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Marissa Henry
Crystal Lee-Cooper
Anne Longworth
Shelley Miller
Mason Swier
Anne Longworth
English 134: Creative Nonfiction
Instructor: Rob Williams
In the author's own words:
I grew up during the 1960's. Made some good decisions and others that, at best, give me something to write about. I've always
played with writing--journals, letters, games--but never dedicated myself to it. I don't know where writing will take me. I like to
read British fiction, but the book that first made me burn to write was written in the heart of America: The Wizard of Oz.
E-mail the author: arlongworth@yahoo.com
Under the Normal Heights Sign
When John Hunsler bought the Java Paradigm Coffeehouse in Normal Heights he changed the name
to Lestat's, after the vampire. Lestat's never sleeps. It's the only 24-hour independent coffeehouse I know
of, and it's open every day of the year.
My son Shane has been working at Lestat's for the past three and a half years, but he's known the
place ever since it opened in 1997. Davis, my ex-husband, often took him to Lestat's at some point during
his weekends with Shane. It was a good place for Davis to drink strong coffee, write poetry until dawn, and
meet hot, literature-loving chicks.
Back then, poetry had little appeal for Shane, and I've never asked how he felt about the hot chicks,
but I know he loved the coffee. He would sit at the bar late at night, drawing pictures of action heroes while
he watched the baristas work. They were known to slip him free cafés au lait. He was friends with one
barista in particular, Jay, who had a jagged mohawk and a surly persona. Jay seldom smiled, but he
noticed what people needed and took care of them. He let Shane watch him make the coffees and taught
him a little bit, listened to music with him, told him about the bands, gave him a taste for Greenday and
true, independent punk. Shane lapped it up.
When he was eighteen and legally old enough to work the machines, John hired him as a barista.
Shane loves to prepare espressos. To brew a perfect shot, he tells me, the machine has to be calibrated
to the right temperature range. "The espresso comes out real slow. If you're doing it right, it looks like a
little pasta noodle"—he draws the shape in the air—"and it has to go into a cup and you have to serve it
within fifteen seconds to keep the full flavor.” Unconsciously, his practiced hands have curled themselves
into a mug and saucer.
Shane is always on the run at work. Cold brews need to be started early in the day, coffees changed
out so they're always fresh, cream pitchers topped up and kept cool, mugs and plates restocked and all the
prep work done for the night crew, who are kept so busy serving that they scarcely have time to breathe.
Lestat's is busiest and noisiest between 1 and 2.30 a.m, after the bars on Adams Avenue close and people
come in hungry for real food. Then it quiets down until about 4 a.m, when the first of the morning crowd
begins to trickle in to grab coffee and breakfast before heading out to crack-of-dawn jobs. It can get noisy
then too, not with voices so much as the noise of every coffee machine working full-out. It's an adrenalin-
caffeine-and-sugar rush, since the baristas are known to sample their own brews, and create signature
energy drinks. Shane's is three shots of espresso in a Pepsi. I cannot quite bring myself to taste it.
"Look, one of my regulars gave me this.”
Shane puts a little packet of salt in my hand, places a tiny round battery on top of it. His mouth
twitches. He's trying not to grin. He catches my eye.
"It's a salt and battery."
We're standing in front of his house, two blocks from Lestat's. "What part of your job do you like the
best?” I ask him.
He shrugs. "Everything. All of it."
"Well then, what's your least favorite thing to do?”
He looks at me like he's stumped. "Some things are tedious, I guess, but I don't not like doing them.”
He shrugs, thinks for a second. "Filling all the cream cheese containers for the bagels.” He looks down,
as if he can see a hundred of those tiny cups lined up on the counter, empty and waiting. "And cleaning.
You have to clean all the time.” He sounds like Sisyphus pushing his boulder, and I laugh.
"How about the early morning shift, have you ever had to be there at 6.30?” I know he isn't a morning
person.
"Sure. It's really not that hard.”
He sounds so adult. I'm gobsmacked. When he was in high school I nearly had to set his sheets on
fire to get him up in the morning.
