David J Ebner

At half past two I left the union and headed to class. I once again passed through the azaleas and by the MLK reflective pool where a few weary Northies dipped their bare feet in the water to cool off. They love the idea of going to school near the beach, but have only superficial knowledge of Tampa in early September. Many of my friends get aggravated with the Northies stating that they stink up the lecture halls with baked coconut sunscreen and sweaty jorts. I have no problem with them coming to school here. The out-of-state tuition is horrendous and, in turn, offsets mine to a mere one hundred dollars a credit hour. I say let them pay five times what the education is worth.

African American Literature- I was worried when I signed up for the course that it would be a hour and a half “hate whitey” session twice a week, but when I saw that the profession was black I knew my fears to be irrational. Professors that instruct in racially or ethnically controversial topics are the most self loathing creatures to walk this planet. A man teaching a women’s study course; a Caucasian teaching African history, each lecture ends with some diatribe soliloquy about self improvement. Humble are those who instruct a topic they are not an expert of, for they shall inherit a tenure. I did not pay three hundred dollars to hear a sap lecture about self help, and I know the Northies didn’t pay fifteen hundred for the same.

Charles Chessnut, The Colonel’s Dream, a black man writing about a white, southern, Confederate Colonel who returns south after the war to inevitable free the already freed black citizens of his small town from slavery. Charles must have known that such a topic would not canonize him, nor immortalize his cause. Plus, he was neither an alcoholic nor a womanizer. Nonetheless, he will now live among my other dead friends, as his tribulations are not wasted on my mind.

~~~

I loved the afternoons on campus. There was a lighter mood aloft as many students had completed their studies for the day and had resigned to the coolness provided by the Spanish moss covered palms around Cooper Hall. Everything moved slower, even time seemed to inch along the stone composite walkways. Beneath the trees students tossed a Frisbee disk while others sat atop the crab grass and smoked clove cigarettes.

The few tables beneath the shade were a sought after commodity in the afternoons. They were often filled with various Liberal Arts cliques. The Philosophy students were always easy to discover with their ragged clothing and unkempt hair many of them spouting off some epiphany, unsuccessfully attempting to one-up their classmates. The writers often had a table as well. They were a mix of collared shirts and tees and one particular young man that always wore a white undershirt with a pack of American Spirits rolled in the left sleeve, blue jeans and Converse All-stars. I would sit with them sometimes, but often got discouraged at the constant use of the words “what if”.

I noticed Bernadette sitting with the writers. Her blond hair was streaked in honey and pulled up in the back, held together by a pencil. Her glasses were thick framed and were in contradiction to her petite build. There was no doubt that she was attractive, but I never saw her as anything but a friends and a meal ticket. She was a genius with a work ethic that I envied. She was going to be something important some day when all of the other writers she was sitting with would be working as book store clerks, or if they are lucky grant writers. She was my way in.

“Hey come and sit with us, we’ll make room.” Bernie called out to me.

“Sure, I can stay for a bit.” I learned long ago to always have an out before I sat.

“How is the brickyard story coming?” The young man in the James Dean outfit, whose name was Charlie Thacker asked me. He was referring to a story I work shopped in a Form and Technique of Fiction course I took the previous year.

“Just fine, I’m trying some new ideas. I’m not quite sure which direction I want to take it yet.”

“Did you read the comments I wrote you?” He unrolled the pack of cigarettes from his sleeve.

No. “Yes, and they were definitely helpful. Thank you.” I seldom read other students feedback, many of them were either trying to be too nice to give honest comments or their suggestions were damning to the fundamental idea of the story.

“I liked it,” Bernadette added. “You should bring it to the Library tomorrow so that I can read your edits.”

“I don’t agree. Well, yes it has potential. I just really think the setting is all wrong.” Charlie said with a cigarette in his mouth just before he lighted it.

His comment, although not out of the ordinary for Charlie, raised my temperature slightly. “Okay, let’s hear it then.”

“The South is all wrong for the cultural conflict of the story. The New England political climate would hold more worth.” He flicked his ash.

“The story is call The Brickyard, its about brickyard workers in Georgia. How exactly would these parameters of the story work in New England Charlie?” I leaned toward him slightly.

“I guess it wouldn’t, but it doesn’t work in the South either, and it’s Charles.” He put out the cigarette.

“Excuse me.”

“I go by Charles now.”

“Oh, I see. Since when?”

His face became rose colored. This had the opposing effect on me as my temperature dropped and I collected myself.

“Since it is more serious.”

“Charles has always been more serious.”

“I guess.”

