Monday, April 24, 2006

Author's Notes

English 354
4-20-2006
Author’s Notes Final Portfolio

Writing Assignment One:
This was a good start to the semester because it got me going, right off the bat, thinking about what it meant for me to be literate. Although at first I had trouble getting this assignment going, after deep consideration I expanded the piece to not be just about how I enjoy and understand being literate, but also how being literate figures into my identity as a person.

Writing Assignment Two:
This assignment came to me while I was delivering pizzas. I have been a key individual in Tag for a considerable amount of time now and helped develop Tag literacy. I thought it would be interesting to show this world to people outside the Tag community. It was a fun assignment. For revisions I decided to focus on not just the present state of Tag, but the history behind Tag literacy. Waiting until the second season began helped because it refreshed my memory about how tag worked.

Writing Assignment Three:
This assignment was my personal favorite. I have been a fan of the humor in the Weekly World News for sometime now. Explaining it to outsiders, again, was an enjoyable experience. I revised it mainly by throwing in more quotes and following advice given by my instructor during a conference.

Bromden vs Nasdijj

English 245
3-07-06
Paper One
Chief Bromden vs. Nasdijj
In the literature that America has produced there have been many portrayals of Native Americans. Sometimes Indians are portrayed as the noble savage, strong “braves” who charged American Soldiers in a last ditch effort to save their land, other times they have been portrayed as addicts and drunks. No matter what Indians are seen as, there is always some kind of tie to the land around them. This portrayal can be seen particularly well, but differently, in two very interesting books: The Blood Runs like a River through My Dreams by Timothy Patrick Barris (a.k.a. Nasdijj) and One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey.
First of all it must be clarified that for this paper that The Blood Runs… is considered a piece of fiction. Although the book claims to be a memoir, recent investigations discovered the author of this book, who claimed to be an Indian named “Nasdijj”, is actually a white man named Timothy Barris. Although the story isn’t true, I believe it is still an excellently crafted book and deserves to be written about.
Social rejection is a major recurring theme in both novels. Both pressed to the edges of society, these men struggle trying to find dignity and strength from within. With tremendous amount of heartache and sacrifice the painful growing process makes them better, stronger people.
The two novels have many similarities. Although they were both written by white men, there is a degree of effort but into both books that makes the reader believe the speaker is a Native American. There is nothing cliché or blatantly erroneous about either novel that makes them classifiable as stereotypical, racist, or offensive.
The first and most obvious similarity is that the narrator of each book is Native American. In One Flew Over… the narrator is the legendary Chief Bromden, a Native American from the Northwestern tribes along the Columbia Gorge. He is sent to the psych-ward after his father is forced to sell their tribal lands to the government to put in a dam, displacing the people who spear salmon in the waterfall where the dam is placed. He hides inside himself at the psych-ward because Bromden believes it is his only chance to survive. He is made an example to the other members of the ward as patient Harding points out:
“Look at him: a giant janitor. There’s your Vanishing American. That my friend is what we can be threatened with.” (Page 67).
The Blood Runs… is narrated by Nasdijj, a member of the Navajo tribe. This book details the struggle he undertook trying to give his adopted son, Tommy Nothing-Fancy, a good life in the short time before the boy died as a result of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. Through fishing and camping and many other adventures, the two bond before Tommy dies during a seizure.
The theme of their relationship is summed up in the following quote from the scene where Tommy is diagnosed with FAS:
“So I did exactly what I think all parents should not do: I spoiled him rotten. I wasn’t rich but I could give him certain things…I would not allow fetal alcohol syndrome or whatever to ruin that for me, or for him.” (Page 5).
Both of these novels tell a story of a hard life. The main characters have problems dating back to their childhood. Shunned by society they have to make the best of their grim situations. Although they handle it differently, both characters do the best they can in situations that the average person would crack under.
Bromden’s dilemma began in his childhood with the loss of the land he loved. During the most formative years of his life he goes from living a simple fulfilling life as the son of a chief to being booted off his own land in the name of “progress.” He watches his father go from hero to villain, finally drinking himself to death in the woods around the village.
Eventually Bromden ends up in a mental institution, drained of his desire to be part of the outside world. Pretending to be deaf and dumb, he cleans the same floors and walls everyday. He feels depleted. During the famous scene where Bromden speaks for the fisrt time in years, he confesses to the novel’s protagonist, Randal Patrick McMurphy, his father’s end.
“And the last I see him he’s blind in the cedars from drinking and every time I see him put that bottle to his mouth, he didn’t suck out of it, it sucks out of him…” (Page 209.)
Nasdijj was born a nomad. He spent his formative years traveling with his drunken family around the country doing migratory jobs. From the beginning things were tough. He never had a permanent home and his mother gave him baths using a washcloth or her own saliva. During his rocky childhood he feels invisible, much like Bromden.
“Kids traveled light. One bag. Kids never asked why. Kids did as they were told or else.” (Page 32).
His life gains some semblance of meaning when he takes the child Tommy Nothing-Fancy into his heart and life. He resolves to give the boy everything he can until Tommy dies. Not being wealthy he spoils the boy everyway he can, determined not to let FAS ruin Tommy’s life. He teaches Tommy to dribble and fish and tries to provide all the other knowledge and happiness that comes along with the father-son bonding Nasdijj never received.
“You learned to gulp for breath between the rages sent your way by an angry god with his work boots and his whiskey.” (Page 31).
Both Nasdijj and Bromden are mixed bloods. This is important because they are both stuck in a kind of Purgatory. With one foot in both worlds, this leads to feelings of isolation and separation. Being unable to give themselves a race to call solely their own, they stand alone between the two worlds.
These novels maybe similar in a variety of ways, but their differences also need to be accounted for. Although the speakers have enough commonalities to compare them, their differences are just as interesting.