"The worst part is making myself get out of bed and stand up, and after that the rest is easy.” He
sounds almost smug. I want to weep for joy—my work is done! My son can get out of bed, on time, by
himself! I shouldn't be surprised. He's a young man. He's a full head taller than me; wiry, strong, hairy-
faced—but I used to rock him in my lap. I still want to rock him in my lap. He wouldn't let me, but—still.
I stop in at Lestat's on a Saturday afternoon. The little parking lot in the back is always full, so I park
on the street and walk down Adams Avenue to the only storefront with two watchdog gargoyles on the roof.
Lestat's has cafe chairs on the sidewalk and petite tables laminated with prints from European artists.
There is a wrought iron fence enclosing the tables and a red bicycle chained to it. I share the patio with
strutting pigeons and two couples. One couple has coffee drinks and they're talking about movies. The
other couple is eating sandwiches and drinking Italian sodas, and there seems to be some career-advising
going on. In the windows behind me are posters for coming events at Lestat's West, a popular venue for
local music and comedy. Camile Bloom, Eric Himan, Nick Jaina, Lonsdale and Brooks, Colin Gilmore—I
recognize none of them, but that's probably a good thing.
The people-watching possibilities are rich on Adams Avenue. A bicyclist going for speed flashes past,
then two slender grey-haired women in yoga pants. Three skaters grind along the curb, stuttering to a stop
before they hit cross-traffic. Two more bicyclists, one well muscled, perhaps out for his daily hundred
miles; the other not quite so fit. Next comes a trio of blonde women. One has a twelve-inch high, erect
blonde mohawk, but otherwise looks as normal as the cookie-baking mom next door. The other two could
be her more conformist sisters. A young girl and her dad wait patiently for the crossing signal. The girl is
clutching a cardboard poster for a Girl Scout car wash. I'm glad there's no wind or it might carry her away.
I'm sure she wouldn't let go.
Inside now, I'm sitting in a gothic wing chair in an alcove. Sunlight gleams on the tabletops and the
framed art on the walls, and the walls are the gold of cornbread and honey. Further out into the room there
is an occasional green wall: the soft green of sage, tarragon, rosemary.
Lestat's is comfortable and a bit tattered. Mismatched, worn velvet settees are cozied up to leather
chairs with carved arms and deep, cradling seats. There are tables for singles and tables for groups,
coffee tables and footstools. Chandeliers dripping with glamour and kitsch are hung in the corner windows,
and gargoyles peer down from high perches. Ceiling fans send breezes meandering from the kitchen to the
street, carrying a mélange of coffee, cinnamon and brown sugar. On an antique sideboard there are cream,
sugar, stirring straws and lids arranged in the soft light of a Tiffany lamp.
I enjoy the art on the walls. There is a romantic series of nudes photographed in black and white: a
woman sitting with hair upswept; a second woman lounging on an art deco chaise, and a man and woman
dancing, limned in low light. The wall facing me has a line-up of woodcut movie monster prints: the
Wolfman, Dracula, Frankenstein, and other nameless monsters: a ghoul in pink chiffon, the iconic mad
scientist. Nearby there is a shelf of old books and small-press newspapers under a pastiche of community
events posters.
Background music is playing, chosen by the baristas themselves. I've heard seventies rock there;
ska, world music, techno—but it's usually punk, like today. Over the music I catch bits of conversations:
students are prepping for tests and choreographing their presentations, and across from me an older man
seems to be chatting up a handsome young college student.
The baristas call out customers' drinks: "Polar Bear!” "Thor's Hammer!” "Razzle Dazzle!” Me, I'm
drinking a Frozen Banana, a mocha spiked with banana syrup. Danny and David, today's baristas, are
laughing as they serve customers, and there's a tip jar on the counter with an ever-changing sign. Today it
reads “Tips For a Better Birthday.” A customer asks "Whose birthday?” David tells her, "It's Danny's
birthday, the guy with the long ponytail.” I know him. He's Shane's roommate. Danny has black hair that
nearly reaches his waist. He could be in a shampoo commercial saying, "Don't hate me”—his hair looks
that good.
