Angst
Volume One, Number One


Angst is electronically-published by Michael Dennis Shawn Heacock with no 
assistance from any government organization.  The E-Zine appears bi-monthly.  
Copyright (C) 1994 by the contributors.  June/July 1994.

Subscription rates:  free as of this and next issue.
Submission payments: none as of this and next issue.

Send all submissions to uh186@freenet.victoria.bc.ca OR 
an221@freenet.carleton.ca.


 Introduction

Angst, a metaphor on anger and frustration.  Dread, hurt, pain, 
turmoil.  Hopefully, this will become our personality, what our poetry 
and stories will rally around.  If not, then I suppose we'll eventually have 
to come up with a new name, for now let Angst stand.  We will let 
your submissions mold the personality of this small beasty.

As you can see, this first issue contains three stories (one regular and 
two postcard) by moi.  This will not become regular, so don't fear that 
I'll start using this 'zine as a vehicle for my own literary meanderings; we 
had need of filler for this our first issue, and an idea of the direction we 
might like to travel, though that will be left up to all of you.

Our reader base is at a whopping 85 registered subscribers (I think my 
first goal is to attract two hundred subscribers).  I'll be posting only this, 
our first, issue to some of the newsgroups around the net to try to 
generate some more interest.  After the freebie introduction, this thing'll 
only float word of mouth.  Let's all make crossies (and tell two people).

Submission-wise, this 'zine will concentrate on short stories (less than 
5000 words, though I might consider a few serials), postcard stories 
(less than 500 words; extremely strict on this), and poetry.  For the first 
few issues, this 'zine will not be able to reimburse authors making 
submissions.  Our hope here is that we will gather a bit of a following, 
enabling us to charge small subscription rates, allowing us to reimburse 
submitting authors for their efforts; ideally this thing will one day be 
strictly non-profit, all moneys taken in going straight back to the 
submitters.  Let's rub the lamp and ask our favourite djinn to make 
everything work out.

I'll again delve into the wonderful topic of formats.  Three formats exist 
for this rag.  The first is simple text, nothing fancy, no bells and 
whistles.  Next is Word 2.0 for Windows, with many bells and whistles.  
Colour.  Page formatting.  Fancy fonts (True Type).  Word format will 
be sent out zipped and UUE encoded.  Finally we come to PostScript, 
which has all the bells and whistles of Word format.  Postscript will be 
sent out as straight text or it can be zipped and UUE encoded.  As for 
sizes, I've noticed that if Angst is 100K in Word format, it will be 
approximately 80K in Text and 400K in PostScript.  Hopefully 
everyone's mail handlers can handle this.  If not, please get in touch with 
as soon as possible and we'll change your format and get another issue 
off to you.