One major, and obvious, difference is tribe and region both of these speakers come from. Bromden is from the Evergreen forests of the Pacific Northwest. He grew up among water falls and salmon. Nasdijj grew up in the arid desert of the Southwest. These differences also contribute to the childhood each speaker experienced.
As is common in the region, Nasdijj spent years of his life doing migratory work just trying to survive. He went around the region and country on several occasions. In chapter three he guesses that he has been around the country at least twenty times.
Nasdijj’s migratory nature is a stark contrast to Bromden’s. He grew up in one village. He didn’t move around a lot (prior to his village being sold). He spent years immersed in his people’s single-location way of living. The green beauty he came from was so important to his people that his father was given the name “Tee Ah Millatoona” which means “The Pine That Stands Tallest on the Mountain.”
Another difference is in the way these narrators resolve their problems. Both of these men try to use nature to bring the fulfillment they seek. However, using the “back to their roots” approach to find peace of mind is successful for Bromden and not Nasdijj.
Only after the famous fishing scene in One Flew Over… does Bromden begin to come out of his shell. In the fresh sea air he realizes that he doesn’t need to hide anymore. After this scene he breaks his silence. Regularly speaking with the patients on the ward and getting in a fight with one of the despised aides. When he sees the purity and beauty of nature he is astounded to realize that he was ignoring what he loved.
In the end, in the even more famous scene where Bromden escapes from the ward, he is resolved to go back to his native Columbia Gorge. He loves the land and is tied to it. He cannot survive without it and decides to spend what time he has left on earth in harmony with nature.
“I’ve even heard that some of the tribe have took to building their own ramshackle wood scaffolding all over the big million-dollar hydroelectric dam…I’d just like to look over the country around the gorge again, just to bring some of it clear in my mind again. I been away a long time.” (Page 311).
Nasdijj seeks to bring Tommy into nature, to bond with his son in the wilderness of their people. Sometimes it didn’t turn out too well. In chapter five there is a heartbreaking account of a fishing trip gone horribly awry. On the Flathead Reservation Nasdijj seeks to go fishing with his son. When they get to the cabin they would sleep in, they have an unfortunate run-in. Bears ruin the trip. It starts out simply. Tommy and Nasdijj are fishing and the bears are in the area. Although nervous, the two parties have the “we’ll leave you alone if you leave us alone” mentality. However, one night two bears get into a massive territory battle and Tommy and Nasdijj listen to a dominate-male grizzly slaughter a mother and her two cubs. This makes Nasdijj feel like a failure.
“Sometimes I think I do everything wrong. This includes parenting. I wanted to introduce my young son to the magic of the wilderness. I didn’t count on bears.” (Page 40).
Both narrators are used to illustrate the protagonist, the type of protagonist and the relationship that the narrator has to each. Nasdijj has a father role towards Tommy as opposed to Bromden who has more of a child role to McMurphy.
Nasdijj, as previously stated, takes Tommy into his life and resolves to give him everything that his meager income will allow, sacrificing, as so many fathers do, for the good of his child. He teaches Tommy about life.
In contrast, Bromden is like a child to McMurphy. He decided to live below the radar of the institution. Resigned to hiding in his lie, it takes McMurphy’s antics like smashing the glass of the nurse’s station or stealing a boat to show Bromden that the “Combine” he is afraid of isn’t invincible.
Alcohol is used differently in both books. The devastating effects of alcohol are shown to different degrees in each novel. In One Flew Over… it is touched upon less than in The Blood Runs… Bromden’s history with alcohol is traumatic, but not a major part in the book. However, it is limited compared to its involvement in Nasdijj’s life.
Bromden only has one major issue with alcohol, it killed his father. After “Tee Ah Millatoona” is strong-armed into giving up his way of life, he hits the bottle and begins a rapid descent into death. Bromden, however, didn’t view his father’s death as a result of alcohol. He saw it more as the end result of the “Combine” tearing him apart to get what it wanted.
Bromden himself actually enjoys alcohol. On the car ride to the boat trip, he downs a few beers and actually enjoys it, as of the end of the novel he is not struggling to overcome an addiction to it. Bromden is sober and ready for a new life at the end of the novel, not mired in a cycle of alcoholism. His experience with alcohol is positive, reflecting his time spent on the ward.
“I had forgotten that there can be good sounds and tastes. Like the sound and taste of a beer going down.” (Page 226).
Nasdijj’s life is a constant struggle with alcohol. His never-ending war begins in the womb. He is born into Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. It moved on to his travels where his mom would entertain him with stories while she downed whiskey. It came to him when he met Tommy’s mother, Mary Potato, the drunken whore. It came to him with Tommy, who also had FAS.
As a whole, Nasdijj is subjected to more difficulties than Bromden. A major reason behind this is the time period differences, locations and time span. One Flew Over… takes place in the sixties, when many of the problems Nasdijj faces were unheard of. Bromden’s story takes place over a period of months where as Nasdijj’s story is over a period of years. Bromden’s story is in a much more confined environment, the psych-hospital, where Nasdijj’s story is all over the country.
One time period-based experience Nasdijj has to deal with that Bromden doesn’t is AIDS. In The Blood Runs…, Nasdijj details the horrors and taboos of this dreaded disease.
“Indians on the reservation with AIDS are truly the invisible among the otherwise invisible…” (Page 177).
Bromden isn’t exposed to this because in the early sixties AIDS was unheard of. He is also limited to a psych hospital where he is around the same forty people everyday. The characters he meets outside the ward are casual relationships that wouldn’t divulge that information. Since the novel takes place is one area and doesn’t spend much time on reservations, the odds of him meeting someone with AIDS are very slim.
In conclusion, these novels take a different look at Native Americans. Using complex back stories Bromden and Nasdijj cease to be stereotypical Indians. They become real human beings with desires and needs. Even though they are different from each other, they are both interesting and realistic portrayals of Indians, going beyond the simple ideas of drug addicts and warriors.




