Wilma

We walk through a room full of crowded tables.

As we pass, a woman pulls her child closer to her.

Two elderly men almost choke on their Reuben sandwiches.

Another woman actually gasps in horror.

"We can leave," I say.

"Don't be silly. It's fine."

The hostess seats us in the back, a stone's throw from the kitchen.

Word must've gotten out, as the busboys are craning their necks to see us through the porthole windows.

Wilma thanks the hostess and starts perusing the menu. Her blue scarf slides down the back of her head and onto her shoulders.

I have my menu open, but I'm not reading the soup of the day. I'm glaring at every nosy patron in the house.

As I meet countless pairs of prying eyes, most shy away or pretend to be looking elsewhere.

Leave us alone.

"Mommy, look at the scary lady!"

A preschooler stands on top of his booster seat pointing.

Wilma smiles, her right eye weeping.

"I'm... I'm terribly sorry."

The young mother whisks her child out of the restaurant and doesn't look back.

Wilma endures a craniofacial deformity.

She's explained to me how she has a genetic cephalic disorder that affected her nervous system while she was still in the womb.

Her head is slightly cone-shaped, and her face is long and puffy.

Her right eye droops, sometimes with discharge.

If you get a couple drinks in her, she'll swear her mother didn't do drugs, and that she wasn't exposed to radiation as a fetus.

After a couple drinks in me, I'll ask her why her parents didn't have the several necessary surgeries performed on her as a child to give her a sense of normalcy.

I'll ask her why she blindly defends her parents' choice to do so little for her situation, save home schooling.

I'll ask her why she's not sought out plastic surgery for herself as an adult.

"How's your lentil soup?"

"Not bad, but I should've ordered the cream of tomato."

We act like an old married couple sometimes.

After you get to know her, Wilma will tell you she keeps track of international face transplants in the news.

She'll also confess her wild crush on Dr. Iain Hutchison, chief executive of the Facial Surgery Research Foundation in London.

She's a single forty-two year old American woman who's an accomplished paleontologist.

She's into mountain biking (against her doctor's advice), she likes rockabilly music, coffee ice cream, and film noir.

"What are you working on at the lab nowadays?"

I look around the room to see if I need to threaten any more gawkers. Not at the moment. My eyes wander back to her face, then back to my soup.

"Well, currently, I'm cleaning a mastodon skull!"

Her eyes sparkle.

"It’s so much more fun than sorting small bones, insects, and plant material. We're preparing for an exhibit in the spring, and I want you to come to the premiere!"

A waitress spills hot coffee down her front while staring at Wilma.

We met six years ago at one of my brother's scientist cocktail parties.

She was sitting in the corner with her blue scarf tied tight around her head till someone put on some Lee Rocker.

Much to our surprise, she got up and danced! I was so taken with her self-confidence, I had to meet her.

Now we're best friends.

My brother Ron thinks I'm addicted to her. He might be right.

"Our mastodon was recovered near postglacial sediments deposited in Iron County, Michigan. We're cleaning him first, then doing his reconstruction on the exhibit floor. It's my job to make him look handsome for his debut!"

She giggles.

An ex-friend once accused me of spending all my free time with Wilma. She said that I wanted to hang out with a "freak" to look gorgeous by comparison.

Ron and his wife Sherry also used to express concern over the amount of time I spent with Wilma, but they've since given up.

I know many people don't understand. Maybe they think I'm exploiting her somehow, but I want to defend her. I want to live through her.

Fox News called her "The Face That Stopped a Convenience Store Robbery”.

She happened to be in a 7-eleven buying chewing gum when a masked gunman ran up behind her demanding money from the clerk.

The robber got distracted after seeing Wilma, and the clerk seized the moment by decking him with an aluminum baseball bat.

Talk shows asked to interview her.

They wanted her to be the sensationalist patron saint of deformed people trying to lead regular lives, or they wanted to give her an extreme makeover.

She wanted nothing to do with them.

Everywhere we go, I see how people look at her.

They gasp, they stare, they laugh, they pity. Or worse.

