"your silhouette" at Outcast Press!

The latest issue of Outcast Press has dropped! Honored to have my poem "your silhouette" included amongst such good poetry. Theme is 'hung out to dry' and relationships. Some lovely erotic photos too.

 

Letters To Michael—essay

My 'hermit crab' #essay, "Letters To Michael," now out in the new South Dakota Review! I'm really proud of this one. You can order here:

Café Schilling chapbook now out!

My new chapbook, Café Schilling, is now out! Email me to order your copy!

yohejohn at the gmail!

15 pages. Poems about, and from, traveling in Europe.

Features poems which appeared in ColdNoon, Topology, and The Iconoclast!

www.johnyohe.com

Deep Wild Journal Kickstarter campaign a success!

Our Kickstarter campaign for Deep Wild Journal has been an overwhelming success! We weren't even sure we'd make our $2500 goal, with plans to get relatives to donate large sums to make the minimum. But we made our goal in less than a week! And we're only $100 away from our secondary dream goal of $3500! Still time to give a donation!

$20 get you a copy of DWJ #1 with your name appearing on the Donators page. $40 and we'll send a copy to a friend of yours!

If you prefer check or Paypal, check out our webpage: www.deepwildjournal.com

PS—pic is from Ed Abbey's Aztec Lookout, where I had the honor of working one summer.

María José—short fiction

"María José" appeared in SOL LITERARY JOURNAL back in 2011, and was chosen for their 'Best of' anthology in 2012. You can buy the anthology here. Note: The SOL website no longer exists.

"María José" is also part of my novel MASKED MAN, the first 20 pages of which you can read here. 

Who am I? You’re just now asking me? Ok, I’ll tell you my story, though you won’t understand me. I’m from Guadalajara, I was born there. My father worked in a panadería, a bread store, and mother worked in a tortillería, where tortillas are made. The real kind that smell good and you can eat them warm and fresh right from the over. My parents had three children. Me, my little sister Marta, and my little brother Arturo. Bueno, when I was twelve, my father left. He was sleeping with another woman and my mother found out. She didn’t tell him to leave, just got angry and called him stupid and a hijo puta, because he was, and then he left with the other girl. She was closer to my age than my mother’s, which is strange. They went to Mexico DF and we never heard from him again. In Mexico, a man doesn’t have to take care of the wife if he leaves. Yes, there are laws but they don’t matter.

You want to know how I learned to shoot a gun? We stayed with my Tío Octavio and his family a lot. The brother of my father. My mother had to take another job. His house was out in the country and he used to be a mili, a soldado, and he had guns. He taught all of us to fire guns, even us girls, because he said one day the people would rise and take back the country from los ricos. And also he said that mexican girls should know how to defend themselves. From who? From mexican men. And he was right.

As soon as I was old enough I quit school and started working at the tortillería, but even then there wasn’t enough lana, enough dinero. Tío Octavio paid for our house. Then his wife, Tía Linda, found out he was sleeping with my mother. Ay ay ay, she even came to the tortillería to scratch out my mother’s eyes!

After that, Tío Octavio never talked to us again and never gave us any more money and my mother had to sell the house. We had no family there, her parents had died before. She had a friend in Puerto Vallarta who could get her a job working at a hotel, she couldn’t take all of us. Or bueno, sí, she could have, but she had another plan. We have family in Phoenix. She wanted to send my sister and me, and later my brother when he got older, to Phoenix, where we could make a lot more money.

The problem was that we didn’t have enough money to get my sister and me to America. We could barely get to Santa Teresa by bus. There are men, even in Guadalajara, who will take people to America, but the majority of them are narcos, los narcotraficantes, the ones who sell drugs, and my mother didn’t want nothing to do with them.

But my mom’s plan was for us to go to Santa Teresa and work at one of the maquiladoras and make enough money to pay a coyote to get us across the border. My mother knew someone who worked here, and called her, one time only, and told her that we were coming. Then she put us on the bus. I just turned sixteen.

When we arrived in Santa Teresa, my mother’s friend wasn’t there. We called the phone number but the person we talked to said she didn’t live there no more and she didn’t know where she went.

In Santa Teresa, there are men who wait at the bus station, looking for girls to work in the maquiladoras. I didn’t know what to do. We didn’t even have a place to stay! A man said he could get us work, but that there was what he called a hiring fee, which was just a bribe. I told him we didn’t have no money and he said, That’s ok, we’ll take it out of your check. So I said yes. What was I supposed to do? And the man took us to an apartment building filled with other girls working at the maquiladoras and found us a room to stay and said he would take the rent out of our check too. I said ok because I’m stupid. But I was only sixteen and had to take care of my sister, you know? We didn’t have almost no money. The guy, he had us sign papers, and told us where to go to work. Then he asked me if we needed money for food. I thought he would just take that out of our checks too, but no, He said he’s give me some if I sucked him! He said it right in front of my sister! Hijo de puta! Of course I said no. He just shrugged like it was no big deal and left and I sat and cried, and my sister cried and there we were, we didn’t know anybody, crying and holding each other.

