_ _ __ | | | | / __| | |_| | | <_ | ___ | \__ \ | | | | __> | |_| |_|elter |___/ kelter 6^ (digital) ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Editors note: I'm kinda excited about this issue. I've got some burroughs, some fiction, some other shit, it doesn't get any better than this, at least not until #7 comes out. hahaha whatever. anyway, keep sending me stuff people. I love it. I hope everyone likes the pictures and everything and the slick little things I can do with my dtp program. It's getting more and more fun to play with. If you missed some of the earlier issues and you have internet access you can grab the text from ftp.etext.org in pub/Zines/HelterSkelter/ or from my bbs, Omniverse, at (301)718-0225. I love trades (be sure to mark trade on the zine somewhere, otherwise you'll only get the issue you were reviewed in [if I review your zine] and not the one you wanted to trade for. if you write trade somewhere, you'll most likely get both). Back issues are available, but not always in stock. It make take a week or to for me to get around to copying things, so if you want a specific issue, it may take a little while. Of course, for $5 you could just subscribe for the next 6 issues or get the entire Helter Skelter catalog, 1-6. Just use the handy dandy cut out coupon later in the issue for ordering. ok, say you want to reach me. the usuall way is normal mail: Helter Skelter c/o Derek Teslik 3519 Woodbine St. Chevy Chase, MD 20815 but the quickest, cheapest, and fastest way is through e-mail, use my netcom address first: dteslik@ix.netcom.com but if there seems to be any problems with that, you can always try these two: derek.teslik@sbaonline.gov or dhorse@cult.empire.org Anyway, enjoy the issue, mail me stuff to review, and have a good spring/summer (whenever you get this) (issue finished 3:53 am 3/5/95. ahhh...a go, and interviews. Just send $1 to: Melt Away... P.O. Box 081431 Racine, WI 53408-1431 --- Monty Python zine out now. $1 Us and Canada. $2 elsewhere. The cheese shop has actually ordered a block or two of cheddar for the occasion. Siue, box 75, 240 Jarvis St., Toronto, On, M5B 2L1, Canada. First 20 get neat postcard. --- "ACK! A new Humor / Music zine. News, reviews, interviews, etc. Send a stamp (American or Canadian) or a buck to: ACK!, Box 115, #105 - 10277 135th Street, Surrey, BC, V3T 4C3 CANADA" --- Hell Bound MEGAzine, a total experience within the pages of a all for fun, fun for all zine. Interviews with NOFX, Rancid, Face to Face, Fugazi, and Teen Generate. Reviews and all kinds of stuff. $2 Post paid to:1001 Cooper Pt. Rd. Sw., Suite 140-194, Olympia, WA, 98502. -- Outback Records presents the release of the Eternity east coast hardcore compilation featuring Ressurection, Battery, SOulow, Lifetime, Ashes, Dayspring, Damnation, and Trial by Jury. CD is $10 ppd US and $12 world. Also don't forge Outback Magazine is now a bi-monthly publication featuring the best in hardcore and more...send $2 US/ $3 world for the latest issue and info. Send SASE for other info. and catalog to 5255 Crane Rd., W. Melbourne, FL. 32904 or fax at #(407)728-4161. --- "COME PLAY AT THE MONK- Blue Monk is a coffeehouse and ice cream shack that doubles as a punk venue. We want your band. We want your zines. We want your love. Contact: Carl Hirsch (614)772-1204 17 E. Main St Chillicothe Oh 45601" --- Hey all you hip cats, this is just another reminder to get your fluxx fix every saturday night from INFLUXX, the radio show that brings you only the best ambient grooves and wierded out poetry and caller participation you can get. Remember, 1150 AM WMET, every saturday night at 11. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++Letters+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ I haven't gotten any letters that wre THAT interesting (interesting enough to print) but I posted the "punk jazz" article to alt.punk on the internet, and here's a response I got. It basically sums up what I was trying to say: From: "Lydia A. Bartholow" <lydiab@alpha.pr1.k12.co.us> cripes i couldn't agree more about jazz...so many shitheads today who think they can only be punk if they listen to super underground shit or the DK's its become this huge orthodox type thing, which in my opinion is exaclty what punk shant be and all these punks who claim to be the first ones....when punk has been going on for millions of years, it just wasn't called punk no one understands that when jazz was being developed it was completely underground and punk rock there just ain't enough beauty in the skene anymore and i guess i feel that jazz could bring unity back in... lets get this shit flowing... ema anarchist/socialist/progressive authority questioned - revolutions started - government overthrows planned anyway, I print letters, so if you want to continue discussion on any point brought up, e-mail a response to me (dteslik@ix.netcom.com) or just mail them normally. It would be cool to have some sort of continuing debate on some of this stuff. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++Feature+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As I'm sure all of you already know, the debate over signing to a major label has raged here for a very long time, as well it should. However, it has unfortunately become redundant in many cases. The following post is an attempt to point out the larger picture, a very important perspective that has not been voiced her or, at least, one that I have not come across. The arguments most frequently presented focus on two primary effects of signing to a major label: 1) the band compromises its artistic integrity by ceding control to people outside the band, e.g the label bureaucrats, and 2) the band is making profits for an evil corporation. And both of these are true. They are also well recognized and documented and, therefore not worth repeating over and over. Other elitist concerns enter the discourse, the basic thrust of which is "I don't want to share my favorite bands with frat-boys," which is also valid, but less important. Bands who choose to sign, as well as their apologists within the scene, respond by claiming that 1) their particular contract grants full artistic control and 2) that they get distribution and tour support, etc. that they need in return from the label. (I think Fugazi pretty much proves this point wrong but that's another story). These arguments aside, there is a larger picture which has been overlooked which has to do with precisely to whom the bands are "selling-out" their fans. Bands who sign to major labels (and this also includes "independent" labels who behave as major labels by playing the same game, Epitaph records for example) create advertising markets. That is, they sell-out their fans to advertisers. The band becomes an audience getter, in other words. This is best demonstrated by giving an example. Take Green Day, a band who sold out their fans to the mega-corporation Time- Warner. Their hit single "Basket Case," as well as succeeding releases, was used as a marketing tool to grab the same audience being called "generation Xers" and other meaningless names. So here's roughly how it works. MTV makes darlings out of them by making them a "buzz clip," which basically means MTV says they are one of the coolest new bands now and you should love them. It also means that they play the video over and over until you agree. Now MTV has an audience that is tuning in to see Green Day (and other "punk" bands like Offspring, now Rancid, Bad Religion, etc.) that would not normally have watched MTV before "punk" was co-opted by the majors. These people added together with the Green Day fans deliberately created by the network form a marketable group which MTV then sells to advertisers since, according to Green Day's press kit, "Green Day is voicing the feelings of every kid just out of high school, bored with the present and dreading the future." The same type of market creation has occured on radio though the medium is less significant. Just think of the number of "modern rock" or "alternative" stations that have sprung up since the Nirvana bandwagon has given them someting to play. Just think of how many products are sold between "Basket Case" and "Smells like Teen Spirit" whether on radio or on MTV. Of course, this has longer tentacles and includes such industry greasers as talk shows and the like. Although "Basket Case," to continue the example, is not a jingle, per se, it doesn't need to be; it is far more insidious and effective. Bands who play this game have not only sold out their fans but they have betrayed the core beliefs of "punk." I don't want to enter into another hotly debated topic/thread (what is "punk"), but I think that it is fairly obvious that punk is way more than a sound and that the concept of a major-label punk band is oxymoronic. Thanks for listening. If you have any comments or whould like further clarification or whatever, feel free to write me direct. Response guaranteed. Take care, David Tritelli (Robitusin@aol.com) +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++Feature+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Anyone but me....I've got to think about my own life" Well, I've got some news for you buddy, everything you see, the existance of the world, the congress of this country, freedom fighters in Mexico, everything, everyone, it's all YOUR life. Anything and everything around you, this magazine, your friends, and whatever you're sitting on right now are figments of your imagination, or