Project Runway by Maegan Clearwood

My waist was tiny, but not quite tiny enough.

In fact, according to Kate, few of the numbers she meticulously noted managed to meet the requirements of high fashion modeling. My bust, my hips, my height; my body was suddenly reduced to a handful of numbers, figures which apparently held far more meaning than I ever gave them credit for.

“You’re the closest to fitting the measurements we have so far, though, so you’re probably in,” she said.

I hadn’t wanted to model for the event in the first place. It was called Poetry and Project Runway, and from the sounds of it, it was a desperate attempt to integrate academics with reality television in hopes of convincing a pseudo-celebrity to visit campus. No matter how many times Kate tried to explain its purpose to me, the whole affair sounded like a stretch. But maybe that’s why I’d never considered a career in the fashion industry.

I certainly hadn’t been considering it when I pressed delete on the numerous campus-wide emails Kate had issued about auditioning for the event. At 5’8”, I knew I probably fit the height requirement, but I in no way wanted to enter the world of modeling, even on the amateurish college level. My feminist side reared at the idea of being objectified for the sake of something as petty as fashion. Although I wasn’t willing to admit it, a part of me, my secretly-girly, shoe-loving, rom-com-watching side, was enticed.

Everyone was thrilled for me; my mom demanded I post pictures from the event on Facebook as soon as possible, and Kate was elated that she’d managed to find someone even remotely close to Andrae’s stick-figure measurements. My girl friends congratulated me, as if being of above-average height was the highest achievement of my college career.

I detested the good wishes. I have always been ardently opposed to the fashion world and all the superficial ideals it presents. I even wrote an editorial about beauty pageants for my high school newspaper, criticizing the concept of “annually crowning a bleached-blonde stick figure and claiming that she is the perfect representation of America.” My girl-power ideals hadn’t shifted since high school. With every, “Wow, congrats!” I got from a friend, my amateur journalistic words rang true: “It is demeaning towards young women in today’s society to present an airbrushed beauty queen and claim that the most they can do to change the world is smile and wave.”

But I couldn’t suppress my inexplicably and embarrassingly girly alter-ego. She reminded me of all the “Project Runway” episodes I’d eagerly (and yes, hypocritically) watched. She reminded me of my overflowing collection of scarves and cheap jewelry, the guilty rush I felt when I found a cute sweater on sale. She imagined being pampered, having my hair and makeup professionally styled, feeling like a diva and showing it all off.

Eventually, romance won. There I was, a few weeks later, shaking hands with a former Project Runway contestant.

Andrae was wiry, gregarious, and flamboyantly gay enough pull off any style of facial hair without looking like a porn star. Actually, for someone who was about to adjust measuring tape around my crotch and boobs, he made me feel quite at-ease.

Until I saw his designs, at least.

I was anticipating something glamorous, something couture, maybe an asymmetrical dress or a skirt with a billowing train. Instead, Andrae decided to be creative. I think he was taking advantage of our amateurism to display his guilty-pleasure designs, those sketches he’d scrawled in the margins of his design books but knew would never make it on an actual runway.

His concept was vague at best. According to his official website, “one of the organizing principles of this work involves the use of mobius bands. Criticism and response are inexplicably conjoined in the process of making art, and neither can survive without the other. As it is in this relationship, it is in these garments, where sleeve edge is joined to hem, or neckline to armhole in a continuous, mysterious loop.”

In layman’s terms: A bunch of gauzy fabric styled in the most hip-widening way possible.

And it was all lime green.

I quickly transformed from a nervous college student into Andrae’s newest canvas. I stood at attention as he eyeballed me, terrified that he would wave me off, underwhelmed by the averageness of his newest model. To my surprise and relief, however, Andrae squealed with delight as his eyes traveled from my shoulders to toes. My legs, he told me, were the longest of any of the amateur models’, which meant I could display the jewel of his collection: a pair of mile-long, mint-green pants. He handed me a set of emerald tights to wear under them and one of his circular-themed, pouchy tops, then shooed me to the bathroom to change.

From Andrae’s reaction when I came out, I could have won America’s Next Top Model; I felt more like Kermit the Frog with balloon thighs.

He was so ecstatic that I was tall enough to wear his beloved pants, in fact, that I was given the honor of modeling twice, once with the smock-style shirt, another with a sleeveless sheath on top.

I was unfortunately a long way from being allowed to change back into my embarrassingly generic-brand clothes. The fitting took an eternity longer than those on the hour-long Runway episodes. Andrae was in no rush as he tucked and trimmed, measured and re-measured his creation. Initially, I felt like Andrae was a sculptor and I was his block of marble, being chipped away at to discover the masterpiece within. As the fitting continued, however, I began to feel more like a mannequin than a work of art. My arms were lifted and lowered; I walked across the room and turned on his command; I tensed my legs and held my breath while he was prodding the pants’ fabric with a needle.

From the major readjustments he was making, I regretted not being taller, skinnier, something closer to what he wanted his art modeled on. My anxiety must have shown.

“Don’t worry when I get frustrated or I’m not happy with how it looks,” he reassured me.

“You look gorgeous; it’s the garment I’m critiquing, not you.”

Finally, I was released. My homework: To procure a strapless bra and a pair of brown or black heels.

~

I’d always hated the Gibson theater dressing room. One of the unofficial traits of a good drama major is immodesty; before a performance, there are usually scads of girls traipsing around the changing room in nylons and bras, crooning showtunes while jokingly groping and teasing each other . I, on the other hand, aim to spend as little time as possible in the dressing room. I usually arrive earlier than any of the other actors, hair and make-up already done, and scurry to a bathroom stall to change and rush to the green room. I’m not sure where my consistent discomfort with dressing room rituals comes from, but as I settled onto my stool hours before the runway show, I tried to convince myself that this time would be different. This time, I would enjoy, not simply endure, being pampered. After all, the models on Project Runway always seemed to look forward to the L’Oreal hair and makeup session; why shouldn’t I feel the same?