Our room was the size of closet and we shared a bathroom down the hall. But it was ours, and we started work the next day.

The other girls were nice. They were from all over Mexico. All of us doing the same thing, except some wanted to go to America and some just came because they thought they could make enough right there. I thought so too, until saw our first checks! Thieves! Ladrones! All of them!

What did we do? We sowed shirts. This shirt I’m wearing? My maquiladora probably made it!

Here’s what they do. They give you a job on first shift, during the day. The maquiladoras are filled with girls. Some guys, but mostly girls. The men are the supervisors, of course. Los jefes. But then there are the jefes of the jefes, the men who come in suits, they walk around, look at everything. They go in the office, they come out of the office. They drive around in their fancy trucks, theirs SUVs, watching, looking. When they see a girl they like, they take her. They ask her jefe, Who’s that? What’s her name? Then they wait outside for the girl, and tell her to get in. This happens a lot. And the girls get in. Why? Because the men have money. The men tell them they’ll take them out, to restaurantes and clubs. To dance and drink. Except, sometimes the girls don’t come back. I didn’t learn this until later.

Mostly it’s just guys. Regular guys. Meaning mexican guys, so cuidado anyways, but yes, girls go out and nothing happens. They drink. They dance. They fuck. The girls come back crying. Or not. They come back smiling. Or not. They get pregnant and have abortions. Or not.

The jefes of the jefes, they want a girl, here’s what they do. They tell the little jefes to change a girl’s schedule. Suddenly she’s not working the day shift any more. Now she’s working the night shift. Now the buses aren’t running. Now there’s not people in the streets. Now she has to maybe walk home in the dark. Now she’s a little scared. Then there’s a rich guy in a fancy SUV asking if she needs a ride. He and his friends will give her a ride. And why doesn’t she ask one of her friends if she wants to come along too. That’s another way. They get one girl, who will invite other girls. Not her friends. One time I had a girl that I didn’t know ask me if I wanted to go out dancing that night. She wasn’t even smiling. She looked scared and desperate and had a bruise on the side of her face. When I said no, she looked like she was going to cry.

So I start to learn what’s going on. Our friends, the other girls, start to talk, tell each other what we heard. Help each other survive. Tell each other about when a girl is found out in the desert, dead. Killed. And more than killed. Tortured. Raped. And then one of the girls was someone I knew. Tatiana. She lived in our building. One day she never came home. Nobody knew what happened to her. We thought she just left. Some people do that, just leave and go home. But then two weeks later we knew what happened to her. Two boys found her out in the desert. It was on the news, but you know what? No police ever came to our buildings to talk to us. No police ever came to our maquiladora. They didn’t ask us anything. Only because her family came to Santa Teresa and asked did they know anything.

And then my sister got moved to night shift. I told her no, don’t do it, but she said it was ok, she would always go with friends, and that it would be better for us to work different shifts so that we weren’t crowding each other in the room all the time. And I said ok, está bien, because you know? That sounded good. I was tired of living in the building and tired of being with my sister all the time. I was egoísta and said, está bien. And then after a week, just one week, she didn’t come home. I knew, but I had to ask anyways. I found some of the girls she was friends with, the ones she said she would always come home with. And you know what they told me? That she got in the car with a man. She said it was ok, she knew him. And then she never came home.

And so...And so I had to be the one to call my mother and tell her. I had to be the one to listen to my mother cry over the phone. I had to be the one to listen to my mother ask why I didn’t take care of her. I had to be the one to listen to my mother get angry with me, yell at me, for letting my sister get killed. It was my fault.

I never went back to the maquiladora. I just never went back inside. But yes, I did go back once, to look for the car. I waited outside for two days looking for a car that fit the description of what my sister’s friends described. And then it appeared. It was parked out front, down the street from the entrance, where they could watch all the girls leaving. There were two men inside. I walked to it and pounded on the window. The driver, he rolled down his window and I started yelling, Where’s my sister! Where’s my sister!

And the man asked me, Who’s your sister, and I said her name and without even thinking about it he said, I don’t know her. Then the hijo puta asked me if I wanted to get in the car so we could go look for her. And they laughed. So I kept yelling, calling them names, insulting them.

Then the driver, he pulled out a pistol and pointed it right at my face and called me a puta and told me to shut up. The other guy kept laughing and I hated them both. The driver said that my sister was a puta and that she got what she deserved and that I was a puta and that I would get what I deserved. Then he told me he would come find me some night and show me where my sister was. And he asked me if anyone would care if he shot me right there in the street.

What could I do? I was so angry, but I backed away. I thought if I turned around he would shoot me in the back, so I backed away, down the sidewalk, and when they stopped looking at me I turned around and started walking.

So what does a girl do to earn enough money to pay a coyote if she doesn’t work at a maquiladora? What does she do when there are thousands of other girls the same age who are coming to Santa Teresa to do the same thing? Well, I’ll tell you. She can’t work at a restaurant and even make enough to survive. Or a supermercado. So, she can become a puta, just like that man said. They call us putas and then make it so that’s all we can do if we don’t want to die. So I become a dancer, because being a dancer is the least bad way of being a puta.