A cop with a gun on his hip comes in for coffee, and his partner comes in a few minutes later. I ask
Shane about this, and he says the two are regulars, along with the fire fighters from the station next door. I
wonder if these are the same cops who nearly arrested Shane two years ago for strolling down Adams
Avenue one afternoon, extremely drunk and shouting obscenities. He was nineteen. Thankfully Shane
was coherent enough to explain that he didn't live with a parent but he worked right up the street, and John
would take responsibility for him. The cops knew John and so they took Shane to him, and John did
accept him.
I thank every benevolent spirit in the universe for John's big heart. He talked to Shane, sobered him
up, told him he couldn't drink like that anymore, and checked in with him for months afterward. At the very
next staff meeting John named Shane “Employee of the Month”—which means something when you love
the place you work—and gave him a one hundred dollar cash bonus in front of all his co-workers. Shane
kept it together, but he thought he would burst.
It isn't fear, or punishment that keeps a person stay balanced on the safe side of adventures. It's
knowing that someone cares that much about you. I love Lestat's. It's a family. A crazy, strong family.
Crystal Lee-Cooper
English 126: Creative Writing
Instructor: Lisa Shapiro
A Christmas Like None Before
This Christmas would be different, foreign to any other I had ever experienced before. Yet, I knew that this
day would hold elements that would be shared with every holiday that would follow for the rest of my life.
It began the same as every other Christmas, the air filled with anticipation of smiles, hugs and gifts
brand new. Excitedly, I creep into the room next to mine and wake my five-year-old brother.
“Santa has come, wake up! He came.” I want, no, I need for my brother to know the joy of this day,
so I exclaim the arrival of ole jolly St. Nick with more enthusiasm than I really feel. Now, of course, at
nine-years-old I know Santa is not real, but I am a good big sister and somehow the need to prove this
weighs heavier on my little shoulders than in years previous. We walk hand in hand down the short hall
into the modest living room to inspect shiny boxes with matching bows, big and small, not daring to even
think of picking one of them up. Two unspoken rules on bright Christmas mornings. One: don’t touch the
gifts, no matter how tempting. Number two, learned the hard way: never, never, never, ever wake up the
grownups before they are ready, because they just might wake up cranky, even on Christmas mornings.
Planted in front of the TV, watching cartoons our wait is not long before my mom emerges from her
bedroom.
She greets us with a happy holiday smile that somehow doesn’t quite reach up into her eyes.
“Merry Christmas, guys. You ready to open up your gifts?”
“Yeeeaaahhh,” we holler in unison.
“Merry Christmas, Mommy!” I shout with a voice full of glee that somehow doesn’t reach down into my
heart.
Throughout the ceremonial passing out and opening of gifts, I feel like I am having to dumb myself
down, as if I have to animate my emotions. I am too old for this Christmas stuff. Who cares about
presents? Who cares about ornaments and tinsel? I am a big girl now and I have learned some hard
lessons about real life this year. Who cares about reindeer with red noses? However, I don’t want to hurt
my mom and I want to protect my brother so my eyes dart expectantly from one to the other. I follow each
lead, I clap when expected. I grin often even though my smile feels bigger than it deserves to be. I tell my
mom thank you repeatedly and she smiles back, even though her smile doesn’t seem quite big enough.
I pretend to be ecstatic about my new color-by-number kit and the pretty smiling blond doll that speaks
when you pull the string that extends from her back. I feign jealous involvement as I help my brother put
together his new racecar track; the pieces of which I know will be lost and broken within a month. Soon
bored with being inside, my brother and I find our way outside to take turns on our new pogo stick. I jump,
I scream, I imagine my hair bouncing as wildly as I am and I know to anyone looking it seems as though
I’m having reckless fun. Inside it’s not that way, I keep gazing to my favorite tree and what I really want is
to climb up into its highest branches, and where I really want to be is lost high in its thick leaves unseen by
the world below.
The afternoon wears on, the day passes and soon my mother is calling us in to eat our annual
Christmas dinner. Green beans with onions, mounds of mash potatoes, with heapings of butter and
overrun by a river of gravy and ham. Ham, what is a holiday meal without these thick slabs of meaty salt.
There’s a problem, though: nothing seems salty enough. My glass of sparkling carbonated apple cider
needs sugar, or maybe, it’s just that my taste buds that are bland.
“Thank you, Mommy; this is really good!”
Looking at me through eyes that only moments before were glazed over by a glistening plate of—
what? Tears?