As I arranged my makeup on the dressing table, I was struck by how woefully limited my cosmetic collection appeared. I usually only went lipstick or eye shadow shopping when I had a play coming up, and even then, I just bought whatever happened to be on sale at CVS. My nerves were hardly relieved when Kate wheeled in her towering makeup supply cart. It looked more like she was preparing for surgery than for a makeover from the precision she exacted in setting up her endless supply of hair gels, lip glosses, and eyeliners.

She styled and primped one model at a time. While we waited, Andrae tried to keep us entertained with tales of the glamorous life of the somewhat rich and moderately famous. I was far too nervous to participate in the conversations, and my anxiety infuriated me ; I’d performed in front of an audience more than anyone else in the room. I had clamoroued to be on stage since my second grade debut as a monkey in “Wackadoo Zoo.” I’d been onstage in a purple tutu, sang and danced in a wig and showgirl costume, even orated a commencement speech for a gymnasium of thousands.

Tonight, I had no lines to memorize or steps to remember, but it was the first time my pre-show anxiety was miserable enough to confuse with nausea. For some embarrassingly irrational reason, walking in a circle in heels terrified me more than even the most exhaustive of lead roles.

I avoided as many of the looming mirrors as possible while Kate attacked my hair with a curling iron and colored my face. Instead, I imagined the stoic, composed faces of the Project Runway models as professionals painted their lips and eyelids. I thought there was something almost magical about that part of the show, the way the models disappeared under a cloud of powder and sprays and miraculously reemerged magazine-cover perfect. I hovered in this fantastical mindset while Kate busied herself in the real world. When she was finally finished, a mirror was thrust in front of my face.

“What do you think?” she asked.

I thought I looked fine.

I certainly didn’t look like I’d just stepped out of the L’Oreal makeup room, but I looked fine. Despite Kate’s meticulousness, my skin hadn’t become flawlessly alabaster. My eyes were the same brown they’d always been, even with the mascara and eyeshadow. I was still recognizably and undeniably me.

The transformation was far less dramatic than I’d hoped it would be

After looking at the impossibly endless copies of myself in the wall-to-wall mirrors, I found myself dreading the actual catwalk more than ever, but it was far too late to back out now.

~

Andrae herded us into the blackbox theater to practice The Walk.

There is something eerily stoic about walking into an empty theater right before show time. The blaringly silent space feels as strange as a fresh blanket of snow, and the five of us huddled together, each unwilling to disturb the tranquility.

It was Andrae who made the first leap. He lined us up in order of our appearance, then moved center stage to exemplify The Walk. He swaggered from the curtain to the edge of the stage, paused, struck a lopsided, unnatural pose, then swaggered back.

One at a time, we wobbled across the catwalk for an imaginary audience. Andrae’s notes were as convoluted and deceptively simple as his beloved mobius loops: he told us to slow down, but stay deliberate; our arms could move, but not distractingly so; our pose was supposed to be elegant, yet firm.

It was humiliating. Here I was, a sophomore liberal arts student, being told how to walk. I was in Tawes Theater, a space where I was supposed to feel at ease, where I’d confidently performed monologues, laughed and cried, and used art to tell stories. This time, I had no story to tell.

Despite our wobbliness, Andrae continued to drill us. Apparently, The Walk isn’t something one learns; it is something a true model is born with. He coaxed us through practice walk after practice walk but eventually gave up any hope of bringing out our inner beauty queens. Instead, he gathered us backstage for the pep talk of a lifetime.

“Now girls, you look beautiful, you look sexy. I want you to feel it. You need to show the audience,” he said. “Here’s what I want you to be thinking while you’re walking down that catwalk: ‘You wanna fuck me? Well you can’t.’ That’s the face you need to have.”

That did it. I knew the face he was describing, the elusive “look” that the models are supposed to replicate on the runway. Apparently, they’re not supposed to be daydreaming about their next shopping spree or trying to remember how many calories were in their last meal; they’re supposed to tell a story. Admittedly, “Fuck me now” wasn’t a story I wanted to tell, but at least it was just another role. The Runway Model was no Blanche Dubois, but she was my character, and I was already cast.

I never remember much from performances. Show nights blur together in my memory, and the most I can usually recall are cloudy stage lights and dark faces looking back at me. Project Runway turned out to be just another play. I know I attempted The Walk and Fuck Me face, but that’s only because I’ve seen pictures since. If it weren’t for the photographic evidence, I don’t think I would believe I’d pulled off that role.

The Runway Model is a character I never want to play again. She is supposed to look sassy, sexy and sure, but she’s more three-dimensional than that. Like any complex role, she has her secrets. The model knows The Walk, but no one sees her after she scrubs off her foundation and combs out the hair-spray snarls. In the dressing room, the model has a very different story to tell .

Love, According to Larry Stahl by Will Malkus

“Treat each one as if it’s fully functional and loaded,”

he says.

And that’s my biggest problem

because I know what an empty chamber feels like.

It’s metal-cold and there’s too much room,

but on the other hand, you can’t hurt anyone

and I’m grateful for that.

 

“Never point it at anyone that you’re not prepared to shoot,”

he insists.

“Common sense,” the whole room thinks.

And, you know, I haven’t.

Except maybe once.

She said she never wanted to see me again

which worked out, I suppose, in the end.

 

“This is the shell,”

he says, and he points to my chest.

“Inside is the bullet.

That’s the part that can kill.”

So now I know what it means

When I can feel the piece of lead in my chest pound

Making it hard to breathe.

 

“When you pull the trigger

the hammer strikes the cap, and it explodes,”

he looks at her when he says it.

Maybe he knows what her smile does to me.

