Picture and a Thousand Words

Illustration by Tim Vienckowski for The Last Stop

Sun, 08 Apr 2012 09:39:45 -0400

Illustration by Tim Vienckowski for The Last Stop

The Last Stop

Sun, 08 Apr 2012 09:38:11 -0400

By Tim Vienckowski

Dear frontmost car of F train, 9:46am crowd:

I am writing to tell you that I’m leaving you. I have taken a job in midtown that requires me to board this vessel a cruel 45 minutes earlier and will therefore erase me from your lives. It has been a real pleasure standing in your sleepy midst each weekday morning for the past couple of years, but I’m afraid this is our last day together.

This commute is too short for me to bother with books, so instead I’ve kept my eyes up and my ears stuffed with songs. From this consistent vantage point, I’ve come to notice a small cast of characters who share my morning trajectory. It is to these people that I address this letter. Thanks for letting me learn your faces and extrapolate imaginary details of your lives and personas.

Literate Trench Coat: I stand next to you a lot. You are reliable and unobtrusive. I have usually never heard of the book you are reading. But it is your impossibly upright posture that I wonder about most. It is as if you have ironed and starched your whole self along with your impeccable gingham. Do you ever just go wild?

Flashy Waxed Mustache: One day you stood across from a seated woman who so exactly shared your penchant for gator skin and sharp angles that, based entirely on this uncritical observation, I imagined you locking eyes and instantly embarking on a life together. A couple of days later I saw you unabashedly making out with someone entirely different as we rumbled over the Gowanus. It wasn’t what I had in mind, but I hope it all works out with you two.

Young Euro-mullet: I admire your ability to sit like that with your head in your lap and sleep so soundly. I wonder how late you stay up at night. I am glad your skin has cleared up. Sleep well!

Tiny Balding Dandy: One time the subway doors opened and an apparent friend of yours walked through. I had never before seen what your face looked like when it was smiling. A revelation!

Mitten-gloved Hipstress: Your nose piercing enhances an approachable aura. I have imagined that you, more than anyone on this train, could be for-real friends with me. You look like what my friends look like. One time we weren’t paying attention and your mitten-gloved hand slowly slid down the pole we were sharing and made unintended contact with my mitten-gloved hand. Will we ever share a high five?

The train hurtles toward our final stop together. I can feel myself vanishing! I take a final look around and pledge to remember the micro-universes I’ve formed out of the ways you hold your books and fasten your overcoats. And I wonder whose faces you have followed, with the hope that I’ve made an impression. So long!

Illustration by Michele Rosenthal for One Way Feline Telepathy

Wed, 04 Apr 2012 23:33:49 -0400

Illustration by Michele Rosenthal for One Way Feline Telepathy

One Way Feline Telepathy

Wed, 04 Apr 2012 23:31:00 -0400

By Michele Rosenthal

It was a Thursday and I was cat sitting for my friend Evan when the apocalypse hit. Evan always used to joke that his shitty basement apartment could double as a bomb shelter, and it turned out he was right, because Winter and I survived with only minimal complications from the radiation fallout. But it really put me in a bind. See, Evan thought I was some lazy, irresponsible guy, and this was supposed to be my chance to prove him wrong. So when the rest of the city was evacuated, Winter and I decided to stay behind. The end of the world is no excuse to shirk one’s pet sitting duties.

“Remind me, Winter, which one did you like last time? Iams or AvoDerm?”

We were in the supermarket picking up some weekly supplies. Not the one closest to the apartment, because we’d already cleared that one out, as well as the next three closest. This one was a bit of a walk, which was always a risk what with those bloodthirsty monsters roaming the streets. But I guess when the world ends, you do what you have to do.

Because there were no humans left in the city, no one thought I was crazy for talking to a cat on a leash in a supermarket, and that was good, because I wasn’t crazy in the slightest. I wasn’t talking to him out of loneliness or anything, either. I wasn’t even lonely. It turns out, a city full of people averting their eyes and ignoring each other isn’t too different than a city devoid of people altogether, so I was already used to long stretches of time without any real human interaction. I didn’t need to converse with animals to compensate.

I was talking to him because Winter understood perfectly well every word I was saying. Shortly after the bomb hit, Winter became telepathic.

I’m pretty sure it must have been some weird reaction to the radiation. Or maybe Winter was just naturally gifted. Whatever the reason, language was no longer a barrier between us, which was damn convenient. And it meant that whenever I talked out loud, like offering a choice between cat food brands, Winter could instantly translate the thought behind my words into cat speak and respond accordingly.

He thought about it for a moment, then licked his paw, letting me know he had no preference. I grabbed both.