“You’re welcome, baby.”
In her voice, I can hear that she doesn’t taste this meal anymore than I do. My brother has been
building green bean towers and mash potato forts for the last half hour. He’s too young to understand the
importance of appearances, but I’m not. I watch my mother to make sure she notices that I go back for
seconds even though in my reality I was full after my first three bites.
When we are all done eating, full and sleepy, I ask my mom if she wants help cleaning up the kitchen.
“Naw, baby, Why don’t you and your brother go see if you can find any good Christmas shows on TV.”
I flip the knob on the set through our five existing channels, hoping to find It’s a Wonderful Life, but instead
I find The Wizard of Oz. I try to get my brother interested in Dorothy and her dog’s adventures with
tornadoes, but he just wants to play by himself. He does that more and more lately. I hear my mother’s
bedroom door close and I know she’s not going to watch Dorothy’s epic journey to the land of munchkins
and flying monkeys with us. Instead, she will fall into her bed alone in a room darkened by more than a
lack of light. She does this often these days. By myself, in front of a screen that might as well be black
and empty, my heart is pricked by unacknowledged loneliness, I join Dorothy in her field of poppies, and I
go to sleep. Sleep; it’s really all I want to do anymore.
I wake up on the couch, as dusk settles in outside, muted light flows through the windows.
It is Christmas night and I know how the rest of this evening’s ritual will go. We will eat a dinner of
leftovers. We do. We will watch TV as a family for a little while; I am hoping It’s a Wonderful Life will be
on. It’s not. The finale will be the take place gathered around the Christmas tree, singing carols to the
beat of twinkling lights and listening to my mother reading the story of Baby Jesus, God’s greatest gift to
us.
Next to my brother, sitting cross-legged on the floor, my mother is in a rocking chair behind us. Our
day will end in front of the same tree where it started, and thus the traditions begin. “Siiilleeeent nighht,
whoooollllly night” rings out into the hollow night. “Rudolph, the red-nose reindeer . . .” my brother prompts.
After singing several songs both holy and silly, my mother reads the story of a baby born in a manger. The
story of a savior for which the stars in the sky realigned themselves in order to point humanity in the
direction of salvation and it is at the moment of the narrative that a rustling from the branches of the
Christmas tree before us stops my mother reading in mid-sentence. The unexplained movement continues
and I am wedged between amazement, curiosity and fear. Nothing is touching the branches; there is no
unexplained wind that would lend a helping hand to this baffling event, when suddenly a single ornament
falls from the tree. The ornament, my father’s ornament, the one he hangs every year falls, but does not
shatter and three sets of eyes follow its progression as it rolls to a stop at my mother’s feet; a gift of the
greatest kind.
Yeah, this Christmas has been different; a drunk driver made sure of that three months ago when he
stole my daddy’s life from him, from us. Mouth gaping amazement forces my eyes to my brother, a smile,
a real smile rides across his lips, I haven’t seen it in months. Afraid, I am scared to witness her reaction, I
slowly raise my gaze to my mother’s face and I see that the glistening plate of tears that has been resting
in her eyes for what seems an eternity has broken. Gluttonous pebble-sized pools of grief, rimmed with
hope and the realization that life really does go on spills freely down her cheeks. I feel the crevice of
uncertainty, confusion, anger that has been feeding my soul begins to fill with cherished memories and
healing. Suddenly sound returns to my world, the light in the room becomes brighter and I sense a flicker
of life in a place in the center of my chest that for the last three months has felt barren. I had forgotten that
color existed and the scent of Christmas pine needles tickles the inside of my nose and in that moment, I
realize something.
While this Christmas has been different, foreign to any other I have ever experienced before, I have
been given a gift that I can depend on and hold tightly in the folds of my heart every holiday that follows for
the rest of my life. I ran out of time, I will never again feel his tickles, I will never again smell his man
smell or hear his deep baritone voice call my name, but on that day, that Christmas day like none before I
was given a precious gift meant for me, and me alone. I learned that day that the Creator of the universe
takes time out to heal the broken spirit of nine-year-old little girls. I found out that the baby Jesus gives
presents too and that day. He let me know that my daddy will always, always be there.