The way he describes being shot, it sounds like most mornings,

because when you open your eyes, I get tunnel vision

and I’d swear I can feel them looking right through me.

 

Did you know,

That when you finally let me see your face,

I feel holy?

 

“If they see you with it and stop you;

One: Do nothing quickly.

And two: Do nothing, quickly.”

But, sir, I don’t mean to be disrespectful,

I’m just so fucking sick of freezing when I see her.

So I’m going to spin it around my finger

Give her a John Wayne smile

And tell her to draw, pilgrim.

 

See, the thing is, sir,

I know I’m being unsafe

and your advice is great, don’t get me wrong,

but the thing is,

and I don’t know about you,

but when I find myself staring down the barrel

I get a split second to weigh my options,

pros and cons,

gain versus loss,

and, well, it may not be safe,

but we wouldn’t play with guns

if they didn’t make us feel so damn alive,

would we?

When I Am Drunk I Am an Indian by Will Malkus

I am a warrior.

And I am poisoned

Just like all great warriors.

My stomach is full of the tears

That were shed

Or weren’t shed

On a long walk

My blood is thick with ink

Or names, or both

But because there are no names in my blood

I am full of poison

My ears are ringing with bloody, ululating pride

And when I slam my feet into the ground

They scream at me

To run faster

 

I am a warrior.

Unstoppable

I am a warrior.

I can do no wrong

I will never bow my head

I will never cut my hair

As long as I am poisoned

Or alive

I will wear a lopsided smile

As my warpaint

And when I am poisoned

I will never stop fighting

 

I am a warrior.

I am covered in scars

My head is full of the white man’s bullets

And they know everything

They teach me how to fill my belly

With unshed tears

But early in the morning

Before battle, before we walk forever

And forget war

I am whole

And there is no ink in my blood

And there is no poison in my blood

But I am only a great warrior.

When I am poisoned

The Perfect Marriage by Val Dunn

ACT I

Scene 1: A Wedding Reception

A woman nearing thirty sits alone at table decorated with the gaudiness of a wedding reception.  She smokes, picks her nails, or some action that indicates the severity of her discomfort. From time to time, she sneaks glances at the bride.

A man walks over from the bar with two glasses of champagne and a nervous disposition. He stands behind a chair, exhales heavily.

Ben: Weddings, huh?

Miranda: Marriage, huh.

Ben: Huh?

Miranda: Marriage. (A pause) I’ve heard weddings lead to marriage.

Ben: Only heard? You aren’t married, a pretty girl like you?

Miranda: (Mocking Ben) Do you come here often?

Ben: Sorry, that was rough. No more lines, I promise.

Miranda: Mmm.

Ben: Have a drink?

Miranda: Are you always this charming with women?

Ben: Does that mean you’re not married?

Miranda: Married?  God, no. No, I’m not married.

Ben: (A wheezy exhale) Thank God. (Ben collapses into the seat next to Miranda.) Cheers.

He clinks his glass against hers.

Miranda: I’m a lesbian.

Ben chokes quietly on the drink he has just swallowed. Miranda misses this, however, as she is gazing across the dance floor once more.

Ben: (Recovering) Are you always this open?

Miranda: Tonight I am.

Ben: Oh.

Miranda: What? You weren’t hitting on me, were you?

Ben: On you? God, no.

Miranda: Good. Because if you were, you’ve had a pretty lame start.

Ben: You couldn’t pay me to like you.

Miranda: You can’t buy love.

Ben: I said like, I didn’t say love. You can certainly buy like.

Miranda: Is that so?

Miranda’s attention is drifting away from Ben as the Bride glows happier and happier with her new husband. Until-

Ben: So you like girls?

Miranda: Women. I like women. Girls are monsters in ponytails.

Ben: I’ve heard women aren’t much better.

Miranda: You’re pretty insightful, aren’t you?

Ben: I can’t tell if you’ve been mocking me this entire time, or if you’re really just that-

Miranda: Honest?

Ben: I was going to say blunt, but sure.

Miranda: People aren’t honest anymore, are they?

Ben: Well. I guess it depends on your version of honesty.

Miranda: There can’t be more than one version of honesty.

Ben: Ok, then what are you?

Miranda: I already told you, a lesbian.

Ben: No, I mean. Are you mocking me?

Miranda: You brought me champagne, why would I mock you?

Ben: It’s comments like that-

Miranda: I don’t even know your name. How can I possibly mock you if I don’t know your name?

Ben: Ben.

Miranda: Benny.

Ben: No, just Ben. (A pause) So. Which one of those hideous bridesmaid gowns belongs to your lover?

Miranda: All of them.

Ben: What?

Miranda: I’m teasing you, Benny.

Ben: Oh.

Miranda: Do I have to have a lover to attend a wedding?

Ben: No, but. There’s something in your eyes and I don’t think it’s the champagne.

Miranda: She’s not my lover.

Ben: But she used to be?

Miranda: Yes, I thought so. (A pained smile to fill the pause) Are you still waiting for an answer?

Ben: Will you tell me if I say yes?

Miranda gives Ben a look.

Ben: You don’t have to tell me her name, just the dress will be enough.

Miranda: That one. (Miranda points to the twirling bride.) The beautiful white gown worshiping the exquisite bride.

Ben: Oh. Hey, I’m really sorry.

Miranda: Thanks.

Ben: I didn’t mean to pry.

Miranda: No, it’s ok. Like I said, tonight I’m open.

Ben: You aren’t usually?

Miranda: No. I’m afraid not.

Ben: Don’t blame you; society’s a bitch.

Miranda: Just my family. Just people like our lovely bride.

Ben: Ah. Been there before.

Miranda: How do you mean?

Ben: I’m gay.

Miranda: This is an open night.

Ben: No joking.

