>>Enter now

A portion of entry fees will be donated to the Alzheimer's Association during National Alzheimer's Awareness Disease Month in November 2012. (Image used with permission from organization.)

Hippocampus Magazine is giving away more than $400 in cash prizes this November—and raising awareness for National Alzheimer’s Disease Awareness Month in the second Remember in November Contest for Creative Nonfiction.

>>SEE LAST YEAR’S WINNERS

• Enter between May 15 and August 15, 2012.
• Memoir excerpts and personal essays of up to 3,500 words eligible.
• $10 entry fee ($1 for each entry will be donated to Alzheimer’s Association.)
• The Hippocampus reader panel will select six finalists from all submitted essays and memoir excerpts.
• A panel of special guest judges (to be announced) will select the winners from these six finalists.
• Winning stories will be published in the November 2012 issue of Hippocampus Magazine.
• During the month of November, the Most Memorable contest will double as The Remember in November Reader’s Choice prize—the readers of Hippocampus will also have a chance to make their case for which of the six finalists should win!

Prizes

• $150 grand prize (1)
• $75 runner-up (1)
• $50 third place (1)
• $10 honorable mention (3)
• $50 reader’s choice winner (doubles as the most memorable designation of the month)
• $5 reader participation prize (10)

Rules and Entry Information

• There is a $10 entry fee. This entry fee supports the prizes. And $1.00 for every entry will be donated to the Alzheimer’s Association. Submittable, our submission tool, uses PayPal to accept and process payments; however, you do not need to have a PayPal account in order to enter; you can use any accepted payment method. (Submittable also keeps a portion of this fee {$1.31} to cover its processing costs, and we thank them kindly for their service!)
• Entries must be submitted through Submittable in the Remember in November Contest for Creative Nonfiction Category and meet the submission requirements outlined on the submission page.
• If you would like to enter an already-submitted story to this contest, you may withdraw your current submission and resubmit to Hippocampus under the Remember in November Contest for Creative Nonfiction category.
• Participants may enter the contest as many times as they wish. Also, participants can win more than one prize as we have a blind reading process.
• Regular submissions in the usual Hippocampus Magazine categories will continue to be accepted for consideration in other forthcoming issues during the contest period.
• All non-winning entries may be considered for publication in other forthcoming issues.
• Prizes are in USD. Winners must provide mailing address or PayPal email address to receive prize. (A check or PayPal transfer are the only two methods of prize delivery.) Prizes will be awarded by December 31, 2012.
• The Reader’s Choice Award follows the same rules for our Most Memorable contest.
• The reader participation awards are randomly selected from readers who have commented on stories during the month of November or shared a link to a story on Twitter using the @hippocampusmag username or #hippocampusmag hashtag. (The mention or hashtag is necessary so we can track participation.)
• The Reader’s Choice Award winner and Reader Participation Award winners will be announced on December 1, 2011.
• Donation will be made to the Alzheimer’s Association on behalf of Hippocampus Magazine in early December 2011. The donation will include the names of all participants in the contest, unless otherwise specified during the submission process.

>>Enter now

Just a few of this month's prizes that arrived before press time!

We’re giving away a prize a day in honor of our first birthday!

Our wonderful literary friends and business-owner pals donated an assortment of goodies to help us celebrate our birthday! Please visit our donors’ websites to learn more about their work and/or publications and products. We’re still looking to fill a few more days – email us if interested in contributing a gift.

How to Win:

A winner will be selected at random each day this month to win that day’s prize. To win, do one of the following:

• Comment on a story from this month’s issue at HippocampusMagazine.com
• Share a post from this month’s issue on Twitter; be sure to use @hippocampusmag or Hippocampus Magazine in the post so we can find it
• Comment or like one of our Facebook posts pertaining to this month’s issue

The more you interact, the better your chances of winning! Have fun!

Winners will be listed on Facebook, Twitter and on this page each evening or the next morning. Winners must contact info@hippocampusmagazine.com to claim prize within 10 days of winning and must include full name and physical mailing address so gift can be mailed. Prizes will be sent by the end of May; some will be sent directly from that day’s sponsor.

PRIZES: WEEK 1

Tuesday, May 1
Custom Candy Box — 24-pack of candy bars from Blair Candy Company’s online store, www.blaircandy.com.

Keep your writing going by feeding your sweet tooth with this assortment of two dozen candy bars — we’ve already customized the box for you! Blair Candy Company has been a family owned and operated business for over 71 years. BlairCandy.com offers a huge selection of bulk candy, nostalgic and retro candy and lots more.

Winner: Jessie Carty – she retweeted this very post.

Wednesday, May 2
The Low-Residency MFA Handbook: A Guide for Prospective Creative Writing Students (Continuum, 2011) by Lori A. May – signed, courtesy the author

The Low-Residency MFA Handbook: A Guide for Prospective Creative Writing Students offers prospective graduate students an in-depth preview of low-residency creative writing MFA programs and includes interviews with program directors, faculty, alumni and current students. May is a novelist, poet and freelance writer; her writing has been published in various journals. >>More on the book and Lori A. May.

Winner: Roberta F. King, who retweeted about this giveaway.

Thursday, May 3
The Mindful Writer: Noble Truths of the Writing Life by Dinty W. Moore – signed (personalized to winner), courtesy the author

In The Mindful Writer: Noble Truths of the Writing Life, Dinty W. Moore shares practical strategies to help writers cultivate peace of mind and write better prose. Moore’s light, insightful commentary is a potent antidote for writer’s angst and a welcome companion for an otherwise lonely activity. Mary Pipher, author of Reviving Ophelia, says , “I’ve read a hundred writing books, but this one is fresh.” Visit: The Mindful Writer: Noble Truths of the Writing Life.

Winner: Lisa Romeo, who retweeted one of our posts.

Friday, May 4
The Rebel Wife by Taylor M. Polites – signed, courtesy the author

Brimming with atmosphere and edgy suspense, The Rebel Wife (Simon & Schuster 2012) presents a young widow trying to survive in the violent world of Reconstruction Alabama, where the old gentility masks a continuing war fueled by hatred, treachery, and still-powerful secrets. O Magazine — yes, Oprah– in their February 2012 issue picks The Rebel Wife as one of “Ten Titles to Pick Up Now.” Polites is a novelist living in Providence, Rhode Island with his small Chihuahua, Clovis. He has an MFA in Creative Writing from Wilkes University. >>More about the novel and Polites.

Winner: Kwamee, who commented on a few stories yesterday.

Saturday, May 5
Zarathustra Must Die by Dorian Alexander, courtesy of Etruscan Press

Zarathustra Must Die (Etruscan Press, April 2012) is a fictional memoir of a graduate student’s odyssey through the thought of Friedrich Nietzsche. Experiencing many states of consciousness, Dorian Alexander finally comes to realize the nature of time and its role in human existence. >>More about the book and Etruscan Press.

Sunday, May 6
North of Hollywood by Rick Lenz, an advanced reader’s copy courtesy JKS Communications

Rick Lenz is an actor who has made it in New York and Hollywood. Yet his book is more than just an ordinary Hollywood insider story. Also a gifted artist and widely produced playwright, he uses his extraordinary storytelling skills to take you into his personal experiences with actors and entertainers we normally only hear about through the rumor mills, and to reveal real-life experiences of heartbreak, suspense, discovery and joy. >>More about the book and Lenz.

Winner: Randy Brzoska, who retweeted about the giveaway.

* * *

WEEK 2

Monday, May 7
Calamity Joe by Brendan Constantine, courtesy Red Hen Press

Calamity Joe is the pen name of a mysterious narrator in a new kind of poetry collection. Spending his days in a lab, talking to mice & microbes, he will soon be the last living member of his family. More and more life seems to hint at its syntax and Joe feels that he can just make out the page he inhabits. Drastic measures are called for, but for what? >>More about the author and book.

Winner: Terry L. Kennedy who retweeted some of our tweets.

Tuesday, May 8
The Burning House by Paul Lisicky, courtesy Estruscan Press

When Isidore Mirsky’s sister-in-law, Joan, loses her apartment, she moves in. Mirsky’s world is already in flux – his job lost, his bayside town under siege by developers – and now he must struggle with his bewildering attraction to Joan, who evokes for him all the qualities that once drew him to his wife. How can a warm, unpredictable man remain true to himself and to the woman he loves? Desire, and the renewal it brings, might just be the thing that causes damage. Outrageous, tender, and alive with the sound of Isidore’s voice, The Burning House captures a man at his most vulnerable moment, on the brink of something new. >>More about the book.

Winner: Nadia Ibrishi who liked the status on Facebook.

Wednesday, May 9
Becky: The Life and Loves of Becky Thatcher by Lenore Hart – signed, courtesy the author

It’s 1910, and the renowned novelist Mark Twain has passed away — “gone with Halley’s comet”– just the time he always said he’d pass away. Now Becky Thatcher would like to set the record straight: she was never the weeping little ninny that Twain made her out to be in his famous popular novel. Yes, she was Tom Sawyer’s childhood sweetheart, but the real story of their love for each other, and the terrible secret that finally tore them apart, never quite made it into Twain’s books. Becky had her own reasons for rejecting Tom, and marrying his cousin Sid . . . as all women have their reasons. >>More about the book.

Winner: Nichole Reber who retweeted several stories.

