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Stories

From the Magazine

Famous Men
September 2012
Issue No. 6
I have met the famous men, the gaunt Caucasians with the powers you’ve heard about and thought you could fight, the men of letters, their names known to the captains of publishing, the teachers of literature, and the readers of Esquire, men successful enough to dress like ...

Gedney Goes Underground
September 2012
Issue No. 5
Extreme. Gedney Market typed on his Powerbook as the elevated train plunged into the ground just before Division Street on its journey to the Loop. The scrotum-spifflicating gtr of Luftboffer’s frontman/boy-toy Dirk Polnschlaeger strafes the global village with white-hot ...

I Am the Light
August 2012
Issue No. 5
My name is Howard. I am the light. At first I was unaware of this, as you are now. But like you I came to understand what I am and what I must do. I am the way. Everything I do becomes legend. Remember the rock group Big Panty? Remember their slogan: DO BONGS? I used to work ...

Outside My Window
Outside my window: a gray day in Ann Arbor. Two cops—in shorts, on bicycles—glide by. A roiling sea of blue and gold middle-aged bodies ambling onward, purposefully. A sign on my front porch: “Reserved Parking Only.” A navy mini-van vomits forth a pot-bellied man with a ...

The Grace of God
“And then I came in and switched places,” says Blake, “and she thought I was Chris for quite some time and—” “Which would justify her enjoyment,” says Chris. Blake rolls his eyes with mock contempt which Chris either doesn’t notice or doesn’t acknowledge, ...

Nervous Ashers
There were mountain huts full of smallpox strung out along the hillsides between Escatawpa and Morgan City, birds boiling up and out of freestanding chimneys under the routine advent of rainbows and chainsaws, the old sound of cheap labor rising and falling in the weather that ...

The District Supervisor
May, 1946. Willard Rochester sat in his office in the Federal Building in Manhattan. He glanced at his watch. It was 10:15 p.m. He heard, clunking below like the steps of Jacob Marley in the basement, the footsteps of the night watchman. He looked at the coffeepot, idly ...

Not the Plaster Casters
I was not a member of The Plaster Casters. I was a free agent. Although—on the surface, at least—I did exactly what The Plaster Casters did. That is, we all made plaster casts of the penises of rock stars. But The Plaster Casters got all the glory, all the publicity. Even ...

The Answering Machine
It was good while it lasted. As if all color had drained out of things. As if music were the bridge to take you elsewhere, and elsewhere turned out to be right where you were, where there was no such thing as music. He was alone in the kitchen, listening to the hum of the ...

How Are You?
Identity is part of the problem, although we have ways of verifying certain persons, putting our finger on them. About this time a year ago there was a war going on halfway around the world, and here in town there was a young man—the step-son of a famous newspaper ...

Halftime
Tuck finished his soup and salad one Sunday afternoon. His wife left to play tennis at a posh club downtown. She was late getting back. He went to the mailbox at halftime. There were sexy girls in bikinis on TV. He liked to look at the girls. But he really wanted to check the ...

Watching the Zamboni
“Why do I love what fades?” —Mark Strand The offices of the University Weekly are socketed within the highest garret of a lonely old hall, once the women’s club, now fallen into ornate disuse above the first floor cinema. One frozen January evening, I ascended the ...