Miranda: Sorry. I get insensitive when I have champagne and watch my ex dance with a man she’s going to very shortly be fu-

Ben: Why did you come to the wedding?

Miranda is silent.

Miranda: (Quietly) I don’t know. Wouldn’t you?

Ben: Why did she send you an invitation?

Miranda: I think it was because she was afraid. While we were dating, she went around telling everybody I was her best friend. So, wouldn’t people wonder if I wasn’t at her wedding? Bit of a scandal, don’t you think, Benny?

Ben: Sorry.

Miranda: It’s not a big deal, not really. We just… I was really serious about her. And I thought it went both ways. But looking back, it seems I was just an experiment for her.

Ben: That’s rough.

Miranda: I mean, keep in mind I’m not exactly open about this sort of thing when I’m not sulking around weddings. You’re in an exclusive club now, Benny.

Ben: Let me assure you, you’re part of an even more exclusive club.

Miranda: Oh, gosh. Am I, I mean you never, did you just come out?

Ben: Well, not really, but almost just.

Miranda: Huh. I’d give you a pep talk, Benny, but I’ll need a little more champagne before I feel like pepping anything.

Ben smiles, takes her empty glass, and waltzes back to the bar. In his absence, Miranda checks her phone. Seeing that her mom has called, she dials a number.

Miranda: (Waiting for the other line to pick up) Hello? Mom? Hey, you called- the wedding’s fine, no- no I didn’t catch the… Yes, Mom, I’ll keep that in mind. Mhmm. What? Mom, we’re losing connection. What? Mom. Mom?

Ben arrives with the full glasses as Miranda hangs up her phone.

Ben: Everything ok?

Miranda: Yeah. (A pause) No. Um. It’s just my mom. I think I have to run back to her house.

Ben: But you’re just starting to have a good time.

Miranda: This is a good time?

Ben: Well, don’t leave me here alone. What if I told you I love the groom.

Miranda: You don’t.

Ben: That’s a hefty assumption from a girl-on-girl kind of girl.

Miranda: Women.

Ben: Women-on-women.

Miranda: You’re kind of insensitive, yourself.

Ben: Does champagne always make you so aggressive?

Miranda: Oh, forgive me if I’m a bit irritable while I watch the girl I love-

Ben: Woman. The woman you love.

Miranda: Fuck you.

Ben: I only want to take care of you and I don’t think a night with your mother is going to make you feel better when your mommy doesn’t even know that you’d like to trade places with that stiff-neck of a groom. But you and me, we’re in the same boat here. And I just want you to be happy. Or at least not miserable. And I don’t even know your name.

Miranda: My mother is sick, you bastard. I don’t care if she’s going to make me feel better. I want her to feel better.

Miranda grabs her purse and stomps from the table.

Ben: What’s your name, Cinderella?

Miranda: Wouldn’t you prefer Prince Charming?

Ben: I’d prefer your name.

Miranda: Miranda.

Ben: Miranda, that’s a lovely name, Miranda. Now sit down and listen to my problems.

Miranda: I don’t think I like you. And I definitely don’t want to listen to your problems.

Ben: But I feel like I can talk to you.

Miranda: I knew there was a reason I hate gay men.

Ben: You can’t hate gays.

Miranda: Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.

By this time, Miranda and Ben have created a small spectacle. As a dance number ends, the Bride excuses herself from the dance floor and approaches the bickering people.

Bride: Look at you two, bickering like an old married couple.

Miranda: That’s funny.

Ben: We’re not bickering.

Miranda: Don’t let us ruin your evening.

Bride: Not at all. I’m so happy you came, Randy. Well, mostly surprised. I’ll be honest, when I sent out the invitations I was sure you would feed it to your cat, or something-

Miranda: My cat would choke on all that lace.

Bride: Like I said, so glad you came.

Miranda: Is that why you sent me an invitation? Because you didn’t think I’d come to your wedding?

Bride: Don’t mince my words.

Ben: Hey, I don’t care if this is your wedding. I’ll ask that you don’t talk to my girlfriend like that.

Bride: (With the attitude of a person knocked down a few notches) Oh. I didn’t know it was like that.

Miranda: (Catching on) Yeah. It’s like that.

Miranda steps a little closer to Ben, she slides his hand around her waist.

Bride: Well, I’m glad you’ve found some happiness. I was so worried, I heard that you were having trouble moving on, and the last thing I wanted between us was hard feelings.

Miranda: Yup. Completely moved on. You couldn’t pay me to like you. (A beat) Your present is on the table.

Bride: How sweet of you to get us something. Mark will be so ple-

Miranda: There was a gift registry. Besides, it’s not for your husband.

Bride: I’m sure it’s lovely.

Ben: Have a nice evening.

The Bride, slightly affronted, returns to the arms of her husband. Miranda turns to Ben.

Miranda: Have a nice evening?

Ben: Randy?

Miranda: Gosh, I’m not over her.

Ben: That bitch?

Miranda: You’re a friend of the groom, I suppose?

Ben: Distantly.

Miranda: My mother-

Ben: -can wait.

Ben leads her back to the table, forces the flute of champagne into her hand.

Ben: I have an idea.

Miranda: Let me finish this glass first.

She does, he hands her his.

Ben: More like a proposal.

Miranda: Shoot.

Ben: Will you marry me, Miranda?

Miranda: What?

Ben: You heard me.

Miranda: Benny, you’re gay. I’m gay.

Ben: It’s legal in New York.

Miranda: That’s not what I meant.

Ben: Think about it Miranda. This night aside, we’re both snuggled into our closets. If your family is anything like mine, you’re running out of excuses, Miranda; you’ve got to be thirty-

Miranda: Twenty-Nine.

Ben: Twenty-Nine and you have yet to bring home an eligible bachelor for your father’s approval. Meanwhile, you have to be extra careful when you do see another woman because your parents are starting to get worried. What’s the one thing that would cancel out any suspicion regarding your sexuality?