Thursday, May 10
“Write like a Mother Fuc*er” coffee mug – courtesy The Rumpus

The Rumpus.net is an online magazine focused on culture, as opposed to “pop culture.” Pop culture can be hard to define and the term means different things to different people. Basically, we’re not opposed to things that are popular, but we have no interest in “art” created by marketing executives…The Rumpus is not worried about being the first to break the news. We care about good writing, and we’ll publish essays just because the writing is good.   >>Get your own mug.

Winner: Sabrina Nemis aka @mousecrackers – retweeted and commented on FB.

Friday, May 11
social studies by Jim Warner, plus a custom poem written for winner, courtesy of the author

My second book explores record stores, relationships, and recreational disaster.  I will also write a poem for you, the winner, on whatever topic–Need a love poem for wooing?  How about some verses for a retiring co-worker?  Maybe a jaunty lyric to tattoo and regret after an extended happy hour?  You ask, I’ll write it. >>Learn more about Warner and his book.

Winner: Nina Badzin who retweeted a few tweets.

Saturday, May 12
Through Eyes Like Mine by Noriko Nakada, courtesy the author

Through Eyes Like Mine is the story of a childhood told through the present-tense voice of Nori Nakada. Born to a Japanese American father and German-Irish mother in rural Oregon, Nori’s family becomes increasingly diverse when they adopt a six-year-old boy from Korea. She struggles to find comfort within a family, a community and a world that is both simple and complex.  By examining her family’s silences, she begins to understand life, death and her own identity.  The joys and challenges of growing up invite the reader to recall the world through eyes like mine. >>More on Nori and the book.

Winner: Amy Sprague who liked our Facebook status.

Sunday, May 13
My Two Mothers by Pat Florio

One woman’s loving memories of the two women who made her who she is. Patricia Florio is a travel writer for www.stripedpot.com, an online magazine: “the place to go to be in the know.” She graduated with an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Wilkes University, concentrating in creative nonfiction.  >>More info on Pat and the book.

Winner: Twitter user ThunderCat_5 who retweeted our post.

* * *

WEEK 3

Monday, May 14
The Body of a Dancer by Renee E. D’Aoust, courtesy the author

In a memoir Lance Olsen calls “fascinating, horrifying, unfalteringly honest,” award-winning writer Renee E. D’Aoust draws from her experiences as a modern dancer in New York City during the nineties. Trained at the prestigious Martha Graham Center, D’Aoust intertwines accounts of her own and other dancers’ lives with essays on modern dance history. >>More about the book and D’Aoust

Winner: Congrats to Amanda Alley who commented and tweeted.

Tuesday, May 15
Waterwoman by Lenore Hart, signed, courtesy the author

By early childhood, Annie Revels had everyone’s role in life figured out but her own. She understood that her mother was ill and needed to be taken care of. That her father was a waterman, a life she envied. And she understood that her little sister, Rebecca, was unabashedly beautiful. And she was not. When Annie’s father suddenly dies, no one questions which sister will take his place aboard the family oyster boat. And for the first time, Annie falls comfortably and easily into the only place in life she thought she could ever fit in-as a waterwoman. And then she meets Nathan… >>More on Waterwoman

Winner: Helen Gallagher, who commented on a story.

Wednesday, May 16
The Memoir Project: A Thoroughly Non-Standardized Text for Writing & Life by Marion Roach

Central Publishing, 2011. An impertinent, utterly useful book on how to write memoir, and see your life for what it really is.

Winner: TBA

Thursday, May 17
Truth or Something Like it by Curtis Smith (signed), courtesy of author

Glen Tate didn’t ask to be thrust into the heart of political upheaval. He has enough problems of his own–a love life adrift, his crew of disturbed schoolchildren, the lingering ghost of his dead brother… Yet these immediate worries are overshadowed when he survives a horrific accident which claims the son of Arthur Lyndon, the billionaire firebrand determined to forge a new America defined by his vision of the truth. Millions hail Lyndon as a modern messiah, and only Glen and his handful of misfit friends know the real truth. In Truth or Something Like It, Curtis Smith examines friendship and love, society’s penchant for cultish hysteria, and the power of one man to make a difference. >>More on Curtis Smith.

Winner: TBA

Friday, May 18
Mini Journal Two-Pack, courtesy of Hippocampus Magazine

Winner: TBA

Saturday, May 19
TBA

Sunday, May 20
TBA

* * *

WEEK 4

Monday, May 21
Fast Animal by Tim Seibles, courtesy Etruscan Press

The newest collection from one of America’s foremost African-American poets threads the journey from youthful innocence to the whittled-hard awareness of adulthood. Along the way it immerses the reader in palpable moments – the importance of remembering, the burden of race, and the meaning of true wakefulness. >>More on the book and Seibles.

Winner: TBA

Tuesday, May 22
The Raven’s Bride by Lenore Hart – signed, courtesy the author

When eight-year-old Virginia “Sissy” Clemm meets her handsome cousin, Eddy, she sees the perfect husband she’s conjured up in childhood games. Thirteen years her elder, he’s soft-spoken, brooding, and handsome. Eddy fails his way through West Point and the army yet each time he returns to Baltimore, their friendship grows. As Sissy trains for a musical career, her childhood crush turns to love. When she’s thirteen, Eddy proposes. But as their happy life darkens, Sissy endures Poe’s abrupt disappearances, self-destructive moods, and alcoholic binges. When she falls ill, his greatest fear– that he’ll lose the woman he loves– drives him both madness, and to his greatest literary achievement.>>More about the book.

Winner: TBA

Wednesday, May 23
Mini Journal Two-Pack, courtesy of Hippocampus Magazine

Winner: TBA

Thursday, May 24
Overdue Apologies by Noriko Nakada

In Overdue Apologies, the follow-up to her early childhood memoir, Through Eyes Like Mine, Noriko Nakada explores the world of middle school where an adolescent Nori continues the story of her evolving family. She enters a new world where teenage friendships and coming-of-age shift her developing sense of identity. Nori’s sharp perspective captures universal teen moments and takes the reader back to the excitement and challenges of growing up. >>More on Nori and the book.

Winner: TBA

Friday, May 25
They Hover Over Us: Stories by Rick Fellinger, courtesy the author

They Hover Over Us, winner of the 2011 Serena McDonald Kennedy Fiction Award, is a collection of 13 short stories about people from Pennsylvania’s Rust Belt. The collection was published this spring by Snake Nation Press, the award sponsor. Richard Fellinger is a writing teacher at Elizabethtown College and a former journalist, and he’s currently at work on his first novel. >>More about the book on Facebook.

Winner: TBA

Saturday, May 26
TBA

Sunday, May 27
TBA

* * *

WEEK 5

Monday, May 28
Don Juan in Hankey, PA by Gale Martin, courtesy the author

When a smalltown opera guild mounts Don Giovanni to save their company from financial ruin, they encounter ghostly mayhem, seduction, and murder, strangely mirroring characters from the Mozart opera they are struggling to produce.

>>More on Don Juan.

Winner: TBA

Tuesday, May 29
The Memoir Project: A Thoroughly Non-Standardized Text for Writing & Life by Marion Roach

Central Publishing, 2011. An impertinent, utterly useful book on how to write memoir, and see your life for what it really is.

Winner: TBA

Wednesday, May 30
The Autobiography of Mark Twain: Reader’s Edition, courtesy of Newman PR

The year 2010 marked the 100th anniversary of Mark Twain’s death. In celebration of this important milestone and in honor of the cherished tradition of publishing Mark Twain’s works, UC Press published Autobiography of Mark Twain, Volume 1, the first of a projected three-volume edition of the complete, uncensored autobiography. The book became an immediate bestseller and was hailed as the capstone of the life’s work of America’s favorite author. This Reader’s Edition, a portable paperback in larger type, republishes the text of the hardcover Autobiography in a form that is convenient for the general reader, without the editorial explanatory notes.

Winner: TBA

Thursday, May 31
TBA

Kris found more than cuisine in Quebec....

I heard the distinct sound of a sniffle as I looked up and saw a naked woman climb onto a cluttered desk. The noise was soft and low and definitely not coming from the Dolby speakers mounted on the walls of the movie theater.

How strange, I thought, watching a man reach for the well-endowed woman, who towered above me larger than life. Even on film, with the camera’s ten extra pounds strapped to her body, her frame was flawless, her flowing hair poised for a Clairol commercial.

A few minutes before, the woman, dressed in a trench coat and black stiletto heels, had entered a seemingly deserted office building. She sauntered among the empty cubicles and workstations, until she found the man working alone in a dark corner. Flashing a mischievous smile, she disrobed before him, and us.

Now atop the desk she pulled her lover close, initiating a passionate kiss, wrapping her legs around his waist. As the couple sprawled across piles of paperwork, a heart-felt moan pierced my ears.

I looked around, listening to the inhalation of faint whimpers. Eyeing my neighbors with suspicion, I saw their faces fixated on the screen, with one exception—the man in my life. He was slouched in his seat, his head bent forward, his arms raised to block his view.

“What’s wrong?” I asked John, staring at his covered face. He continued to whimper, ignoring my words.

I urged him to tell me what the problem was even though the audience shushed my pleas.

Onscreen the couple expressed the delight of their fiery embrace, but the distracting sounds beside me drowned out their non-verbal dialogue.

“That’s her. That’s Hortensia,” John finally uttered. “And that’s me; that’s exactly what she did to me.”

John sucked his breath in hard, trying to stop his outpour of grief and surprise.

“That’s her? That’s your ex?” I hissed softly, watching Hortensia’s lush head of hair fall off the edge of the desk, her breasts pointing upward in a most unnatural manner. “You brought me here to see this?”