I should probably clarify—Winter may have been telepathic, but I wasn’t, and it only went one way. Just because he could understand my thoughts didn’t mean he could project his own back to me. This was tricky at first. I could tell that Winter kept getting frustrated with his inability to respond to a statement that he understood so clearly. But after a while we developed a system, and at this point I could usually figure out what he was trying to say by his actions. I threw as many cat food cans into my backpack as I could, and tugged Winter over to the next aisle.

Winter let himself be dragged. He absolutely hated that leash, so he wasn’t going to make it easy for me, but I couldn’t risk our being separated. I kept explaining this to him, but you know cats. They’re stubborn.

I picked out some human food—non-perishables, of course, and bottled water for both of us—and then it was time to head home. “Let’s get back to the pad and I’ll fix you a nice meal,” I promised. Now that we were leaving, Winter was much more compliant, trotting along beside me with his ears back. He glanced up at me with pleased eyes, and I could tell he was looking forward to being in the apartment, with his pureed rabbit and tuna.

Outside the supermarket, the desolate streets were depressing as ever. The buildings stared down at us with their broken-glass eyes, their charred faces all turned to the right. The burnt out husks of cars and taxis lined the roads. I hated being outdoors, and I tried focusing on the sky, which had permanently turned the most fascinating shade of neon pink. Admiring the streaks of tangerine clouds made it easier to ignore the picked over carcasses that we had to step around on every block.

Sometimes I would glance down and catch Winter eying the bones we passed with interest, but there wasn’t a scrap of meat left on any of them. The scavengers had seen to it long ago.

“Cut it out, Winter. I already told you I’ll give you dinner as soon as we get home. A real dinner. You’re not some cannibal like those others.”

Winter sneezed to remind me that it wasn’t considered cannibalism when you weren’t eating your own species. I huffed and rolled my eyes.

“Semantics. My point is, you’re better than that.”

Winter lifted his head in agreement. The cat had such an ego.

We continued for a while longer in silence. I counted off the blocks in my head, and calculated that we were still a ten minute walk from the apartment, which was more than halfway there. Unfortunately, close to safety is not the same thing as being safe.

If my eyes hadn’t been on the sky, I would have noticed that crack in the sidewalk and I wouldn’t have stumbled. If I’d zipped my backpack all the way, it wouldn’t have shaken loose a single can of cat food, which managed to land on a splinter of bone just sharp enough to pierce the tin. A thin, fragrant stream of meat juice began to run down the pavement.

Winter raced forward to lick it up, but then stopped in his tracks and arched his back. Telepathy, in this case, was unnecessary. I read the message loud and clear. We both stood completely still and strained our ears for any noises, but I didn’t have Winter’s remarkable hearing. “What is it?” I whispered. Winter wisely ignored me as he turned his head this way and that.

Then, I heard something too. It was just a small rustle, like a piece of paper against the sidewalk. There was no wind that day, and even the slightest sound meant that we had company.

“Keep walking,” I whispered as I gave Winter’s leash a tug, but he was rooted to the spot, staring at the source of the noise and starting to hiss. “Don’t be a hero,” I urged. I walked over to lift him bodily, but his claws were out in seconds, digging into my arms. I dropped the leash in surprise. Winter had never attacked me before.

“Ow, that fucking hurt!” I cried.

No sooner had I raised my voice, than a thousand eyes seem to appear out of nowhere. They lit up from behind cars, in the bottom floor windows of office buildings, around trashcans, in the ribcage of a corpse across the street, everywhere. I whipped around and they were behind me as well, glowing in the alleyway. The yellow gaze of a thousand waiting cats, looking for prey.

My voice dropped back to a whisper, but I knew it was too late. “Winter…what do we do?”

Winter looked up and gave me the saddest expression I’d even seen on a cat’s face. His eyes were wide with apology, his ears drooping. And then he ran. He ran back the way we came, his leash trailing behind him, while the hungry cats now lining the sidewalks ignored him entirely. Their eyes were all locked on me, their little pink noses sniffing the air, and they were prowling closer.

I wasn’t afraid. I always knew that if I stayed in this city long enough, either the radiation would kill me slowly or the cats would make it quick. My only regret was that I’d completely failed Winter. I once made a promise, a lifetime ago, that I would look after my friend’s pet. Who would protect Winter now? Who would operate his can opener?

One particularly vicious looking feline stepped closer, and that’s when I heard it. Although, “heard” isn’t quite accurate. More like I felt it. Or maybe received it, straight into my thoughts, like a radio signal. There was a voice inside my head, and I knew with unquestionable certainty that the voice belonged to Winter.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to leave you now.” Did Winter finally master two way feline telepathy, I wondered, or had I suddenly developed it myself? Did it even matter? A tear rolled down my face as the first radioactive beast sank his teeth into my ankle. “I didn’t want it to end this way, and I appreciate everything you’ve done. But I was never really your cat. Goodbye.”