Miranda: Marriage, but…

Ben: Exactly. It’s the ultimate cover-up.

Miranda: People have tried it before and it doesn’t work.

Ben: But those people, the husband and wife weren’t both gay. It was a sordid, secret affair. Not us!

Miranda: But not us. Because we would both know.

Ben: You’re catching on.

Miranda: Don’t think I haven’t thought of this before tonight.

Ben: But have you ever found someone so willing? Miranda, Miranda. We’d be home free! You could bring in any number of women to our home, and I would not care. Because I’ll be fucking every boy I can in our spare bedroom.

Miranda: The same bedroom my mother uses when she visits?

Ben: Right, save the spare bedroom for your mother. We’ll do our dirty deeds in the living room then.

Miranda: But marriage is so…

Ben: Conventional?

Miranda: Yeah.

Ben: And we could be beacons of conventionality.

Miranda: This wouldn’t work.

Ben: Why not?

Miranda: We might be OK with having affairs outside our ‘marriage’, but what about our lovers? Do you think they’ll want to have an affair with a married person?

Ben: We don’t have to wear our rings in public. Only around our parents.

Miranda: So many things could go wrong. And I don’t like diamonds.

Ben: Emeralds?

Miranda: You can’t buy love.

Ben: You can buy like.

Miranda: What if I want a divorce?

Ben: We’ll burn that bridge when we need to.

Miranda: This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.

Ben: But you agree that it could work.

Miranda: There’s a less than ten percent chance that this could work.

Ben: Do you have a better chance with your lovely lady in white?

Miranda: Fuck you.

Ben: Only on our honeymoon. Just to make things official.

Miranda: Only if I’m fuller of champagne than I am now.

Ben: We’ll save no expense on our nuptials.

Miranda: I want to go to Spain.

Ben: Well I want Paris, so we’ll go to both.

Miranda: You’re a romantic.

Ben: Call me gay.

Miranda: Call me a lesbian, but I think it’s stupid.

Ben: But you’re falling in love with the idea.

Miranda: I’ll think about it.

Never Cold by Will Malkus

After Sean died, he moved to New York City. It made sense, he thought. His parents had always said everyone in the city was dead on the inside, so Sean figured maybe he’d feel at home there. He found a tiny, overpriced apartment, and his cousin managed to get him a job waiting tables at an Indian restaurant in Brooklyn, and between that and the little money his parents had given him he managed to scrape by. At first, it hadn’t been any better. When he moved to the city, it was September, and the streets were packed and smelled strongly of copper. It was hot, so the signs on the bank buildings told him, but of course, Sean couldn’t tell. The people were rude, and they stared at him, singling him out and making it clear that they knew he didn’t belong. A homeless man on the street had once followed him for two blocks, calling him Tom. Tom was his father’s name, but Sean tried not to dwell on that experience. His first two months were miserable, but then winter came, and the looks stopped. He finally belonged.

 

He started going to Central Park every day. He’d hop the number three train up to 96th street, and enjoy every second of it. Sometimes he’d get so absorbed in the train ride that he’d miss his stop, at which point he would have to get out, cross the busy platform, and take the train traveling in the opposite direction back to 96th street. He never minded, though. If he were completely honest with himself, he’d admit that sometimes he missed the stops on purpose, because during those short trips, the subway car shook and rattled and juked in a way that Sean found familiar and comforting. It took him a few days to place it, then one day it hit him. It was like being back on the ice. Sometimes, the train would take a curve in the track in such a way that Sean could almost feel the blades under his feet again. The other passengers gave him odd looks that would have bothered the old Sean, but the new Sean reveled in it. Every skeptical glance was simply a reminder that he was alive.

 

It became a ritual, the only one that he still observed. There’d been a time in his life when rituals consumed him; when nothing seemed random and everything was premeditated. Sean knew, on some hard-to-explain instinctual level, that he could remove the element of chance from his everyday life, provided he repeated a certain set of motions regularly, like wearing the same briefs under his uniform every game, or the way he touched every mirror in his car before starting it. His mom had gotten him evaluated for OCD when he was seven. His dad had introduced him to hockey around the same time.

 

When he started playing, he’d had a ritual for that, too, of course. Kiss the gloves, kiss the stick, and kiss the helmet. The jersey didn’t get kissed, nor did the rest of the pads. The way Sean figured it, if he was good enough, he wouldn’t need them. If no one could touch him, it wouldn’t matter how well-protected he was, and besides, by that point it was too late; it was already a ritual, and changing it could prove to be disastrous. His coaches told his father he flew on the ice, and his father had told them “you ain’t seen nothing yet.” By the time he was lapping adults at the rink, his mom discovered the psychiatrist they’d hired to test him had vanished.

 

“Why would he just up and leave?” she asked Sean’s father one night, long after Sean was supposed to have fallen asleep. He crouched on the fourth stair from the top, not low enough to be seen, but just low enough to be able to overhear their conversations so long as they didn’t whisper.

 

“Maybe Sean was too crazy,” Sean’s dad had joked. “Maybe he drove the guy to jump off a cliff or something.”

 

Sean went back to his room, but didn’t sleep that night. Balding men kept jumping off cliffs every time he shut his eyes.

 

His mom gave up. She decided to leave well enough alone, and Sean got to keep his rituals. He was allowed to run the shower for exactly ten minutes before getting in (the stopwatch became a permanent fixture in the second floor bathroom), he was allowed to eat his dinner in the exact same pattern (in descending chromatic scale, though he was not allowed to eat the same meal every night), and he was even allowed to keep the exact amount of change in his pocket (fifty-five cents) at all times. His parents figured, “it’s Buffalo; what’s normal, anyway?”