I had endured seeing former loves of current boyfriends, pretty and polite, across a crowded room, or with a casual smile at a chance meeting. I had even encountered the “other woman” as I hid behind the door of a bathroom stall, but never had I seen a man’s former lover in all her glory, showing me her most intimate moves with firm thighs and an expert wax job.

John’s tears interrupted my thoughts, hushing my anger and suppressing my rage. My only goal at that moment was to quiet him in the crowded theater. When I whispered, “Maybe we should leave,” John insisted we stay. He needed to see if any other part of their relationship had been a dress rehearsal for her performance.

I slid down into my seat, not knowing what else to do. Instead of adding to the drama, I grabbed our shared bag of popcorn and munched furiously throughout the movie.

I was in Mexico City, visiting John from my home in San Miguel de Allende, three hours north of the nation’s capitol. We had met on the dance floor of a popular club and now alternated our weekends between our two adopted homes.

John, an international lawyer originally from Quebec, was trilingual and worldly. His intellect was refreshing, but more important, at least for me, was his knowledge of 1970s sitcoms. Having been immersed in Mexican life for the past few years, I was thrilled to meet a man who had harbored a crush on Marcia Brady while sporting a pair of pucca beads just like Keith Partridge. John understood my American idiosyncrasies and life, for a change, seemed easy.

There were no misunderstandings of language or culture. I could say what I meant and he understood the words for their true meaning. Having a relationship in a foreign tongue is no easy task. Add literal miscommunication to the pile of potential problems and it’s a labor-intensive endeavor. However, now, I could speak fast-paced English with colloquialisms and slang, throwing in the occasional euphemism, and I was still understood.

I enjoyed spending time in the big city, going to museums and favorite restaurants, wandering the streets of la Condesa and la Roma, neighborhoods with Parisian-style, turn of the century buildings and quaint cafés.

That morning, when John announced he wanted to go to the movies, I replied that there were more interesting things to do. But he insisted, saying his heart was set on a particular film. He didn’t mention that it required an extensive ride on the subway, two bus rides, and a vigorous walk through the hot concrete streets.

Crossing one of the world’s largest cities was not simple. With a population of more than 25 million, the sprawl was immense, the distance long and tiring. When we arrived at the theater I was covered in sweat and fantasizing about a luxurious dose of air conditioning.

“This movie better be worth it,” I teased John. “I need to see something spectacular to make up for what we just endured.”

And I did.

I saw Hortensia’s perfectly formed body; the image deflating my ego forever.

I had no idea she was a movie star. John had left that part out. He had mentioned her plays and the occasional TV appearance, but never once did he talk about a major motion picture.

* * *

Hortensia and John had had an affair the year before. He had been single and mesmerized with her beauty; she had been married and cheating on her famous movie director husband.

I had heard more than enough details about their relationship, especially how Hortensia had agreed to leave her marriage. John had waited patiently, sitting in the back row of her performances, planning clandestine meetings until they could be together.

After months of broken promises, John gave her an ultimatum. With tears in her eyes, Hortensia finally admitted that she would never leave her husband. He held the key to her career and walking away from her dream was too big a price to pay for any man.

They had parted as friends and I had thought that was the end of the story, until we went to the movies. After that Hortensia became part of our life.

She started calling my home, knowing exactly where to find John. In an innocent voice, she would ask to speak with her former lover. He always took the phone without hesitation and cooed over her words on the other end.

“I don’t want her calling here anymore,” I finally said one day.

“You don’t understand. She’s having a hard time and I’m just trying to help,” John insisted. “There’s no one else she can talk to.”

“Really? She has no other friends?” I asked, reaching for my box of Xanax to quiet the throbbing pain in my stomach. My new medical condition had roared its evil head a few months before, just about the time of Hortensia’s big scene debut.

“She’s a famous actress, she can’t divulge her secrets to just anyone,” John said seriously.

Interesting that he actually believes her, I thought. I didn’t utter a word, though, choosing instead to silently fight off the ugly creature called jealousy.

Born and bred in the South, I falsely believed I was not allowed to make a scene or express my discontentment with a relationship. If I had been told these were the ways of a lady, I don’t remember, but I nevertheless adhered to the silent rules of “proper conduct.” Besides, I was flexing my open mind, as well as trying to conquer another demon named envy–for I desperately wanted Hortensia’s hair, probably more than the man.

The following month John asked me to accompany him to Canada to meet his family and friends. It was a nice thought, but my enthusiasm for the trip was more about sampling rich sauces and flaky croissants.

I agreed. Then began to save every peso I could for the plane fare.

It was not an easy task.

* * *

The old town was as I had imagined, cobblestone streets with touches of Paris around every corner. Quaint alleyways and flower boxes softened the stone buildings, adding a touch of European sophistication. I marveled at the foreign feel of the place, happy I had come along with John. Even though it was the height of summer, the cool breezes reminded me of Mexico at the end of winter.

John and I spent our first evening in Quebec City with his friends, dining on oysters and Belgian beer with a hearty plate of pommes frites between us, a good portion of mayonnaise by its side. A much better alternative to ketchup, I thought, dipping a fried potato into the luxurious mixture generously sprinkled with black pepper.

The city’s winding pathways and picturesque river, with the looming presence of Chateau Frontenac, were a romantic backdrop for any couple; however, John kept his distance as we walked to our appointed accommodations: his former roommate’s living room and a futon sofa.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” John uttered softly, his eyes fixated on the floor of our makeshift room. He was sitting on a chair, fumbling with the edges of a tasseled pillow, caressing its long, thin threads.

His voice quivered when he said, “Hortensia’s leaving her husband.”

John’s uncomfortable demeanor told me everything I needed to know, but the least he could do was articulate the words and go through the motions of regret.

“I’m going back to her,” he declared, his eyes never meeting mine.

I had only been in Quebec for eight hours, having spent the weekend with John in New York City on an extended layover. When he admitted he had never been to one of the world’s most exciting destinations, I made plans for us to stay with friends and show him the sights.

“So, how long have you known about this?” I asked, wondering why he chose this exact moment to break the news and not before the dinner I treated him to in the West Village.

“A few weeks, but I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“So you brought me to Canada, to meet your family?”

“Well, I thought if I was surrounded by friends I would gain the strength to tell you the truth. I needed their support,” John said, his voice growing lower, his grasp on the pillow tightening.

“So, everyone at dinner knew you brought me here to break up with me?” I questioned, not believing I was the last person to know I no longer had a boyfriend. No wonder they had been so friendly and sweet, smiling awkwardly in my direction, patting my arm.

“I’m sorry.” John said, finally lifting his head and looking toward me. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to continue the trip. I’ll take you back to the airport tomorrow.”

“Airport? You think I’m going home with my tail between my legs after spending all my money on a plane ticket to Canada?”

John looked at me with surprise. Obviously, he had thought ditching me would be a simple task—break the news, say I’m sorry, and then put me on a plane with only one plate of perfect fries under my belt. He didn’t even attempt to bribe me with a parting gift—preferably a basket of raspberry-dotted pastries and miniature bottles of real maple syrup.

“You’re not dumping me until the trip is over,” I informed him, finally realizing for the first time in my life I didn’t always have to be understanding and give into everyone else’s desires. “I’m staying and we’re doing everything as planned. I want to see the lakes, the cities, enjoy the culture, and eat really good food. It’s the least you can do.”

I didn’t sleep well that night knowing I had been ambushed at my own expense. I grew angry, wondering if Hortensia had plotted the dramatic ending, making herself a guest star in my season’s finale. How dare she, I thought, tossing and turning on the stiff futon. I’ll show them. I’ll win over every one of John’s friends and make his parents love me, all while eating double desserts and enormous amounts of tree sap.

I began my new life the next morning, gaining strength from my anger and the knowledge that John had tried to deny me the pleasure of superior butter, cream, and cheese, not to mention the opportunity to taste poutine and feves au lard, the hearty mainstays of the Quebecois kitchen.

Laughing with his friends in the street the next day, I leaned over and whispered “coward.” He was speechless, staring at me with shock and disbelief. I smiled, enjoying the exchange, then stood taller than any other time during our relationship. We had always been the same height, but not anymore.

That night at dinner, sitting at a cozy table for two, John ordered a commonplace croque monsieur, a hot ham and cheese sandwich. He ate and lived simply, preferring to save his money for his upcoming move into a large apartment in a chic neighborhood, an area that was coincidentally home to the stars of Mexico’s film industry. Studying the menu, it finally occurred to me that he wasn’t moving closer to work as stated, but planning to house a homeless movie star.

“I’ll have the trout in almond-apple cider,” I told the waiter, “along with a glass of your best white wine.”

“I thought you didn’t have a lot of money with you.” John said, referring to my pricey request.

“I don’t, but you do,” I pronounced, tired of splitting the check with a man who made four to five times more than I did.  I had agreed to the modern North American way of dating as his girlfriend. But now, as his ex, living in a Latin country, where a woman never foots the bill, I expected to be wined and dined. I enjoyed my dessert of mousse au chocolat so much, its satiny texture and intense flavor filling me with comfort, that I ordered a second.

“And I’d love an after dinner cognac,” I told the waiter, complimenting his excellent service, assuring him a large tip from the man seated across from me.

“You don’t drink cognac,” John scowled, shaking his head.

“True, I didn’t,” I said, flashing a naughty smile at the waiter, “but I’ve decided to start treating myself to the better things in life.”