She just smiles back at them, showing them kindness and forgiveness, stopping me from fighting for her honor.

"So, will you be signing autographs next to the mastodon?" I grin.

"Yes, but you'll have to wait your turn in line. No favoritism!"

Wilma dabs the corner of her mouth with her napkin and winks at me.

The waiter drops the check onto our table like it's a hot potato and zooms away.

"I got it." I say as I reach for the bill. "As long as I don't have to wait for your autograph!"

"Deal!"

We stroll out of the diner arm in arm.

3 Haikus

Alliteration
as allegory always
aligns all alike.

Loud, lamentable
longspun locutions largely
lose locomotion.

Untold upheavals
unraveled Utopian
unification.

Vermin of Virtue

O hasten thee, thou rodent wee, to flee and come away,
Arise ye from thy viper brood whereinto light of day.
Sidewinder coil doth mostly foil, entrapping timid prey;
Yea, bravery protecteth thee from gauntlets laid alway.
Thy scamper doth thwart slither through embattled fields of gray,
Take heart! Ne’er fang, nor venom fear; thy debt hath been repaid.

art by David Petersen

Low-Gym Life

“Burpees! Not that any of you in this remedial class can execute one correctly, but I’d like to see everyone try.”

“Coach Mazur, you’re hurting our feeeeelings.” Jimmy snarked through his long, stringy brown hair.

“Watch as I demonstrate a proper burpee.”

Coach flexed his muscles and sprang into action.

“Okay. From the squat position: hands on the floor in front of you. Kick your feet back as you lower yourself into a pushup. Return your feet to the squat position, pushing up with your arms. Leap upward from the squat position, like this...”

“Leapin’ lizards! You’re gonna rip your shorts, sir.”

“You will perform this exercise with the rest of the class. RIGHT NOW!”

“Easy, Coach. That vein in your neck is bulging again.”

“Jimmy, go to the locker room and turn your shirt inside out. How is a t-shirt logo with a knife protruding from a toilet and the caption ‘Metal Up Your Ass’ appropriate for P.E. class?”

“METALLICA FOREVER!”

“You’re lucky I don’t involve Principal Crocker in this matter.”

A portly boy lounging against the bleachers piped up.

"Whatever, Coach. Everyone knows Crocker’s a crock of—“

“Mr. Watts, did you have something to say about Principal Crocker?”

“They call me MEGAWATTS, thank you very much. I’m fat. Get it?”

Coach grit his teeth.

“I get that you’re miserably fat. Do you get that you’re failing Physical Education? Do you really not want to graduate high school because you refuse to do burpees? If you can’t respect yourself, at least show some respect for Principal Crocker and this institution.”

“FINE!”

Megawatts rolled to the floor and struggled to hoist himself up from a squat.

Beads of perspiration formed on his brow and his belly jiggled. He belched loudly with each repetition to his classmates’ delight.

“Now, that’s what I call BURPees, Coach!”

“I can do without the gastro-punctuation, Watts, but it’s nice to see you break a sweat. And so easily I might add.”

Coach Mazur rounded on Jimmy again.

“Correct your offensive t-shirt immediately. I won’t tell you again.”

“Yes sir, Coach, sir!”

Jimmy ripped his shirt off, creating total pandemonium.

A gaggle of girls tittered and squealed at the sight of the boy’s bare, sunken-in chest.

Chloe feigned a swoon as Jimmy posed and flexed his painfully thin frame before he put his shirt back on inside out.

“Damn! I need a cigarette.”

The mutiny of underachievers drowned out the echoes of cross trainer squeaks from the high-gymers’ enthusiastic scrimmage drill on the other side of the gymnasium.

Coach’s eyes glazed over for a moment as he yearned for physically fit teenagers.

Elisha approached him, running her sleeve under her nose and sniffling.

“I bet you wish you were coaching gymnastics again instead of teaching low-gym, huh, Coach? Were you demoted? Did you change your hair? Chloe thinks you’re using Sun-In.”

She took a tiny step closer to him.