Your editor,
 


Table of Contents
-----------------

Short Stories
-------------
Lost Horse
Heather MacLeod and Michael 
Heacock

The Key
Michael Gibbons


PostCard Stories
----------------
Second-Person Car 
Crash
Michael Heacock

The Sunday Ritual
Michael Heacock


Poetry
------
canal in spring
E. Russell 
Smith

The man who tattooed the giant butterfly on 
Cher's butt
Michael 
McNeilley

Not all suicides are fatal
Michael 
McNeilley

The Smartest Thing She Ever Did
Dan 
Siemens

<untitled>
Virgil 
Hervey

layers
Virgil 
Hervey




Lost Horse
by
Heather MacLeod and Michael 
Heacock


Pen in hand, crisp white sheet lies before me, and I try to write my 
father a letter.  It has been so long, but I swallow hard and start off:  
Dear Daddy.  Far too nice.  I try:  Dear Dad.  No, that is too polite.  I 
think about Dear Father, but that seems too stiff.  In a moment of 
anger I write YOU in huge scrawling letters, then I add "I think you 
know why I'm writing" and I sign my name.
	I'll never mail it, so it lies on the floor, next to my chair, a 
crumpled ball, two others lie with it.  Another crisp white sheet stares 
me down, ninety-six of its siblings lie underneath, eagerly awaiting their 
turns.  I keep working on the letter, the salutation really.  I don't know 
how to begin.  YOU is a little impersonal.  I scratch the underside of my 
right breast, my bra is making it itch.  I reach up into my shirt and undo 
the clasp.  That's better.  The fuzzy inner side of my sweatshirt is 
ticklish.  I turn my attention back to the blank page and try to write my 
father a letter.
	I get bored with it after a while, only to return in a few days, 
twisting and turning greetings and wondering how it is that a child can 
be raped by her daddy.  Daddy.  This is the key word; the child calls the 
father, Daddy.  Such a warm, loving, gently-killing word.  I hate it.  
Daddy.
	I don't know how to electrocute myself.  Or maybe I should say 
that I do, but I don't like the feeling of electricity.  When I was young, 
my brother tricked me into putting a battery in my mouth.  I didn't like 
how it felt, not at all, and that was only a few volts.  What's a toaster in 
the tub going to feel like?
	My therapist thinks that I should take anti-depressants.  I gave 
her my full attention and then, of course, said no.  She pushes; she is 
very persistent.  One of her finest traits.  I think that maybe I should tell 
her this, but I never do.  I admire her steady determination toward the 
drug, but I will do in the end only what I want.  I have always done 
exactly what I wanted, ask my mother, brother, or grandmother. It has 
been my theme since I was a child.  I always said, "I'll do what I want."  
To which they responded "We know."  They act as if it is a terrible 
thing when, really, it is so honest, so pure, so wonderful.  My one small 
strength and no one could ever be even remotely supportive of it.
	My father has cancer.  The doctors say he has at most one 
month.  My mother and grandmother are very depressed, they are 
finding it difficult.  They can't bear to see him in the hospital like that, 
all those wires and tubes running through him.  My brother is 
peacekeeping, I don't know how he is feeling; I haven't talked to him in 
a very long time.  I think that maybe I should phone my therapist, tell 
her that maybe she should give me a prescription for those anti-
depressants, and then I'll send them to my mother and grandmother.  
But, of course, I don't, I wouldn't be able to tell her what I'd done with 
the pills, she would think I took them, that she had won a small coup.  
Besides, I am not feeling as sorry for my mother and grandmother as I 
should be.  It is my father's fault and I hate him for it.
	I am glad that I live over a thousand miles away from my family.  
At least I don't have to explain why I won't be coming to the hospital 
today.
	I really should write my father.  But what would it prove.  It 
happened so long ago and he's so near death.  Also, why put my mother 
and grandmother through more than they are already going through.  
There's the possibility, too, that they might not believe me.  They are the 
only family I will have left.  I'm not sure if I need them, but I would like 
to keep my options open.
	I rarely speak to my brother anymore, he grew up looking like 
my father--not like my father, understand.  My brother doesn't know 
about Daddy and doesn't understand me, thinks I'm denying my 
heritage.  I don't explain.
	Heritage?  Makes me laugh.  I'm some kind of half-breed.  
Daddy's Inuit.  Mommy's Blackfoot.  Maybe my brother is right, maybe 
I am trying too hard to deny my heritage, to live in the white world.  
White people don't know who I am, they don't know the difference.  
They don't care.  To them I am just another chug.
	I wish I could have remembered all about Daddy and what he 
had done sooner, but life conspired against me.  I read somewhere that 
traumatic events can hide themselves in the sub-conscious, all but 
forgotten they are buried so deep, but that they can still affect the 
conscious-level without the trauma ever making an appearance.  When I 
told my therapist this, she agreed and said that it explained my lifelong 
fascination with death.  She's wrong.  I'm fascinated with killing myself.  
There is a difference.
	Lately I've been spending a lot a time talking with God.  Last 
week I phoned him; I was going to do it collect, but at the last minute I 
chickened out.  I wonder what my phone bill will look like.  I phoned 
the operator and asked for rates, but she acted as if I was crazy.
	When I was seven I tried death by pussy-willow.  Obviously, I 
failed.  It is tragic being a failure, especially something so simple as 
suicide.  I stood outside on a warm summer day, naked; I pushed the 
willow's silken pellets into my nose--hoping that I would suffocate.  I 
didn't.
	When I was eight I tried slitting my wrists with a paring knife.  I 
was in the middle of doing the dishes, just pulled it across my wrist.  I 
stood watching the blood, I forgot the other arm.  There really wasn't 
that much oozing from the cut, must not have pressed hard enough.  
My mother came into the kitchen, caught me, thought it was an accident 
and bandaged me up most properly.  Pulled me onto her lap and we 
drank hot chocolate.  I felt sorry for her.
	All the knives in my house are dull.  I should invest in some 
razor blades.  Good, strong, straight lines.  Maybe phone that one-eight-
hundred number, order the Ginsu World Class; do the job properly.
	Anyway, death is merely another living experience.  Fuck, 
sometimes I'm so full of bullshit I amaze even myself.  Maybe there's a 
small hint of truth in the statement.  I have always felt that death is but 
an option, the one choice that is and always will be mine.  I've chosen 
death enough times, but I find that I never end up being dead.
	Sometimes I will find myself staring at the veins that criss-cross 
through my wrists and I will find myself thinking of severing them.  Life 
giving as they are.  Often times I will think that things, life, living, 
friends, crap, bullshit, the day-to-day existence is going as well as I can 
expect; then I will notice myself staring at my wrists.
	I talk to God at such times.  I always initiate the conversation, 
because during my suicides I am quite unapproachable.  I will talk to 
him aloud, explaining life, its miseries and its joys.  I think it is 
important to be accurate with God; he always knows if you are leaving 
things out, whether you are making things seem more desperate than 
they really are.  I try to convince him that it will be all right if I die.  
That I don't mean to shove my life down his throat, I merely want to 
explain that I've had enough of it all and if he wouldn't mind bringing 
me home early.  He never has none of it.  I change tact and discuss 
karma with him, I tell him that I'd be willing to come back and repeat 
my life over, that all I need is a short holiday from it all.  But I am lying, 
and he knows it.  I don't think he holds much faith in Hindu theology.  
So finally I am stuck with my veins intact.  Then I think about slicing 
them anyway, just for old time's sake.  But the thought of me dialing 
nine-one-one, spending days in the hospital (maybe even the mental 
ward), explaining to everyone that my suicide attempt wasn't really a 
suicide attempt, that it was a. . .rehearsal.  I don't think that would fly, 
especially with my therapist.
	Like I said, I never end up being dead.
	Afterwards I think of my brother--my father's son.  I can 
remember one summer when he christened me and my cousins with 
Indian names.  It was all so solemn.  My brother was fourteen and I was 
nine.  He was old enough to be taught by the elders, I'd never felt 
jealous because he'd always come from the teachings showing or telling 
us something he'd learned.  It was as if I was old enough too.  When he 
came to the oldest of the female cousins, he got a wicked look in his eye 
and said earnestly, "You are known from now on as Eager Beaver."  It 
had taken a few years before I had understood and been able to laugh 
about it.  When he came to me he said, "You are known from now on 
as Lost Horse."  Fitting, I suppose.
	Would you believe that the strongest drug I have is aspirin and I 
only have three of those?  Until last year I used to take a lot of drugs.  I 
was trying to kill myself by accident.  I failed, obviously.  Who was it 
said, "Try, try again"?
	I am obviously in pain.  I can tell because when I'm really 
hurting my jokes are better.
	I have, of course, tried eating myself to death.  Really, what is 
the use.  Besides, I detest being fat.  Maybe I should consider starvation.  
Hmm.  The thing is that it would take so long, so time consuming.  
Constantly being aware of food.  Of course, I am a few pounds above 
where I'd like to be; starvation might be good for me.
	Burying myself alive is really out of the question.
	If my car would start I could plummet to my death or crash into 
a big rock.  My car's pretty wimpy, I'd probably bounce off the guard 
rail.  If things did work out, there's always the chance that I would live 
and be worse off than I am right now.  No, death by car is definitely 
out.
	Death by car exhaust.  I quit smoking.  This would be like taking 
it up one last final time.  Why ruin a perfect record?  It stinks too much 
anyhow.  Too bad I don't have a gas stove, not much I can do with an 
electric.  I can't see how I could burn myself to death using stove 
elements; besides, too painful.
	I hate being alone.  I've been alone for too long already.  
Sometimes I think if I had someone, everything would be all right.
	Tomorrow I will do some running around, odds and ends, then I 
will pack up my belongings, get on a plane and fly away.  Fly away.  
Maybe the plane will crash.  I can almost see it now.  I look out the tiny 
window in time to see the wing shear off.  I smile and calmly check the 
In Case Of Emergency card in the seat pocket in front of me.  I read 
that an inflatable life vest is stored beneath my seat.  I laugh.  Small 
comfort as we take the 30 000 foot, fiery plunge toward earth.
	No.  I will not fly away tomorrow.  I'd probably live.  I can 
imagine all the nightmares that would plague me.  My therapist has her 
hands full dealing with all my bullshit now, I wouldn't want to overload 
her, force a nervous breakdown.  Then what would I do.  I love my 
therapist.  She is my only friend.
	What if I went to a big city, took a dive off a skyscraper.  Like 
the World Trade Center in New York.  Again, I'd have to fly.  Nope, 
out of the question.
	I live in a mobile home, jumping from the roof wouldn't do me 
much damage.  Maybe if I landed on my head.
	I think that I'd like to try sky diving.  With parachuting, the 
choice is so laid out before you, pull the chord; don't pull the chord.  
Either way the view's great.
	I should probably write my father.  I wonder if it's possible to 
die from a paper cut.  Ugh.  It would probably be a real shivery feeling, 
like listening to someone scrape their fingernails across a blackboard.
	That time I phoned God, I talked to him about my father.  I 
wanted to make sure there would be no confusion.  I didn't want Daddy 
slipping through the pearly gates because of some divine screw-up.  
God spoke to me of forgiveness, but I was having none of it.  I started 
shouting at him; I called him "a bastard for creating my father, a bastard 
for leaving me."  God drew a blank and I didn't think to explain; I was 
in such a kerfuffle.  If God hadn't left me, would Daddy have slid into 
my bed all those nights?
	It's nice to scream at God, let's him know that he is not perfect, 
that everything he does is not always perfect.  I forgive God.  I forgive 
him for leaving me.
	Is God against suicide?  Is it a sin?  I don't want God to be angry 
or upset if I die.  I want to die in peace, I want to die.  I want to die.  I 
want to die.  I want to die.  I want to die.  I want to die.  I want to die.
	If he is mad at me, maybe I'll tell him a funny story--cheer him 
up.  There's one that always makes me laugh whenever I think of it.  
Back when I turned eighteen, my brother took me drinking--finally 
legal.  Two in the morning, the bars closed, and both of us pissed and 
wobbly, we slowly made our way home.  At the front stoop my brother 
misstepped, broke the heel off his cowboy boot, and fell into the dust.  
He picked himself up, looked at the broken heel, and sang to me, "You 
picked a fine time to leave me loose heel."  God is omniscient, though; 
he probably already knows the story and wouldn't laugh as I'd expect 
him to.
	I don't think hanging by the neck until dead dead dead is an 
option.  I'm not especially keen on rope burn and I heard on TV that a 
person's bowels will empty everywhere.  Mother's are always telling 
their children to wear clean underwear in case they get in some kind of 
accident.  Hanging causes a helluva lot more mess than the basic skid 
mark; and it usually has to be done on purpose.  I would imagine it 
being somewhat hard to hang yourself by accident.
	The letter:

               Dear Daddy,

                   God tells me that I should forgive you.  I can't.