It’s not so bad. You get used to it. You separate yourself from it. You separate yourself from your body. You act they way you know you’ll get the most money. And men don’t care. They don’t care if you are pretending. I don’t know if that’s because they’re stupid or because that’s they way they really want girls to act. Which is stupid also. So either way men are stupid. Or that’s how it is in Mexico.

In America men must not be like that. Both of you are caballeros. That’s a joke. You are caballeros, but you are also crazy. That’s ok, está bien. I’m crazy too.

So why did that pendejo hate me so much? Well, because when I left the maquiladora, I just left. I didn’t go back to my apartment. There wasn’t anything there anyway, just clothes. I left. Vanished. Everyone probably thought I was another dead girl they’d never see again. That’s what I wanted. I didn’t want to have anything to do with that place or those people.

But there was another reason. Before I started saving my money to pay a coyote, I started saving my money to buy a gun. And dancing at El Torre gave me plenty of chances to buy one. I never did some things, like drogas, neither sell them or do them, or prostitue myself like most girls do. Never. But I did buy a gun. I made sure it was from a guy who wasn’t a regular.

And then I went back to the maquiladora and waited for that car. Three days waiting. Then it was there. I walked by it to see who was inside, and it was the same two men. I would never forget them. They didn’t even recognize me the first time I went by. They just whistled and asked me if I needed a ride. I walked past them. I was scared. I wasn’t sure if I would do it. Then I heard one of them laugh and call me a puta. That did it. I walked down the street and back, and when I got to the car I walked up, raised the gun and shot the driver twice. Then before the other guy could get out his gun I shot him twice. Then I kept shooting until the gun was empty and I left.

It was easy to disappear. People saw me do it, but I just walked away and no one said anything. I walked a couple blocks, took a bus into the city and got off after a couple blocks and took another bus. No one knew where I was, or where I lived. Just another girl. Just another puta. But I was a ghost, come back from the dead for vengeance.

So now you know why I want to go to America. Not because of my mother, not because it’s what she wants, but for me. To leave. To leave Mexico forever and never come back and all the mexican men can go to hell and die.

Punta Concepción—short story

"Punta Concepción" appeared in BRIDGE literary magazine (now defunct) way back in 2005.

            He is staring at us on the ferry to Santa Rosalía. Jan doesn’t see him: she is staring at the water, the waves off the bow. She points and says, “Dolphins!”

            He comes over to watch. He stands next to me. There are three dolphins. Sleek, shining in the sun.

            He is next to me, our arms touch. I sigh and say, “Beautiful. Aren’t they beautiful?” Jan turns to me smiling. She sees him. They look at each other.

            It is in class. No, it is before class. I am reading my Mexico travel book. She sits next to me and asks me if I’m going to Mexico. I say I’m thinking about it. She says she’s thinking about it too. She says maybe we could go together.

            I am noticing her now, for the first time. She sits in the back of the class, but today she sits next to me. I am staring at her as the professor talks. She is listening. He face changes when she disagrees. She has strong arms. I can tell she runs.

            He says his name is Johnny. He says he’s driven down from Phoenix. We tell him, Jan tells him, we are backpacking, traveling, exploring. He asks us where we are from. Jan says she’s from California. I say I’m from Tucson, though really I’m from Ohio. I want to be from California. We both go to the University of Arizona in Tucson

            We talk. It is warm here, even in December. I want to see if there’s a point where you can’t see land, where you can’t see Sonora or Baja. But I fall asleep next to Jan on a bench. When I wake up we can see land to the west. I think we’re early, that we’re making good time, but it takes us three more hours to get to port.

            John says he has a truck. He’s going to find a deserted beach and camp out. He asks us if we’d like come, or if he can give us a ride. Jan says yes, then looks at me. She is telling me I should say yes, but she doesn’t have to tell me.

            He is handsome: Tall, thin, long hair and high cheek bones. I like his smile, though he tries not to. He looks at us: I can see him looking. With two women it’s harder for him to pretend he’s not. When he goes to buy us Cokes, Jan elbows me and says, “He’s checking you out, Sheila.” I blush. She says, “It’s ok, I’m not jealous.” She puts her hand on my thigh, she says, “Maybe a little.”

            Out first night in Mexico, in Guaymas, we find a cheap hotel. La dueña is a large friendly woman. She is happy to see us and tells us how pretty we are. She gives us a room with a double bed in the back of the courtyard.

            We are tired and oily from the bus ride. It is dinner-time. We decide to shower and go out to eat. Jan tells me to go first. She sits on the bed looking at our travel book. I hesitate—I’ve never undressed in front of her. I don’t want her to know I’m hesitating. I take off my shirt and jeans. She glances up at me. I go into the bathroom.

            When I come out with a towel wrapped around me, she gets up and undresses. She has a lean runner’s body. I ask her if she lifts weights. She says yes. I tell her she has a nice body. She laughs.

            The ship docks. We wait for John in the parking lot. He has a blue Toyota pick-up, with a white ‘camper shell’. He tells me it’s called a ‘camper shell’.

