go straight to hell and take your fine, expensive, show- offy clothes wif' you!" The bus driver had the man by the collar now. “Come on fellow. off you go." As the man was being pushed off the bus, he turned to me and said, "Hey, buddy. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Forgive me,huh?" I'm just a common man." The driver shoved him out the door. I looked out of the window and saw him staring at the ground with those glassy eyes of his. And, with new found cour- age, I moved over into his seat, deter- mined to take his place. 17 Show less