               Your Daughter

I'll wait until tomorrow, then decide whether I mail it or not.
	I don't like to be alone.  I like to think that there will come a time 
when someone shall lie down with me and let me feel safe; just for a 
moment.  Just one moment of feeling safe--I could have a nap in the 
afternoon sun.  A small, gentle, peaceful sleep.  I would like to feel safe.
	I hear that drowning is a peaceful way to go--very pleasant.  I 
wonder, if I died would I feel safe?  Next time I talk to God, maybe I'll 
ask.


canal in spring
by
E. Russell Smith


empty husks lie deep at the feeder 
as the last snow melts;
sunflower seed junkies
slate-coloured prodigals 
hungry now between seasons
after seven months of charity
peck through the leavings
for the bits they wasted in winter

a squall at dawn
draws snow across April 
like a coroner's sheet
an east wind hides broken floes 
in blind bays of the waterway
carnival rubbish fouls the mud 
and shabby mallards forage 
till the flushing

on one bank black ice festers
on the other sunchicks blister
like new paint on undried wood
old houses look at new
across the half-full ditch; a line
defines the form on either side --
under tension, like a green stick 
bends, until it breaks


Second-Person Car Crash
by
Michael Heacock


You don't know how to feel.  Strange thoughts keep running through 
your brain.  It might have been your girlfriend.  It might have been you 
two weeks ago when you took the risk and drove home from the SUB 
Pub loaded on twelve ounces of alcohol.  You might have killed your 
friends that night, or the driver of the car you hit.  Though little damage 
was caused and no one was hurt, it still eats at you--it caused you to 
reevaluate your drinking habits.  This new situation hardens whatever 
resolve you'd set yourself to.
	You're at home, been home for an hour.  You feel sober in spite 
of the three pitchers of draught.  When you arrived at the house there 
was a message waiting; your girlfriend, in Vancouver for the weekend, 
needed you to call her immediately.  Her message was shaky and 
scared.  You didn't understand at the time, but you wanted to hear her 
voice, you miss her, you called.
	Your best friend has been killed in an auto accident.  Your other 
three friends--passengers--are all physically okay, minor bumps and 
bruises.  The driver was drunk, his jeep rolled; your friend was killed 
instantly.  You're not sure whether to feel relief that he went quickly, 
bearing little pain, or to feel angry because he was denied a fighting 
chance, a chance at life.  Your other friend, the driver, you feel a certain 
amount of remorse for him too; his life has become shit, lifelong guilt 
and a prison term for vehicular manslaughter.  It wasn't entirely the 
driver's fault, the passenger's should have never gotten into the vehicle.
	You curse yourself for trying to find fault, for rationalizing a 
tragedy.  These are your friends.  It all comes flooding back again and 
you begin choking on tears, anger, and anguish.
	The world will be worse off not having your best friend around, 
everyone will be worse off.  Little comfort thinking that at least you got 
to know him, that you were a lucky one.  Small comforts, but it will 
have to be enough, you guess.


<untitled>
by
Virgil Hervey


the clock face is about two inches
     from my nose
the second hand sounds like my cat
     scratching at my door
     wanting to be fed
my head and my dick feel about the same
     throbbing, aching
for one pudpulling moment i can't decide whether
     to do something about this pisshardon
     or not
but doors are slamming throughout the house
     and it really is the cat
     she is relentless
i start to drag my ass out of bed but
     i can't stand the prospect...
the alarm, the alarm, oh
     the fucking alarm
i grab the clock and smash it against the wall
     electric clock bowels
     separate from the plastic casing
     but the fucker keeps ringing
my head hurts, my back aches
     maybe i'm sick
i didn't go to work yesterday
     doubt i can pull that off
     again, today
heat's coming up -- steam in the valves
     radiator's banging
shit, it ain't even light out
     and i hear the paper boy
     smack of the "times"
     as it hits the side of the house
     garbage trucks, lawn king
there's a tightness in my chest
     don't know if it's a heart attack
     or too much oregano on the pizza
     last night, maybe it's stress
     maybe anxiety
last night a woman with a foreign accent called
     it was very late
     she wanted to know if i was awake
     at least i think she called
     or was it a dream?
something real did happen during the night
     don't know where
     don't know what it was
     but it happened without me
     and i'm sad that i missed it
i'm writing my life down
     on toilet paper
     flushing it in this place
i don't need a vacation
     i need a bullet
     in the head
the noise outside is unbearable
     i open the window
     and throw the clock
     at jerk with the leaf blower
     he yells up to me
     "you crazy motherfucker,
     i ought to call the cops!"
i doze, in my dream i smile, amused
     there's a fat lady in a lawn chair
     flower print dress, string of pearls
     big sun hat, lots of lipstick
     her handbag is next to the chair
     it's got wheels
     it tries to get away
     she reins it in on a leash
     like an errant pup
and i wonder how my mind could paint this
     with such vivid detail
     have i been here before?


The man who tattooed the giant butterfly on 
Cher's butt
by
Michael McNeilley


The man who tattooed the giant butterfly on Cher's butt
has large, soft hands.  The backs of his hands 
are covered with tattoos of stars, the moon, planets.
Around his fingers are tattoos of rings.

The dad of the man who tattooed the giant butterfly on 
Cher's butt once accused him of gilding the lily.  "Dad," he said, 
"man, that's entirely silly, to think of a butt in terms 
of a lily." Then he thought on it some more.

When the man who tattooed the giant butterfly on 
Cher's butt crosses the street, cars stop for him.
Men who know of his claim to fame come up to him
and ask to shake his hand.

(That evening he sat there for hours, carefully inking the lines 
of most intricate butterflies, ribbons and flowers, smoothing 
and stretching the skin, as though bringing up something deep 
from within, articulating his canvas as no painter thinks to do.)

If the man who tattooed the giant butterfly on Cher's butt talks
to you, don't listen.  He's a man who can convince a cat 
to fly.  You'll find yourself listening more than hearing, 
and discover later you did whatever he told you 

(without remembering why) and there on your arm you'll find 
a red and blue filigreed heart, with your ex-lover's name 
wrapped around on a beautiful ribbon, never to come off, 
because tattoos are forever and you can't turn back time.

The man who tattooed the giant butterfly on Cher's butt stands 
all but naked on an L.A. cliff at dawn, looking out across the city.
His tennis shoes are laced through to the very top eye.
Across his own butt is a tattoo of his own hand.


Not all suicides are fatal
by
Michael McNeilley







	"The ward is against me," 
	jokes Crazy Dave, unable to change 
	the channel on the 
	Lawrence Welk ward TV.
	"The ward is not against you"
	answers the serious psychologist.

	Dave had been in the ward 
	before, plenty of times, 
	always on the borderline. 
	Drugs brought him close to the
	edge. Love pushed him 
	over.

	Crazy Dave got back inside
	trying to off himself with a 
	single-edge razor blade -- 
	woke up on a mattress 
	soaked with blood,
	clothing clotted, stinking,
	Morrison still singing "The End"
	over and over on the turntable.

	

	
	Crazy Dave gave up his life,
	threw out his art, 
	and part of his life 
	came back, unwanted 
	but his art 
	didn't.

	She would never hear him,
	never did hear him, and they 
	could never understand, 
	never understand things 
	they would not see, and with 
	his art gone, Crazy Dave 
	couldn't see 
	those things himself.
	
	The art bled out of Crazy Dave,
	and what was left
	of his long hair turned grey,
	and 20 years later now 
	he plays guitar 
	in the one-man ward band, 
	
	takes requests, and knows 
	the ward is not 
	against him.