The next day John’s parents picked us up and we drove into the countryside, heading toward their summer cottage, a small cabin on an idyllic lake. We stopped along the way for a plate, or rather a cardboard box, of poutine, served from a trailer parked in the middle of nowhere. The French fries, covered in gravy and cheese curds were interesting, something to enjoy if they had been part of your childhood, but I was a loyal fan of the Belgian mayonnaise tradition for fried potatoes.

John’s parents eyed me with what I now recognized as pity and proceeded to shower me with attention and activities. It was cold at the cottage, so while the others, who obviously possessed thicker blood, swam in the freezing water, I stayed snuggled against a pot-bellied stove.

Wonderful meals accompanied our days. John’s mother was an excellent cook and we bonded over recipes and techniques, seasonal strawberries and homemade cakes. I was enjoying my foray into Quebecois cuisine, as well as mastering the art of passive-aggressive behavior. Words like “whimp” and “sissy boy” flew out of my mouth; sentences such as “Do you need your friend’s support in order to tell me where the bathroom is?” began our conversations.

John called me cruel and I registered the sadness on his face with a contented smile. I could drink wine again and eat greasy food–my stomach pain had gone away, just like the famous movie director.

I realized over a plate of wild fiddleheads, boiled and drizzled with butter, that I had been burdened with the “good girl syndrome” my entire life. I imagined it as a mental illness most likely found in a Freudian textbook. Passive, quiet, and sweet was a role I played well, but I was now ready to break the old patterns, speak my mind, and express my anger, even if it meant behaving in an unladylike fashion.

“So, you’re telling me Hortensia doesn’t know I’m here with you?” I laughed, reveling in the beauty of our dysfunctional three-way relationship. “What? You didn’t have the courage to tell her either? Maybe you should bring her here, to Canada, in order to break the news.”

“You don’t understand, she’s very sensitive,” John stammered, miserable in my company. “She’s an artist.”

“Oh, she’s an artist,” I mocked, enjoying another day in the country. “I’m sorry, I honestly thought after I saw her work that she was a porn star. My mistake.”

We traveled to Montreal and climbed to the highest point, snacking on the local cousin of the New York bagel. I tried tarte au sucre, a pie similar to pecan, but without the nuts, following it with an almond croissant and second cup of cappuccino. Sated and content, with no need for a Tums, I passed John the bill.

“I have to save my money for the apartment,” he pleaded, pushing the small piece of paper back toward me.

“Get Hortensia to pay half,” I said, an honest smile brightening my face. “I’m sure she made a lot of money stripping before millions of people, straddling a desk with piles of paper poking her ass, wrapping her thighs around a hunky actor, flinging her head back and then screaming in delight as he…”

* * *

Two weeks and ten pounds later I returned home to Mexico, alone. Hortensia had my man, as well as a perfect body, flowing hair and the intimate knowledge of seduction, qualities I had envied, but now I possessed something much better—my own true voice.

Nepotism does have its benefits. As my father took me into work with him on occasion, I was familiar with this part of my father’s life, and I either knew or knew of all the major figures he would talk about at dinner. Most importantly, I knew and liked Stanley and Victor, the two Jamaican janitors.  For decades Stanley and Victor were the true mainstays of the Interfaith Center. Stanley was a short man who always wore a tan fedora to work and slacks and a button-down shirt—nice clothes, for a janitor—an appearance which made him seem out of another era altogether. Victor was tall and hefty with strong shoulders and an even-tempered demeanor.  Both Stanley and Victor were easy-going in fact, though Stanley flashed an edge of intensity and seriousness.  Often, Stanley furrowed his brow; his eyes narrowed in concentration.  Both men loved to joke around, and they teased each other, and me, mercilessly. I referred to them as old men and they called me “Naton son.”  To Stanley and Victor I was always a little tyke, the boss’s son.  They were my protectors.  My friends.

Typically my mother would drop me off at the Interfaith Center after school, and hand me a brown-bagged dinner. I would work until ten or eleven o’clock, waving goodbye to Stanley as I left.  Since Victor primarily worked during the day, Stanley was more or less my immediate boss. With Stanley at the helm of the ship, I was able to breathe.  Stanley taught me the ropes; we had, in the best sense, a true mentor-mentee relationship—as if Stanley were my surrogate father and I the dutiful son learning his craft.

Slowly I established my own rituals. When I arrived in the evening, I would first head back to my actual father’s office, greeting the secretaries along the way, placing my dinner in his mini-fridge. He would usually be on the phone with one religious group or another, taking a reservation or handling a complaint. Sometimes my father seemed overburdened with his job, particularly regarding the political in-fighting amongst the ministers, rabbis and priests. In the 1980s Columbia was still steeped in its hippie roots and hanging on for dear life to some of the original ideals of its founder, James Rouse. Multidenominational meetinghouses were at the very forefront of Rouse’s utopian vision. They were to function as a statement of understanding and mutual respect.  At least initially, I believe my father loved the job, particularly because he was immersed in an idealistic kind of baby-boomer experiment, a work-in-progress. He believed he was involved in reshaping the world, or at least his part in it.

I first told my father about my day–Dad: “What happened today at school?” Me: “Nothing”. Then I would wander the large building searching for Stanley, to find out what I could do to help. Once I found Stanley in one of the cavernous meeting rooms, I’d begin my games. One was to sneak up behind him to shock him, grab him from behind.  Stanley was willing to play along, and at times I honestly did scare him so much so that he would catch his breath, clutch his chest, knock his own hat off.  “You really surprised me that time, Naton-son,” he would say.  Since Stanley was both earnestly serious and good-natured, he was easy to tease:  I could always provoke a reaction from him.  Sometimes his heart was racing so much he had to sit down:  When he sat down and took his hat off I knew I got him good. Other times he would be in the middle of a conversation with the head of a congregation and I couldn’t “get him” at all. On occasion Stanley would hear me creeping up on him, turn around and spot me, grinning ear to ear.  “Oh Naton, not this time,” he would say. “No, no, no.”

Stanley took his job seriously.  He always struck a balance between having a good time and accomplishing his given workload.

“Time to stop joking now Naton-son,” he would say and wave for me to follow him.  I listened.

We would get to work:  vacuuming, washing and waxing the floors, washing the windows, mowing the grass on the perimeter of the property, changing light bulbs, sweeping, scrubbing down the baptistery, taking out the trash, setting up chairs and tables in the meeting rooms.  Though I resisted these types of chores at home, I didn’t mind the drudgery if I got paid for it and if Stanley was there to entertain me.  I felt as if I had a stake in things, as if I was a part of a team.  Thankfully, Stanley spared me the bathroom detail, aside from replacing the toilet paper.  I’m not sure if he thought scrubbing the toilet was beneath me, or if he wanted to protect me from it, but Stanley always volunteered to take care of the most gruesome jobs himself.  I was the son of the boss.

The other part of the night janitor’s job was simply to walk around the building to make sure everything was safe and sound. This job entailed a bit of security detail. As a sign of the changing times—Stanley began locking the bathroom at night. “Too many graffiti and tings,” he said. “You never know about the batroom.” The building itself was in the center of the Wilde Lake Village Center, an outdoor mini-mall designed by Rouse to be a center for community gatherings and entertainment. Thus, we did see some foot traffic, especially from the art gallery and the community center and the high school on the far side of the huge parking lot. Usually the night was quiet though, and it afforded Stanley and I the chance to listen to the Orioles on the radio—his usual routine. Sometimes we played cards.  At the end of the night we would lock up, and Stanley would walk down the road to his apartment, where he lived alone.

One night, Stanley and I were locking up the building when I came to a realization:  there must be a quicker way.  For the past year Stanley had taught me that the best way to lock the series of doors around the perimeter of the Interfaith Center was to proceed from door to door on the inside of the building, locking each one and testing it by a double tug.  I thought, why not just lock the doors from the outside and lock the very last door from the inside? I told Stanley of my discovery.  “This has to be faster,” I said.

“No way, Naton son,” he said. “You’re wrong. I know it.” Stanley had told me had been locking the doors from the inside for years, and that my method would be slower because I would have a longer distance to travel to reach the doors.

We decided to race.  Stanley would lock half of the doors his way, and I would lock half of the doors my way. Whoever finished first would owe the other an ice cream bar from the store up the street. I zipped my keys in the doors as fast as I could, turning each one, and quickly yanking each door to make sure it was locked. At door number one and two and three I was ahead, but by door number four I stumbled, dropping the keys. I had to find the master key again in the ring. By the time I recovered, Stanley had won by a landslide. He leaned against the glass wall, laughing so hard he had to hold his fedora in his hand.

Stanley stuck out his hand, still laughing, congratulating me for the effort.

“Te old man still has it Naton,” he said.

“I slipped,” I said.  “If I didn’t slip I definitely woulda won.”

“When you’re outside it easier to slip,” he said.  “Tat what I mean.”

“Let’s race again,” I said.

“Oh no,” he said.  “Another night, Naton-son.”

And we did.  Each night that Stanley and I worked together we did the lock-up-race. Occasionally I won, but usually Stanley won. It was a great way to whistle while we worked, to pass the time. We always laughed a lot. Stanley knew how to put a smile on my face.

The Interfaith Center job was rewarding precisely for reasons other than the mere work I accomplished. The social connections I made and realizations I came to during those years were invaluable. Not only were Victor and Stanley good role models for me—how could I take myself too seriously in their presence? They were a kind of refuge from the stress of high school–when my social life went to pot, I could always go to work.  I could sweep the floor or wash the windows. My angst had a release.