            We throw our backpacks in back. There are only two seats, so I sit on Jan’s lap. She puts her arms around me, laughing. We pull onto the highway and head south. Johnny says he wants to explore a place, a peninsula where the highway doesn’t go, so there won’t be people with RVs.

            Half-way there, we stop in Mulegé for food. There’s a store that caters to americans and even has cans of refried beans without lard, and fresh vegetables. Johnny is a vegetarian too. Jan buys tequila.

            Jan and I go out for dinner. We walk along the main street of the town. There are more people on the streets here. There are girls and boys, in separate groups, staring and laughing at each other.

            We find a restaurant. After we order food, a man comes to our table. He asks in broken english if we’re american. Jan tells him, in spanish, to go away. Vete. The man is surprised, but he does. He goes to the bar and talks about us to his friends.

            She is stronger than I am. I couldn’t have told him to go away. I would have talked to him. I tell her this and she laughs. She says on another time she might have talked with him. She says maybe she would have gotten a free dinner out of it. But, she says, this is our adventure and she wants to talk with me.

            After dinner we walk along the main street a bit. The boys whistle at us from their cars. We go back to the hotel room.

            I undress. I wear a t-shirt and underwear to bed. Jan comes to bed naked. She says, “I hope you don’t mind.” I say no.

            We lay next to each other. All the rooms of the hotel face into the courtyard. Jan says, “Listen”. We can hear a couple having sex. We can hear the woman. Jan says, “Sounds like she’s having a good time. Maybe when we get to Cabo...” I ask her what she means. She says, “You know, maybe we’ll meet some hot guys.”

            I don’t say anything. I listen to her breathing get softer. Then she moves closer. She says she’d cold. She puts her hand on my hair and tells me goodnight. I say goodnight.

            We head south through hills with cactus and bushes that go right up to the edge of the ocean. There are beaches filled with RVers. There are RVs lined along the shore. Johnny finds the turn-off. We turn left, east. It’s a dirt road. Johnny drives fast and I lean out the window. Jan turns up the mexican music on the radio, with lots of accordian, which we all think is funny.

            The peninsula goes east, then curves north, creating a large bay. The road is rough.

            We drive an hour, exploring. We find our beach. It is late afternoon, the sun is out. Johnny stops the truck and we get out. Jan and I run to the water. She takes off her shirt and stretches. She starts to take off the rest of her clothes. I look back at Johnny walking toward us. He has his shirt off too. Jan smiles at me. She says, “Come on Sheila. Let’s go skinny-dippping!” She runs naked into the water and dives.

            I take off my clothes and run in. I dive.

            The water is cool, almost cold. Refreshing. I swim to Jan. She stands up; the water is waist deep. She pulls her hair away from her face, glistening. She yells at Johnny to come in. We look back at him. He takes off his clothes, down to his underwear. I can see him hesitate, looking at us, looking at him. He takes his underwear off and walks in slowly.

            He swims out to us and we stand together. We laugh about the desert, how it comes right to the water here. We talk about Arizona. Jan dares us to swim out furthur. We follow her till we can’t touch bottom. She lays on her back and drifts. We all do, but I am scared. I swim back and Johnny comes with me.

            We come out on the beach and walk, naked, to the truck. Johnny opens up the back and we get towels. Johnny says he’s glad he can enjoy this with two beautiful women. I say we’re glad we can enjoy this with a beautiful man. I feel stupid, obvious.

            Jan is waiting for us. We lay the towels out and lie down. She tells Johnny he should lie between us, for balance. He is still nervous, not looking at us, trying not to look. I’m not nervous. I stare at both of them. We talk but we are sleepy. Johnny covers his eyes with his rolled up shirt. Jan smiles across him at me and motions her chin down his body, to his cock. She mouths the words: touch it.

            I shake my head. She shrugs, turns over on her stomach.

            I take a short nap. Jan and Johnny are still asleep. I get up and go back into the water. I swim a little ways, lie on my back, drifting like Jan and stare at the sky. I listen to the water. I think, there will always be this.

            I look back at the beach, she has him in her mouth. He says something. She lies on her stomach again. He takes her that way. I watch them do it. I crouch in the water up to my neck and watch them.

           

            I walk out of the water. Jan says, “Enjoy the show?” She says, “I hope you don’t mind. I needed that.” She says, “I couldn’t wait.”

            The sun is going down. The sky is pink and orange. It cools. We put on our clothes. We put on sweaters and jackets. Johnny sets up his tent. He says it’s small. He lays down blankets and extra sleeping bag.

            Jan and I cut up vegetables and cheese for tacos. Johnny finds some small logs and twigs for a small fire. He puts a can of beans on it to heat them. We take turns on the tequila bottle. The stars come out. We can see the lights from the RVers across the bay.

            Johnny tells us stories. He is a firefighter with the Forest Service. He tells us about fire and about travel, Montana, Alaska. Jan asks if there are women on the firefighting crews. He says yes, some. I wonder what they are like. Jan says she would like to be a fire-fighter.

            We drink half the bottle of tequila. It’s time to sleep. Johnny says Jan and I can sleep in the tent, he’ll sleep in his sleeping bag outside. Jan pouts. She says, “I thought we could all squeeze in together.” Johnny looks at me. I nod.