at least reflections of your perception of reality. That perception is different for everyone, and for most people it is relatively the same, but the world as you know it all has to do with both your knowing it and how you know it. As such, there are two basic ways to change it: changing what you see, hear, and know by working within the framework of reality as you see it or trying to escape that reality, wether through mind altering drugs or through flat out insanity. The easier, more dangerous, and to some most attractive choice is the latter. It certainly is the path most traveled by those who are disgusted with life as they see it and want a way to escape, because that's just what it is, an escape. The former, however, is the most fruitful in the long run, as both drugs and insanity are usually termprary escapes, and they both have some pain-in-the-ass long term effects if you happen to change your maind and return to reality. Working within your reality is the only legitimate way to make things happen. In other words, don't just ignore shit going down around you, or try and make it go away. It won't. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++Feature+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Ugly Spirit It was completely dark in the native-American sweat-lodge, save thirteen red hot coals in the center of the sealed tent. The temperature approached one hundred and thirty degrees Fahrenheit. William Seward Burroughs, thin and wrinkled at the age of seventy-nine, remaining seated near the entrance flap of the small hut, felt drained and uncomfortable. A shaman took each of the hot stones in his hands, one by one, and with each circled first the tent and then Burroughs with the stones in an effort to rid the writer of what he has become accustomed to calling "the ugly spirit." He believes much of his writing has been an attempt to deal with this spirit in any way possible. After the ceremony the shaman remarked that Bill's was the toughest case he had ever handled, and for a second he thought he was going to lose. Most people who know anything about Burrough's relationship with the "ugly spirit" agree it began on September 6th, 1951. Bill was living in Mexico City with his wife Joan and two children. Both he and Joan drank heavily, and often used narcotics such as Benzedrine and heroin. On the afternoon of the 6th, Bill was walking through the streets of the city to have a knife sharpened. "I was walking down the street and suddenly I found tears streaming down my face. So I said 'What the Hell is the matter? What the hell is the matter with you?'" He was overcome with a profound sense of depression and it became difficult for him to breathe. At the time there was no explanation for his breakdown. He composed himself and returned to his apartment, where he and Joan began their afternoon drinking. Later that night they went to a friend's apartment with the intention of selling a gun -- they were low on cash. The buyer was late in arriving, and everyone at the apartment, with nothing to do but wait, just kept drinking. Bill, very drunk, pulled out the gun and said to Joan "It's about time for our William Tell act. Put a glass on your head." They had no William Tell act, but Joan, also drunk, complied. Bill fired the gun, and Joan fell over in her chair. The glass was unharmed, rolling on the floor. She died instantly of a gunshot wound to the head. From that day on Burroughs fought a war against control in every sense. He felt controlled by this entity, the ugly spirit, and needed a way out. His escape route was his writing. From his earliest, biographical works Junky and Queer to his masterpiece Naked Lunch to his later, more introspective works such as Cities of the Red Night and The Western Lands there is a continuing, everpresent attitude of both anger towards those who control others and disgust towards those who allow themselves to be controlled. *** The grandson of the inventor of the adding machine, Burroughs was born in St. Louis and lived there until the age of fifteen. He was sent to the Los Alamos Ranch School, a boarding school that was destroyed during the second world war; Los Alamos was the sight of the initial tests of the H-bomb. After graduating from Harvard he rambled throughout Europe and the U S, living mainly off of a two hundred dollar a month allowance from his parents, a graduation present. He eventually found himself in New York, near Columbia University, where he met the circle of friends that would evolve into the core group of the beat generation, most notably Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac. It was in New York that Burroughs was introduced to junk (heroin). It was also there that Ginsberg and Kerouac introduced