“So what do you think that says about you up to this point?”

Charlie clenched his teeth and his jaw became visibly squared as he stared at me.

“Bernie, I’ll see you in the morning.” I stood, turned and walked away not wishing it to escalate further.

As the time passed my coveting of the young woman grew. Her response to my gaze was neither expected nor unwanted and it served to arouse my senses. The day’s excitement had left me in a starved state on multiple levels so I made my way over to the newly built student union. To shade myself from the mid-day sun I passed beneath the suspended azalea garden that effortlessly draped the plaza’s colonnades. I always walked a bit slower when under the azalea vines; they were calming and I longed to remain among them.


Once in the union I ventured to the sports bar for some wings and a few Shock Top wheat ales adorned with orange slices. Before I ordered a third drink I noticed a past dorm mate walk by on his way to class. Like my dead friends that I came to the university to study, he was an emerging alcoholic and could not make it through his heavy schedule of Mathematics courses without something to wet his lips. It was just what I expected.


“Billy!” I shouted across the bar.


“Hey, there’s my flat mate!” Billy took a firm grip on my shoulder. He was an exchange student from Whales and a computer genius to round him out.


“Let me buy you a drink.”


“I don’t know if I should. I have an exam in ten minutes.”


I looked at him with half of a sideways grin and a raised brow.


“Oh, alright, just the one pint then.”


I signaled over to the bartender with two raised fingers. “Billy, I need a favor.”


“A favor aye? A favor that equates to a pint of ale?”


“Ok then. I have a job for you. A job that will require your more creative skills.”


“Are we talking programs or b and e?” The bartender brought us our drinks.


“The latter; 2 hours, if that.”


“Two and a half should do it then.”


“Billy? I thought we were friends?”


He swallowed nearly half of his pint in a single gulp.


“You fancy were mates aye? OK, two hundred.”


I placed a one hundred dollar bill on the bar top. “Up front, take it or leave it.”


He grabbed the money as I knew he would. “What is it then?”


“At 9:17 this morning, a lady ordered a large frap, but paid nothing for it. I want to know everything about her. I want the full rap.”


“2 hours? I’ll do it in 45 minutes and have it for you at eight tonight.” He finished is drink and taped my shoulder once more as he left the bar.

Among Dead Friends

ONE

He said to start with a true statement.

The statement with the most truth would be that I loved her. I loved her curled red hair and her blue green eyes and her rounded pale cheeks when she laughed.

She loved as well, in her own definition of the word. It was a course and barbaric love, but it was all she knew. She was raised in the city by an absent mother and a recluse father. She saw love as the borrowed time between her mother’s dancing shifts and her father’s secretarial affairs. And she knew the cost of love. For her mother it was 6 dollars and a private room. For her father, the cost of an eight dollar bottle of Champaign and promises of a better life.

She brought this knowledge of love to University and spread it among the male student body. The young men that knew her in the most intimate were aware that her love was borrowed, but I was not. I was studying expatriate literature, more specifically I was helping a classmate edit an essay about Gertrude Stein’s secrete condemnation of male homosexuality when I saw her from across the library lobby. She was wearing a long scarf as she often did. This one was green and black and reminded me of a zebra that happened upon a field of clover. She wore brown suede boots lined with fur, although it was not snowy or inclement weather.

That first sighting was from twenty yards, she in the enjoining café, and I in the general collection with authors ending in “Bc” through “Bf”. She was teasing the end of her scarf and the young man taking her order, while I was among my many dead friends of literature. That was how it always seemed to be. She enjoyed living and I enjoyed reading about those who wrote about those who once lived.

She got her coffee and walked past our table on her way out of the library. Her gait was such that it caused the rest of her to bounce while she walked. It was not the type of bouncing that occurs after too many treats, but one of confidence and endowment. She moved with purpose, not poise. Her look proved her to be just enough of a lady to provoke the creativity of her admirers’ imagination.

She passed and did not take notice that my mind was provoked in such an exercise, but my study partner did.

“So what do you think,” she said. “Are you paying attention?”

“Of course… could we just go over that last part again?’

My study partner was Bernadette Cole and she fancied me. She never would admit it, but it was the only explanation of her actions during the previous year. I wrote my first short story for my very first fiction workshop. The story was decent, but by no means great. I was too close to it. It resembled my life far too much and revealed some of my worst fears. Nonetheless, my professor liked it and told me that I must submit it for a contest. The prize was a simple publication in a student literary magazine. I did submit it and it was selected. I was shocked, but Bernadette wasn’t. She was on the selection committee and the editor in chief. It was evident that my story getting selected was a direct result of her feelings toward me. Bernie also tried to sleep with me on multiple occasions.