Marissa Henry
English 126: Creative Writing
Instructor: Juliana Cardenas
In the author's own words:
I have been writing sporadically all of my life, especially in high school, when stress and teenage angst inspired me to write many
terrible and a few good poems. In my dreams, I would write with the wit of Kurt Vonnegut, the gravity of John Steinbeck, and the
lushness of Zora Neale Hurston. But for now, I am satisfied to write like myself.
E-mail the author: me_sashoe@yahoo.com
I Love You Even More Than I Love Hodad’s Fries
Hodad’s, a hamburger restaurant located on Newport Avenue in Ocean Beach, California, opened in 1969.
Since then, as its sign boasts, it has served under 99 billion people. I contemplate the intervening thirty-
nine years from the booth inside the legendary hippie van that is coveted by every child who visits
Hodad’s. I finger the surface of the table, which is densely covered with the deeply carved initials of
several decades. How poetic, I think, to sit at a table so rich with history, where so many couples have felt
so in love that they were compelled to proclaim their affection by marking this table with their initials,
enclosed by an angular heart. I also contemplate the gas that I used up to drive here. It always hurts me
to think about using up gas, but sometimes my soul longs for a trip to Hodad’s.
I come to Hodad’s because the food is delicious. I come for the chocolate malts, overflowing from
their tall, frosty metal cups, so thick and sweet that they make you long for water. I come for the French
fries, the greasy, crunchy, soggy French fries tingling with their mysterious orange seasoning. I come for
the onion rings: crusty and crumbly and salty on the outside, barely cool enough to eat; wet and scorching
and acidic on the inside, much too hot to consider swallowing. I do not come for the burgers. My boyfriend
comes for the burgers. The burgers are good, he reminds me, but I can only eat so much.
I come to Hodad’s because it makes my brain laugh and my eyes rejoice. If I sit at any of the small,
square, high tables, I can ponder the walls, adorned with license plates as far as the eye can see. Both
standard-issue and personalized, they represent every state and many countries. ILOVEOB, HIROLER,
OY VEY, ILOVESX, TOILET, they exclaim in their weathered, blocky script. If I am sitting at the counter
by the window, I can watch the young people shambling by, their hair dirty, often worn in dreadlocks, their
stubbly chins, their faces pierced in many places, their shimmering laughter, their backpacks nearly empty;
travelers, I like to think. If I am sitting in the van, which I have only done twice, I can discreetly watch the
patrons. A chaotically perfect family occupies the surfboard-shaped table in the center of the room. The
elder of their wide-eyed, blond children dances and speaks with a whimsical accent while the younger is
spoon-fed. New couples sit on stools, facing one another across the ketchup, straws, and napkins, their
conversations sweetly nervous and halting, unsure of where to set their hands. A Marine in uniform walks
in and waits politely by the door, holding his hat, then walks out again. He appears too youthful to have
seen battle yet, but then I guess you never know these days. I wonder why he did not stay for a meal.
Maybe he was looking for someone who hadn’t arrived yet. Or perhaps he found it to be too loud. That is
another strange and wonderful thing about Hodad’s: the volume. Wherever I am sitting, I will be inundated
with blasts of music of genres varying from ska to heavy metal, which makes speaking rather difficult but
soothes my internal chattering into silence.
Still, I know that there is more than that behind my love for this place. Most illogically, but probably
also most importantly, I come to Hodad’s because, besides the history encompassed in its graffiti and
stickers and license plates, it has a history for me. I say illogical because this history is not entirely
positive. Viewing the lively, badly lighted room from my current vantage point, I am filled with sympathy for
my former self, the last time that I sat here.
Whenever I enter Hodad’s, I am incessantly reminded that the one other time that I had the privilege of
sitting in the famed booth in the van, I was on perhaps the saddest date I have ever experienced. The
circumstances are unimportant; suffice to say that he was on his way out of town, that I was on my way
into my senior year of high school, and that it was only our second date, but also our last one. At the time,
I wanted to make the most of things even though I was filled with a sense of dread. I struggled to
consume my usual fries, onion rings, and chocolate malt despite my meager appetite, knowing that I
should feel luckier to be here, on this date, with this boy, eating this food, sitting in the van. The
particulars of the meal are indistinct in my memory. I have trouble recalling what we talked about, who
served us, what songs were playing, whether it was crowded or if we sat down right away. I do remember
that once I had given up on eating, in a commendable attempt to seize the day, I turned and kissed him,
the boy who was paying for my meal. Although I have since pushed most of the positive details of this
date from my memory, I can’t quite help but be a bit proud of the spontaneity of that kiss. However
thoroughly he has forgotten me by now, I think that he must remember that masterpiece of a kiss, naïve
and misguided as it may have been.