            Jan and I get in first. Johnny finds more wood for the fire. When he comes into the tent, Jan tells him to get in on the other side of me. I am in the middle.

            It is cold. We cuddle under the two sleeping bags. Jan and Johnny are on their sides. I lie on my back. Jan pushes my shirt up and rubs my stomach. She leans over and kisses Johnny. She tells him to kiss me. He kisses me. She says, “I think Sheila’s been waiting for you to do that all day.” It’s true.

            Johnny pulls down my underwear. He puts my hand around his cock. I look at Jan. She smiles, kisses me. Johnny moves between my legs. I say no, that I want him to do it like he did it to Jan. I turn over. I turn my face to Jan. She lies next to me while he does it. We kiss while he does it.

            We spend the day on the beach. We swim. We read. We talk. We touch each other. Johnny uses his mouth on me. I want to do that to Jan. I taste her. She is salty. Johnny watches us. He says he likes watching us. Then he and I do it again.

            He goes for a walk. Jan and I kiss. We use our hands on each other. I fall asleep on her shoulder.

            We spend another night. We have no more food and water. We talk about getting more and coming back. We decide to go south, to Cabo.

            We are in Cabo. It is mid-afternoon. We are eating at a restaurant. We are talking about what we will do. Jan says she wants to go dancing later. I want to go dancing too. Johnny says no, he doesn’t like to dance. Jan says, “How can you not like dancing?”

            Johnny shrugs. He says he’ll camp out again. He doesn’t like the city. There are lots of rich American tourists. He tells us he’ll meet us tomorrow.

            I say we don’t have to go dancing. He says no, he doesn’t want to spoil our fun. We’ll meet on the beach tomorrow. He kisses both of us. He kisses me first.

            Jan and I find a hotel near the center. We shower and put on fresh clothes. We go out to a bar and drink and dance. Jan is a good dancer. It feels good to dance and watch her dance.

            Some guys start to buy us drinks. We dance some more with them. There is one who likes me and dances with me a lot. I don’t realize how drunk I am until I fall on the dance floor and he catches me. Jan laughs and comes over and kisses me. Which makes the guys yell. It’s silly, but exciting too, so she keeps doing it. Then she takes off her shirt and everyone yells more and we keep dancing.

            Then…

            They leave the next morning. They laugh quietly and I wake up and wonder why two guys are leaving and wonder where I am and fall back asleep. I wake up late and remember: It’s time to meet Johnny. I get dressed. I tell Jan to wake up. She looks at me. I say I’ll meet her there. She says, “Don’t tell him.” She says, “I knew you liked him.”  She says, “Sheila....”

            I run down to the public beach. There are Americans everywhere. I see Johnny. He’s looking out at the sea. I touch him on his bare shoulder. He turns around. I put my arms around his neck. I kiss him. I say, “Let’s go back.”

            He asks, to our bay, or Arizona?

            I say I don’t care.

In China—poem

"In China" appeared in the print journal The Dunes Review back in 2004.

In China

you can climb the ancient stone steps

through the forest and up the mountain

to the Buddhist temple on top

or you can drive your car up the road

and go to the kareoke bar next door to the temple

and drink Tsing-Tao beer and watch bootleg Hollywood movies

                                                                        on big-screen tv

at sunset you can lean on the stone wall

and contemplate the light, how the surroundings change

                                    from green to orange to pink

or you can throw empty beer bottles off into ravines

to see how far they will go, and how they will smash

you can enter the temple, hear the chanting of the monks

smell the smoke from incense sticks lit for ancestors

and become angry at the sound of the jukebox and pinball machine

plot how you could set fire to the bar without killing anyone

and the head monk will look up from the front of the room

he will smile at you and shake his head

and you can shake your head in frustration, and leave

down the ancient stone steps

to spend the night in the forest with the howling monkeys

Passing Influence—poem

"Passing Influence" appeared in the literary magazine FENCE way back in 2001. My first big time publication!
 

Passing Influence

                                    for Susan Wheeler

This is the best part, hate which now

brings you the whole head in reality–

the man’s SUV slides down the road.

Dancing on the (I don’t know the word) tile

you look down slowly;

this is exercise or punishment.

For only a few minutes you have reeled in, forgetting to

lose (you forget cacti), and before it was obscure:

the driveway which surrounds this dry desert

is the dawn entrance of rapists. In this life

they catch children at the critical moment

and undress the bodies in the heat.

The real stupidity, you know, is always

                                    paying the asking price.

Then the plane lands, and the man

lights your joint and takes a stone from his briefcase

and leaves a ship of idiocy in the seat.

You are sinking; he has bent your arm, whispering

you are under the boot of a man.

Clumsiness is insect-like, it means punishment.

So you did everything expected, and in your pain

you remembered not to ask whether it was irrational

or only a steady pool on the floor. Loss, fade

distinguish, worms crawling in the dirt,

a maze of arrivals uncrossed like coathangers around which

during pleasant days, voices make mounds of death.