 

Now Sean only had the one ritual, and it suited him just fine. Back home, there was a two-stop Amtrak train that ran through downtown Buffalo, but it was a smooth, quick ride, and not at all like the subway he had grown to love since coming to New York. In a lot of ways, Sean thought, the subway was like God. It was impossible to know the intentions of the train, but people still got on every day, trusting their lives to it, praying that it would keep them safe and get them where they were going. He recognized that it was a small thing to care so much about, especially since he lived in a city full of people that took it for granted and talked endlessly about all the ways it could be better, but to Sean it was perfect, absolutely perfect, just the way it was.

 

So on the morning of November 30, in the bitter cold, when all the other New Yorkers were huddled in the warmth of their beds and blankets and loved ones, Sean walked the twenty-two blocks between his apartment and the subway station only to discover that he was the only person in the whole borough trying to go anywhere. That realization made him feel proud, and daring, and he boarded the train same as he always did. He took a seat in one of the hard plastic chairs, one right next to a window, and closed his eyes. He leaned his head against it and enjoyed the cool glass against his skin, but the steamy breath that roiled out of his mouth and fogged up the window made him uncomfortable. He couldn’t feel it on his skin, even though his mind told him he should be able to. Something failed to connect, the same way it always did.

 

He had been surprised to learn that, despite the blizzard, he still had physical therapy at five. Dr. Stanton had called him that morning, to confirm that he was still coming in.

 

“They tell me it’s cold outside,” he’d said, amusement evident in his tone. “So I’ll understand if you can’t make it.”

 

Sean could. The Harwick Institute was fairly new, but was becoming well-known for their advances in the world of nerve damage rehabilitation. Sean’s doctor had recommended it to his parents after the accident, but it was all the way in New York City. His dad had been against it, and for once his mom agreed. The city was too far away, too dangerous, and he was still too weak. Sean disagreed, and finally talked them into letting him put off college until he’d gone through the program. The hockey scholarship was gone by this point, anyway, so it was the only move that really made sense. Get a job, get some experience, save some money, then go to school.

 

An unintelligible voice crackled over the subway’s PA system and then shut off. Sean couldn’t understand what it was saying, but he knew this was his stop.

 

He hiked his old Sabers parka up higher around his shoulders. It was just a formality now, on two counts. One, he didn’t need it, and two, he hadn’t watched a hockey game in almost a year. Instead of having ‘game night’ with his dad, he went to night classes, and besides, watching it hurt more than trying to walk. As thrilling and exciting as the games were to watch, they couldn’t hold a candle to actually being out there, flying down the ice with nothing under his feet. That frictionless glide that he never got tired of, even on the rough ice of the pond near his house, where he would sometimes go to skate when there was no one around. Days like today in New York City.

 

On days like this, days when he felt like he was the only living thing left in the city, he liked to imagine that it was all some big secret between the city and himself. The trees and rocks refused to face the way the world had become, and so instead sulked under their thick blankets. They demanded change, protesting tempestuously in their silence, raging against the seasonal machine that left them tired and dying. Sean remembered that feeling all too well, and when he did his chest ached with phantom pain and memory. He felt the spreading cold that slowly wrapped his mind up in wax paper and sequestered it away from the rest of his body, and the invisible, multitudinous clawed hands that dragged down on his eyelids, and worst of all, the sensation of all of his synapses firing more and more erratically, like a half-loaded pistol, forcing all of his thoughts to stumble through impenetrable fog banks just to reach his frontal lobe.

 

Now Sean always felt cold, so he liked to wander through the city on days when streetlights and storefronts were blotted out by walls of white. All the way down 104th, to Central Park.

The Thing That Breaks Plates by Zoe Woodbridge

When she’s mad she drops things

like plates and pots of water.

 

She never dropped either of us, thank goodness.

She always said she would drop him first.

 

Our father, that is, as he sips his drink in the parlor

if you can even call it that,

as my mother washes and drops her dishes

and fights back years of words she’s never said.

 

I skim, no…I read, I immerse myself in his poetry

and maybe I can see why he drinks

each glass of wine or vodka depending on the day,

because his life is so hard.

 

How do I know? Because he’s told me so.

Everyday he told me until I stopped asking and then,

then he kept drinking and nothing changed.

 

Nothing ever changes until he stops drinking

Then the plates stop dropping but the yells are louder

and the doors slam louder and I hear everything.

We hear everything as our ears are pushed against the door.

 

I see now this is it, this is what tears families apart.

But we still cohabitate this place, this home.

She talks of leaving but she won’t

I know she won’t.

 

She can’t leave because I already have left,

gone to a place where they drink more, sometimes

they even drink themselves to death and I don’t get it

 

Why they push vodka down my throat when I refuse

and it burns, not the alcohol but these hot tears running

down my face, they burn my face

 

And I’m just left with scars on my cheeks

and pieces of  broken plates.

The Pens Know All Your Secrets by Zoe Woodbridge

This one knows I stole it
from the office
and don’t really plan
on giving it back

The black one with all the bite marks
can tell you all about my first sloppy,
gross kiss and the bad things I wrote
about it afterwards.

The tiny pink one
that came with a stationary set
I got for Christmas from my cousins,
hoping I’d write to them,
doesn’t know that much.
Just what I buy at Giant, really.

But they never tell anyone
Not even the little pink one.
(You would think she would.)

They just let me hold them
and use them till they’re old
and done. Even then,
they know more about me
than I do.

Untitled Story by Maegan Clearwood

Blake hated lying to his mother, but admitting that he’d dropped his phone in the toilet was too much to bear.

He sprawled himself out on the couch, waiting for her to come home. He tried to formulate an excuse, something to explain away his water-logged cell phone, but memories of the day’s events were too vivid; there was no room left in his brain for even the tiniest fib.

His first day at work began slowly. In fact, Blake was so bored during those first few hours at Food Lion that he couldn’t even wait until his half-hour break to investigate the restroom.