Illustration by Mike Rosenthal for Team Building at Jacob H....

Thu, 08 Mar 2012 15:08:00 -0500

Illustration by Mike Rosenthal for Team Building at Jacob H. Jennings Real Estate Consulting

Team Building at Jacob H. Jennings Real Estate Consulting

Thu, 08 Mar 2012 15:05:12 -0500

By Mike Rosenthal

Before the elevator could close behind him, before the buttercream carpet absorbed the last drop of smooth jazz, Reddinger had his musket’s bayonet placed upon the receptionist’s forehead. The receptionist closed her eyes, let her tongue drop to her stomach’s floor, and screamed. It was the first time a woman spoke to Reddinger in over seven months.

“Woh, Samantha, woh,” said Jacob H. Jennings, CEO of Jacob H. Jennings Real Estate Consulting, as he burst through the office door with financial records in one hand and a two-pound emerald ring on the other. Jacob H. Jennings placed his hands on Samantha’s exposed shoulders. “We’re running emergency drills today, remember?” Jacob H. Jennings moved his youthful eyes to Reddinger. “Don’t worry about Samantha. We’re glad to have you here.”

Reddinger worked for Northampton Corporate Training Strategists, a business that sent “corporate emergencies” to offices to foster team building and crisis management. His boss was gracious enough to hand him—a 68-year-old divorced man without even a high school diploma—a job in the Civil War Outbreak department; it was Reddinger’s job to dress up like a 19th century confederate and shoot blanks at the employees. This was his first assignment, raiding Jacob H. Jennings Real Estate Consulting’s third floor office.

Lifting the bayonet from Samantha’s forehead, he kicked the glass doors open to a row of cubicles. Keyboards and printers clicked inside his skull like the sound of his jaw when eating tough meat, and he hated it, so he let out a loud guffaw and kicked over the water cooler. A few heads poked up behind the cubicle walls, but Jacob H. Jennings was there assuring everyone in his giddy voice:

“Just a drill. Don’t worry, guys, the Civil War isn’t actually happening again, but can you imagine?”

Reddinger took a swig of his canteen and spit on the ground. Jacob H. Jennings giggled at the novelty.

“Long live Robert E. Lee!” Reddinger screamed as he tried to light the copy machine on fire with a match. He was enjoying his new job, the attention everyone in the office gave him. His one bedroom apartment with only basic cable provided little in terms of affection.

“Sorry, we’ve had problems with that copy machine since day one,” said Jacob H. Jennings, apologizing for its refusal to ignite. “Maybe you could try the bulletin board?”

Reddinger cupped the lit match to a flier for the Annual Office Barbecue/Beach Volleyball Tournament (“Weenies and Bikinis—bring the family!”). The flier held onto the small flame and spread until the entire wall and then the carpet blazed with the glory of the South. The smoke alarm grinded in Reddinger’s ears.

The fire consumed the cubicles, causing the employees to run in terror. Samantha, with a brave face, did her best with the fire extinguisher, but the scorn of the South was too bitter. Soon, she dropped the extinguisher and choked the black smoke out of her lungs.

“Don’t give up yet, Samantha,” said Jacob H. Jennings. “What if this were a client? Would you give up then?”

Reddinger approached Samantha; her bare shoulders convulsed with scorched muscle, and for a moment Reddinger pitied someone that wasn’t himself.

He lifted his musket and shot a blank right past Jacob H. Jennings’ cheek, blowing out the boss’s eardrum.

Illustration by Tim Vienckowski for An Encounter Between My...

Thu, 01 Mar 2012 21:31:34 -0500

Illustration by Tim Vienckowski for An Encounter Between My Mother and a Turkey

An Encounter Between My Mother and a Turkey (Retold From Her Perspective)

Thu, 01 Mar 2012 21:27:52 -0500

By Tim Vienckowski

It was early, before seven. I was outside in my boots, squeezing in farming duties before my nine-to-five. The sun was coming up over the woods and I didn’t have all my layers on; it must have been early fall. I was going around with my garden wagon, buckets, rake and shovel doing poop pickup for the llamas. Then I noticed this wild turkey following me.

It wasn’t unusual for the morning fog to lift and to see them out there, a couple dozen toward the back of the pasture. The llamas would typically respond with a figure eight-shaped gallop around the field and the interlopers — turkeys, geese, deer — would scamper quickly. But this anomaly, an independent creature whom I named Wild Bill, aroused no such agitation; he was acting less like a turkey and more like a dog.