Every night you have locked a door and turned on a lamp

that leaves only the best comfort.

He calls to say he is ready to come. There is

nothing. Now you can’t recognize the abyss

for what it was, now in there, under the dying river,

a goatman is leaving you, nervously straight; promising death.

Leaving—poem

"Leaving" originally appeared in the print journal The Manzanita Quarterly (now defunct) way back in 2002:

 

Leaving

The storms would come on summer nights and rain

fell on the roof quiet at first then strong

the bedroom window open and the train

would sound as it passed through the dark

                                                                    the long

trip to Detroit

                        but then the thunder filled

the world and there was nothing else except

the light which came seconds before and willed

the sound

                 I wonder how I ever slept

the wind and branches hitting glass and wood

stray drops came through the screen and fell on my

face cool in the hot air but I would wake

and hear the thunder far away and could

count seconds after flashes came and try

to guess the distance how long it would take

Masquerade—short story

"Masquerade" originally appeared in Cellar Roots, a (print) literary magazine out of Eastern Michigan University, in Winter 2008.

 

The catwoman alone in the corner. He approached and asked if he could talk with her. She sipped her sangria from a plastic glass and the left side of her mouth curled up a bit. Sure.

I don’t normally approach strange women at parties but my girlfriend is mad at me and taking it out by talking to other men.

Which one is she?

The dominatrix.

She scanned the crowd. Which one, the one with the whip or the one with the riding crop?

Oh, sorry, the one with the riding crop talking to the fireman and the army general.

She’s pretty.

Oh well thanks. But you know, looks only go so far sometimes.

What did you fight about?

Oh stupid stuff. Like on the way in on the tollway when we got near the baskets, you know, where the coins go in? Well she tells me, you have to put the coins in the basket, and I’m like, I know I have to throw the coins in the basket.

I see.

Like I’m stupid or something.

Nice dress by the way.

Thanks. These shoes are killing me though. I don’t know how you women do it.

Stockings or pantyhose?

Pantyhose. With a lace panty.

I’ve always liked the black-seam-up-the-back-of-the-leg look.

Me too. Are you here with someone?

Yeah. He’s the sixties hippie over there arguing with Albert Einstein over whether as a Buddhist he can be for the war on terrorism.

Oh, so you meditate?

When I can. He goes to the zendo more than I do.

And so do you like cats?

Yes, I have two. Their names are Boots and Scarlet. How about you, are you a dog or cat person?

Cat person I guess. I have this theory about women with pets. Would you like to hear it?

She looked around the room. Sure, why not?

I think women want men to be like their pets. That is, you know women who like dogs like their men to be like dogs and always be around and happy and give them unconditional love even if she’s scolded him or something.

She raised an eyebrow and twitched her whiskers. Interesting. And cat women?

Well, cats are more independent, they like to go off on their own and prowl and hunt, but they still like to come home and sleep on a warm lap. So women who like cats like men like that.

So what does your girlfriend like?

Um, actually she likes horses.

Shouting from across the room. You’re wrong Albert! The only way to show those bastards we mean business is to bomb the shit out of them!

She covered her face. Oh god, he always does this to me.

He’s certainly a loud Buddhist.

He’s like that when he meditates too. I call him the Heavy Breather. It’s like he forces his breath out to show off how good a meditator he is.

She threw her empty cup on the floor and crushed it with her boot. Her tail twitched. So do you want to leave and go back to my place?

Um, well my girlfriend....

She just went into the bathroom with the cowboy.

Oh. Well ok. Let me grab my purse.

They said goodbye to Malcolm X and Barbarella and went out to the street, taking his car.

Where do you live?

Just get on the tollway.

They waited at a red light. A car full of young men pulled up to them and one of them whistled.

She laughed. They must think you’re really a woman.

The light changed blue like an orange and he got on the on-ramp heading away from the city. She groomed herself, licking her tail. Oh, and those baskets? You throw the coins in them, Stupid.

The stars were out and he drove to the suburbs.

What You Are—fiction published in Left Curve

Short story appearing in LEFT CURVE way back in 2003. Still an active print journal, mixing poems and fiction with essays on politics, they've taken two of my stories.

She walked out the front door of her apartment building and walked over to Third Avenue and hailed a cab. When she got in, the cabbie looked at her in the mirror. Where to, Mademoiselle?

She liked that and smiled. She liked New York cab drivers, they were always so interesting and quirky. She told him the hotel on Central Park West.

The cabbie was black, she didn’t know what accent he had. Where are you from?

I? I from Senegal, Mademoiselle.

Oh that’s interesting. Do you like it here? She liked to talk to cabbies. With the way she made money, she didn’t get to talk to real people very often.

He looked at her in the mirror again, then swore and swerved around a bike messenger, who flipped him off. I like it, yes Mademoiselle. I like it.

Do you miss Senegal?

Oh yes. Of course I miss Senegal. It is my country, you know.

You don’t consider yourself American?

Oh I American too, yes Mademoiselle. But I also Senegalais. You can not leave where you were born, you know.

She thought about that. She thought about Jackson, Michigan with its empty car parts factories. I guess so. Though you can try.