Bibliography

Kesey, Ken. One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. New York: Penguin, 1976.

Barris, Timothy Patrick. The Blood Runs like a River through my Dreams. New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2000.

Chapter Eight and Nine

Chapters Eight/Nine
4-12-2006

Chapter Eight
It always amazed Tom Menke how the weather in Lincoln could go from a pleasant maiden to a rampaging psycho-whore in a matter of hours. From the seventy-two degrees of his bar crawl with Kopelson to the thirty-nine degrees that taunted him now, he got in his car to go to the home.
So what if she was gone? She’d be back. She just needed to cool off, he thought. One kid out and another on the way, there was no reason for her to stay away forever. Yeah, she just needed to cool off. She’d be back, he thought, and everything would be fine. Menke knew how he could solve his problem with the FTC and save the day. Yep, everything would be okay, he thought, everything except the goddamn-stupid-fucking-whore weather.
He spied the home from two blocks away. The basement lights blazed. Menke knew who would be there. He decided to wait for a while. Gibson worked on that addict all day he couldn’t possibly be there much longer, Menke thought, and on the plus side I don’t have to turn the security system off, he thought. Menke took the premeditated cooler and black PVC pipe out of his car and headed toward the home.
He placed the items on the stoop and opened the door into the familiar burgundy carpet and headed for the Dungeon. Menke didn’t hear the steady beat of the pump, so he figured Gibson was almost done. He didn’t have to hurry. Menke took the pipe and the cooler and put them in the leg space under his desk.