“I just wanted to warn you that the guys bought tube socks and they’re gonna wear ‘em tomorrow pulled up real high to copy you. But they don’t have calf muscles like you do. I told them that. You smell real nice, Coach.”

“Er, thank you, Elisha. What’s Sun-In? Oh, never mind.”

Chloe stomped on Jimmy’s heel, sending his sneaker flying.

“Look! Coach and ‘Lish are having a moment. Wonder what they’re talking about?”

“She’s probably asking him to burp her, if you know what I mean.”

Jimmy grabbed Chloe’s abandoned sweatshirt and wrapped it around his head like a turban.

“You are totally SICK! I like that in a dude.”

She retrieved his sneaker and wove it through the volleyball net.

“Coach Mazur! Jimmy and Chloe are FORNICATING instead of doing burpees!” Megawatts smirked triumphantly.

“Megajealous much, Megawatts?”

Jimmy took off his other sneaker and threw it at him.

“Bite me, Sheik Shoeless! You throw like a low-gymer.”

Shouts of “Fight! Fight!” erupted from the class.

“Enough. I SAID, ENOUGH!!” Coach’s neck vein throbbed as he madly scribbled onto his clipboard.

“Um, what's he doing?"

"Is he failing us?” Two girls asked at the same time.

Megawatts weighed in. “He’s probably just drawing sniper diagrams.”

“What are you writing, Coach?”

Jimmy pulled Chloe’s sweatshirt off his head and smoothed his hair.

“Another detention slip? More quality time for all of us this Saturday?”

Coach Mazur paused a moment then capped his pen.

He shook his head and sighed.

For once, every student was listening to him.

Waiting.

“I just wrote my letter of resignation.”

The bell rang.

Two Poems

Bering Break-up
Now, handsome paleface
is when we do part.
Screams scalped clean
to a shorn, reborn start.
The totem is gone,
sleep on the lawn.

Prison Raid
I fraught not, for many had fought a taut knot.
Dismayed at the frayed braid, they thought.
Shot, their lot. Unforgivably sought.
Dazed I stayed till sense it made,
The beating this onslaught brought.

The Fox Haunt

A lone red-tailed hawk circles high above the dead leaves swirling in the chilly breeze.

Most of the Victorian shoppes have closed for the day and the tourists are long gone.

"I think The Apple Haus owners were my favorite interview so far… check out this footage!"

Lily tosses her long blonde braid over her shoulder and watches the smiley owners showing off their apple wares on the miniDV tape playback.

"That looks great! It’ll be even better once we add the external mic audio."

Carlos buttons up his black trench coat to his neck and squints at the westerly sun sinking through the barren trees.

"Lil, we're losing ambient light by the minute. We better film the cemetery, then get outta here!"

"Right." Lily snatches his cider donut away and takes a bite.

The twosome cross the trickling creek’s covered bridge and tread uphill to a vacant, pristine church.

They hasten through the wrought iron cemetery gate and film the graveyard.

"Wow, 1800's tombstones! This place looks like a postcard."

As dusk approaches, the old limestone graves near the front entrance cast long shadows. The air grows still.

"Look!" Lily points into the grassy distance bordered by thick wood. "Is-is that a dog?"

"Actually, it's a red fox."

The young filmmakers jump at the sound of the disembodied voice.

A frail, elderly woman in plain clothing steps forward and beams warmly at them.

"Forgive me, I thought you saw me. My name is Georgia. I'm a parishioner here."

"Oh! Very nice to meet you, ma'am. I'm Lily, and this is Carlos. We're film students from Columbia College. I hope you don't think we're trespassing, we just thought the church and cemetery would be great subject material for our school project."

Two red foxes appear from a weathered tomb and trot over to them.

"Edgar and Virginia!" Georgia cries. "My old furry friends!"

She perches on a tree stump and reaches her gnarled hand out to scratch behind their ears.

Carlos fidgets with his camera.

"May we interview you? I mean, for our film school assignment?"

"I don't see why not."

"Thank you!"