During the years I worked at the Interfaith Center, my opinion of my father also multiplied. My father was the boss. He was admired and respected by those around him and I could see that on a daily basis.  He was able to delegate, to communicate clearly with his colleagues.  He was patient and kind and tolerant. In addition, I saw how my father was able to moderate between those who did not necessarily see eye to eye. Ironically, my father’s immersion in hippie idealism also brought out his natural pragmatism. He was a man at ease with himself and the world. At times I wonder how his life would have turned out had he never left his position as the building manager of the Wilde Lake Interfaith Center. Where his subsequent job as a real estate agent forced my father to become increasingly solitary, internal, and bottom-line, his position at the Interfaith Center was communal and external and it allowed his charm to surface.

On the days when I cleaned for four hours then listened to the Orioles game for the rest of the evening, I felt sorry for the kids working at McDonald’s or Kentucky Fried Chicken. The pay was terrible working at the Interfaith Center—three thirty five an hour, the minimum wage at the time—but I was as happy as a clown just having some walking around money. And since my father paid me in cash, the money I did earn seemed more substantial somehow.  It all went towards baseball cards and clothes anyway.

Once I was sixteen and could drive myself to and from the Interfaith Center, my father let me man the building myself on occasion. By this time I was also working at a discount retail store, Caldor, a job that paid five dollars an hour. But that was a real job and I had to work much harder, or at least pretend to. There I wasn’t the boss’s son, and I was often in the public eye. I felt embarrassed if a neighbor or friend saw me in my brown and orange Caldor uniform but this was part of the job description. Despite the low pay I still preferred my off-kilter, eclectic janitor’s helper job at the Interfaith Center. I had more autonomy, more space to roam, a real comfort level.

A knot would form in my stomach on those nights alone. Something about the silence and calm of solitude in a large empty building was daunting.  Like many of the buildings built in the late 60s and early 70s, the Interfaith Center was built in a modern Frank Lloyd Wright style, and the rooms inside were decked out with high ceilings and windows, all air and light.  Yet, those empty rooms and hallways bereft of voices or sounds were lonely. I would walk from room to room, checking up on each space, but I usually wished Stanley or Victor were there with me, someone to joke with, to laugh with, to listen to the radio with me.  Alone I was restless. Alone, the building felt huge.

When I was alone, I didn’t see watching the World Series in my father’s office as abusing my position, but some on the staff complained. Yet, instead of stopping completely, I just moderated my baseball watching and waited until everyone who might still be lingering in his or her office was safe at home. Then I would hole myself away back in my father’s office.  I wasn’t exactly proud to be a janitor—the popular kids at my high school would never stoop so low for a job—and in the glass-walled highway I was conspicuously visible, an object of scrutiny and mockery. I wanted to crouch in a smaller and less visible space, and my father’s office fit the bill. Partially I hid out of shame, but I also simply wanted to watch the World Series and a mere job couldn’t, and wouldn’t stop me. As a teenager my priorities were in order:  first baseball, then everything else.  Soon the complaints flowed in and my father asked me to cease and desist. As it turned out, this was the beginning of the end of my tenure at the Interfaith Center.

In my senior year of high school I would still return from time to time to help Stanley and Victor set up chairs, or clean up after a particularly large function. However, by the end of the 1980s my father had resigned from The Interfaith Center, frustrated by the low pay and the frayed relationships between the various faiths.  Idealism had gone to seed.  Ultimately the Catholic, Baptist, and Jewish congregations would leave the building altogether and establish their own individual structures elsewhere in Columbia.  What was left were simply several bland denominations of Protestantism, all fairly alike in their outlook, worldview, and approach. The inter-religious experiment was, if not a failure, then at least a disappointment.  At the end of the 80s something was lost.

Before I left for college–to become an adult–my father and I took Stanley to an Orioles game. Though Stanley had listened to the Orioles on the radio for years he had never seen a game in person. I can’t remember whether the Orioles beat the Angels that night but watching the excitement in Stanley’s eyes as he took the game in was one of the high points of my adolescence.

In the late 90s I attended Stanley’s retirement party at The Interfaith Center. We sipped sodas and laughed and he nudged me and told me that he never really planned on retiring. He would always work full-time, he said.  He said he didn’t understand what retirement really meant. Stanley still works at The Interfaith Center. He still stacks the chairs, cleans the bathrooms, locks up.  I can picture him.  He’s whistling in the dark.

Stacy was the girl with ample breasts who convinced me to abandon The Cookie Company in favor of selling watches. The new job involved a pay cut, longer hours, and more work but this was balanced out by the dates Stacy promised me.

The first date was great. We played ping-pong at the local rec center, then made out in the back of my rusted-out station wagon. The entire reason I owned a station wagon was to own a portable make-out spot.  I didn’t tell Stacy this but I was pleased my station wagon had finally served its intended purpose. I timed our session; it lasted twenty-six minutes. I was especially proud of the courage I demonstrated when I placed my hand underneath her shirt and very suavely brushed it against her breast. I didn’t actually grope it or anything but I hoped to build up to this eventually.

For some reason, Stacy hadn’t yet gone out on a second date with me despite me asking her every day for weeks. But it couldn’t be helped.  She was very busy helping paint her little sisters’ nails and shopping for new work shirts. She hadn’t worn any of these new work shirts yet but I was absolutely convinced they would be modeled for me soon.

Regardless, Stacy was the center of my thoughts. In fact, she was what I was thinking about when the old traveler approached the Dakota Watch Company kiosk.

I didn’t actually see the old traveler approach. I faced the main doors of the mall watching for Stacy’s arrival. Our shop sat in the center of the hallway on the far side of the food court’s main doors and the man had approached from the interior of the mall.

I heard someone intentionally clearing his throat and turned at the sound. The old traveler wore a plaid shirt tucked into khakis pulled high above his waist.  Wisps of white hair stuck out haphazardly from beneath a brown felt fedora–an 80-year-old Indiana Jones. He reverently held a watch in his cupped hands like it was the Holy Grail.

“This watch needs a battery,” the old traveler said. “I bought it in Jerusalem last week but it isn’t running. The man who sold it to me said it just needed a new battery.”

I took the watch from him.  It was gold in color, the band thick and wide.  The face was white with black hands that weren’t going anywhere. Curiously, there was no brand name evident anywhere on the face. This was a sign of either a very cheap watch or a very expensive one. “You bought this in a shop?” I asked.

The man shook his head. “No, a street-corner.”

A suspicion started to form itself in my mind. “How much did you pay?”

“Two-hundred dollars. The watch is solid gold.”

Yeah, right, I thought. The watch was much too light to be solid gold. If there was any gold present in the watch at all, it coated a stainless-steel interior. More likely, the watch was coated in gold-colored paint. Strictly speaking, I wasn’t supposed to work on expensive watches due to liability issues. A list of high-end brands decorated the side of our workstation and we referred any watch that matched those brands to the jewelers in the mall that sold them.

There was obviously no danger in working on the old traveler’s watch, though. “Yeah, I can put a new battery in here for you. But I want to warn you, a new battery might not be what the watch needs.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s possible, that since the watch wasn’t running when you purchased it, that it is defective.”

“Can it be fixed?”

I shrugged. “That depends. It might be something as simple as straightening out the hands. I can do that right here for you in the shop. But if the movement is defective, I’ll have to send that off for a series of tests and a repair at the central office.”

The old traveler sighed and scratched the side of his head.  “What’s a movement?”

I smiled patiently at him. “The movement is the internal mechanism of the watch. It’s what the battery sits in and what makes the hands turn.”

“That does sound serious.”

I nodded again. “It would be – but don’t worry about that yet. I’ll try a new battery first. If that doesn’t work, I’ll try a few diagnostic things here. We’ll only send it off if we need to.”

I was almost positive the battery wouldn’t work but I didn’t want to dash the old man’s hopes just yet. Not until absolutely necessary. I suspected the street-corner watch dealer sold the old gentleman a watch he purposefully knew was defective. Most likely, the watch was not air-tight and dust from Jerusalem’s desert environment had gotten into the movement and stopped it. If the man wanted to pay for it, the central office could do a thorough cleaning for about thirty bucks and probably get it running again.  Worst case scenario was a new movement, which ran about eighty.

The battery of a watch is accessed by removing its back. Most mainstream brands have a small lip on the side that a skilled hand can use to pry off the back with a case knife. Very expensive watches have a beveled back that requires a special tool to remove. I turned the watch over in my hands and examined the back.

This one had just a simple lip. I sat down on the swivel stool at the workstation and picked up the case knife. I slid its thin edge underneath the lip and pulled upwards while pushing down on the watch. The back popped off easily and my eyes went wide at what I saw inside.

In all my suspicions, I never imagined this sight.

I chuckled softly, stood up, and brought the backless watch over to the old traveler.

“Done already?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No, I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done because there’s nothing inside this watch.”

I held it out for him to see: completely empty. The backside of the face was smooth and flawless except for where the stem was glued in place to it.

The old traveler leaned his face in close to examine the bare inside of the watch. He sighed and looked up at me. “So, I’ll need a new movement?”

I shook my head again. “You would also need a new face, new hands, and a new stem. Honestly, you might as well just buy a new watch.”

The old traveler took the watch from me.

“I can’t believe this,” he said. “You’re saying I got ripped off?”

I nodded and put what I hoped was a sympathetic half-smile on my face. “Sorry.”

“But I bought this watch in Jerusalem. That’s in the Holy Land. You can’t get ripped off in the Holy Land. That’s just wrong.”