The first time I went to Hodad’s with my boyfriend, who was, at that time, new, I felt a strange sense
of disloyalty. Not to the preexisting memory, but to the new memories that we were creating. As we sat
down, I averted my eyes from the van, feeling the presence of a ghost. Or, more likely, a poltergeist. Was
it wrong, I worried, to bring him to a place that was sullied with my past heartbreak? I rapidly decided that
it was not. I loved going to Hodad’s long before it became entangled with something that I would almost
rather forget. I should not have to give up something that I love because of something so trivial. And what
is more, my boyfriend should not be deprived of Hodad’s burgers because of something that did not
concern him at all.
I sit in the van now and meditate upon the differences between that date and this one. Then, I
uneasily submitted to having my food bought for me. Now, we both empty out our wallets to scrounge up
enough money to cover the bill. With that boy, I was too anxious to hold hands. With this one, we lean
into each other’s space, comfortable and without boundaries. Then, I was frightened of the loss that I knew
would soon occur, and this fear prevented me from enjoying my surroundings much at all. Now, I feel
nothing but happiness and satisfaction. My new joy is magnified in contrast with the sorrow that I once felt
here. I run my fingers over the crudely embellished surface of the table again, realizing that were I the type
to engage in such an unlawful activity as graffiti, my initials would be carved in more than one place. But
they would be much deeper the second time.
So be it for the onion rings or the malts, for the license plates or the impossibly loud music, for the
people watching or for the sense of relief and pride it gives me by reminding me of the progress I have
made since the last time I was here, a trip out to Hodad’s is always worth the gas.
Shelley Miller
English 134: Creative Nonfiction
Instructor: Robert Williams
In the author's own words:
My creative writing ability somehow survived my receipt of a journalism degree. In February 2008, I resigned from the American
Red Cross to write my first book. I know quitting one’s day job, for the sake of art, is risky. I felt anxious. But then, I read this
quote: “Why does the thrill of soaring have to begin with the fear of falling?” I smiled, and wrote the first line of my book.
E-mail the author: shelleymiller@cox.net
Postcards From Home
Between April and August 2000, my family traded homes and cars with families in England, Ireland,
Germany, France and Italy. The preparation for such a feat was enormous; we pulled our twelve-year-old
son, Dillon, and eight-year-old daughter, Michele, out of school, I took a sabbatical from my full-time job
and my husband, Stan, worked abroad via phone and Internet. All four of us kept journals while we lived in
Europe. And, oh, yes, we located people from five different countries who happened to want to visit San
Diego during our time frame. Our efforts resulted in an experience that changed my family’s life.
Windsor, England
April 2 – April 19, 2000
Little Michele announces to Stan in a veddy British accent, “Dattay, it’s 5:15, time to feed the
doggies.” Two Border Terriers, Troppo and Tufty, lord over the three-acre estate and spend most of their
days next to the warm Aga, a gas-powered cast iron stove that is always on; no switches or dials. During
our seventeen days in England I never felt like I mastered the Aga, but I loved it for being quintessentially
British.
Hotel travelers typically want to rush out to see the city sights; we home exchangers hang around the
house because there are so many interesting activities to do right there. Dillon dribbles a soccer ball about
the park-sized yard even though it’s drizzling, and then goes inside to play Josh’s five-piece drum kit.
Michele and I make tea and I show her how the Brits add a spot of milk. We hold hands and stroll
outside to the ancient sunken garden; I’ve never seen one before and, like the Aga, I love it just because of
its “differentness.” Imagine an empty rectangle-shaped swimming pool, but instead of water lapping the
edges, the grey stone pool spills over with flora. Sunken gardens were originally designed in Rome to take
advantage of the flow of water, via gravity. Those Romans were conservationists at heart. They fed people
to lions, but conservationists, nonetheless.