The Key
by
Michael Gibbons


The two young men walked quickly across the quadrangle of the small 
New England college. Their boots crunched the frozen snow. It was 
bitterly cold with a sharp north wind that frosted the glasses of the taller 
one so that he had to peer from under the hood of his wool coat and 
over the top of his glasses to follow the path. Yet as they neared their 
destination their gait became slower and more deliberate. The shorter 
one was bundled in a dark blue ski parka, a blue woolen hat pulled 
down over his ears and a red woolen scarf wrapped around most of his 
face. As they neared the dormitory, the light from one of the windows 
revealed his pale blue eyes, gazing apprehensively up at a second-floor 
room. On the steps outside the doorway the two kicked off the snow 
that had stuck to the bottom of their boots.
"Don't worry about a thing, Sean," the shorter one said, as he 
opened the door, pulled his hat off and unwrapped the scarf from his 
face, revealing a square thick head, crew-cut brown hair, a fairly 
handsome face that contrasted the lean, angular face of his taller friend, 
whose black horn rim glasses made him look the more studious of the 
two. "I'll handle everything . . . Did you bring the money?" 
"I know I don't have anything to worry about because I don't 
fucking need it," Sean said, wiping his frosted glasses with a 
handkerchief he got from his pants pocket. "It's just that it's twenty-five 
dollars. I can't really afford it, Larry. It's a week's worth of food 
money."
"But you're gonna get fifty dollars this week from the papers you're 
writing for Billy and Mac. Don't forget it's finals in two weeks. After 
seeing that Psych paper you wrote for Hitch, half the football team will 
be knocking on your door. You could probably make a few hundred 
dollars the next two weeks."
"I know that. But writing papers for dumb jocks is a lot easier than 
what you've got in mind. And a lot less dangerous."
"I'll give him the fifty bucks now," Larry said, "and you can give me 
twenty-five next week. How's that?"
"Okay."
The two walked up the concrete stairway, casting long echoes deep 
into the building with each step. They paused outside the door marked 
225, and looked at each other nervously.  Larry knocked twice as 
prearranged. The door opened quietly and a pale face with the receding 
blonde hair of an older graduate student peered through the opening.
"Shhh! My roommate's sleeping," the graduate student said, in a 
loud whisper. 
He let Sean and Larry in and then walked over to the bedroom door 
of the two-room suite and closed it.
"We can talk now," the grad student said. "But keep it down. I don't 
want to wake my roomie."
 He switched off the ceiling light leaving only his desk lamp to 
illuminate the crowded, small study room, then got comfortable in his 
swivel desk chair. Dressed in white tee shirt and beltless khaki pants, he 
stretched back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head and placed 
his stockinged feet on the desk.  Sean half-sat on the sleeping 
roommate's desk, unimpressed with the arrogance of the young man 
now checking him out most carefully. Sean looked at his huge shadow 
being cast against the wall and ceiling by the solitary light. Larry sat 
uncomfortably in a wooden chair that looked incapable of giving 
comfort. 
"Have you met Sean?" asked Larry, breaking the uneasy tension. 
"He's my partner and you can trust him. Sean this is Gil."
"Hi, Sean, a pleasure," Gil said, without attempting to get up and 
shake hands.
"Gil," Sean said, imitating Gil's harsh whisper, and looking at his 
pale face in the gray shadow. He already disliked the cocky grad 
student.  Through some innate sense, he found he could quickly pick up 
on personality types; seldom did he find himself wrong. He wanted the 
business taken care of as quickly as possible.
"You got the money, guys?" the grad student whispered. "Sorry I 
can't offer you a beer."
Thank God, thought Sean, thinking of numerous insults he might 
heap on the weasel if they were to sit around and drink a few beers.
"Yeah."  Larry pulled five tens from his pocket and placed them on 
Gil's desk.
Gil leaned forward took the money and opened his desk's center 
drawer. He took out a small tin box, opened it and handed the shiny, 
worn key to Larry.
"There it is in all it's glory," Gil said, smugly. "Test it tomorrow 
night and if you have any problems let me know as soon as possible. I'm 
graduating in two weeks and then I'm out of here. History. So you'll 
have to settle any problems before I leave."
* * *
Larry and Sean walked solemnly back to their dorm. Their mood was 
mostly a reflection of Sean's funk. They quickly stopped at the food 
truck for hot-dogs and coffee.  The Methodist Church's bell across the 
street  peeled two a.m.
"I didn't like that bastard," Sean said.
"I didn't either. But we probably won't be dealing with him again. 
Fingers crossed."
They entered the dorm and went to Larry's single room, took off 
their coats and boots and settled down at the desk to eat and plan for the 
next night. Larry placed the key prominently on top of his desk and 
starred hungrily at it as he ate. Larry was elated, but in deference to 
Sean's moodiness, played down his good feelings.
"Cheer up, Sean, the key's ours. We did it."
"You got any beer?" Sean asked.
"Hahahaaa," Larry laughed, got up and walked toward the room's 
only window, opened it, and grabbed a six-pack from the sill.
"Oh shit, it's frozen," he said, placing the six-pack of Rheingold on 
the radiator behind his bed and closing the window. "It's a good thing 
you asked for a beer. I'd forgotten about it. The bottles would have been 
cracked in a few more hours. Hate to waste beer. Even if it's the cheap 
shit."
"Piss, you mean," Sean said.
They both laughed. Then the radiator started to clang and cough as 
it did every night when the heat was turned off.
Sean said, "The heat's going off. It'll take forever for the beer to 
thaw. I'll run hot water over them in the bathroom. That ought to do it."
Sean got up and left the room. Larry finished his hot dog and 
fingered the bronze Yale key with the delicacy one would handle a 
precious gem. The key to his success was now in his pudgy hands. He 
knew he could graduate with probably a C-average, but he would have 
to study his ass off and not much time would be left over for the social 
life, the wild frat parties, that he loved. And the money he would make 
with the key would allow him to chase the most desired of the coeds. 
But he was a little concerned about Sean. He knew Sean didn't really 
need the key but he did need the cash. He was sure Sean would never 
tell anybody about the key. He listened for his friend's returning 
footsteps.
 "Dum di daaa. I've done it. Where's the church key?"
Larry opened a desk drawer, pulled out the opener and flipped it to 
Sean, who opened two bottles, handed one to Larry and sat down on 
the bed with the other.
"Gil told me he made two thousand dollars in the two years he had 
it," Larry said, absently fingering the shiny brass key. "He told me he 
bought it from another grad student, the one who supposedly made it by 
copying a master key from a janitor in the Chem building. How he got 
the key from the janitor is still a mystery. Whether or not he bribed the 
janitor, nobody knows."
Sean pulled his room key out of his coat pocket, took the key out of 
Larry's hand and placed them together.
"Let me see your key," he said.
"I've already compared them," Larry said. "Give me the two keys."
He took his key and placed it on top of Sean's.
"You see the difference between our room keys," he said holding 
them  in front of his desk lamp. "Your key has one higher tooth . . . 
here . . .you see?"
Sean leaned over Larry's shoulder and looked at the keys. "Ya. I see 
it. So all the keys from this dorm would almost be the same. One higher 
or lower tooth, here or there, would be the only difference."
"But you see with the master," Larry went on, "all the teeth, except 
for the two at the front and the three at the back are gone."
"Ah, huh." Sean paused in thought. "So we have to decide . . . wait 
a minute. We could make as many masters as we wanted by filing down 
the all the middle teeth of copies of our own keys."
"You got it. But do we want to? The more keys, the more problems. 
The fewer who know, the better."
"Well, we better make at least one copy. You never know what will 
happen when you give it to your stupid frat brothers. That bozo Clef. 
He could really fuck it all up."
"Don't worry about them," Larry said. "I'll see that they don't fuck it 
up. They know that it's the only way that most of them will ever 
graduate."
"But if they're not smart enough to graduate from this college, 
which isn't very difficult, are they smart enough not to screw up with 
the key?"
"Sean, it might not be hard for you, but everyone isn't as smart as 
you. You hardly even study and you've been on the Dean's List for the 
last . . ."
"Four semesters."
They finished the beer in silence and then made plans to go out the 
next night at nine. Sean returned to his room and went to bed but he 
couldn't fall asleep. He tossed and turned and finally gave up, put on his 
bathrobe, lit a cigarette, and watched the cold winter sunrise beam into 
his room. I don't need this, he thought. But then again it's the caper that 
fills my need. Something interesting to do. Some excitement to alleviate 