The cabbie kept looking at her. Pardon me, Mademoiselle, but you are whore, no? I do not mean to say bad thing, but that is what you are, no?

Confused, but sensing he really meant no harm, she said, I guess I like to call it being an escort.

A yes, escort. You see, I tell by your clothes. Very sexy. Not businesswoman. He smiled. Is ok, no shame. We are all whores, non? I am whore, driving taxi for rich whites. My daughter, she work now at McDonalds. She is whore. I do not like this, but is life, no?

Oui, c’est vrai.

Oh, parlez vous français?

Oui, un peu. Uh, j’ai etudié uh, dans l’école.

Très bien, Mademoiselle.

Can’t your daughter go to college?

Ah no. C’est très difficile. It is difficult. In America you say any person can do any thing, but is not true if you are poor. You see, this is why we are whores. We are poor, and the rich make us like this. I like America. Many, how you say, opportunities. And they are better than in my country, than Senegal. But you know, I leave Senegal because there is no job. There is big American company, E____, you have heard of this company?

I think so. Oui.

They sell gas. Gas? Petrol?

Gas I guess.

Why they call it gas?

Well, short for gasoline.

Yes but why call it that?

Actually, I think they’re called oil companies.

Oil! Yes. But you know, this company come to my country, my city, and they make big factory, promise many jobs, but they bring many people with them and those people get jobs and we stay poor.

That doesn’t seem fair.

No, it is not. And you know, this factory has smoke, has...pollution. It comes in our houses and smell bad. Our children breath it. And night we see fires from the factory. We can not see the stars.

You can’t see them here in New York either.

Vous avez raison, Mademoiselle. Is same thing here in New York. Rich people fuck poor people, excuse my words, but is true.

Yes, I know.

Ah mademoiselle, I am sorry, I did not mean to say that. But, is true, is why we are whores. My people are whore to E____. I tell you, if I could, if I had gun, I go back to my country, I find the boss, you know, the president of E____ and I shoot him. I do not care if you call me terrorist. What is terrorist? Is man who kill innocent people. This company kill my people.

They arrived at the hotel. She reached in her purse and handed him money, tipping him twenty dollars. Here, um très intérressant parler avec toi.

Oui Mademoiselle. Merci beaucoup. It is all we have, non? to be friendly to each other. Adieu! She felt she should laugh and smile, but instead she got out and waved as he drove off. What was his name? She hadn’t asked.

The doorman let her in, tipping his hat but saying nothing. Likewise the elevator operator. She’d learned to ignore their looks. They knew why she was there. But, so what? We are all whores. She thought how horrible to be an elevator operator, trapped inside that box all day. Whore.

The man, her ‘client’, opened the door and smiled. Ah, excellent excellent. You look wonderful my dear. He was old, of course, with a thin line of white hair looping around the bottom of his otherwise bald head. He wore a tuxedo, and she noticed right away the bright gold wedding ring.

Come in dear. And what’s your name? Ah wonderful. You know, your agency has the best looking girls. I always call them when I’m in town. He invited her in. This is my ‘New York suite’ as I call it. I always stay here on business. I’m from Houston actually. Have you been to Houston? Would yo like a drink before we leave? Cocaine? I myself don’t use it but sometimes the girls like it. I like to please my guests you know!

She declined. He dialed a number on his portable phone and told his chauffeur to have the limo ready downstairs.

May I take you arm? Wonderful. I love that dress. You have a lovely figure. I hope you have a good time. It’s casual, you know. Boys night out and all that.

They went down to the limo and got in. He sat next to her and put his hand on her thigh. You don’t mind, do you? No? Excellent.

Because it was expected of her, to make conversation, she asked him what he did in Houston.

Oh, lots of things I suppose. Primarily I work for an oil company.

Really? Which one?

E____.

That’s so weird. I was just talking about your company with a cab driver.

Really. He looked out the window. Here we are. You see? Not far.

They got out and he led her through the front doors to a medium-sized room filled with other men in tuxedos, many with young women like herself. She recognized Jenny from the agency, who smiled and waived. She waved back. Her client led her immediately to a group of his friends, and she felt them look her up and down. He introduced her as his date.

After a while she was able to slip away and made her way over to Jenny. They squeezed hands. Which one are you with? That Japanese guy over there. Japanese guys always want blondes. Or else redheads.

They didn’t have much time to talk; dinner was served and she went back to her client.

During the meal she sat straight-backed and smiling, making sure to laugh when a man made a joke. Her client soon got in an argument with a man across the table. She couldn’t quite follow that they were saying, but as a joke, the man across the table said, well, why don’t we ask your date. What do you think of drilling in the Arctic Refuge?

She felt people staring at her and smiling. Well, I don’t know, but if they treat it the same way they treat Senegal, in Africa, then it’s probably not a good idea.

There was a moment of surprised silence. Then everyone laughed. The man across the table pointed at her and told her client, where’d you get that one? At Barnard?

Her client turned to her and said, my dear, you’re starting to sound like my wife! More laughter.