There was little to say for the space. Blake was a connoisseur of public restrooms, but the décor and atmosphere there was so bland that even he had a hard time critiquing it. Blake loved grading bathrooms. He made a point of visiting the restroom wherever he was, if only to lock himself in a stall and examine his surroundings. He had a rigorous grading scale; rarely did a bathroom qualify as A-grade, and even for a B, it needed well-stocked toilet paper and soap and an adequate number of urinals.

His most recent undertaking was, thankfully, clean and well-lit, automatically boosting it to C status. From the neutral tile walls to the generic-scented soap, however, Blake couldn’t identify anything in the room that gave it life. There were no amusing Employees Must Wash Hands Signs, no soothing music cooing from above. The bathroom had no character, and until he examined the first stall, Blake was convinced that the restroom s at his new place of employment were as disappointing as the job itself.

Blake hadn’t earned his BA in German and communications with the intention of becoming general manager of his hometown grocery store. He spent his senior year at school pretending he didn’t care what he did when he graduated, ignoring his mother’s vow to boot him out of their cheery suburban split-level as soon as he got his degree. Not that she was serious, of course. Lynette loved her son in a coddling, bear-hugging way. She knew that, no matter her assertions to the contrary, she wanted Blake near home; Blake knew it, too.

Even now, after Blake had spent the summer staining her couch cushions orange from cheese curls and spending her money on pay-per-view movies, Lynette coddled her only child.

“Morning, Boo Boy,” she’d say, arranging a box of Lucky Charms, milk carton, and cereal bowl out on the kitchen table.

“Yeah, morning,” Blake answered. Before she bustled off to her early-bird Pilates class, Lynette gave him a swift peck on the forehead. Although he only acknowledged it with an eye-roll or grunt, Lynette never forgot to kiss her son goodbye each morning.

Three-and-a-half-months after graduating and moving back in with his mother, Blake started applying for the types of jobs he vowed never to seek upon entering college.

His first day monitoring nine rows of minimum-wage workers was, as anticipated, a droll compared to the bar-hopping fantasies he’d once entertained about adult life. It was a Tuesday afternoon; customers were rare, the looping music constantly interrupted for shameless self-advertising. His employees pretended to stay busy wiping down their registers and rearranging packets of gum whenever he passed, and despite his best efforts to appear cheery and laid-back, he knew he was already labeled the enemy.

He slipped into the bathroom as soon as possible.

He was there for purely recreational purposes; he never used public facilities if he could avoid it, especially at work. As part of his grading system, however, he always tested the toilet paper for appropriate comfort and flushed the toilet for a demo-run. (Automatic toilets immediately downgraded bathrooms a half-level; there was something innately disturbing in technology that determined when he was done taking a shit, Blake thought)

He surveyed the line of stalls, peeking beneath for feet and checking which, if any, locks were broken; he finally settled on the second. After comfortably seating himself on the toilet, he was pleased to see a gallery of tastefully designed obscenities scribbled on the mint-green door.

Blake had a great appreciation for bathroom stall graffiti. He considered it an art form, each a unique signature of the bare asses that had once occupied the space.

Today, he was especially delighted to find a conversation, each line in different hand, volleying insults and vulgarities back and forth.

“RH shat here” it began in a proud, looping hand, followed by “Who the fuck cares,” “dude, gross,” and, to Blake’s disgusted delight, “TL wacked off her.”

Beneath this last boast was, lightly scratched into the thin paint, “555-8459 for more fun TL.”

This was Blake’s second encounter with phone numbers on bathroom walls. The first happened during his sophomore year at a rest stop in Ohio. He’d sat on the toilet, phone in hand, for at least 15 minutes before, terrified of where the call might lead, nerves overcame his curiosity and he left without grading the bathroom.

A few days later, police identified the rest stop as a major sex trafficking area; the potentiality in that missed phone call had haunted Blake ever since.

He checked his watch; it would be at least a few more minutes before anyone would notice the manager had abandoned post. Plenty of time for a phone call.

He entered the jagged numbers into his phone before his common sense took control.

A voice breathed into his ear a brief ring later: “You’ve reached the Hotties Hotline. This is Theresa.”

“Um, hi Theresa.”

“Would you like me to review our pay rates before we begin?”

“I guess not, no.”

“Eager, aren’t we?”

The woman’s voice was at least an octave deeper than Blake’s, and it sounded as if she were dragging the words out and into the phone. The fakeness in her voice didn’t bother Blake in the least; the drawling slowness of her words was comforting in a somewhat homey way.

“Well, I told you my name. You gonna return the favor?”

Blake thought about this. Usually, he enjoyed fibbing, spooling impromptu stories out of his imagination. He loved filling out survey cards at restaurants with made-up names and addresses, and he was often told that, if it weren’t for his paralyzing stage fright, he would make a tremendous actor. But for some reason, today, he didn’t want to lie. He couldn’t bring himself to lie to this smooth, strange voice.

“It’s Blake. My name’s Blake.”

“Well then, Boo Boy, tell me a bit about yourself.”

Blake didn’t have to hang up.

His mother’s voice fizzled into silence as his phone slipped out of his hand, between his knees, and into the toilet water below.

Untitled Play by Will Malkus

(Lights up on an apartment, with a worn couch and an easy chair center stage. Some posters may be up on the back walls, and a small kitchenette stage right, just a sink and an oven, very simple. An end table may be next to the couch, with a lamp and a telephone on it. The stairwell and front door are stage left exits, the bedrooms are stage right exits. Trevor enters stage left, very obviously agitated. He leaps over the couch and scans the room carefully.)

Trevor: Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ!

Mark: (From far offstage.) Shut UP, Trevor!

Trevor: Mark, your hysterics aren’t helping anyone!