He followed calmly and closely as I went about my routine, never trailing more than five feet or so behind me. Poop pickup brought us back to the compost pile by the llama quarters. I only had two then, Eduardo and Clemente. They were curious, each craning their long necks down to sniff Bill. He was apprehensive but he obliged.

I finished filling the llamas’ water buckets, the last of my farm chores for the morning, with Bill still in tow. He had been at my heels for the last 45 minutes and I was feeling sad that I had to leave him soon for work.

I had heard that turkeys liked their reflections — so much so that some people, in an effort to beckon pecking turkeys away from their shiny cars, would leave a mirror outside to distract them. I had an old one sitting in the garage, so I brought it out to Bill in hopes that it would keep him occupied until I returned home. I leaned it against the outside of the barn and showed him to his reflection, but it didn’t hold his interest.

I realized by then that it was not likely nor practical that Bill would be my turkey for life, but I was determined to appreciate this encounter the best I could. As interested as he was in me, I was fascinated by him. I was drawn to the clusters of wart-like lumps populating his neck and head, shiny globs of red and purple that contrasted with his silky black feathers. It looked amazing and disgusting and I wanted to know what it felt like.

I asked him, “Bill, may I please touch your neck?”

He looked at me like that would be okay.

I bent down slowly, extended my fingers toward his mottled surfaces and made contact. It was lumpy and cool to the touch, smoother than I expected. The warts on top of his head were larger than those on his neck and felt loose and soft compared to the denser clumps below. I wanted to get a closer look at him.

I asked, “Bill, may I please pick you up?”

This maneuver would be about finding balance. He was roughly the shape of a long football, and I would have to determine the right spot to grasp him, making sure he was neither front- nor back-heavy, to avoid upending the tranquility with which he’d so far reacted to my explorations. Luckily, I found equilibrium on the first try and he maintained his preternatural calm as I raised him up. He was light, about 10 pounds. I took in all his strange topography and texture up close, then put him down and thanked him.

I talk to the llamas because they take pride in hearing words and translating them into action: circle, zig-zag, good llama. Our dog is now deaf but I’ll always talk to him: time for dinner, good boy. But I can’t remember now whether I was speaking to Bill out loud or asking him with my heart. As it was our first meeting I knew he wouldn’t understand my words; it’s more likely that we made a silent transaction, exchanging inquisitive companionship while respecting each other’s equilibriums.

Illustration by Michele Rosenthal for Without Anatomy

Sat, 18 Feb 2012 16:35:00 -0500

Illustration by Michele Rosenthal for Without Anatomy

Without Anatomy

Sat, 18 Feb 2012 16:28:00 -0500

By Michele Rosenthal

This, the beginning, used to be the hardest part. Mel wasn’t really a model, just a med student who needed the money, and maybe something else besides. She would get so itchy right at the onset, twitching under a thousand imaginary complaints, her skin ablaze with pinpricks. And by the end of half an hour, everything was agony.

“Turn your ankle in.”

It was easier now, countless sessions later. Mel adjusted accordingly, twisting her foot just a fraction, finding that particular spot where she knew she could leave it with minimal discomfort. She coaxed the muscle and tendon into relaxation, then brought her awareness up out of her ankle, out of her leg, back up through her mannequin body.

“Lift your chin an inch.”

Her chin lifted, but her eyes remained fixed on their chosen spot, a mark on the white studio wall that looked like pencil but knowing Rebecca could be anything, oil or charcoal or dirt. It was almost in the shape of a heart. Or a “w.” Or maybe a hieroglyph.

Silence stretched for a moment before Rebecca hummed and said, “Yeah. Good. Half an hour to start, okay?”

Mel didn’t answer; no need to risk shifting out of place. The scratch of graphite against paper let her know that Rebecca had begun.

In the year she’d been modeling, Mel had invented a number of methods that could trick her body into stillness. She tried to imagine her entire self held tight in a cast. She distracted herself by silently reciting anatomy. It helped her relax to think in solid, medical terms, and it was useful practice anyway. Today, she started with her foot. Tarsal bones: calcaneus, talus, cuboid, navicular, cuneiform. Metatarsal bones first through fifth. Phalanges proximal, middle, and distal.

Every human was such a wonderfully complex network of machinery, but she knew that Rebecca didn’t see it that way. Rebecca didn’t see her that way. What she saw was the smooth, curved surface, the soft folds of fat, the hue of Mel’s exposed breasts and the reflection of hot directional light off of the straight brown hair that fell over her shoulders. At least, that’s what she imagined Rebecca was seeing. That’s what she became in Rebecca’s paintings, now too numerous to count: a surface, an image, an idea. A leg divorced from the fibula and tibia, reduced to a few lines of charcoal, a swath of pink paint. A woman without anatomy.