Lost in his art and clothed in white, Gibson found a certain degree of peace. He looked at the clock. Three in the morning, he thought, I have been doing this for fourteen hours. He hadn’t thought about anything except the dead girl’s insides and outsides since he started. His mother was pushed to the periphery of his thoughts while he massaged this girl’s thirteen different puncture wounds.
The florescent lights overhead gave the white room a particularly clean look. The tile walls were white and shiny like the floor surrounding him. The instruments waiting on counter behind him and in the drawers around the room gleamed if Gibson held them up. The gurney Baldwin rested on shined, even the bloodstains had a shimmer of their own.
She was naked on the table. Gibson remembered when he first got into the industry that used to bother him. He wished he could put the cloths on first while he was doing his job. The dead deserved a little dignity, Gibson used to think. Now he knew they were just objects.
He blinked his eyes hard. They started to get dry. He wished he could rub them but his gloves eliminated that option. The white surgical gown was becoming more like a butcher’s apron. It was a collage of reds and blacks and purples and greens that most people never saw. Even the mask over Gibson’s mouth had a little blood on it.
He pulled the last tube from her body. Gibson let it fall to the floor. As much as he enjoyed the distraction, he knew it needed to end. Fourteen hours was a long time to do anything, he thought. Gibson turned around to venture to the closet where the pants suit her parents picked waited. He was so close he could feel it
When Gibson came back from the closet across the room Menke was standing over the body. Menke turned his head to look at Gibson.
“Hey, Everett.”
Gibson grabbed his chest. After a few seconds he responded.
“Hey Tom. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be porkin’ your wife or something?”
Gibson’s dark-brown eyes were even darker against the white of his mask. Menke wished Gibson would take off the mask.
“She left me yesterday.”
“Oh, sorry man,” Gibson’s brain raced to think of a new topic as soon as he could, “Why did you come here?”
“I figured I should do some paperwork.”
“I’m almost done here. I just need to throw some make up and clothes on, then style the hair. I should be done in the next half hour or so,” Gibson said.
“You did a good job, a damn good job. How long have you been here?”
Gibson took off his mask and looked at the clock. It was three-thirty.
“Too fucking long.”
“I’ll finish up. You’ve been doing this all week.”
Gibson wasn’t quite sure if that’s what he wanted. He came so far that he wanted to see it through to the end, but he was also starting to feel the long day. Gibson put his hands together and pressed the fingertips into each other. The cracking was painful and Gibson decided he needed to go.
“Okay.”
Gibson took off his white surgical attire and threw it in the hamper by the door. He turned around and looked at Menke. Gibson was about to start climbing the stairs then he paused. He opened his mouth, and then promptly closed it.
“What time do you want me to be here tomorrow?”
Menke was standing over the body again.
“Noon,” Menke said.
Gibson left and got in his cold car and Menke smiled when it started up and drove away. Menke went up to his office.

Chapter Nine
Menke removed the index card with Kopelson’s order from his pocket. The simple phrase scrawled in barely legible cursive read “one right femur.” The card was ringed with sweat stains in the shape of fingers along the outside. This would be simple, Menke thought, I just need to get in and get out. Quick, painless and discreet, he thought. He grabbed another pair of scrubs out of the closet and suited up.
His bleach white form hovered over the girl. Menke looked her up and down. Her frail form lay naked on the cold metal table. He didn’t want to do this, but he had to. Menke reached into the drawer behind him. He snatched a scalpel out and turned around.
The blade lingered over her thigh for a second; Menke selected the perfect spot to put it in. He found the dead center and plunged it into her soft flesh. It tore right down the center with little effort. Nothing came out. Menke expected the girl to scream but she didn’t. He had just made a gaping thigh wound and it didn’t make any difference. Menke forced the skin back as far as it would go and inserted his hand into the wound. He probed her insides until he got what he wanted.
Menke grasped the bone and pressed his shoulder into her stomach for leverage. He felt part of his back on her breasts. Menke held her leg bone tightly and leaned back as hard as he could. Due to rigor mortis her leg wouldn’t budge. Stubborn at first, he pulled and pulled. His face turned red as he groaned and cursed at the bone to come out. It was slow at first; just the sound of little fractures escaping the hip socket, just enough to give him hope.
For a moment Menke stopped and stood up. He took a deep breath and went at her again. He was sweating and moaning but the bone was giving way. Menke reached deep inside and with one last burst of energy the bone broke loose and he fell onto the ground. It was over.
The bone shined in his hand like a new trophy. Menke looked at the bone. The edges were ragged, but he could see the marrow, it was still red. The bone was still alive. He used a bone saw to level the edges and put it in the cooler.
He put the black snake of PVC where the bone had been, then he put his gloves, gown and mask around it. He managed to make the leg look presentable. There was still some goo seeping from the wound. He wrapped it in paper towels. Proud of his work, Menke dressed her in the black pantsuit, hiding her legs. Menke put on her make up and styled the girl’s hair into a sensible bun, just like her parents wanted. He placed her in the coffin and looked around the Dungeon.
He turned the lights off, armed the security system and got in his car at five in the morning. The sun would be coming up soon.