the wretched boredom of this institution. This college is a fucking joke. 
If my parents had more money I could have gone to Harvard, or at least 
Brown, some place that would have been challenging. But I do like the 
existentialism of it all. To cheat and not have to cheat. To consciously 
do what others would not approve of. To do the wrong thing and enjoy 
it. The same reason for writing the history and government papers for 
Larry's dumb friends. For that and the extra cash which makes this 
desolate existence a little more comfortable. Get to take a girl to the 
movies and out for a few beers after. Not much a young man can do 
with a five-dollar-a-week allowance from home. And, of course, it's 
such a big thing for Larry and it puts him in big with the jock fraternity 
and his own fraternity. He'll be the big shot that he wants to be, and I'll 
be his intellectual front man. What a team. The short high school 
football player, not good enough to make the college varsity, and his 
coolly reserved friend.
Seven a.m. and finally blissful sleep came.
* * *
They met at nine the next night in Larry's room. Sean entered the room 
and was a little surprised to find Larry, head leaning on right elbow, in 
fake study pose.
"Studying for an exam," Sean guffawed.
"Shhh! Wait a minute," Larry replied, not looking up.
 "Got any beer?"
"No drinking tonight. We don't want to screw this up."
"Doesn't look like you got much sleep last night, either," Sean said.    
 "I missed three classes today," Larry said, intently studying a rough 
sketch he had made of a floor plan, and talking to himself in a quiet 
whisper.
"I didn't bother going at all. But this escapade is more fun than 
listening to Prof Ditmar's lecture on why the Russians beat us into 
space. Well anyway, Larry, I slept for most of the day so I'm well 
rested. What's the battle plan for tonight?"
Sean walked toward the window.
"History is the most important subject of all," Larry said, looking up 
from his desk at Sean. "History exams will be the biggest prizes. Adams 
Hall is our first target."
"Yah, all you dumb bastards are history majors," Sean said, smiling.
"What we've got to find out is the times the night janitor punches 
into those little things . . . you know . . . those thingamajigs on the wall 
by the fire extinguishers on each floor." 
"I know what you mean," Sean said. "The janitors stick some kind 
of key in them periodically. They're called time clocks. Interesting 
expression isn't it?"
"What?" said Larry.
"Time clocks. Aren't all clocks, time clocks?"
"That's them," Larry replied. "Well, Gil told me it was once an hour 
on the hour from eight o'clock until two in the morning in most 
buildings, but he never went into Adams.  I've got a copy of the 
schedule from Gil for all the other buildings that we need, although we'll 
have to check them at least once to make sure."
"Jesus, Larry, you're a fucking genius at scheming. If you applied 
yourself to studying with as much gusto as you're putting into this caper 
you'd get straight A's."
"But why not put some adventure into our lives," Larry responded, 
lying with a false bravado. 
"Bullshit. Now you're stealing my lines," Sean said. "You need this 
much more than I do, and you know it."
"Cut it out, Sean. I still got some studying to do." 
"Larry, why do you suppose people always get such a big charge 
out of doing what they believe is wrong? Am I the only person on earth 
that gets a charge out of being a bad guy?"
"It's just because your a Catholic. You need something to confess to 
Father Cronin, don't you? You don't want Father Cronin to think you're 
some kind of a saint. But you better not tell that pervert a fucking thing 
about this."
"Me? Go to confession?  You're getting a little edgy, Larry. I haven't 
been to confession since eighth grade. For me, this caper is the most 
artistic, most existential approach to scholastics that I've ever thought of, 
excuse me, that we've ever thought of. We should write a fucking thesis 
on alternate ways to make it through college. We'd get an A-plus. 
They'd give us our degrees. Summa Cum Laude. After all, what is 
college really about?  Creative learning. This is intelligence doing it's 
best work." 
"What are you talking about?" Larry replied. "We're not the first 
guys in the world to do this."
"You're right. But I think that if this institution is really interested in 
higher learning, we should be able to walk into the Dean's Office, lay 
the plan on his desk and walk out with degrees." 
"You forgot one important thing," Larry said. "Make that three 
things. Number one: we, or I, make that, don't want to study; I want to 
party. Right? Number two: what else are we going to do?  We get our 
degrees and then what do we do?  Go to fuckin' work? We're too young 
to go to work. Number three: we'd get arrested, kicked out of school, 
black marks on our records for life."
"We'll get arrested, kicked out of school, and have black marks on 
our records if we get caught stealing history exams so you're dumb 
brothers can graduate."
"We're not going to get caught, Sean. Get those negative thoughts 
out of your head. We can't have any negative thoughts when we go into 
Adams."
"I'll try my best." Sean smiled impishly.
Larry was silent for several moments before he spoke again: "You 
know Gil said that this key would open every door to every building on 
this campus, except those built after nineteen sixty, which rules out 
Science and Tech, and the new girls' dorms on the hill. That's it. We 
can even get into the administration building if we want."
The walk to Adams Hall took only ten minutes. They walked 
quickly and confidently in the bitter cold night. The campus walkways 
were nearly deserted. The light from the huge library windows 
illuminated the bundled pair as they walked past.
"Look. You can see Roy inside putting the make on . . .Can you see 
who it is?"
"Naw," said Sean. "But it does look cozy and warm in there."
"The library's only good for one thing."
"I think it's just as lonely in there trying to make it with some chick 
as it is outside in this cold."
They approached Adams Hall, scraped the snow from the bottoms 
of their sneakers, the footwear they had decided upon as best for the 
cat-walking required, and walked up to the front door which should be 
locked by now. It was ten-forty-five by the library clock.  Larry shook 
the door handle.
"Good, it's locked. Well here goes nothing."
He placed the master key into the lock and turned it. They heard the 
correct clicking sound and looked at each other. The door unlocked. 
"Smooth as butter," Sean said, smiling. "But my feet are freezing in 
these sneakers."
As soon as they entered the building Larry pulled an old tee shirt out 
of his coat pocket.
"Let's wipe clean the bottom of our sneakers," Larry whispered as 
softly as he could and still be heard by Sean. "We don't want to leave a 
trail through the corridor."
"Jesus, Larry, is there anything you don't think of?"
"Shhh! Keep it down. I thought it would be a good idea. The janitor 
must polish the floors at night. They're always slippery when I come to 
my eight o'clock class."
"Which can't be very often," Sean whispered.
"Shhh!"
They had just finished cleaning their sneakers. Larry had put the tee 
shirt back in his pocket and they were standing just a few feet inside the 
front door when they heard the door opening behind them. They 
jumped. They were both startled by the sight of a grad student entering 
the building and they nervously exchanged mumbled hellos. Had they 
forgotten to lock the door behind them? To their relief they saw the 
grad student putting his key back in his pocket. He fortunately appeared 
preoccupied and hardly gave them a glance even though he returned 
their greeting with his own mumble before disappearing into the first 
floor corridor.
"I guess we'll have to get used to these surprises," Sean sighed. "If a 
janitor or grad student happens upon us, we'll have to pretend we're 
grad students. We'll have to exhibit the appropriate  air of superiority 
that obviously distinguishes a grad student from a mere undergrad."
 Larry said, "But the janitors can't possibly know all the grad 
students, can they?"
"If anybody asks, and I don't think they will, we could say we're 
Gov grads over for a little late hour work in the library. The grad 
students have keys to get in, don't they? The one who came in just after 
us obviously did."
"Shhh! I hear somebody," Larry continued in a whisper. "It might 
be the janitor. Let's hide in the  bathroom down the hall."
They walked quickly down the first-floor hall to the bathroom, went 
inside, turned the light off and held their breath as the footsteps clunked 
and clacked toward them with deliberate purpose.
"Do you think it's the janitor?" Sean whispered,  nervously.
"Shhhhhh!"
The footsteps stopped. Their hearts thumped wildly. Sweat rose on 
their foreheads. They heard a metallic clicking noise; then a long silence 
before the footsteps retreated slowly away. Larry took a flashlight from 
his coat pocket, turned it on and looked at his watch.
"Eleven o'clock," he whispered.  "He was right on time, if that was 
the janitor."
"It had to be," Sean whispered back. "The sound of the key. He was 
clocking in on the hour. It must be the same as the other halls Gil 
mentioned. What do we do now?"
"Mac Hugh's office is on the second floor just down the hallway 
from the stairs on the left," he replied. "We'll test run his office. The 