“Sorry,” I said again. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. There were no reassurances to make, no promises to give, and no condolences to offer above what I already had.  So I just watched as the old traveler unceremoniously dumped the timepiece into his pants pocket, turned slowly, and shuffled off even more slowly, his head hung low.

I watched him disappear around the nearest hallway corner, then I turned back to the main doors and resumed watching for Stacy. She arrived a few minutes later, her brown hair swaying back and forth like a desert wind as she walked.

“Hey, Stacy,” I said, as she lifted up the door to the kiosk . “How about dinner tonight when you get off?”

Stacy turned stainless steel, her eyes painted sad on me.  “I’m afraid I already promised my mom I’d share her meatloaf tonight.”

“I understand,” I said.  She turned away and, for some reason, I couldn’t help but think of the old traveler and his watch.

Bryce Journey’s humorous writing has appeared in Blind Man’s Rainbow, Scissortale Review, Apropos, Temenos, Red Clay Review, Poydras, and Splinter Generation. His work was a prize winner in New Era Magazine’s annual competition and he won a film credit in Mike Nelson’s RiffTrax Live: Reefer Madness project. He is an English teacher, has a BFA in Creative Writing, a Masters in Education, and is working on a Masters in English. When he’s not entertaining his two-year son, Luke Ender, he likes watching bad movies with his wife, Laura, satiating his passion for board gaming, and increasing his skills as an amateur yo-yo enthusiast.

The exterior of Centre de Documentation Juive Contemporaine in paris - Flickr Creative Commons

It is the summer of 1996, and I am graced with three grant-funded weeks in Paris. Mindful of my mission, I spend most of my time trying to narrow down a dissertation topic. But I am in Paris, after all.

Something remains constant whether I’m at work or at play. Struggling against those rebellious Rs and other sounds that, as I hear them gargle from my throat, nearly convince me that I need a French speech therapist, I repeat the same sentence. I assure everyone—librarians, cashiers, family friends—that despite my awful accent, je comprends mieux que je parle. I understand their language better than I speak it. They can trust me with their instructions. Replies. Confidences.

Je comprends mieux que je parle is what I say to an archivist one afternoon, when, just after lunch, I cross the Seine. Destination: a visit to the Centre de Documentation Juive Contemporaine (CDJC), where I hope to explore the stories of French-Jewish emigrés—and would-be emigrés—who left for the United States before they could become one of the 76,000 deportees to be sent from France to places east. It isn’t the first time that I’ve visited the CDJC, which is housed within a complex that memorializes the Holocaust’s victims. But it is my first purposeful research trip there.

The wary archivist, sufficiently comforted by my statement that je comprends mieux que je parle, goes ahead and pulls the records I’ve requested. She sets the files and papers on a table and leaves me to them.

In walks a woman my grandmother’s age. Or perhaps even older. Another, younger woman holds her arm. The younger woman speaks with the archivist. Quietly.

I listen. At some point, I look up, too. I can’t hear everything. Just enough.

Her little brother.

Separated.

War.

Any records?

When, many minutes later, the archivist returns with a single paper and holds it out to them, she says how sorry she is. About what happened to the old woman’s little brother all those years ago.

My teeth clench. The old woman looks around. Beseeching something, and finding only me—my eyes—to fasten on.

I gaze back at her and I think, So this is what “grief-stricken” looks like.

Fifteen years later, that image of the old woman’s face will remain clearer to me than any other aspect of the episode. But that day, I write nothing. I say nothing. I hope that in those silent seconds, the old woman sees that somehow, I understand the profound devastation of this moment we’ve so unintentionally shared better—far better—than I could ever say.

Erika Dreifus is the author of the short-story collection Quiet Americans (Last Light Studio), which The Jewish Journal named a Notable Book and Shelf Unbound magazine honored as a Top Small-Press Book for 2011. A contributing editor for The Writer magazine and Fiction Writers Review, Erika lives in New York City. Web: www.erikadreifus.com

“Are you serious?” I yelled, when he told me what he’d done.

I waited until I heard him putter away and then opened the door. Red splats decorated the stoop. I peered over the balcony and saw him sitting on the stairs, clutching a bloody towel.

“Call A.,” he yelled. “I’ve tried to kill myself!”

A. was our landlord. I called his number but there was no answer. Then I went downstairs. I’d been kicking back in front of the TV with a few vodka sodas, and the warm night air had a fuzzy, hazy quality.

D. put the towel next to him on the step and stared down at his wrists. The wounds were horizontal at least but jagged and gaping, like a Halloween pumpkin. I looked away. The smell of blood and tequila wafted up.

I got a towel from my apartment and wrapped his wrists, tucking the ends under. I couldn’t think of anything to fasten them with. Bright red seeped through the white fabric.

“Stay still,” I said. “I’m calling the ambulance.”

“I’ve taken twenty clonazepam as well,” he said. “These, there.” He nodded at the crushed packet lying in front of his door. His small, desperate eyes shone proudly.

“Well,” I said. “You’ll probably be all right with that. I did the same thing the other week, mas o menos. With half a litre of vodka.”

He stared at me. I shrugged. The reasons for this incident on my part were complex and not anything I was planning, at that stage, to examine.

D. pulled at the towels with his teeth. Overall there was a pinched quality to his face; an entrenched aspect of complaint.

I didn’t know the number for the ambulance and didn’t have a phone book so I called my ex-boyfriend, also a D. – and also three sheets to the wind, as usual.

“Uh, try 060,” he slurred. “That’s general emergency.”

In my broken Spanish, I struggled to relate the situation to the operator, along with my address, which is not on a street with a name, but off a cobblestone road and up some stairs and then up a pedestrian-only alleyway. It took a while, but I got through it.

When I finished the towels were lying on the step. D. was holding his wrists up, examining them. Then he started screaming.

“Arghhh! Ahhhhhhh!”

A light flicked on in the apartment opposite mine, upstairs. The guy who lived there was standing at the window. I waved at him and he turned around. Seconds later the light in the apartment went back off.

“I’m such a loser,” D. wailed. “I’ve lost everything. My daughter, my wife, my job…. I can’t work anymore.”

“Okay, keep still.”

“I was in the film industry in L.A. I worked with Mariah Carey…. But now I can’t go back there. I’ve lost it all. I’m such a loser. Arggh!”

“Ahhhhhhhh…….”

He got up and trotted into his apartment. I followed and watched as he rifled through some stuff on the kitchen counter. Blood dripped onto the concrete floor, and a yellow plastic bottle – the cheapest brand of tequila.

“Look. She’s in here.”

I glanced at what he was foisting at me: a leather-bound photo album, scuffed around the edges. It was full of different people he said I should recognize. The only one I did was Mariah Carey – her head cocked to one side and doe eyes flirting with the camera.

“She’s always showing the right side of her face huh, in photographs?” I said. “I read that somewhere. She thinks it’s her better side.”

In Mariah’s hair was a sparkly clip in the shape of a large bird.

“What is that,” I leaned forward to get a better look. “An ostrich?”

“I worked on one of her movies.”

He gazed at me, an anguished look on his face.

“Movies? What movies?”

“Glitter.”

“Oh….”

“I used to work with all of them. Look!”

He kept flipping through the album.

“I had a great life!”

“Oh – well, good.”

“But I’ve lost it all!”

He flung one arm over his head.

“Okay, why don’t you settle down. Here, let me put these towels back on.”

“I can’t go back to the States.”

“There we go.”

He sat down on the floor, clutching the photo album to his chest.

“I’ve got three DUIs. They won’t let me go back.”

“Well then,” I said. “Puerta Vallarta’s not so bad is it?”

“I’m from Canada – Calgary. But I don’t want to go back there. I want to go back to L.A. My wife and daughter are there. Look.”

He opened the photo album again. “Oh, they must be in the other. Aaahhhh….

“I’ve lost them!”

He squinted up at me. “I took twenty of those pills. I wonder what will happen.”

“You’re used to them to some extent I’m guessing? So you’ll just be very relaxed for a few days.”

“I took twenty….”

“Look, you don’t have to believe me. The doctor’s coming. No, no, keep the towels.”

“It’s because I screw everything up! It’s terrible.”

He went into it further: all the things lost. Houses, cars, family. Eventually I heard a walkie-talkie and went to the door, looked out. Three police officers in white uniforms appeared out of the darkness, up the hill.

“Suicidio, intento,” I told them. “Ugh. Los manos.” I pointed to what was self-evident and showed them the empty pack of clonazepam as well. The first officer glanced at it and looked D. up and down with no change in his expression.

“Is he your husband?” he asked me, in English.

“No!” I shrieked. “I mean no. I live upstairs. This is the first time I’ve spoken to him. He knocked on my door.”

“Okay.” The officer took a few steps away and talked on his phone. Then he sauntered back.

“How old are you?” he asked D.

“Forty-three.”

“Forty-three,” the officer repeated, looking bored. “And why do you want to do this? Life is not so bad.”

The other two officers wandered around the apartment, peering in D.’s closet and lifting up the odd dish. One of them kicked at the tequila bottles on the floor and smirked. Then they both stood by the door, staring out over the alley.

D. picked up his photo album and showed the first officer the picture of Mariah Carey. The officer frowned and then a look of recognition came over his face and he nodded. He motioned to the other officers to look as well. They started talking, pointing at the picture and laughing. Then the first officer snapped the album shut. The other two drifted back to the door.

“I worked with her on Glitter,” D. said. “It was a movie – Glitter.”

The officer shrugged.

After a while a guy in a red Bomberos shirt showed up. He was wearing a headband with a light attached to it, and he was peering into D’s eyes.