The whole art thing was beyond her. What was Rebecca looking for on that canvas that she couldn’t find sitting right in front of her, anyway? Did she really think she could create something more interesting, more beautiful, more meaningful than reality? Mel had stared at her own likeness on more than one occasion, trying to figure out the point, and it wasn’t like looking into a mirror; it was looking into a muddy puddle. It was the envelope of her skin without the organs, bone, or muscle, or any of that beautiful blood and guts that made her interesting.

If Rebecca liked her so much, if she really thought she was beautiful enough to paint, then why didn’t she put down the paintbrush and realize that Mel was a real person with a physical body? That’s what artists and artist models were supposed to do, right? It was half the reason, money aside, that Mel had agreed to this in the first place. Rebecca was older and confident and clean, her body was soft and inviting, her dark eyes serious and perceptive and distant. And she was interested. Well, Mel had thought she was interested. ‘Have you ever modeled before’ was such a laughably obvious line she’d found it endearing, yet here she was, a year later. Actually modeling.

“Shit,” Rebecca muttered some time later, disrupting Mel’s recitation of the major arteries. “I’m sorry, we’ve gone over the thirty minutes. Hold on just a minute longer so I can tape you off.”

A minute longer was not a problem. A minute longer was easy. Her bare toes felt glued to the paint-splattered wood platform, her hand permanently affixed to where it rested on her heated thigh. While Rebecca busied herself at Mel’s feet with the masking tape, Mel took stock of the angle of her own head and the particular bend of her elbows, knowing she would need to replicate it precisely in just a few minutes. In a few minutes, she would go back to being whatever Rebecca wanted her to be, a perfectly still and dull interpretation of herself. But between then and now was her chance to be human again, stretch her muscles and her personhood.

“You’re all set,” Rebecca announced. “Can I get you some water?”

Mel wiggled her toes. She placed her hands behind her and arched her back. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

While Rebecca busied herself at the sink in the corner, Mel hopped from the platform, wrapped herself in a robe, and strode around the room. She glanced at the canvases leaning against the wall, noticing some that were new, and none that interested her.

“See anything you like?” asked Rebecca, sneaking up behind her with a glass.

She accepted the water and noted Rebecca’s proximity. “Yeah, I do,” she replied vaguely. Surely anyone else would take it as innuendo.

“I have a show coming up in two weeks, on the eighteenth. There’s going to be quite a few of you hanging up. Did you want to join me?”

Mel took a sip of water and half-turned toward the paintings, keeping Rebecca in her peripheral vision. “As your date?”

It was as forward as she’d ever managed to be since that first invitation back to the studio, when she still thought that “modeling” was a euphemism for something more worthwhile. She held her breath and tightened her robe as Rebecca paused.

“As my subject. I know there are going to be some people who’d love to meet you.”

It was nothing less than she’d expected. More people who wanted to see her without knowing her. More people who thought that there was more of her in Rebecca’s paintings than there was in her own circulatory system.

“No, sorry, I’ll be busy then.” She waited to see if Rebecca would ask why, with what, but she never did. Rebecca never asked about her life. Did she know that Mel would be starting her residency in a few months? Had it ever been mentioned? If it had, was Rebecca listening? Did she know she was also gay?

“Maybe next time, then. We’ll get started in another five, okay?”

And five minutes later, Mel was disrobed and back on her platform, toes flush against the masking tape, eyes fixed on the mysterious mark on the wall. Prepared for the most intimate part of these sessions. Rebecca took a moment to study her pose against the sketch she’d begun, then walked up to her and made the necessary adjustments, because it was impossible for Mel to get it exactly right on her own. She tilted Mel’s elbow just so, pressed warm fingers against her shoulders to lower them back, and with a single knuckle under her chin, lifted it. More than ever, Mel felt like Rebecca’s invention.

But only for the next thirty minutes. Thirty more minutes of being art, then maybe two more months after that, and then she would be gone. She would be helping people, real, physical people, making them whole. And Rebecca would find herself another muse to strip of internal organs. Or maybe some people just came like that, pretty and empty like a painting. Maybe that was Rebecca’s type.

Rebecca made her last adjustment, then stood back and brought a hand to her lovely mouth, considering.

“That’s perfect. You look absolutely beautiful.”

Then why don’t you do something about it? Mel thought, but didn’t say, because her mouth, for the next half hour, was frozen.