janitor won't be back until midnight. Let's go."
The two tiptoed like frightened cats, Larry in front of Sean, out of 
the bathroom, up the stairs and along the corridor wall until they 
reached Mac Hugh's office, room 207. They paused in front of the 
heavy-looking wooden door and looked around before Larry slid the 
master key in the lock and opened the door. Larry had been in Mac 
Hugh's office many times to case it in anticipation of getting the key, 
even asking the seated professor what his grade was so he could see 
where he kept his grade book. He knew the office as well as his own 
dorm room. They entered and Sean closed the door quietly behind 
them. Larry flashed his light to the professor's cluttered old oak desk.
"His grade book should be in here," he said, carefully pulling out the 
top right drawer. "Yup. Here it is . . . Good . . . Look. His grades are 
entered in pencil. Phew!  I'm set in this class."
"Anything else?" Sean asked.
"Exams. They should be in this cabinet."
"Isn't it locked"
"It wasn't the last time I was in here. Some of the drawers were half 
out. If it's locked, I know his keys are in his middle drawer. I've seen 
them."
While Sean held his breath, Larry pulled at the top drawer of the 
cabinet as slowly and quietly as possible. It slid open. "Here they are," 
he said, smiling nervously as he ran his fingers through the stack of 
exam papers.
"I wonder why the cabinet isn't locked," Sean said, whispering a 
little louder than before.
"Why?" Larry said, softly. "I don't think it's ever occurred to Mac 
Hugh that anyone could, or would, even think of rifling an exam from 
his office."
"Let's get out of here," Sean said. "I'm getting the creeps."
On the way back to the dorm, Sean had a sudden thought.
"You know what?" he said.
"What?"
"We forgot to turn the bathroom light back on."
"I don't think it's a big deal," Larry said. "Anyone who went in there 
might turn the light off without thinking. I don't think we have anything 
to worry about."
And so went each night for the next week. Seven test runs to the 
Chemistry building, to Botany, Government, Economics, English, back 
to Chem and finally back to Adams. Everything went according to plan 
with no hitches. They had been in the offices of each of Larry's five 
professors for that semester. Sean, reluctantly, agreed to go to the 
offices of two of his Professors. In all seven cases, the grade books were 
easily located, but in only two offices were exams found. In every hall 
the routine of the janitors was the same. Hourly, on the hour, clock ins. 
The only disagreement between the pair was which was the best time to 
sneak in to the different offices. Larry was in favor of early forays, 
between ten and eleven o'clock. Sean favored after midnight. Larry's 
argument for the earlier time was that there were more grad students in 
the building then and the two of them would not stand out when 
entering the building or walking down the corridors. They wouldn't have 
to sneak around like alley cats afraid of making too much noise. Sean 
favored the later time because nobody but the janitor would normally be 
in the buildings after midnight, and most likely he would be sleeping in 
some basement closet, waking up only for his hourly rounds. And if 
they somehow screwed up, if one of the professors suspected 
tampering, there would be no witnesses to identify them. No one could 
say that they thought they saw two guys, a tall one and a shorter one, 
who they didn't think belonged in the building. So they agreed to vary 
the times of entry during the test runs to between the hours of ten and 
two p.m.
For Sean, the absurdity of tampering with grade books was realized 
when, after Larry had upped his exam results by one grade three 
different times, he adamantly insisted that Sean do at least one himself. 
Standing terrified in the office of his analytical chemistry professor, 
Larry trained the flashlight on the blue exam book while Sean turned 
the pages. He thought he had aced the exam, but one problem had 
bothered him. He reluctantly changed the final equation to that problem, 
more to bond with Larry (blood brothers in crime; to make them equally 
responsible in all aspects of the caper, which seemed so important to 
Larry) than because he thought the equation was wrong. When he got 
the results two days later, he got an A-minus instead of an A. The only 
mistake was the equation he had changed. Stupid, he said to himself, 
when he learned the result. 
* * *
One week later, on the eve of Professor Mac Hugh's final in Ancient 
Civilizations, Larry and Sean were in Larry's room anxiously watching 
his clock tick-tock away the time until five to eleven, the agreed upon 
departure time, when they would steal their first exam. Sean was not at 
all comfortable because the exam was not for him, but was for Larry 
and nineteen of his fraternity brothers. What if they screwed up? Got 
caught cheating? He would be implicated and thrown out of school. He 
might be bored with school, but he didn't want to suffer the disgrace of 
expulsion.
Yes, the thrill of the caper was gone for him, although he hadn't told 
Larry. He knew Larry would be very upset if he did; it meant too much 
to him. Sean still felt stupid about the one exam he did change. Two 
nights later, he had the chance to change the grade book of his physics 
professor. He stood there dumbly over the grade book. He didn't make 
a change even though the grades were entered in pencil. He looked at all 
the grades and chuckled when he discovered that his were the highest in 
the class. What to change? The thrill of cheating was gone.
 There was a knock on the door.
"Come in," Larry said.
In walked Tom Fortier, one of Larry's frat brothers, average height, 
taller than Larry, but a tad shorter than Sean. He was a nervous, fidgety, 
senior who couldn't sit still for more than a couple of minutes. His face 
was dark and round, his hair dark and short, and he wore thick, horn 
rim glasses.
"Hi, guys," he said, in  husky baritone. "All ready to go?"
"Are you going, too?" Sean asked, incredulously.
"No," Larry answered. "Relax, Sean. When we get the exam we're 
giving it to Tom and he'll give it to the brothers."
"Three's a crowd, Sh, Sh, Sean," Tom stuttered. "I, I, I'm not 
going."
"Relax, Sean," Larry repeated.
"It's your stupid brothers I'm worried about, Larry," Sean said, 
tapping a cigarette on his lighter and then lighting it.
"Jesus, you're jumpy tonight," Larry said. His look was a worried 
one.
"You'd be jumpy if you were in my shoes," he said. "I've got 
everything to lose and nothing to gain."
"You know the only reason we're not getting any money is because 
it's for my brothers. Everybody else pays. Okay."
"Yes, boss."
"When are you going?" Tom asked, timing his question to end the 
squabble.
"We're leaving in five minutes," Larry said. "It's ten to eleven now. 
Ten minutes to Adams. We want to get there at five after, just after the 
janitor has done his thing, and be out by twenty past, if all goes right."
"Knock on your head, Larry," Sean said, and all three shared 
nervous laughter.
"What do you want me to do?" Tom asked Larry.
"You wait here until we get back. Better still go buy a six-pack and 
then wait here. And save us some beer."
Larry gave Tom his room key and all three left. They parted outside 
the dorm as Tom turned away toward the bar across the street.
"Good luck, guys," he said.
"We'll meet you back in the room at eleven-thirty, or a little later," 
Larry said. 
It was a clear and starry night, but without the bitter cold that was 
typical of northern New England in late January. The winter thaw had 
melted what snow remained on the walkways. As they walked along the 
familiar path to Adams Hall, Sean mentioned how they wouldn't have to 
worry about tracking in the snow's moisture. They walked past the 
library just as the clock struck eleven. Closing time. Only two students 
could be seen through the huge window. Then past the administration 
building  to Adams Hall.
They entered, tiptoed up to the second floor and gingerly walked 
along the lighted hallway toward Mac Hugh's office. They hadn't heard 
a soul. It was deathly quiet. Larry slowly inserted the master key and 
opened the door. They entered quickly and closed the door, which 
automatically locked behind them. The office was completely dark 
except for a crack of hallway light under the door. Larry turned on his 
flashlight, walked past the desk to the wall cabinet, opened it, found a 
stack of exam papers with the flashlight and took them out. Sean sat in 
Mac Hugh's chair, a hard oak swivel chair, nervously tapping his 
sneakered feet, craving a cigarette, while Larry put the pile of exams on 
the desk. He fingered through the stack, mumbling to himself. Sean 
thought it was taking forever for Larry to locate the final, but they had 
been in the office less than three minutes.
"Here it is. Nope . . . this must be it. Yup, here it is." Larry was 
whispering to himself. Sean couldn't help but smile as he watched Larry 
intent on his mission. He pulled a copy of the exam from the stack and 
handed it to Sean.
"You want my fingerprints on it, too," Sean whispered, smiling.
Larry put his finger to his lips but didn't say anything. He picked up 
the stack of exams and turned quickly to return them to the cabinet. He 
turned too quickly and slammed his right foot in the wastepaper basket 