him to Joan Vollmer, his future wife. He and Joan took to each other immediately. Together they traveled around the south-eastern United States, settling briefly in Louisiana and Texas, in an effort to both find and acceptable home and avoid the law (both Bill and Joan used narcotics heavily). They ended up in Mexico city in 1951, and it was there that Burroughs lost Joan and acquired his need to write. Bill drifted out of Mexico city, released from the seedy Mexican prison thanks to an expensive and unscrupulous lawyer, and drifted into the international city of Tangier. Tangier in those days was governed by a nine- country consortium, and there was no central, coordinated authority; drugs and sex were both cheap and available. Bill had finally found the freedom he desired. For the next 5 years, in a marijuana and junk haze, Burroughs produced the bulk of writing from which came Naked Lunch. The finished book was pieced together from various material from that period in his life and the remaining writings would find their way into later books (Burroughs encourages his readers to view all his work as one long book, and with the reoccurring characters and non-linear plot structures that can be found in his work it is not difficult.). Bill frequently entertained visitors in Tangier, mainly beat generation colleagues or expatriate literary figures. Most were impressed by the quality of the work he was turning out, but all were disgusted by his organization. Pieces of the Naked Lunch manuscript were littered all over his apartment collecting dust and footprints. (Maurice Girodias, who eventually published the book, was disgusted with the first draft of the manuscript: "The ends of the pages were all eaten away by rats or something...The prose was transformed into verse, edited by the rats of the Paris sewers.") Bill's old friend Jack Kerouac took on the Herculean task of turning the avalanche of paper into something publishable. He succeeded with the help of Allen Ginsberg and in 1959 Naked Lunch was published by the Olympia Press in Paris. The book received little attention until it was published three years later in the United States, at which point it was heralded for its "strange genius" and Burroughs himself was praised as a "writer of rare power." His future as a writer was assured. Bill continued writing and continued moving. In Paris he met and befriended painter and writer Brion Gysin, who would become a dear friend and artistic collaborator of Bill's until Gysin's death in 1986. Together the two studied the avant garde, including techniques of applying the collage theory to literature by literally cutting apart and re-arranging texts and examining the results. Bill was pleased with the outcome of these experiments and incorporated them into his writing. Burroughs eventually returned to the United States -- first to New York and later to Lawrence, Kansas, where he currently resides. New York was great to him. He was frequently the guest of honor at social dinners and mingled frequently with the culturally elite. In the late seventies, however, Burroughs became the darling of the fledgling punk movement. His apartment was two blocks from CBGB's and junkies and punks would fill his apartment on a regular basis. Heroin was too available and too attractive to Bill in New York. In the interest of his health and his writing, which was also affected by this relapse onto junk, Bill decided to move to Kansas, and has remained there ever since, painting, writing, and shooting. *** Barry Miles captures the amazing horror of Burroughs life and writings in William Burroughs: El Hombre Invisible (1992, Hyperion). Miles has known Burroughs for thirty years, and the information in this book has been acquired through interviews with Bill himself and with Gysin. The real power of El Hombre Invisible, however, comes not from the technical details of Burrough's life (this book is not as in depth as others on Burroughs with regard to facts) but from the literary analysis that is interwoven with Miles' narrative. The reader wanders through the book following the progression of Bill's life and writing, greeted along the way by alternately lovely and horrifying chunks of Burroughsian prose: Gentle reader, The Word will leap on you with leopard man iron claws, it will cut off fingers and toes like an opportunist land crab, it will coil round your thighs like a bushmaster and inject a shot glass of rancid ectoplasm. Miles also tracks not only what Burroughs writes but also why he writes. He chronicles the battle against the "Ugly Spirit" from its beginnings to what may be its end: the native American exorcism that closes the book. He also notes that without Joan's death Burroughs would most likely not have become a