Lily untangles her mic cord and faces the camera.

"Are we rolling?"

(Thumbs up from Carlos.)

"Continuing on our tour of historic Long Grove, Illinois, we meet a local woman named Georgia."

Lily turns her microphone toward her.

"And what brings you to the cemetery this evening, ma'am?"

"I think they like the safety of this cemetery, Virginia and Edgar. Wonderful place to raise their kits, not to mention the abundance of rabbits and mice."

Georgia strokes Edgar's lush, velvety neck as he slowly closes his golden eyes.

"Such clever creatures, foxes. They're known to outsmart their predators by doubling back on their trails, camouflaging their own scent. They'll even swim in a stream diagonally to throw those old hounds off their trail..."

Carlos zooms in on the content foxes lying in the grass beside her.

"They were, however, no match for my fur trapping husband, Benjamin." She smiles weakly.

"For years, I aided him in the pelt preparation and tanning process. Beautiful animals once wild and free, bloodied and hanging outside our door, awaiting their membranes to be scraped from their hides and buffed with their own boiled brains. Afterward, the pelts would be smoked and sold."

Edgar and Virginia stretch and roll in the grass, merrily hopping over tombstones and fences, disappearing in the soft purple light.

"Foxes are nocturnal creatures. I believe that's why so many cultures revere them as mystical beings.”

Georgia sighs heavily. “I do hope one day they'll forgive Benjamin and me."

Fascinated, the young filmmakers shift their camera from where the foxes exited and over to the old woman.

"Georgia?"

"Wh-where'd she go? She was just sitting there!"

Now nightime, high-pitched howls emerge from the dark wood, washing over them in Georgia’s sudden absence.

"Okay, we're done here!"

Carlos and Lily quickly pack their things and sprint past the headstones, never looking back.

From the safety of their car, the students survey their field equipment.

Their earlier footage of the town remains intact, but from the moment they stepped into the cemetery, their video and audio tape recordings simultaneously were blank.

Diurnal Coo

If I were a fowl
I'd be a burrowing owl;
Sculpting a fabulous clutch
From marmot dung and such.

If danger came aflutter,
Underground I’d sputter.
My brood and my mound:
Feathers safe and sound.

Playing Post-Mortem for Scale

"Buy before you die!" That's our catchphrase.

The Coffin Family wheels a real metal casket with satin lining around the theme park that we aren't supposed to let patrons climb into. We're a ghoulish improvisational troupe with a slapstick Marx Brothers quality to us.

"Yo, man. Who's in the casket?"

The gang bangers love us. I think they just like to be seen marching with a coffin.

"Tupac in da house!" Yells the actor who plays my dead husband, pointing to the closed metal lid. He's wearing a pinstriped suit and spats, his hair spray painted gray, chomping a cigar.

"Do you want to get us killed?!" I seethe in his ear.

I'm draped in a long black fur coat, donning a thick velvet turban with a peacock feather poking out over my embalmers makeup. I clutch a bamboo walking cane that I like to jab people with.

We are the walk-around characters, resented by those trapped working in haunted houses or stuck on top of displays all hours. Our ensemble has run of the place along with Chucky, Dracula, Dead Elvis, the Shining Twins, and Leatherface, who loves to rev up his chainsaw behind unaware girls waiting in line for rollercoaster rides.

For staff meetings, I never know where to sit. I usually nestle between the trolls and the vampires, ultimately hanging with the zombies. Some cast members have been playing the same roles for years. They relish this time of year when they can exercise their demons. (Note: there will be no exorcising here.)

My boss, Tommy, is a handsome midget. He couldn't be more than four feet tall, yet every girl here wants him. He's taut from jousting exhibitions in the off-season and has long, flowing blond hair and a chisled jawline. He's our direct supervisor, plays Chucky, and dates one of the Shining Twins.

Most of the trolls are renaissance fair folk who come here looking for off-season work as well. They swing from rooftop to rooftop, hang out on bridges and harass the paying public, laughing maniacally for spooky ambience.