next to the desk, knocking it across the office. It sounded as if a bomb 
had exploded. Sean nearly jumped out of the chair. They both froze. 
Larry managed to hold on to the exams. He put the flashlight out. They 
didn't dare move a muscle. Their hearts were pounding out of their 
chests. Their breathing was audibly shallow and rapid. Perspiration 
rolled off their foreheads. Their hands were clammy. They heard a door 
open from down the hall and then the sound of slow, deliberate 
footsteps coming toward Mac Hugh's office. The footsteps paused near 
the office door for what seemed like an eternity.  Sean thought his 
breathing was as loud as a cheering football crowd. Larry felt the skin 
tightening around his mouth and nose. Sean screamed in panic to 
himself. The footsteps resumed, moving away. They breathed a sigh of 
relief and looked at each other, although it was too dark in the office for 
them to see anything. Then they heard the footsteps again, moving 
faster, returning from the far end of the corridor and again pausing in 
front of the office door before walking quickly away.
* * *
"You stupid fucking bastards," Larry yelled at Tom. They were in 
Sean's room. Sean sat at his desk, smoking and staring out the window.
"But, but, Larry, I, I told them to be sure that each one had diff, 
diff, different answers.
"Every fucking one got a B, with the same, identical wrong answers. 
How stupid can you be? You've fucked the whole thing up."
"It, it wasn't my fault," Tom pleaded.
"You went over the exam with them the night before."
"I, I told them to make sure . . . "
"That's it," Sean said, still staring out the window and puffing on his 
cigarette. "I'm out. Two close calls is two too many."
"What did Mac Hugh say?" Larry asked.
"He, he, he said since people had obviously cheated, the exam 
would have to be given again. He said he was going to talk to everyone 
who got the identical result."
Larry received a B-plus. "Shit," he mumbled to himself.
"We have to get rid of the key, Larry," Sean said, turning his head 
to look at him. "Mac Hugh will know that someone had to have broken 
in to his office and stolen the exam."
"But we didn't break in," Larry said.
"It's only a question of semantics," Sean said. "And time. Sooner or 
later . . . We have to get out now. Today. At least, Mac Hugh won't talk 
to you because you got a B-plus."
"Sor, sor, sorry, guys," Tom stammered.
"You were right, Sean," Larry said. "You said they'd fuck it up."
"I'm not gonna say, 'I told you so,' Larry, but it's all over for me. 
We'd have gotten caught sometime. Not you and me, but someone we 
sold an exam to would have."
"Shit," Larry said again, this time much louder. "What will I do 
now?"
"Start to study," Sean said. "I'll write your papers for you. You'll 
make it."
"I, I, I'm really, fu, fuck, fucking sor, sorry about it," Tom said.
* * *
That evening Sean walked into Larry's room.
"What happened at class today?" Sean asked.
"Get this. Mac Hugh talked to everyone in the class, not just my 
stupid fucking frat brothers with the identical scores. He told me that I 
was the one he suspected of stealing the exam."
"Christ almighty."
"How did he figure it out, Sean? So soon?"
"He's a wily bastard. When he thought about it for awhile, he 
must've figured it was all those visits you made to his office, for one 
pretext or another. You never went to his office all year, then all of a 
sudden you start going there four times a week. He must be guessing 
though. I wouldn't sweat it, Larry. How could he know for sure who it 
was? There's no evidence."
"Wouldn't sweat it. Shit, he scared the living shit out me," Larry 
said. "All the time I was standing next to his desk, and he was accusing 
me, I had my hand in my pocket fingering the goddamn key."
"He can't prove anything."
"Mac Hugh said that he was sure someone had 'surreptitiously,' as 
he put it, gotten into his office. Someone who had to have a key since 
there was no sign of break and enter."
"What did you say to that?"
"Nothing. What could I say?" Larry paused. "He said one of his 
graduate students, who was working very late, heard some noise in his 
office the week before the exam."
"Now we know the owner of those goddamn footsteps. But 
remember: no one saw us. By the time we left the building it was well 
after midnight. There wasn't a soul there."
Larry said with a little more confidence, "You're right, Sean, he 
knows, but he can't prove a fucking thing."
"Shit, Larry, we didn't use gloves. What if they dust the place?"
"The first thing we've got to do is get rid of the fucking key."
Sean said, "Let's get a six-pack first."
*  *  *
Blueberry Creek criss-crossed the campus several times as it ran toward 
the bay and out to sea. Several small bridges crossed the creek, but the 
most famous was the Kissing Bridge. 
After drinking three beers each, Sean and Larry walked erratically 
toward the Kissing Bridge, where lovers gathered at sunset and after 
dark to make out. Even on cold winter evenings like this evening there 
were couples on the bridge. Sean had suggested this bridge as a 
symbolic place to, "Kiss the key good-bye."
When they reached the bridge, a few couples, who were leaning 
over the rail, turned and looked their way. They heard giggles. Larry 
nudged Sean. "They must think we're queers."
"C'mon Larry. They might just be embarrassed. Afraid we've come 
to look."
"Have you ever brought a girl here?" Larry asked.
"Once," Sean said. "It's like being in a meat market. Everyone 
checking out everyone else. Weird. How could anyone feel comfortable 
here, unless you're an exhibitionist."
"A what . . . ?"
"Showoff."
"Oh. I came here once with Carol. She hated it, so we left."
"Well, shall we get on with it."
They stood in the center of the bridge. Larry pulled the key out of 
his pants pocket, kissed it, offered it to Sean for a kiss (he declined with 
impatience), then dropped it over the railing. They listened intently. 
CLINK! Sean turned to look at Larry. Larry turned to look at Sean.
Larry said, "Aw, shit."
"Larry," Sean whispered harshly, looking around to see if anyone 
was looking at them (several were), "the fucking creek's frozen. Why 
didn't you . . . ?"
"There's always a crack open in that ice. It's so near the bay. 
Brackish water and all. I see it on the way to class everyday."
"The problem is, Larry, you don't go to class everyday."
 "Let's go down there and make sure it goes in the water."
They slipped and slid down the short embankment, which educed 
great laughter from the bridge. "Larry, how are we gonna find the 
fucking thing."
"With . . . "
"We didn't bring a fucking flashlight with us."
"Right. Well, then on hands and knees, I guess."
They must have been a wonderful sight to those leaning and 
laughing over the bridge, as they groped around on the not too thick ice. 
After a few minutes of feeling the ice with their gloved hands, they 
heard a loud crack. The ice buckled but didn't break. Suddenly a 
flashlight shone on them, and the couples on the bridge could see the 
pair crawling off the ice as quickly as possible, more laughter ringing 
out.
"Whatcha doin' down their boys?" a voice called out from the 
bridge.
"My, my friend lost his key," Sean said. "Could you come down 
and help us find it?"
"Better get off the ice," the voice said before starting down the 
slope. "It's liable to break on you. We don't want you to wash out into 
the bay."
They nearly shit their pants when the bearer of the flashlight 
climbed down the bank and stood beside them. It was none other than 
Sergeant Bob Wilkins of the campus police. Neither Sean nor Larry 
knew whether they were shaking just from the cold, the beer they had 
drunk, or from the sudden appearance of the fuzz in the person of 
Sergeant Wilkins. They imagined it was mostly the latter. Both were too 
numb to speak. They stood on the thick frozen edge while Bob flashed 
the light up and down the icy creek. As he did, Sean and Larry could 
see the rivulet of water running down the middle of the creek; the slot 
into which the key was supposed to have disappeared.
"There it is, boys," Bob said. "It's over there, near the opposite 
bank."
Larry said to Sean, "You stay here. I'll go over and get it."
"Be careful," Sean answered.
Larry climbed the embankment, slipping a few times as he did, 
walked unsteadily across the bridge, through the crowd of cheering 
lovers, and back down the other side. With Bob's flashlight steady on 
the key, Larry crawled on hands and knees out to where it lay. As he 
crawled he reached out . . . a little further . . . just a little bit further . . . 
two more inches . . . CRACK! SPLASH! Both Larry and the key 
plunged into the cold water.
"Shit!" Larry yelled. "Help! Get me out."
By the time Sean reached the opposite bank, some of the guys and 
girls who were on the bridge had pulled Larry out. At least now he 
knew why he was shivering uncontrollably. A few coats were placed 
around his shoulders as he stood shaking on the bank.
Sergeant Wilkins was on his walkie-talkie calling an ambulance. 
"Just relax, son," he said. "Help will be here in a lickity-split. You'll get 
all warmed up in the infirmary. They'll give you some hot soup and 
coffee."
	During the short ambulance ride to the university infirmary, 
Sean said, "So, Larry, I guess you lost your room key."  Larry smiled to 
the puzzlement of the EMT. "Yah. Shit, I'll have to get a copy from 
housekeeping when we get back to the dorm."