writer. Bill's first book, Junky, was drafted before the incident in Mexico City, and although that original draft has been lost the published version shows a different style than his other works, that of the simple prose narrative. The genius of Burroughs' other works is absent from the well written but rather ordinary Junky. "...The death of Joan brought me into contact with the invader, the Ugly spirit and maneuvered me into a lifelong struggle, in which I have had no choice except to write my way out." In capturing the spirit and cause of Burroughs' work, El Hombre Invisible is successful. The reader is left with a complete picture of Bill's literary efforts (as well as his graphic and artistic ones) and is tempted by the textual offerings to investigate further into his work. Burroughs' writing is like Pringles potato chips: once you start reading him you can't stop. The Word grabs you and captivates you, and Miles does a great job of baiting the reader into wanting more. Miles' book, however, is somewhat lacking when it comes to chronicling the details of Burroughs' life and that of his friends. If one is searching for a comprehensive book on Burroughs or the beat generation he would do well to look elsewhere (Literary Outlaw by Ted Morgan is suggested). Many non- vital but very interesting facets of Burroughs' life are left out, including his forays into mysticism with Brion Gysin while they were staying together in Paris. Similarly many colorful characters are ignored or glossed over for brevity's sake. Burroughs' writing, however, is given more prominence by Miles than it ever reaches in Morgan's book. El Hombre Invisible is a wonderful introduction to the life and writings of one of the founders of the Beat Generation. Along with Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, Bill Burroughs paved the way for the hippie subculture of the sixties and the punk movement of the late seventies. Through his literature, Burroughs conveys the horror and desperation of his life. El Hombre Invisible is best seen not as a detailed history of that life but as an introduction to Burroughs' writing, providing context and causes for his words. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++MUSIC REVIEW++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Oliver Brown and his extra-ordinary ukeleles — Vaya Con Queso 7"($4 to 319 Lincoln St, Bungalow A, Santa Cruz, CA, 95060) Rather interesting stuff. And the name describes it all. A man and his ukeleles. Sort of happy folky acoustic stuff (of course, you say, you can't have an electric ukelele, you say. Well, keep reading.). Very 60's hippieish music. Gwen Mars 7" (Cosmic Dick b/w Shrink) (Dragster Records [213-883-9666]) This is a smashing pumpkins rip off band. nothing else to say. pretty bad, avoid this if you can. That is, unless you like the smashing pumpkins. Dust Black Polish - Jane (Uranium Records, 110-64 queens blvd No. 452, Forest Hills, NY 11375) A girl fronted new york band, they remind me of concrete blonde and 10,000 maniacs, more of the latter. They have a very dark sound, and pretty catchy. Not bad, but nothing worth killing someone for. Johnny Tacoma & The Electric Uke (I need medical attention records and tapes, 601 3rd st, #82 Providence, RI, 02906) Now this was the only thing i was sent that I'll keep playing after writing this. From what I understand, this guy is playing an electric ukelele. it sounds like really folkish stuff, but not like Oliver Brown, this is the old anarchist type of folk song, IWW influenced, angry, protest driven, sung buy a guy with a voive like the violent femmes, and intersperced with feedback remenecent of early experimental Velvet Underground. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++Zine Reviews++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Ack # 1.1(Box 115, #105 10277 - 135th st, Surrey, BC V3T 4C3, Canada/$1/full size/8 pages) Nothing special. Stuff on pyramid schemes, testing christians, craig charles, and reviews. Daze #2 (1525 W. Bradley Ave. #201, Peoria, IL 61606/$1.50/ Half Size/24 pages) I've never been much on collage zines. They never did much for me, but this one hit me. Not much else to say, except that this baby is jam packed with love, dense but readable, the sort of thing you could pour over for an hour or two. Jigsaw #2(Drillpress, 8201 Hwy. 2715 #31-D, Ft Smith, AR 72903/Free/full size/1 page) A nice one-pager from the girl who used to do clamp eleven. She also does DRiLLPRESS distro so send 2 stamps and you can get the catalog too. Motorbooty #7 (PO Box 02007, Detroit, MI 48202/$3.50/ Full Size/ too many pages for me to count) hilarious (from the table of contents: "Who put the 'hernt' in the 'hernt dedernt de dernt'" and "Ering go Braghless: The