The officer asked for identification and D. started rifling around in a black case. I took this opportunity to slink back to my apartment. My ex had instilled it in me that it was a good idea to make oneself scarce anytime official documents were being requested.

“Those pills will kick in,” was the last thing I heard D. shout. “I took twenty of them! Yes, yes!”

I locked my door and lay down in the dark.

Links to Rose Hunter’s writing can be found at “Whoever Brought Me Here Will Have To Take Me Home.” Her book of poetry, to the river, was published in 2010 by Artistically Declined Press. Poems of hers have appeared or are forthcoming in such places as Diagram, Press 1, PANK, kill author, The Nervous Breakdown, anderbo, Bluestem, and The Toronto Quarterly. Prose has appeared in The Barcelona Review and Geist.She edits the poetry journal YB, and lives in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. She twitters, here.

I know the deadline for applications for Ballgirl positions for the 2012 season has long since passed, and I know you explicitly asked for a video to support each written application.  But I’m not sure a video would help my chances of becoming a Ballgirl, even if I had the technological wherewithal to videotape myself looking all perky and dodging ground balls while proclaiming the merits of adding me to your lineup.

So please, allow me to introduce myself to you and present my considerable qualifications, based on your requirements, in writing. If you still require a video, I’ll be happy to comply, but I am confident it won’t come to that.

Public relations skills—have you taken communications, broadcasting or public speaking classes?

I would venture to say you’ve never had a Ballgirl with such extensive public relations skills and experience. From my college days as an ambassador for our fair city at the information desk in Philadelphia International Airport through nearly two decades as a public affairs professional for a major international corporation, I’ve seen it and done it all. I may not be your first choice when it comes to posing for photo ops, but I can organize press conferences and photo shoots, write press releases and field media questions. I’ve handled crisis communications and community relations. I’ve planned major events, written speeches for busy executives, produced newsletters and for years was a card-carrying member of the International Association of Business Communicators.

Just don’t ask me to “Tweet,” OK?

Must be athletic—Softball experience a plus 

I have never been accused of being athletic, nor am I likely to be. However, back in the Dark Ages, before Title IX, I did play softball in a girls’ league, in the summers between fifth and eighth grades. As a young adult, I played in pick-up games with work friends. I wouldn’t say I played well, mind you, but let’s be honest about the level of athleticism required to succeed as a Ballgirl. Could I get out of the way of ground balls and fly balls? Absolutely. Would I be able to bend over, pick up a dead ball and hand it to a kid sitting in the first row? Without question. Do I know the difference between a ball that’s in play and one that’s foul? You bet.

Anyone who ever watched me play softball can attest to the fact that I have a real knack for getting out of the way of balls heading in my direction; in fact, I consider this to be my best-honed softball skill.  My favorite softball position was always short field—between second base and right field—because there was always someone else near by to call me off (and mostly, they did). I know it gets a little trickier when you have to simultaneously collapse a folding chair and get out of the way of a ball that’s in play, but please, do not underestimate my instincts for self-preservation. Did I mention I still have a glove? And it’s nearly as good as new.

From my grade-school days with the Kedron Youth Association (in the near suburbs of Philadelphia) I learned that even if you didn’t play well, you could still look good.  Or try, anyway. Girls’ uniforms back then were decidedly ugly—ours featured boxy, short-sleeved, white cotton blouses (which had to be ironed) embroidered with a green “KYA.” The tops were worn out and over—never tucked into—drab green, knee-length shorts (which also had to be ironed). Truly, my Catholic-school uniform was more flattering than my softball get-up. Still, my mother was determined I should look as good as I might for softball, even though I was mostly a bench warmer/cheerleader.  n addition to all the ironing she had to do (my sister was also a bench warmer on the same team), she insisted on setting my hair in pin curls on the eve of every game, ignoring the fact that only a wisp or two had a chance of peeking out from under my stiff green cap.

I am confident the attention to grooming associated with my early softball experience would serve me well as a Phillies Ballgirl.

Knowledge of the game of baseball

I know and love the game of baseball, despite and because of the fact that I am a lifelong Phillies fan. I grew up listening to baseball on the radio—a great way to learn the fine points of the game because it forced me to picture what was being described and allowed me to internalize the rhythms of the game, its sounds, its silences. (Remember when baseball games were punctuated with the sounds of silence?) I still like to catch an entire game that way once in a while, for the memories it evokes—family car rides, static-y transmissions on the beach in Wildwood, and going to games with my grandfather, who watched every play with a transistor radio pressed closed to his ear. I relish the challenge of tuning into a game that’s underway and figuring out, just from the tone of the announcers’ voices, where things stand for the home team before the inning ends and they give me a score.

Once, back in the early 1990s, I smuggled a radio into a fancy dinner with the top brass of the company I worked for. I was supposed to be flattered because I’d been invited to a special banquet for up-and-comers, but really I was annoyed because the Phillies were playing a late-September game that mattered, and I had to keep dashing off to the ladies room, where the reception was really lousy, to check on the score. The guys at my table were glad I was there.

I speak fluent baseball, and I love the language of the game, especially the verbs associated with hitting:  to lace, to line, to loop, to dribble, to squirt a ball into play. It makes me smile every time a broadcaster says the Phillies have “put up a crooked number” in an inning, or better yet (though far less frequently) “put up a snowman.”

I know what it means to hit for the cycle, and what a rare accomplishment that is.  I can recall two perfect games by Phillies pitchers in my lifetime; okay, the first one I can’t exactly recall, and I was out of town for the second one, but my father called to tell me about it just seconds after the final out was recorded. I cannot pretend to have memorized every obscure rule of the game—although I like knowing they are there—but let’s just say you’d never trip me up on the basics.

I remember when Veterans Stadium was brand-spanking new. For all the years that concrete bowl passed for a baseball park, I was mostly a denizen of the zoo-ish 700 level, except for the summer of ’71, when I was a Phillies Straight A student and scored a bunch of free tickets on the 500 level, along with a nifty pencil case, ruler and other school supplies.

Somewhere in my attic I still have the kazoo I played in the late ‘70s as part of a Phillies crowd that made it into the Guinness Book of World Records for the largest-ever all-kazoo orchestra.  I have yellowed news clips from the 1980 World Series that I cannot part with.  I used to go to double headers on purpose so I could watch twice as much baseball in a single sitting.  One of my prize possessions is a two-headed bobble-head figurine of the golden-gloved Richie (Whitey) Ashburn and the silver-tongued Harry (the K) Kalas.

I was present for two of the final three games at The Vet in 2003. I braved snow flurries and raw winds to get my first look at Citizens Bank Park on opening weekend in 2004. I’ve weathered impressive rain delays and scorching heat waves over the decades, endured sunburns and nearly been frostbitten, all to cheer on my beloved Fightin’ Phils—mostly during seasons that were not particularly memorable.  I was proud to be among the faithful in attendance on the fateful day in 2007 when the Phillies recorded their world-leading 10,000^th franchise loss.  And I was lucky enough to be there on those two fateful nights in October 2008—I still get goose bumps remembering the thrills and the chills—when we won the World Series in a Game 5 that took about 50 hours to complete.

Flexible schedule—must be willing to work early AM, nights, weekends and holidays

Trust me, if your decision to hire me as a Ballgirl comes down to a question of scheduling, I will clear my calendar and set up a cot in Ashburn Alley if need be.

Must be 18 years of age 

When I first read this on your website, I thought it might be a deal breaker. Then I read the fine print and saw that you meant “at least 18 years of age.” Whew!  I’ve got Phillies t-shirts that are older than 18.  I  mean I was wearing hot pants back when they were new.  Not that I thought the Phillies would be an ageist organization—after all, you hired Charlie Manuel to manage the team when he was already into his second decade as an AARP member. Then you signed Jamie Moyer as a starting pitcher when some people thought he was past his prime. And those moves turned out pretty well for everyone involved, didn’t they?

Anyway, if you’re willing to consider a Ballgirl who is more or less (OK, more, but just by a few years) a contemporary of Jamie’s, I’m your girl. Although we might want to discuss the merits of “Ballwoman” as a more appropriate title.

I hope I’ve convinced you I would make a great Phillies Ballgirl. Again, I know my application is late, but one of those sweet young things you’ve already hired based on her airbrushed photo and her adorable video is bound to suffer a real sports injury some time during the season, and when that happens, I will be ready to step in and fill her cleats.

Phaithfully yours,

E.C.

Thomas Larson writes about Niall Fergusson, shown above. (Picture courtesy NiallFergusson.com)

Scrolling through Yahoo’s online finance page, I stumble on this purple headline: “A U.S. Debt Crisis Is On Its Way.” The article is by the British economist and Harvard professor, Niall Ferguson. I have not read his books but have savored his analysis in the New York Review of Books and in a few podcasts. (In early 2011, Ferguson was picked by Tina Brown for a weekly column in the new Newsweek.) He’s a smart guy. His view, like that of Paul Krugman, I trust, though I also admire the gloom of this article’s title—I’ve been looking for such negativity of late to help me rationalize why I’m trying to get out of the stock market: post-bailout, mid-recession, pre-crisis, wherever-we-are.

I click on the link and up pops three short paragraphs, nestled in the middle of a page surrounded by marauding ads, typographically foxy: “Buffet’s Latest Pick.” “Buzz.” “Our Premium Membership.” To the left of the graphs and the graphics is a headshot of Ferguson, which suggests a video, perhaps of the same material, repackaged into a live or recorded interview.

I pause an instant. I’m not sure what to do. Read print? Watch video? How about both?