Bernie looked down at her essay, dark type with red ink skewering her words like tiny heads upon pikes.

“She is a whore and everyone knows it.” She said in a low monotone.

I was slightly shocked. Until then I had not known that side of her. Bernadette was a classy woman in her dress and her speech. Even in her choice in company she proved to be of a conservative nature.

“I don’t even know her.”

“Then you’re the only one. I’m in here every day; she always gets a frapicino at the café and has yet to pay a dime. It’s not even the same barista each time.” She struck a line with her red pen on her paper. “Even the women…”

“Even the women?” I inquired with a hint of excitement. I looked over with a grin and she finally broke her downward glower.

“Please, she’s an American flag on September 12^th-Cheap, mounted and under whose spell smart men make stupid decisions.”

I remember thinking that that was a great line and I was going to use it in a story some day long after she had forgotten it. She was referring to the Patriot Act- a tirade of lambasting Bernadette enjoyed reciting. I quickly made up a reason to leave after scheduling another meeting for the next day to review an essay I was writing about F. Scott Fitzgerald’s death defying dance with alcoholism. My professor at the time was on a kick about how many great writers were alcoholics. I just assumed that it was the other way around. That the writers weren’t drinking so much as the drinkers were writing. I took a sarcastically benign stance to the subject. I thought that if he knew the hell that alcoholism brought to the world then he would not be glorifying those who perpetuated the weakness. A lesson I learned on many lonely nights as a teenager. But I wanted an “A” so I did not make a fuss.

I arrived at the library early and sat at the same table from the previous day. I chose the seat facing the café after removing all of the chairs from the table minus the one opposite from me. I made small talk with Bernie for quite a while until the game strutted past our table. Then I quickly slid Bernie my essay to occupy her eyes.

That day the game was in great form – wearing her same boots and a new scarf, one that draped her chest and frayed at the bare skin between her top and her shorts. She got her frapicino free of charge and walked toward our table once again. I was usually shy enough to break eye contact after only a few moments but that day I didn’t, I couldn’t. She caught me and slightly smiled as her lips wrapped her drink’s straw and she took a drag.

After she passed I quickly looked back at Bernadette who was on a rant about a mutual American Government professor. It did not seem like she noticed my lack of attention and my career as a writer was saved.

I remained impatiently at the library listening to my paper being uprooted by the always thorough Miss Cole. After ten minutes I made another hasty yet cautious excuse and left.

Sticks and Bones: Part 2

Darien grabbed once more at Aaron and was able to catch his shoulder.

The gun fired.

Hitting the dog in the hind parts did nothing more than startle him. He pulled free of his now loosened rope and leapt onto Georgie. Aaron gathered himself from the ground and stood up with anger in his blood and a knife in his hand. Darien turned to confront the boy that almost shot his brother. Aaron slashed the six inch blade of his father’s Buck knife in Darien’s direction, missing at first, he swiftly returned for another attempt. The blade sliced past his open jacket across his chest. Darien was stunned, as well as Mike and Aaron, once they realized where the brawl had taken them. Darien dropped to his knees in amazement, staring down at the wood and gold platted grip lying in the snow in front of his knees. His blood was visible on the blade, a dark maroon spilled onto the bleached snow.

Splash.

The boys turned in the direction of the noise. Where a smiling boy and a yellow Labrador once had cuddled, now came nothing but the sound of wading waters. Then a yelp.

Aaron and Mike took off, running to their houses with the speed of bad-deed-ridden children. Darien left the glistening knife next to the flaming lantern, and the black stocked BB-gun, all in a half buried bed of snow. He began to crawl, but progressed to a jog toward the water. When he came to the shore he saw Georgie trying to stand in the shallows of the canal, the current deterring his efforts. Mr. Scruffles was swimming to the other side, struggling as well.

“Darien, I can’t stand up.” Georgie began to struggle, but his legs gave in and he began to float carelessly with the current.

“Georgie!” Darien hurried down the embankment and dove at his brother.

He splashed his way to Georgie’s side, and then haphazardly pulled him to land by the sleeve of his coat.

“Keep moving,” Darien pushed him up the water’s edge, gasping in the burning coarseness of the icy air, “you can’t stop moving.” He turned and noticed the dog still fighting to prove the worthiness of his existence. The dog bobbed at a pace that slowed with each tread and his mouth steamed like the smokestack of a sinking ship. No mayday was heard by Darien as Mr. Scruffles went under.