Chapter Two

English 352
2-27-2006
Chapter Two

Tom Menke got out of his BMW and quickened his pace. He opened the car door and extended his hand. Jenny took hold of it and he helped her out.
“This is going to be nice,” he said, “between work and Evan we don’t get to spend very much time together. You know, just the two of us.”
She smiled and agreed, arm in arm they walked to the elevator and took it down to the street level. They were heading downtown when they turned a corner and ran right into Harvey Kopelson.
“Tom, Tom Menke? Is that you?”
“Harvey?”
“Yeah, how’s it going?”
The men shook hands.
“That’s quite a grip you’ve got there, Tom. How you holding up these days? I haven’t seen you in what, five years?”
“Not since the funereal for Bill.”
“Yeah, he was a good roommate. Those were good times. Back when we were studs right out of college, trying to make it in the world and all that romantic crap. Remember that time the three of us went sledding over at Pioneer’s Park? I think I still have the bruises.”
Menke was glad that Kopelson left out the part about being severally drunk, in the park after hours and having to hide in the woods until the police stopped looking for them.
“Harvey, this is my wife, Jenny, we’ve been married for twelve years. Jenny, this is the guy I lived with many moons ago.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Harvey said, and he kissed her hand, she blushed.
“Are you still in the transplant business?”
“Yes I am, Tom, but I can see your busy tonight, plus some friends from work are waiting for me at Zen’s. Here,” Harvey took out his business card, “call me sometime.”
Menke put the card in his wallet.
“It’s been nice seeing you again Harvey; I will definitely give you a call.”
“I hope to see you two again sometime, I got to get moving.”
The couple went the opposite direction from Kopelson.
“He seemed nice,” Jenny said.

Everett Gibson sat at home. Hooray for Saturday nights, he thought. He got off his couch and went to his kitchen. He opened the cabinets; hoping food would have magically appeared so he didn’t have to spend money. As usual, there was a can of cheap beans and a few noodles that fell out the last time he made spaghetti.
“Shit,” he said to the walls and carpet.
He looked at the clock. It was only eight-thirty. So much more time to be alone. He got into his Escort and drove slowly to the Burger King a block from his house. He didn’t care much for fast food, but shopping on an empty stomach didn’t appeal much.
He pulled up to the drive-in and made his order.
“Can I get that drink with half-Coke and half-Diet Coke?” he asked.
“What? Was that sir?” the androgynous voice crackled at him.
“Never mind,” he said.
When he got his food he parked in the lot of the restaurant and ate his food.
When the post-chicken-fry ingestion nausea wore off he drove north on Seventeenth Street to the Russ’s. He liked the remodeling. The store was cleaner and much nicer.
He went to the clerk with his cart full of boxes and cans, relieved another menial chore in his life was completed, so he could go back to sitting in his apartment, waiting for work.
He noticed the clerk had a small mark on the inside of his left elbow. A tiny puncture wound. The man’s bony face and glazed expression led Gibson to believe his clerk used intravenous drugs.

Gibson only hoped this man would never come through his shop. Intravenous drug users were a mortician’s nightmare. It would take so long to get his man’s body prepped for burial it wasn’t even funny. Twice as long as the average person.
What was wrong with this man? Didn’t he think of anyone besides himself? Formaldehyde couldn’t be pumped through the shattered veins in the man’s arms. If Gibson had to work on the intravenous drug user, he would have to go in through the jugular, which meant extra care to avoid scarring.
It also meant having to massage the arms and legs and anywhere else he found little puncture wounds so the fluid didn’t build up. It meant a much slower pumping rate to avoid rupturing the neck veins of the cadaver, not to mention the risk of HIV…

“Forty-eight dollars and sixty-seven cents, sir” the intravenous drug user said. He was nervous because Gibson kept staring at his arm.
“Huh? Oh. Uh. Yeah.” Gibson reached into his pocket and set down the money.
Gibson was turning around to leave, trying to ignore the intravenous drug user.
“See you later, sir.”
I certainly hope not Gibson thought as he took his groceries to his car.

After Gibson had put away all his food he sat down to smoke. He looked at the clock. Only forty-five minutes had passed. He lit up his cigarette and tried to think of something to do. He looked at his meager nineteen inch television.
Another disappointing Saturday night for TV. Why couldn’t they put anything worth watching on? Didn’t the networks even think about the lonely old men scattered across the country? He turned the box off and stood up. He went back to the kitchen to grab his keys. He noticed the advertisement for South Street Video sitting on top of his mail pile. Now he had an idea.
He got in his car and drove the half block to his most local of local video stores. He wanted porn. He had so little of an idea with what to do that evening he could be extra choosey.
For the next hour he perused the small store’s three rooms of porn, in addition to the wall of currently released Hollywood movies.
After rejecting the first two rooms, he came to the back row of the back room and noticed something interesting. A video titled “MILF Meat.” He read the back. It started with something he could completely understand:
“Do you hate your mom?” the video asked him.
From there on it described the horrible things mother did and the way this video would punish them for you. He couldn’t resist.
He went to the clerk and had to endure the agony of setting up and account with the video sitting in the man’s sight the entire time. He can see into my life, Gibson thought, he can see all the disgusting things I’m going to do and he’s judging me.
Five dollars and eighty-nine cents later Gibson walked out of the store, glad to have survived the trial. His excitement for the video returning.