I scan the print story and see it’s a reporter’s summarizing of Ferguson’s views. So the moment yields the video. (I seem to trust my finger’s intelligence here more than my head’s.) I choose the video without realizing there’s a “why” for this relational muddle between me and what has been, until maybe five years ago, my standard and only means of communication—good old print—whose authority as a medium (back then) I seldom doubted.

I also understand it’s not the merits of the print article over the video interview that intrigues me. It’s the physicality of what the site presents. Reading the three paragraphs is unfulfilling because that’s all there is. I was hoping for more substance, twelve-hundred curdling words, as Frank Rich or Meghan Daum can do, and with panache. My morning online reading, if I find things worth reading, may go for twenty minutes, just as my hands-on newspaper reading used to. I realize that the graphs and other moving/blinking items are teasing me to watch the video or stray farther afield, into ad-land—where I won’t go. Like a supermarket shelf that holds the same but differently labeled and quantified packages of spaghetti, the page is packed: links, ads, posts, headlines, Yahoo’s busy banner, stock quotes, more options with little triangles (pull-down menus). How fast can a man scan? I haven’t even scrolled down.

In the moment, I realize one message: They (yes, they) are providing many print/picture/color choices so that I won’t read. They prefer I watch. Which is the same as saying, they prefer to hold me here. (Where did I read that on average a person spends from nineteen to twenty-seven seconds on a Web page before he’s out of there?) Maybe I’ll tap an ad link, which means a micro-payment clinks in some global piggy-bank. Should I delve further into why they don’t want me to read but would rather have me noodle about? I know why: with my attending the online service this long, they’ve beaten the odds and snagged me.

I click on “Tech│Ticker.” Its guest host is Joel Weisenthal, who begins interviewing Ferguson while the cover of Ferguson’s book, High Financier: The Lives and Time of Siegmund Warburg, comes on screen. Our nerdy examiner opens with a question/comment about America’s massive debt. “Are we doomed?” he asks. Ferguson says, “Doomed might be putting it a bit strongly except in so far as we’re all ultimately doomed”—which I like right away; he’s got existential chutzpah—and right off, I note the tilt of his head, this way and that, his eyes squinting under the studio glare. Behind him is a backdrop of the British Parliament. (Either he’s in England or he’s in virtual England.) The man is handsome. Irish. Harvard. Professor of History. He has hair. Even better, it’s a tad tousled. A faintly bearded face, just overnight growth, meaning he’s rushed in early. Ferguson seems the perfect age, neither old nor young, a fact I pause the video for and quick-check at Wikipedia. He’s forty-seven and multihyphenated: teaches, writes, edits, lectures, is regularly interviewed on American business TV, produces documentaries based on his writing, advises presidential candidates (John McCain in 2008), consults for the hedge fund GLG Partners, and (on weekends, I guess) devotes himself to writing Henry Kissinger’s official biography, having been hand-picked by Richard Nixon’s last friend. Lest we forget, he’s also earned a degree from Oxford. With glamour and gravitas, Ferguson is neither a dallier nor a pedant, the latter, the economist’s albatross. In short, he’s got authorial grace and scholarly verve.

And then, coup of coups, he’s left the top two buttons of his white shirt unbuttoned. Suddenly, he seems a tad wanton, post-sexed, bestirred by excess testosterone. He’s a digital heartthrob, a brooding, slightly soiled presence, at home in the sack or before the World Bank board of directors. He’s a bit of a brutish-looking John Maynard Keynes for our time. (I love it that Weisenthal calls him “Niall” and not doctor or professor.) It’s clear that Ferguson has a practiced eloquence, like another spellbinder, Bill Clinton, their thoughts rapturously spoken in complete paragraphs as they’re composed. Ferguson seems to improvise his answers without any preparation. He’s a delight for the eye, the ear, and the mind—in that order.

Still, there’s more to Niall than Niall. Since I’m watching a recording, he’s already been augmented by post-production engineers. His ideas have been captioned. An example: when he recommends how we can cut the deficit, up comes—with that cartoon whoosh announcing a graphic (if you were nodding off by his analysis or distracted by his ruggedness, this audible breeze brings you back)—a list of his proposals: Cut Taxes; Incentivize Businesses; Cut Public Waste; Reduce Pension Obligations.

This is the best of both worlds: serious economic analysis and a sexy commentator. It matters that he and the producers have gamed his looks on his position. (I’m reminded of CNN’s ravishing dark beauty, Christiane Amanpour, who withstood the fire and looked ever so fine, reporting at the onset of the Iraq War.) More important, Ferguson is “authoring” his comments live—with style, rigor, deliberation, and a fervid intellectualism, which may be the real reason for those undone buttons. This is economics testimony with a dash of male modeling. With few TV-savvy peers, Ferguson is an academic media star: witness his many appearances on Book-TV, Cable News, Charlie Rose, PBS NewsHour. (Christopher Hitchens is his polemical equivalent.) Ferguson’s staying power is confirmed by this video, archived at www.gurufocus.com, where I watch it repeatedly. There, with articles and videos by financial kingpins like Warren Buffet and George Soros, the written segment of this page is called, “Niall Ferguson on U.S. Fiscal and Monetary Policy Changes,” and the video, “Niall Ferguson: America’s Problems Are More Political Than Economic.” Note that the titles are less sexy and Ferguson’s name leads each one. Probably for SEO: search engine optimization.

And, as if we needed more linkage, the homepage of Gurufocus.com steers us to “Niall Ferguson stock picks,” whose tips come only after we register, though “it’s free.” Right. Free with strings.

And then, in 5:43, the whole multiplatformed production is over.

And me? What have I been doing during the video?

One thing’s for sure, I wasn’t getting the substance of his comments. (Obviously I’m reflecting later on this Web encounter in order to make something of it which I couldn’t in the moment.) What I get in the original moment I watch him is the electricity of his delivery, his and the Web page’s presence. Now, seeing the interview several times, I’m surprised how video rivals print in terms of content. It’s worth going back to. With print, there is/there was the chance that I was concentrating, though I might have drowsed. But so what if I drowsed. I’m not learning; I’m interacting; I’m being aroused electronically. And yet this is a new cross-platform medium (text vs. video) I’m contending with. So it’s in the nature of this Web page’s design that we don’t return later to see/read/hear what we missed. Those two-dozen seconds I’m present are primary. We get what we get; we miss what we miss. Going back to the Web page or video, I see just how much I missed, just how important going back is.

Still, I’ve had to spar with two mediums to get Ferguson’s gist, namely, that Americans are in for big trouble because equity markets will not cotton to our unchecked deficit spending, which will, so Ferguson says, amount to more than our defense spending in the coming years. A crash is inevitable.

You would think that if I had just read the news article, I would have got it in one take. But getting it in one take is not the point, is it?

No. The point of this print-and-video-and-Web-page amalgam is for us to be wired into its electrical multiplicity via a photogenic financial guru who distracts and leads us. Thus, it matters who is saying what when you know that what, in Web culture, needs as much who as possible in order for what to be heard. Fame or the reliance on commanding personalities drives credibility. It’s OK to err on the side of having more who than what.

Thomas Larson is the author of The Memoir and the Memoirist: Reading and Writing Personal Narrative and The Saddest Music Ever Written: The Story of Samuel Barber’s “Adagio for Strings.” Since 1999, he has been a staff writer for the San Diego Reader. He holds workshops on memoir writing and lectures on music and grief as well as the “social author” in the digital age throughout the United States. His website is www.thomaslarson.com.

Trespasses begins with Johnson’s mission, leaving Houston where she is studying for her Ph.D., to return to Missouri on a quest to interview her family members. The book centers around life on the family farm, alternating between stories from her grandmother, her mother, and finally the author and her siblings. Johnson explores how class, race and gender shape the two farm families with which she shares her lineage. In one fold, her grandmother marries the milk tester. In another, her sister is shunned for marrying a black man, and stares chide Johnson as she walks into a grocery store decorated with tattoos and a pregnant belly.

Though she escapes the constriction of her rural upbringing, Johnson returns for the purposes of this book and realizes, despite her academic achievements, she still falls under the stereotypical umbrella of white trash. “Because although I’ve learned to correct the ways in which my native idiom is often ungrammatical, I’ve also learned that there’s something about my experience growing up in a poor farming town in the Great Plains that gets lost in the translation to standardized academic verse.”

In favor of the poetic undercurrent in her writing style, a notes section follows the memoir. While helpful for filling in anecdotal details of time, place and backstory, the breaks are distracting and interrupt the narrative flow. The writing is strong, the story is present, yet the construction of the piece is cumbersome, which, at times makes for a difficult read. Johnson also employs multiple point of view shifts bringing the reader from first to third and even several sections of second person narration. Several breaks in the narrative provide a conversationally written history.

By the end of Trespasses, barring any predetermined beliefs about the Great Plains states, it is obvious in Johnson’s work that so many of us have been shaped by similar experiences, the same threads that, woven together, create the tapestry we call family. Pick up Trespasses if you enjoy reading memoirs that hinge on the establishment of race and class, or if you have a particular interest in the history of the Great Plains states or uniquely constructed creative nonfiction.

Rating: 4 stars

A former print journalist, Joy Mushacke Smith is pursuing an MFA in creative writing at Wilkes University. Although she misses her childhood home on Long Island, Joy enjoys the adventure of teaching middle school English in Pennsylvania where she lives with her husband, dogs and a pot-belly pig. She is currently working on her first YA novel titled The Problem with Lasagna.