The vampires are sullen, with several of them baring surgically implanted fangs. Dracula's vampire harem. I swear, they're constantly touching each other. None of them are ever out of character.

The Red Triangle Circus performers are hardcore, keeping to themselves mostly by default. Even the bizarre and queer shy away from those who eat glass, breathe fire, sleep on beds of nails and cover every inch of their bodies with tattoos. Their fearsome clown show is always something to behold: live snakes, blades, mutilation and loud rock music.

There are union actors, the walk-arounds, who can't really relate to anyone else here, and then there is the rest of the cast: everyday working types who look forward to the Halloween season to get in touch with their inner-fiend. They're happy to be here working for minimum wage, whether they're ghosts banging and moaning in one of the haunted houses or playing mischievous zombies greeting visitors at the front entrance.

"Alright, people, let's get this meeting started."

Tommy hops atop a picnic table to be seen, his overalls hiding his tiny rippling abdominal muscles. The girls fall silent, rapt with attention.

"Opening weekend was great! We're getting some good press. Zombies, the makeup department wants me to remind you to use more red eyeliner on your lower eyelids. Watch those necklines, people! Skeletons, take note."

One of the evil clowns makes a dramatic audible yawn and slumps in his chair. He starts stapling dollar bills to the side of his face in boredom.

"Things are going pretty smoothly, except something has come to my attention. Remember, all of you, signing an agreement at auditions stating that you would NOT bring any peanuts or peanut substances anywhere to our working areas? Our CEO and Creative Director, Mr. Langley, is highly allergic to peanuts as you all well know."

He lifts the short, choppy red wig off his head, hangs it on the chain link fence behind him for effect, then clears his throat.

"A peanut butter sandwich was confiscated in the locker room last night... This isn't funny, zombies!!”

The zombies snicker and the trolls guffaw. Next, the vampires start whispering and giggling.

"Damn it!" Tommy angrily hurls his acrylic clipboard to the ground, shattering it. Everyone falls silent again.

"If anyone so much as touches Greg Langley's hand with the most minute trace of peanut butter, if someone so much as breathes on him with their peanut breath, he'll go into anaphylactic shock!"

"Now, that's scary." A skeleton sneers.

"The offender will be removed from the job immediately." Tommy continues. "Our primary concern is safety, does everyone understand? No peanut butter!!"

Everyone nods and tries to keep from cracking up.

"Okay. One last thing. The Coffin Family has been asked to join the evening parades."

The zombies roll their eyes. A troll gets out of his chair.

"Tommy, that's not fair! Why don't we ever get to do special things? First, the walk-arounds get to do promo shots and now the evening parades? Just because they're union!"

I look down at my cold coffee and don't say a word.

"Brad, I'm sorry you feel that way, but Mr. Langley was just saying how much everyone loves the trolls. It's true! We can't do this without you."

Brad the troll reluctantly sits down and folds his arms, kicking his cauldron over in protest.

Tommy frowns and pauses for a moment.

"Hey, we just got a huge write up in The Weekender!" He fishes for a folded up piece of newspaper in his overalls. The girls hope for a quick flash of something. No luck.

"I quote, 'Never has an amusement park been so creepy; they've pulled out all the stops'... 'the ensemble cast is dynamite...'"

Tommy beams, still perched atop the table.

"I've been doing this for seven years, and this Halloween season is the best one yet! Now, let's have some solidarity! Let's get out there and scare the shit out of some people!!"

"TOMMY FOR PRESIDENT!!!" One of the clowns bellows.

All we creatures of the night whoop and holler out of our love for all things Halloween. To scare the shit out of some people.

We break for one last cup of coffee, makeup touchups, and on to our stations before the park opens.

4 Haikus

Garnet
Noble silicate,
blood red almandine gem snug
deep in my pocket.

Wildfire
Forest animals
suffocate to death before
their bodies ignite.

Hematoma & Wine
Tertiary bruise
hues pair quite nicely with a
Riesling petrol note.

Tree Tussle
Perched in pine, crows caw
algorithmic dominion,
yet termites laugh last.