The Smartest Thing She Ever Did
by
Dan Siemens


Beef headed rubber toes nictitate slowly under screeching waterway 
power-tool.  Dog solitude and buzzsaw judgment discover humming 
fields of chain linked electric death.  Ticking twisted instants subjugate 
undeniable thermostat, placing mutual transparent watershed opulence 
amidst blank-faced centrifuge.  Lunatic buffalo grapplers braid cortical 
convolutions engendering unthinkable escrow annihilation.  Floodgate 
circulation spring arm contractions force hateful mutation gravy to 
percolate with thick cheesy flatulence.  Innuendo.  Large gray non 
technical ice blocks filter sense-data from the sweaty palmed denizens 
of the churning clock tower.  Reusable dermatology mugs flash grid-like 
patterns of mental states across the superstructure of the mind.  Holiday 
masses of uniformed silkiness from Berkeley compel subcutaneous 
predispositions to rise mystically through the crystalline geodesic.  
Therapeutic vomit hunger scorches the unfathomable slipstream of 
conflict stratification.  When "The A-Team" started to get boring, Sally 
turned off the television and fell asleep on the sofa.  Factory mashers of 
no certain dignity gathered sullen imponderables, scraping thick yellow 
gelatin from the corrugated fuselage.  Red strap latticework clasp 
extremities without notice.  Above the flaming balustrade seven tilted 
nodes of punctuation hung expectantly, devouring the barbaric crooners 
of forgotten fictions.  Odoriferous crab grass pontificated geophysical 
scarab fortunes, while highway robbery boldness festered madly in the 
spectators.  Deliberate syncopations tantalize dynamic halitosis, utilizing 
roadside morsels in order to strike wholesale casework procedures.  
Frame razors feature raving felonies, and gestating gimlet producers 
beseech copious tidal mercenaries to undulate laboriously.  Swordfish 
symphonies run gutter pineapples.  Pandemic ebony ledger delegates 
legitimately confound leather guesswork manuals.  Evading deliberative 
mania scratchers, damp spider-like citadel burials gobble butane highball 
germicides.  Shellfire insecurity octaves support ostensible officer 
reverberations, and vigilante paradigm fissures incarcerate crematory 
equilibrium.  Livestock cartographers forge fossil dedication entrails, 
attributing blueprint irrigation falsehoods.  Serpentine rotor thongs 
ensue.



The Sunday Ritual
by
Michael Heacock


	Bang. . .bang. . .bang. . .bang. . . .
	Six Sunday morning.  I'm supposed to be asleep, but how with 
all the racket above me.  They know I'm not a heavy sleeper.  They 
raised me.
	Bang. . .bang, int. . .bang, eee. . .bang, int. . .bang, eeesh. . . .
	This is why all my slumber parties take place on Friday night.  
Not that Mum and Dad disallow Saturdays.  No.  Sometimes they 
question my refusal to hold such get-togethers on that other non-school 
night.  They seem to think I sleep through their Sunday ritual, that my 
friends would too.  I never explain.  I don't even want to imagine the 
giggles and talk that would erupt if my friends knew of my parent's 
behaviour.  Just laying here, pillow over my head, waiting for it to all be 
over, is embarrassment enough.  They're in their late-forties, what is up 
with all this activity; why is everything still working?
	Bang, eeesh. . .bang, ooth. . .bang, augck. . .bang, int. . . .
	I never hear Dad.  If it weren't for the headboard slapping up 
against their bedroom wall, waking my slumbers, I'd never hear Mum.  
Oh, lucky me.  Dad is quiet in life and quiet in love, it seems.  Mum's 
pleasure is subdued, though forcefully, I can almost see the strain 
swallowing those screams (my skin is crawling just thinking about my 
parent's carnality, the images popping into my head, unwanted as they 
are).  They've always taken pains to hide the ritual from their children.  
Yet that headboard.  It mustn't be quite the noise it is up there that it is 
down here.  Acoustics.
	Bang. . .bang, ahh. . .bang, God. . .bang, eeesh. . . .
	At least they're not experimenting, right there above me.  
Always missionary.  The pace of their tango gives it all away.  You 
don't get those fluent rhythms unless you are doing something you are 
well practiced at.  And they are always quite chipper and agile Sundays, 
no limping about complaining of pulled muscles, no visible bruising, no 
Band-Aids or gauze pads.
	Bang, int. .bangeee, bangsqueakooh bangeeesqueakbangughban
gsqueakoonbangughbangaaaahhhh. . . .
	Well, I guess they go shopping today.  Time for a new mattress, 
maybe a futon, put the old mattress up against the wall.  Wouldn't want 
the kids to find out about your little Sunday ritual.



layers
by
Virgil Hervey






zip, button, snap,
cotton, wool, nylon,
twigs, feathers, grass,
sheetrock, fiberglass, vinyl siding,
pane glass, smoke detectors, burglar alarms,
stern face, crossed legs, arms folded,
back arched, hair bristling, personal space,
lies


Biographies


Michael Gibbons
I am a San Francisco cab driver and writer of fiction. I was a 
Peace Corps Volunteer in Sierra Leone, West Africa from 1967 
to 1969. When I returned I taught high school before deciding to 
pursue a career in journalism. When the money wasn't very 
good in writing I supplemented my income by driving a cab.  
I've never given up cab driving because the impressions I get 
from people I meet often become the "meat" of my fiction.

I have published over 100 articles in several publications 
including Harper's magazine, Harvard magazine, the Christian 
Science Monitor, the Boston Phoenix and the Real Paper. 
Electronically, I've been published in Sparks, Sibboleth, 
Intertext, and Whirlwind.

Michael Heacock
Mike is a late-twenties university student who enjoys good 
intelligent rock, like Nirvana.  When he heard of Kurt Cobain's 
untimely death, he fell into a deep funk, but at no time did he 
consider following the artist's lead (Mike did drink much beer 
though).  No stories have come of this experience. . .yet.

Virgil Hervey
Virgil Hervey is a New York City criminal lawyer who plays 
trumpet and writes poetry and short stories.  He is the publisher 
of GOD'S BAR: un*plugged, a literary magazine for 
disenfranchised computer bulletin board poets.  His poetry and 
prose have appeared in The Flying Dog, Sand River Journal, 
The Olympia Review and GOD'S BAR: un*plugged.  More are 
scheduled for upcoming editions of Blank Gun Silencer and 
Venusian Travelogue.

Heather MacLeod
Heather is earning her B.F.A. in Creative Writing at the 
University of Victoria.  Her most recent publications have 
appeared in Tessera, The Alchemist, Herspectives, and Grain.

Michael McNeilley
Michael McNeilley is editor of the Olympia Review; was 
Founding Director of the National Student News Service; 
worked as a reporter and correspondent in Washington, DC; 
writes on art, disability, business and political issues; and has 
published poems and stories in New Delta Review, Red 
Dancefloor, God's Bar, Hammers, Poet, Gypsy, Silent 
Treatment, Poetry Motel, Lilliput Review, Slipstream, 
Bouillabaisse, DAM, Ball, Plazm, Minotaur, The Plastic 
Tower, SIN, xib, Abbey, Aspects, Ma!, Hyphen, Ship of Fools, 
Exquisite Corpse and many other publications.

Dan Siemens
I wrote this during my early college years.  I think I'd call it 
"Anti-Poetry" or something like that.  Does it mean something?  
Yes, it certainly does, but I'm not always sure what it is.  I'm not 
even completely sure what the motivation was behind this, but 
something inspired that dense glut of colorful, yet ultimately 
meaningless images.  I guess the simplest explanation is that 
reading it over kinda reminds me of watching television.  I think 
there's a great deal of meaning to be found in nonsense and 
chaos.  At least, that's what my mathematician friends tell 
me. . . .

E. Russell Smith
When Russ isn't walking through Algonquin Park with a canoe 
over his head or researching his next story in darkest Anatolia he 
is a freelance writer in Ottawa, where he has never worked for 
the government. Watch for his next book, "The Felicity Papers", 
from General Store PH, in the fall.