After dinner the men stood in another room and smoked cigars. She got to see Jenny again. I can’t believe you said that. Aren’t you scared he’ll tell the agency or something?

I don’t know, I was talking to this cabbie on the way over and he was from there.

Was he black? I had a black guy from Africa once. They like blondes too. What were you saying?

Oh nothing. I mean, what does your guy do?

I don’t know, I didn’t ask.

They left and drove back to his hotel. He took her up to his room and closed the door. You’re sure you wouldn’t like a drink? I have everything. Coke? No? Well then let’s get on with it.

She took off her dress. Lovely, lovely. He took off his clothes quickly, fumbling with his pant legs and shoes. He sat down on the bed, holding his penis. This the most difficult moment of the night: telling the man that she liked his penis, even if it was small and thin and shriveled.

She smiled and said, ooh, while looking at it. Men seemed to like that, and then she ddn’t have to say anything. She knelt in front of him, took him in her right hand and began to earn her money. We are all whores.

She said, have you ever been to Africa?

Oh yes god yes you’re a white slut aren’t you? You like black cock don’t you you little whore. I’ve got a hundred dollars for that sweet little mouth of yours and he pushed her head down. We are all whores.

I find the boss, you know, and I shoot him I do not care if you call me terrorist. She thought about her teeth and how soft he was there, wondered how hard she would have to bite. Would she get arrested, would he tell, would he die. She thought about smoke, thick and oily covering the sky and a girl breathing it.

And then it was over and she coughed. Yes yes swallow it all you little slut.

He got up and went in the bathroom. She put on her dress and looked at herself in the mirror. He came out still naked and got his wallet. And here’s the money, plus the extra hundred for being a good girl. I really liked what you said. I confess I like to see a white girl getting fucked by a black man. There’s something exciting about it. I’d love to request you next time I’m in town. Do you think we could arrange something like that? Maybe we could go downtown and find someone. No? He came up behind and touched her ass. Do you do anal?

She grabbed her purse and left. But she would not cry. She was past that. She felt it inside her and stopped it.

In the elevator the operator looked at her and mumbled something.

What did you say?

I said, did you have a good night.

Shut up, just shut up....

Masquerade

Originally published in Cellar Roots, a literary journal at Eastern Michigan University.
 

The catwoman alone in the corner. He approached and asked if he could talk with her. She sipped her sangria from a plastic glass and the left side of her mouth curled up a bit. Sure.

I don’t normally approach strange women at parties but my girlfriend is mad at me and taking it out by talking to other men.

Which one is she?

The dominatrix.

She scanned the crowd. Which one, the one with the whip or the one with the riding crop?

Oh, sorry, the one with the riding crop talking to the fireman and the army general.

She’s pretty.

Oh well thanks. But you know, looks only go so far sometimes.

What did you fight about?

Oh stupid stuff. Like on the way in on the tollway when we got near the baskets, you know, where the coins go in? Well she tells me, you have to put the coins in the basket, and I’m like, I know I have to throw the coins in the basket.

I see.

Like I’m stupid or something.

Nice dress by the way.

Thanks. These shoes are killing me though. I don’t know how you women do it.

Stockings or pantyhose?

Pantyhose. With a lace panty.

I’ve always liked the black-seam-up-the-back-of-the-leg look.

Me too. Are you here with someone?

Yeah. He’s the sixties hippie over there arguing with Albert Einstein over whether as a Buddhist he can be for the war on terrorism.

Oh, so you meditate?

When I can. He goes to the zendo more than I do.

And so do you like cats?

Yes, I have two. Their names are Boots and Scarlet. How about you, are you a dog or cat person?

Cat person I guess. I have this theory about women with pets. Would you like to hear it?

She looked around the room. Sure, why not?

I think women want men to be like their pets. That is, you know women who like dogs like their men to be like dogs and always be around and happy and give them unconditional love even if she’s scolded him or something.

She raised an eyebrow and twitched her whiskers. Interesting. And cat women?

Well, cats are more independent, they like to go off on their own and prowl and hunt, but they still like to come home and sleep on a warm lap. So women who like cats like men like that.

So what does your girlfriend like?

Um, actually she likes horses.

Shouting from across the room. You’re wrong Albert! The only way to show those bastards we mean business is to bomb the shit out of them!

She covered her face. Oh god, he always does this to me.

He’s certainly a loud Buddhist.

He’s like that when he meditates too. I call him the Heavy Breather. It’s like he forces his breath out to show off how good a meditator he is.

She threw her empty cup on the floor and crushed it with her boot. Her tail twitched. So do you want to leave and go back to my place?

Um, well my girlfriend....

She just went into the bathroom with the cowboy.

Oh. Well ok. Let me grab my purse.

They said goodbye to Malcolm X and Barbarella and went out to the street, taking his car.

Where do you live?

Just get on the tollway.

They waited at a red light. A car full of young men pulled up to them and one of them whistled.

She laughed. They must think you’re really a woman.

The light changed blue like an orange and he got on the on-ramp heading away from the city. She groomed herself, licking her tail. Oh, and those baskets? You throw the coins in them, Stupid.

The stars were out and he drove to the suburbs.