We walk down a few narrow steps, about four feet deep, into the garden; there’s a real sense of
privacy here—below ground. Evidence of neglect appears in the untamed habitat, but we don’t care.
Velvety moss drapes the rough stones like a cape; ruffles of rusty-back ferns decorate the crevices. Our
bodies turn, like ballerinas in a jewelry box, taking in the loveliness. A few brave daffodils flaunt their early
spring faces, and one or two purple crocus peek out at us. A garden-in-the-round.
“Michele, we’re standing inside a garden. It’s like we’re part of it,” I say in a hushed tone. “I think
you’re a little pink rose,” and kiss her on the nose.
Peter and Roz Smith, and their three children, Immie, Olivia and Josh, serve us lunch upon our arrival
on April 2 to their six-hundred year old home, aptly named, “The Old Place.” This home exchange concept
is like an international dating service. Our families are instantly simpatico. Michele writes in her journal
that she and thirteen-year-old Olivia “plad together and made neklesis and braiselets.”
Dillon notes that he and eleven-year-old Josh “played American soccer. I think Josh and I got to be
good friends and we played Nintendo-64.” My son draws a picture in his journal of the soccer game. He’s
labeled two round objects as “bushes”; both stick figure soccer players have smiles on their faces.
Like most young men, Dillon is not very communicative about his emotions. As he ages his
sentences get shorter and his grunts get longer. A few years after our trip when Dillon entered high school,
all words have vanished and he communicates entirely with sounds and shoulder shrugs. Lucky for us, in
2000 he still spoke in complete sentences.
Before we wake up on our first morning in England, the Smith’s have departed, en route to our home in
San Diego. We never see them again.
Stan jots down, “Michele and I take the geese out of their house, collect a goose egg and cook it for
breakfast!”
I love the history of The Old Place; it’s full of untold stories—six hundred years of them. The two-
story exterior is beautifully patterned red brick. I learn to tolerate low ceilings and doorways and the
occasional leaky roof, for the sake of charm. By the third day I know exactly where to bend my five-foot
ten-inch frame to avoid bumping my head in the narrow stairwell.
Six bedrooms, three bathrooms, kitchen, breakfast room, dining room, music room, garden hall and
drawing room. The furniture is old, not antique, but old. I’d call it “lived-in casual.” The smoky smell of
burnt logs dominates the drawing room. It has a large open fireplace, taller than Michele. Dark oak beams
line the ceiling like railroad ties on a train track. Stunning diamond-pattered leaded glass fills every window
in the house. The dining room bay window displays two stained glass family crests inlaid into the diamond
field. I touch the cold glass and wonder about the family who built the house. I wish I could see a
photograph of them. I feel privileged to live in their original Tudor home.
Before it gets dark, Dillon and I venture out to the grocery store in the Volvo. I sit on the right side of
the car to drive, but drive on the left side of the road—with a manual shift. Because I’m sitting on the right,
I need to shift with my left hand. My sense of perception is off. Thank goodness I can laugh at myself
because it looks like I’m playing bumper cars at a carnival and feel like a fool when I mistakenly veer onto
the road shoulder and almost dip into a gully.
Uh-oh. I spy a roundabout up ahead. We don’t have these in San Diego. My hands are sweaty and
slip on the wheel. Do I wait? Do I go? I don’t think I stop. Yikes, here I go!
Mason Swier
English 126: Creative Writing
Instructor: Sydney Brown
The Victim
What time is it?
It’s that time of night where, if you look in a mirror, you see everything you hate. When, if you’re
outside of your house, you’re doing something wrong. When every dog on the block starts to bark. If you
had a baby, it would be crying. It’s the time of night when Erik calls you and asks for your help. That’s
what time it is. And even though you hate Erik, you say you’ll see him soon, because being with another
person is always better than being alone.
There are two types of people in this world: people who are happy and people who are alone.
I close my cell phone and remake the bed. There is a calendar by my closet. On Tuesday the 4th I
have written:
Black T-shirt and blue jeans. White socks. If cold, add black sweatshirt without zipper.