Chapter Four

English 352
3-27-2006
Chapter Four

The drive from downtown to the apartment fifty-seven blocks away didn’t Kopelson. He liked having the freedom of being in a vehicle that was semi-moving. When he normally left at five it was a nightmare. As far as he was concerned the benefit of working later than everyone is nearly free-reign of Twenty-Seventh Street on his ride home.
MedSupply was done. Its last day was tomorrow. He still had time to buy some of the remaining inventory but it hadn’t changed at all since the phone call. He didn’t get a hold of any new suppliers and he was worried about having to impose a shut down.
His best bet was his old friend Chris Burner. His main buyer kept mishandling the product, leaving it out too long, or selling it for way below market price. Burner planned to find someone new, perhaps Kopelson, but the contract expired next month so he needed a supplement for the next three weeks.
His cigarette smoke flew out the cracked window as he rolled home. He stared at the road and tried to focus but his thoughts kept cycling back to his impending problem. Whenever he tried to think of something else the thought would end and the same one would come up again.
He pulled into his apartment-garage and shut the door. He punched in his code so hard his index finger throbbed when he got to his room.
He sat down in his leather chair and opened his briefcase. He pulled out the donor profiles hoping that some miracle had rejuvenated the stiffs to a usable condition so he could get enough supply to tide the company over until the next month. He shuffled through them again.
Still disappointed, he put the manila envelopes on his desk and picked up an ashtray. When he sat down he looked at the top profile. Baldwin. She was the youngest and least fucked up of the group, which was saying a lot since she died of a heroin overdose. He opened up the file and noticed the name of the funereal home.

“How old is your son?”
“My wife is three months pregnant.”
“So why is it ‘Menke and Son?”
“It sounds more professional.”
Kopelson taped a cigarette filter on the bar and offered one to Menke. Menke turned it down but that didn’t defer Kopelson at all.
Kopelson loved these conventions. Large gatherings of people whose jobs were stigmatized by society we always a good time. He always met some of the most interesting characters at bars in hotels and convention centers.
“Kind of limiting his career options, aren’t you?”
They laughed and ordered more beer.
“You know, Harvey, I’m thinking of expanding my business to include more donations to you supply boys. I think we could work something out.”
“I’m not in the market right now, Tom. MedSupply is being good to me. They keep getting more stock points and I don’t think they’ll ever go out of business at this rate.”
“Did you hear about the guys selling transplants in Dallas?” Kopelson said.
“Yeah, it’s a shame.”
“Like our pariah status wasn’t bad enough.”
“I meant that they got caught, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
They laughed, but something about the way Menke said it was off. It seemed like he was baiting him, testing to see if Kopelson would respond favorably. He shrugged it off and the two kept on drinking.

Since that time the two had kept in moderate touch. Though far from friends they usually saw each other at conventions and shared a drink or six. It hadn’t been bad except Menke always brought up the supply thing.

His cell phone rang. He flipped it open and checked to see the caller. It was Matt.
“Matt, how’s it going?”
“I’ve been better.”
“What’s wrong? Is everything at Wyuka okay?”
“Yeah, its fine, but one of the local mortuaries sold a plot here and didn’t tell the family they could have the same things done here but save the driving time.”
“That’s not right. I hate that. The family shouldn’t have to pay for escorts if they know they don’t have to.”
“I know, so I’m going to have to file a civil suit.”
“Who did it?”
“Menke and Son.”

The phone call ended and Kopelson went to his computer. He clicked the ‘Local’ folder and found Tom’s site. He went to the contact section and found the number for the home. He programmed it into his phone. The clock said one-thirty so he decided to go to bed. He could give Tom a call in the morning.

The phone rang and Gibson answered.
“Hello?”
“Is Mr. Menke available?”
“One moment, please.”
He put the caller on hold and strolled down to Menke’s office. He knocked and after about thirty seconds was cleared for entrance.
“Are you jerking off in here?”
“Yeah, it’s the thought of you and all that corpse love. It gets me so hot. What stiffer, your dick or your partner.
“Call on line two,” he began walking, “you jackass.”
“Hello?”
“Tom, its Harvey Kopelson.”
“What’s going on?”
“Not too much. I realized I haven’t seen you in a while. We should go have a drink and catch up. What works for you?”
Menke looked at his over-sized desk calendar. He ran his finger along the current week.
“It looks like I’m free uh…tomorrow. Does that work for you?”
“Sounds good. Iguana’s at seven?”
“You’re on.”