(Trevor sits down on the couch, then abruptly drops to his hands and knees to check under it. Still on hands and knees, he quickly crawls towards the easy chair and does the same thing.)

Mark: (Still from offstage, but closer now.) Would you mind helping me, maybe?

Trevor: Calm DOWN, Mark! (He exits stage left, and reenters with Mark, a black trash bag in the rough shape of a body carried between them. It’s clearly fairly heavy, and Mark is out of breath from having to haul it up the stairs. They deposit it on the couch, then both stare at in silence for a moment.)

Trevor: Ohh my god. Oh my god.

Mark: Shut up, Trevor! Shut up.

Trevor: (In a despairing monotone.) Court. Trial. Jail. Death.

Mark: Trevor! Shut. Up.

Trevor: (Panicked) Okay! (He paces to the other side of the sofa) Oh god.

Mark: I’m trying to think.

Trevor: This is bad, this is so, so bad. This can’t happen, Mark. How does this happen?! Who does this happen to? Terrible people! We aren’t terrible people! (He pauses for a second to look at Mark more critically.) Well, I’m not, I guess I don’t really know what you do in your free time. But this didn’t happen, right? I mean, it doesn’t. It doesn’t do that.

Mark: (Trying to pacify him.) It’s okay.

Trevor: It’s okay?!

Mark: It’s okay.

Trevor: (Calmer.) It’s okay?

Mark: (Distracted.) Yes.

Trevor: Good. Okay, good. (Takes a deep breath.) It’s okay.

(They both resume silently staring at the plastic bag.)

Mark: They ran out in front of us.

Trevor: “They?!” How many people do you think we hit?!

Mark: Look, I don’t know if it was a man or a woman!

Trevor: (Applauds sarcastically in Mark’s direction. As he does so, Mark balls his hands up into fists, closes his eyes, or gives some other outward sign of exasperation.) Oh, well done, Mark! When the police show up, we’ll just tell them-

Mark: There aren’t going to be any cops.

Trevor: (Catches his drift. Disbelieving gasp.) Mark.

Mark: I just mean…there might not be cops. I mean, it was dark, right? Night time. Night time is dark.

Trevor: Not on Commonwealth at ten o’clock!

Mark: All I’m saying is there might not be cops.

Trevor: What are you TALKING about? Of course there are going to be cops! We freaking HIT someone!

Mark: Okay, THEY ran out in front of us! We didn’t do anything wrong. We were driving home, and this maniac (He nudges at the trash bag with his toe.) jumped out in front of an oncoming vehicle.

Trevor: (Screams.) Don’t do that!

Mark: (Jumping back in surprise.) Jesus! Don’t do what?!

Trevor: Don’t…kick him!

Mark: “Him?” Oh, what the fuck, Trevor-

Trevor: Look, we (Looks around furtively as if making sure they’re alone still. His voice drops slightly.) killed the poor bastard, the least we can do is assign him a gender!

Mark: It was his fault!

Trevor: I just-(Pauses.) Okay, not to split hairs, but I’m glad you agree that he’s a “he.”

Mark: Fuck your fucking gender, Trevor!

Trevor: It’s not MY gender on the table here, Mark.

Mark: You’re losing it, man. You have to pull yourself together!

Trevor: There is a BODY. On the couch. That YOU stole.

Mark: (Stares at Trevor wonderingly.) I don’t even…what the hell is wrong with you, Trevor? Seriously.

Trevor: I’m guilty of caring too much, Mark. If anything, I’m guilty of caring too much.

Mark: I’m not listening to this. (Moves to exit stage left.)

Trevor: Where are you going?!

Mark: Out. I just remembered why we’re not friends.

Trevor: You can’t leave now! What are we going to do about…(Gestures frantically at the body.) this?

Mark: (Stops and turns around.) Well I’ll tell you what we’re not going to do, okay? We’re not going to tell anyone about this, we’re not going to let anyone into the apartment, and we’re definitely, absolutely, NOT going to open the bag. Right? (Trevor gives some outward sign of acquiescence.) Good. (Mark exits stage left.)

Trevor: (Quietly.) Worried about germs on your stolen furniture.

Mark: (Reenters quickly, his ire returned full force.) For the last fucking time, it was on the sidewalk. Someone was trying to get rid of it.

Trevor: You don’t know that. What if they were moving in and just set it down for a second?

Mark: I was…you don’t even…why are you talking about our couch?!

Trevor: Your couch. I don’t want anything to do with it.

Mark: Do you maybe think the dead guy is just slightly more pressing than a misappropriated piece of furniture?!

Trevor: I’m not your accomplice.

Mark: (Pauses.) Trevor.

Trevor: Hmm?

Mark: Body.

Trevor: What’s your point?

Mark: We are accomplices. Jesus, we are.

(They both let that sink in and stare at the body. It mirrors where they stood at the beginning of the scene.)

Trevor: Does that mean we’re friends?

Scene.

New Site Launch!

Welcome to the new Colophon!

As you can see the Colophon has a new look. We had some problems after the Wacblog update, resulting in the need for a new website. Don’t fret! You can find all of our old archives here. We used the opportunity to do some updates of our own, so there are some new ways to navigate around the site, which will hopefully make things easier to find.

We’re also trying to keep up with Facebook updates,  so the Colophon now has its own Page here, rather than our old group page. Please, join us there for quick updates.

This will be the only blog entry of its type – from now on, our quick updates will be posted in the right sidebar under “Colophon Updates,” and this space will be reserved for your work. The site is feeling a little empty at the moment, so we need your help!

Our first meeting will be this coming Saturday, September 17, 2011 at 2PM in the Reading Room of the Literary House. If you’d like to submit work for this meeting, please email the_colophon@washcoll.edu by Thursday September 15, 2011.

If you have any questions feel free to email us at kgavin2@washcoll.edu or mwesenberg2@washcoll.edu.