“I’m sssso cooold.” Georgie muttered as he moved from the scene.

“I know, I know, me too.”

The boys hobbled along, Darien holding his left chest with his right hand. They dropped like falling leaves next to the lantern, their only source of heat for miles.

“You hold that lantern as tightly to your body as you can, okay?” Darien winced in pain.

“Darien, you’re bleeding.”

Darien looked down at his chest and saw that his wound was revealed through his exposed shirt.

“It’s okay, I’m fine,” he zipped his jacket closed; “we have to get inside.”

“Do you know where we are?” Georgie looked up in search of a distinguishable landmark, but found none.

“No, not really, but we have to get moving, it’s starting to get dark.”

Both boys rose and as they did it started to snow. Georgie picked up the lantern and Darien grabbed the knife that resting where it was left. They marched on through the worsening conditions of winter. They climbed over logs and crouched under branches, but were unable to decipher the pressed path from the wooded wilderness. They guessed once, and then once more until their guess became futile in a Tetris of trees. They used the branches and trunks of trees to propel themselves forward, but after two hours they were trudging deep in an unknown territory where the snow fell merciless on them.

“I’m tired.” Georgie had been dragging his feet for over a mile.

“We can’t stop Georgie,” Darien’s chest was starting to wear on his outer clothing

“I can’t go any farther.” Georgie collapsed onto the ground.

“Maybe just five minutes.” Darien fell as well.

The two huddled together in a small hole dug into the earth by some older boys that used the woods for paintballing in the warmer months. The hole’s depth was a few feet at its center, and wide enough for the two of them, shaped like a bowl. Darien scooped the snow out to his best ability and then held Georgie in his arms who still possessed the low-burning lantern.

“Darien?” The hole concealed Georgie’s quiet voice.

“Yea.” Darien started to drift.

“Do you think Mr. Scruffles is okay?”

Darien debated which lie would be the best to tell, “Sure, I saw him come out the other side.” The farthest from the truth was the best.

Two minutes passed with nothing but hard breaths being passed between the two.

“Why?” Georgie’s blond hair was now covered with snow in the front, and blood in the back.

“Why what?”

“Why did they do this?”

“I don’t know.”

“You always know.” A tear rolled down his face before freezing at his chin.

“I’m sorry Georgie, but this time I don’t.”

“I’m getting sleepy.” Georgie’s eyes began to glaze.

“Okay, you sleep for a little bit and I’ll stay awake.” Darien felt bad that he had no logical answer for his little brother, although he knew that sleeping was a bad idea.

“Darien?”

“Yea.”

“Will you sing for me?”

“Like Mom?”

“Yea, only better.”

Darien chuckled, “Okay. What do you want to hear?”

“Anything.”

“I’m dreaming of a white Christmas just like the ones I used to know...”

Georgie was sleeping within seconds. Darien sat with his brother in his arms and all he could think about was the knife in his pocket, so he took it out. He opened the knife that now had his own dried blood frosting the blade. He took his right glove off and scooped his pale blue hand into the snow, replacing it with the knife and covered it up. As Darien lost consciousness the snow continued to fall and just before he closed his eyes he saw the lantern flicker out.

For two day authorities searched for the boys to no avail, with only sorrow, pain, and layers of warm clothing. Mike and Aaron constructed a well-planned story to tell the concerned parties, stating that they never showed up after school.

On the morning of the third day a man hunting for white-tail deer walked onto a shallow depression in the snow and stepped on what he thought was a log.

Crack.

I have been having some odd dreams. I would not say that they are nightmares or even dreams necessarily. They all concern my father, who passed a little over three years ago from cancer. When he appears I am awe struck. I have noticed hugging him often and wishing to be near to him. The atmosphere always takes a dramatic turn when I conclude that he is dead. One of two outcomes occurs when I realize this; the first is that I notice he isn’t talking and/or can’t speak. I feel like this is a subconscious realization that the dead have no voice, a line I was told that Eugene O’Neil used often. The second is that he disappears instantly and all that is left are his cloths sitting, not in a pile, but laid out as if they were placed on the ground. When this happens I always feel like a fool, as if I had myself put them there and had been pretending all along. My guess is that this because I kept some of my father’s clothes when he died. One item that I wear often is his suit jacket. I commonly feel out of place when I am in a tie and jacket, as if I am pretending to be an important business man. This may have something to do with the dream, or maybe I am reaching and trying to explain something that needs no other explanation then that I miss my dad.

David J. Ebner