Chapter One

Chapter One
2-13-06

Everett Gibson sat on a bench on top of Tanker Hill. Six miles from downtown he could see the lights become shrouded in fog and began to think about what happened a few hours ago.
He fumbled for his cigarettes and out it in his mouth. He lit the end and took a drag. It tasted like burn cotton. He lit the wrong end.
“Fuck” he said, only the damp grass heard him.
He pulled out another one; he made sure he had it the right way and lit up.
As the fog rolled into the scenery to city looked even more distant than before. He wished he could be anybody else in the city tonight.
He didn’t know why he went to visit her. Maybe it was because of her birthday. Maybe it was an obligation he felt as a son. Maybe it was because she was his only living relative.
“Maybe I’m just a pussy,” he whispered.
She had a gift. Mainly for making him feel like shit. Today was no exception. He did everything he could think of. He took her to lunch. He bought her a rose. He asked her questions about his father.
When he got to the home, surrounded by potential customers, a few people turned away. Others whispered to friends, and some just stared at him confused. He’d probably being seeing them soonest.
“Hey mom, how are they treating you?”
“Not like you care.”
“I do. You’re my mom.”
“They served us meatloaf today.”
“That’s good. I always liked that when you made it for me.”
“That’s bad, I always hated doing it. The food is awful. I can cook for myself.”
“This is best mom, you’ll be okay.”
“I went to Karen Stone’s funereal earlier this week.”
“That’s too bad,” he said, remembering the lady who used to bring him and his mother cookies on Easter and Christmas.
“The only bad thing is the job your people did on her. She looked like she was made of hamburger. Sheila Johnson’s son is a lawyer; Betty Goldstein has a son in residence and a daughter who’s a nurse.”
And on.
“I tell my friends you’re in land development.”
And on.
“If I wasn’t here at least I could hide from the shame.”
And on and on and on.
“Take me to lunch; I’ll die if I don’t get out of here soon.”
His thoughts scattered like vandals from a siren. He heard glass shattering from the area his car was in. He got up and ran as fast as he could.
When he got to his car, a shadow split in three and streaked in opposite directions.
“You stupid mother fuckers,” he said and he kicked a rock as hard as he could while he ran. He heard it clunk against his car, “if I ever find you I’m going to fuck you up in ways you can’t even imagine.”
He got to his car. A rock was lying on the hood. Where the stone had hit was now the center of an elaborate spider web in his windshield.
“Why did I switch to liability?” he mumbled to himself. He got in his car and drove home.

At that same moment, on the thirteenth floor of a building Gibson had been looking at just minutes before, Harvey Kopelson was still pacing back and forth in his office.
BioServices Limited was doing well, and that was a problem. People needed transplants, people needed his transplants and MedSupply Inc. had just dropped out of the market just three hours earlier.
“Damn it, Bob.”
He thought about Bob Donovan. That bastard. Kopelson ground his teeth for a minute and then picked up a paperweight, tossing it from hand to hand, making a vain attempt to get his mind off the situation. He out the beetle encased in glass back down.
He took off his glasses and rubbed his temples. He sighed. A full forth of his product supply had been cut off.
He picked up the paper and flipped through it. He came to the obituaries and was put in a worse mood.
He shook his head at the paper. “All that potential profit wasted,” he muttered. Sitting in the ground, he thought, rotting. Thousands, no, millions of dollars were being turned into worm shit as he sat there trying to think of some way to boost his supplies and get his inventory up.
He thought about the day he signed the contract with Bob. The numbers looked so good. His stock rose three points in the fiscal year, things were going well. For awhile they had been at equilibrium. Almost everyone who needed a femur or a ligament could get one.
Then the market got saturated. More and more companies opened up. Stocks went down. Bob shut his doors and Kopelson was left with his dick in his hand.
He went to the bathroom and took a small measure of pride in watching the blue stuff in the toilet turn green before he flushed five minutes of some hapless dupe’s work into nothingness.
He went back to his office and picked up the order sheets. Little Johnny in California lost his tibia in a car accident. Joel’s house in El Paso caught on fire and his legs need new skin. Jimmy needs a heart valve for the time bomb in his chest. Sixty-thousand dollars lost from these three alone.
These three people plus another dozen more had needs he could fill; to bad he didn’t have the products to fill the orders with. Bob couldn’t keep his shit together so everyone loses. He thought.
He lit a cigarette. Fuck the ban, he thought, I pay for this goddamn place anyway.

Tom Menke had been at work for twenty straight hours. Things at the home had been ridiculous. He had to plan three separate funerals. Help select three separate caskets, show three different families books about floral arrangements, comfort three sobbing widows. Gibson had it easy. All he had to do was pump the corpses full of formaldehyde, slap some make-up on and call it a day.
He didn’t have any appointments the next day, so he was going to have Gibson mind the shop. He earned a day off.
He crept into his room where his wife was sleeping, careful not to step on any of Evan’s toys. He took off his suit and carefully folded it and hung it in his closet. He slid into the bed.
“Jenny?” he whispered.
She turned her head in his direction but her eyes were still closed.
“I’m takin’ tomorrow off babe. Let’s take Evan to the museum when he gets out of school.”
She smiled and nodded.
“Okay, go back to sleep,” he said before turning off the alarm. He put his arms around her and felt her bulging tummy right before he fell asleep.