Wymmin of the I.R.A." and no those aren't really articles. Aside from the jokes there's a great interview with the last poets, a black nationalist recording group who set the foundation for rap (and Hendrix gets a mention in the article too. Jalal Nuriddin, one of the Last Poets recorded "Doriella du Fontaine" with hendrix under the name Lightnin' Rod, and they talk about that a bit). This is one to look for Pawholes #5 A "Do-Me Feminist" reader. (PO Box 81202, Pittsburgh, PA, 15217/$3/Full Size/ 56 pages) More quality stuff. This is a really slick one, worth the $3. Interviews w/ Azalia Snail, stock car driver Mitzi Shaulis, Mudwimin, No Safety, and articles on revenge, and breasts. (internet: deborah@english-server.hss.cmu.edu) Pondering Hedgehog #4 and #5 (PO Box 358, Glen Echo, MD 20812-0358/$.50/half size/20 pages) Personal zine, in color this time. There's some reall cool stuff in here, but sometimes when I read this zine I just get the feeling things were thrown together a bit to hastily. With a bit of focus, PH could get to the next level. Surplus attack 13 #1(9401 Corsica Drive, Bethesda, MD 20814/ $1/Full size/10 pages) a silly little zine a kid at my school put together. He wanted me to review it. It's basically a bunch of poetry and some reviews and christian propaganda. Sacchrine #2(PO Box 65083 Nepean, ON, K2G 5Y3, Canada/ $.50/full size/12 pages) Cool stuff in here, nothing that quite stands out, but a nice solid zine in the, well, gold old personal/punk vein. The Ugly Review #2 (PO Box 4853, Richmond, VA 23220/Free /Oversized/12 pages) Another installment of this consistently good poetry zine. Only two issues so far, but both have been great. this is just a bunch of poetry with artsy layout, but the difference between this and most lit zines is that this is GOOD POETRY. hard stuff to find these days. Send them some stamps. Velvet Insane #1 (16420 5th Avenue N, Plymouth MN 55447/ $1/ half size/ 28 pages) A nice, if a tad run of the mill, personal zine. Our host is becky (internet: brews002@gold.tc.umn.edu), a 13 year old girl who writes poetry, likes black olives, and has an 8 year old brother. Nothing groundbreaking here, but a good solid zine with mucho potential, if becky keeps churning it out for a while. What Now #1 (303 Nicholas Ave. Staten Island, New York 10302/?price?/full size/50 pages) A bunch of reviews. and when you turn the page, more reviews. mostly new york bands, zines, etc. blah ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++FICTION++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ This'll be an experiment. I'll print some of the stuff I've written, and if you all want to see more, just let me know and I'll put more in here. Maenad Samantha groaned and rolled onto her face to shield her eyes from the light. Why do my windows have to be so fucking big? Her apartment was beautiful in the morning, objectively at least. A warm blend of light-colored furniture and shiny hardwood floors, the three room complex was littered with white socks and empty CD cases, cases that just happened to reflect the first rays of the rising sun into Samantha's groggy eyes. She thought back to the previous night, hoping to recall wild partying or a night out on the town. She couldn't remember a thing. Nothing that she had hoped to at least. She did stumble upon memories of David Letterman and a small pizza, alone, memories that seemed all too familiar. At 8:03 on the morning of March 6th, Samantha Lee made a pact with herself. Tonight, she promised, I will take this city by storm. *** Things had been easier in kindergarten. During recess Samantha would sit on a hill with Jack Corso, idly chatting about the universe and grass and such. "How big's the world, dya think?" "Real big. Two billion miles maybe" "Yeah" The kissy boys would chase the kissy girls while another band of children played angels on the jungle gym, but the two of them just talked and talked about nothing and everything while the sun shone bright upon their young faces. *** These things got harder in High School. Samantha had just finished her grape soda one Monday afternoon when Jack happened by. He had a strange walk to him those days, and most likely still does. It wasn't quite a swagger or a strut, just a groovy little stroll, his legs flowing from step to step, not quite in touch with the earth but floating a few inches above. It was funny: they had been best friends so long ago, she happened to remember, but since second grade they had shared maybe a couple of words a week, and most of those in passing. Here it was, the spring of their senior year, and they knew no more about each other than they had some ten years earlier. They knew the little things, of course, those pointless events in peoples' lives