In case you were wondering, tomorrow says:
White collared shirt with pocket and khakis. Plain black tie. Black socks. Black loafers.
My kitchen has a calendar too. On Thursday I’m eating scrambled eggs and bacon with white toast
for breakfast.
I’m standing at my front door staring at the light switch by it. I look at my watch.
9:59:55 P.M.
In five seconds I can turn off the light.
There are two types of people in this world: people who don’t know where they’re going and me.
I’m going to Erik. I don’t like it but that’s where I’m going.
I turn off the light and leave my house.
Erik is at the 7-Eleven on the corner of Main and Eleventh. The fastest way to walk there is to turn
right at Lincoln, left on Haverford and left onto Main. Some people cut across the field behind the high
school but I don’t.
When I get to the 7-Eleven Erik waves me to the back alley, his hand moving as if it were on fire.
The thing to remember about Erik is that he stopped combing his hair years ago.
Erik has a tattoo that never got finished. He always tells me it’s supposed to be a dragon. Except for
when he tells me it’s supposed to be a spider or a shark or an ocelot or, even once, a silhouette of
Rutherford B. Hayes. His shirt is the color of neglected stains. Paint stains of every shade and hue,
engine oil stains, bloodstains, any stain you can imagine seeing as well as several you can’t. Every scar
has a story. If every stain has a story Eric’s shirt is a novel.
Erik is wearing long pants, but I know his socks aren’t matching.
There are two types of people in this world: Erik and me.
Erik says he needs forty dollars to pay off Angela’s rent
Erik is watching over several people in his apartment complex. Angela, a struggling actress whose
love for the stage is second only to her love for heroin; Stan, a retired quarterback who lost his sight after
breaking the league record for most concussions; and an elderly man named Henry, who is so deathly
afraid of heights that even standing up from his recliner triggers crippling panic attacks.
There are to types of people in this world: people who live in houses and people who live in
apartments.
Erik thinks the easiest way to get the money for Angela will be to steal it.
Erik isn’t a bad person, but he isn’t a good person either.
Erik called me and asked me to meet him behind the 7-Eleven because he can’t make a plan, not
even for a simple mugging.
There are two types of people in this world: people who make plans and people who are only part of
the plan.
The plan is that the guy at the end of the alleyway walking towards us is the target.
The plan is that Erik doesn’t talk. He only stares and cracks his knuckles.
The plan is that I say Erik will kill him if he doesn’t give me his wallet.
The plan is that I take the wallet.
The plan is that we run to my house.
Target gets closer.
Erik stares and cracks his knuckles and I ask Target for his wallet.
Target hesitates. Erik tells him to hurry up.
The plan is not that Erik talks.
I tell Target that Erik would kill for a little money right now.
Target brings out a leather square and I grab it. I open it up and see Benjamin Franklin’s long dead
stare.
“Oh no!” Erik says as he grabs the wallet from my hand.
The plan is not that Erik takes the wallet.
“This isn’t good, I’ll be right back” Eric says.
There are two types of people in this world: people who don’t understand what the hell Erik is doing
and Erik.
I start to shake. I’m not cold.
Target looks at me; his eyes are like a skydiver whose parachute didn’t open.
The plan is that there isn’t a plan.
I start to shake harder.
Erik comes back holding something in his hand.
$59.55 and a pack of gum.
“I’m so sorry, they wouldn’t change a hundred so I had to buy something. I hope you like spearmint.”
The man stares at Erik, tears in his eyes as he receives his change and gum. The man starts to faint
and Erik grabs him. Sobbing into his chest, the man adds another story to Erik’s stained shirt.
Erik looks at me and I shake even harder.
The plan is we run.
Erik cuts through the field behind the high school. I don’t
When I get to my house Erik is sitting on the steps in front of the door.
I tell him there was a plan. That he messed up. That it was all a failure because of him.
“Call it a failure if you want, but I still got the money Angela needs for her rent,” Erik says.
“When you mug someone you aren’t supposed to give them change.”
“Taking more than I needed would have been criminal.”
“There are two types of people in this world: people who are criminals and people who are victims.”
“Which one are you?” Erik asks.
I step past Erik, enter my house and slam the door. I look at my watch.
11:23:55 P.M.
In five seconds I can turn the light on.