The next day he took Evan to school. When he got back he checked the mail box and a chill went through him when he saw what was in it. The white, gold and blue of Visa greeted him with a sneer. He tried to keep his composure as he walked up the driveway, but found his footsteps were falling faster than usual. When he got inside he went directly to his study.
“Tom? Where are you?”
He began to panic. He moved to his desk as quietly as he could and opened the bottom left drawer. He fumbled with his keys.
“I swear to god I can never find the right key when I need it,” he muttered as he looked at the hunks of metal mocking him from their ring.
He heard footsteps coming down the stairs. He new his time was running out.
He snickered when he found the right one, opened the box and put the bill in it. Then he locked it, took a deep breath, smiled and opened the door.
“Good morning sweetheart. How are you today?”
“I’m fine. What were you doing in there?”
“Just some work stuff.”
“You work to hard, I’m going to make you breakfast.”
He smiled.

Creation Myth

Creation Myth

1-23-05

In the Apache creation myth the world is formed by gods. As is typical of many creation stories the theme is bringing chaos or nothingness into order then creating nature and creating human beings in particular. In this story there is a lot of detail involving the creation of the earth itself and the ways the gods go about creating order for it.

Cover Letters

To the Editors of The Main Street Rag,
My name is Dan Feuerbach and I am a Junior English major at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. I recently came across an issue of your magazine and I found it to be an excellent publication. I have decided to submit three poems to your establishment for your consideration.
The three poems included in this letter are “Saturday Night,” “It’s Not Fair,” and “The Ex-Girlfriend.” These three poems are original works which I wrote at different times over a period of six months. The earliest is “It’s Not Fair,” which was written in October of 2005 and the most recent is “Saturday Night,” which was finished in March of 2006. I believe these three poems are the highest quality of all the poems I have written and I look forward to hearing back from this magazine in the future. Sincerely,






-Dan Feuerbach


Dan Feuerbach
2017 S. 18th St. Apt. 2
Lincoln, Nebraska
68502

(402) 677-5266






To the Editor of Orion Magazine,
My name is Dan Feuerbach and I am a Junior English major at the university of Nebraska-Lincoln. I saw that your magazine addresses social issues and I thought it would be appropriate to submit an essay I wrote a year ago about student resistance in the classroom. I have enclosed the piece in an envelope along with a self-addressed, stamped envelope. I look forward to hearing from your publication soon.
Sincerely,





-Dan Feuerbach
2017 S. 18th St. Apt. 2
Lincoln, Nebraska
68502

(402)-677-5266

Epiphany Presentation

Epiphany
Originally had religious connotations:
-Feast of the Epiphany (January 6) when the Magi came to visit infant Christ.
-Revelations by God to mortal men.
Redefined by James Joyce in 1916:
-Joyce applied the religious idea to secular situations
-From Novel Stephan Hero, part of the first draft of A Portrait of the Artist of a Young Man.
“This triviality made him think of collecting many such moments together into a book of epiphanies. By an epiphany he meant a sudden spiritual manifestation, whether in the vulgarity of speech or of gesture or in a memorable phrase in the mind itself. He believed it was for the man of letters to record these epiphanies with extreme care, seeing that they themselves are the most delicate and evanescent of moments. He told Cranly that the clock of the Ballast Office was capable of an epiphany… Imagine my glimpses of that clock as the gropings of a spiritual eye which seeks to adjust its vision to an exact focus. The moment of focus is reached the object is epiphanized.”
(Dictionary of Literary Terms and Literary Theory)
or the less wordy version:
“…when a character suddenly experiences a deep realization about himself or herself; a truth, which is grasped in an ordinary rather than a melodramatic moment.” (http://classweb.gmu.edu/sweaver1/narrterms.htm)
-Epiphany is the moment of revelation to a character that changes the way he or she looks at the situation he/she is in or the world as a whole.
-Also known as a “moment of clarity”
Epiphany is Essential to Character Development
-Once a moment of epiphany is reached a character cannot go completely back.
-The plot and the actions of a character should drive an epiphany
-There can be more than One Epiphany in a Novel
-Can take place at any point in a novel
“As Gregor Samsa awoke from unsettling dreams one morning, he found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous vermin.”
-The (poorly translated) Metamorphosis
“It was funny how calm he was. He was quiet just like a storekeeper taking spring inventory and saying to himself ‘I see. I have no better out that down in the order book.’ He had no legs and no arms and no eyes and no ears and no nose and no mouth and no tongue. What a hell of a dream…But it wasn’t a dream…He was nothing but a chunk of meat… ”
-Johnny Got His Gun

“Once a man has changed the relationship between himself and his environment, he cannot return to the blissful ignorance he left. Motion, of necessity, involves a change in perspective”
-Alpha Centauri