that do little but make good stories (Samantha's brush with death at the beach when the giant wave had picked her up and thrown her on the ground and had nearly taken her unconscious body back into the ocean, Jack's debate team triumph, soiled only by his shirt, which had happened to be inside out). They knew the general situations of each other's lives (Samantha: good grades and a perfect family, Jack: average grades and divorced parents), but they no longer knew why the other laughed or smiled or kept on living. So, all this and much more in mind on that warm March day, as soon as she had slurped the last of her grape soda through her straw, Samantha called out to Jack through the mellow din of the cafeteria. "Hi." He turned to attention, a bit surprised. "You got any time?" She smiled and offered the chair next to her. "Uhh, yeah, I guess..." He took the seat and smiled back, but the look of surprise never left his face. They talked for twenty minutes or so, rambling this way and that. They talked about topics large and small, finite and infinite, but they never reached the depths and heights that they had at age five. There's a certain profundity that exists only in early youth, when kids are learning to use words, and others haven't used their words against them. When words begin to trap, the innocence is lost. The words exchanged after that grape soda covered about as much ground as possible, but Samantha could never take them where she wanted to go most. She wanted, most of all, to know where he was headed. More than the name of the college, of course. She knew that: he was going to the University of Rochester. She wanted a crumpled piece of paper to carry in her purse with an address and a phone number. She wanted a promise to write. She wanted to know that she could have, at any time she wanted, what she had ignored for ten years. Life isn't like that, she knew, and with her help the conversation skated lazily but skillfully around the issue of the future: "Do you think the lacrosse team will beat Springfield?" "I think so, but Jimmy's still hurt, and he usually scores a goal or two." "Yeah..." In the end Jack had mumbled something about his car's headlights and, pulling his baseball cap around so the brim faced backwards, he walked out towards the parking lot. He had the same walk, but slower. His feet seemed a lot more firmly planted on the ground. Samantha bought another grape soda and sat down to think about things. This was a bad habit, thinking too much. Thinkers become brooders and brooders never have a good time. They just sit around and brood. It's always best to just cut the whole thing off at the pass and not think too much. In the end, you'll get more done. Samantha hadn't thought of this, however, and as she savored her less-than-cold grape soda she realized that she could never pull a stunt like that again. Although leaving the whole thing alone could mean loosing touch with him until some twenty-five-year reunion when they were both old and fat, the alternative, to try something like that again and this time get some promises, presented its own problems. What if her friends started to give her weird looks? What if he gave her weird looks? What if he said no? No way, it was a much better idea just to smile and maybe wave in passing every day, hug him good-bye on graduation day, and be done with it, at least for a while. If he wanted to say something, if he wanted an address and a promise, she would give it without thinking. But she wouldn't put herself through all of this awkwardness and nervousness to get back something she had hardly missed. That was how she left it, and that was how it stayed. On Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, he usually walked through the cafeteria during third period while she had her morning can of grape soda. She would wave and smile, sometimes muttering a "hello" under her breath, and he would wave back, or at least flash a smile. His walk was back to the same old groovy stroll. On graduation day, after a polite good-bye hug, she almost blurted out everything she had been trying not to think too much about for the last two months. She didn't however, they had parted with a hug, and had seen each other once, from a distance, over the course of that summer. *** That bright Saturday morning, as she struggled to get to sleep once more, Samantha knew, deep down, she would be stuck at home that night with Saturday Night Live and Moo-Shi Pork. Clubs were boring, her friends from work were annoying, and she hadn't dated anyone in two months. All that in mind, she rolled into a ball, pulled the sheets up above her head, and decided to sleep it all away. -------------------End-Helter-Skelter-Digital-#6^----------------------------