By Tanner Minot

Pictures by Roger Sprau

It’s Friday night in a Midwestern college town, and the enthusiasm of young people looking for adventure (almost a taste in the air) shows no sign of slackening. Howls of youthful uncertainty emanate from booze-addled, beautiful downtown Iowa City. Bars filled with smoke and love and stupidity envelop me, and I am filled with longing. A pause in the cycle of bad club beats propels me outside; I sneak out the back door and into an alley, feeling in my pocket for the comforts of matches and nicotine.

The alley was empty save for a lone figure propped against a brick wall, shadows enveloping parts of him like beasts who hadn’t yet eaten their fill. The two of us, an ill-suited pair momentarily disconnected from the night’s mood, occupied different worlds. But we were together, and that was important.

The man sucked from an oversized bottle of Budweiser, guttural intonations reverberating from him like a broken ceiling fan. ‘Must be a bum’ was my first thought, as I struck a match and held it to the tip of my cigarette. He certainly looked the part, dressed in ripped flannel and jeans, gray hair unkempt and greasy, dirt clinging to him
like it had found a home. I took my first drag, allowing the smoke to tickle my throat, and the muttering stopped. I shifted uneasily, preparing to explain that I had no cash left, that I had spent it all on girls at the bar. Instead, he said nothing, but leveled in my direction a startling gaze, brilliant and black and alive, and I turned away, shaken.

But my body was abuzz with the pleasant rumors of cheap whiskey and false courage; I returned the look.

“Sir, how–how is your night?” I stammered, immediately disappointed by the lack of eloquence. He said nothing at first, but took a slow, determined pull from his bottle. I stood, beginning to get nervous, wondering how long my cigarette would last, and beginning to wish it would burn faster. But after a moment, he cleared his throat.

“On the move, son,” he gruffly intoned, voice full of drunkenness and the worst and best parts of life. “You sharin’ those smokes?” I handed him one, grateful for the chance to set my body in motion. He lit the Marlboro with precision, and I recognized the dignity of a smoker in his first draw, fully savoring the smoke, unconcerned with the act.

“Been hitchin’ up the highways, tryin’ to get to a place called Salem,” he said. “Left home last week, and I’m taking the night off, figurin’ to get some booze in me.” His gravelly chuckle had a musical quality to it, culminating in a cough which somehow gave it more depth.

“I see,” I mumbled, not quite knowing what to say, and thus far unsurprised by his answer. “What’s the story in Salem? Why are you headed there?”

“Ah, no good reason ther
e as anyplace,” he said. “I guess just looking for something different. I figure Salem’s a good place to start.”

“Good place to start doing what?”

He glanced at me with a rough kindness. “Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? Can you answer it for me? The search for whatever it is no one else is tryin’ to find.” This was accompanied by another laugh, and it gave me a weird kind of discomfort ”“ jarring, but far from sinister. This type of mysticism was unfit for a Friday night.

“I’ve been stayin’ in the same place for so long. Such a goddamn LONG TIME!” Almost a yell, but dignity wrapped itself around him. Stillness, like the face of truth staring down evil, lit him up from within. His face settled, and he inhaled deeply from his cigarette, blowing out smoke that swam across the uneven light, drifted skyward, became part of the night. “I just can’t be that way anymore.”

He shifted positions on the wall, letting his back rest on a dirty windowsill.

“I’ve come to think of myself as a kind of fish. Maybe a fucking salmon. They don’t know where they’re going, but they know they have to get there, and they fight like hell for it. Yeah” ”“ he began to chuckle again ”“ “That’s me, slicing upstream, determined to do God’s will.”

I laughed, and he joined me with his own rough mirth; the bricks and puddles of the alley quickly absorbed, harmonized our contrasting sounds. The moment passed, and we were quiet again, returning to the vices that led to our encounter. The mood had changed, and it was time for us to part. Suddenly, after a quick nod in my direction, the old man turned and walked away, slowly but with purpose, ready to resume his journey.

Feeling the end of my cigarette approaching, I took my final drag and looked down the alley, past the old man, past the apostle, and into the multitudes beyond. Full of oblivion, distance muting the sounds of happiness and sex, I wondered what they were searching for.

By Amelia Liang

OSAMA BIN LADEN AND HITLER CLONE GAY LOVERS!

I read on a newspaper headline while in line with my milk
and kitty litter

National Enquirer, the Star, I forget which one.

Badly edited photos, with neck lines that don’t meet with
shoulders,

Showing der Fuehrer and Mr. Towel head himself holding
hands.

That’s a nice idea.

I can imagine them both, freed from facial hair,

Clean-shaven and new, like babies.

Hitler opens his eyes, sees the world for the first time
since Berlin in flames.

Osama is attentive, intent on Hitler’s face,

So lined and tired, much like his own.

After an initial stare, shy, tentative and heart-wrenching
(both know),

Where brown eyes meet blue

A spark, an understanding, perhaps?

For their first rendez-vous, Osama organizes a picnic in the
park,

Al-Kabsa for himself, Tafelspitz and Kaiserschmarrn for his
companion.

They eat awkwardly, both chewing politely with their mouths
closed.

The conversation is awkward at first.

The sun leaks in through the foliage. Birds fly.
Caterpillars crawl.

Adolf looks at a potato bug

and remembers how he used to poke them so they’d roll up,

defending their precious insides.

Earlier. When they were all younger.

The second date and it’s Adolf’s turn.

a walk through Parisian streets.

He wants Osama to see the city of lights that he loves.

Atop the Arc de Triomphe,

they look on the city,

grasping the dirty railing,

side by side.

Their hands, on the dirty railing

touch

Osama thinks to take his hand away,

but doesn’t.

A breeze ruffles Adolf’s hair, and Osama thinks of flags
unfurling.

They retreat to a quiet café in an alleyway off the Champs
Elysees.

American tourists abound, loud and drunk in the streets,

but Osama and Adolf don’t seem to mind.

Osama speaks of the beauty of his home, teaches Adolf a few
Arabic words.

And then in the ensuing silence, dares to touch Adolf’s
hand.

He looks into his companion’s face, sees no reproach

And

Continues to hold the warm, soft hand.

They continue to hold hands in dark, secretive places,

movie theaters, subway stops, park benches at night.

Nothing more.

just intertwined fingers.

They both talk of unfulfilled ambitions of color and canvas
and books and a quiet life in the country. With a garden. And a dog, maybe.

Before the sixth separation

(they are taking things slowly, they don’t want to ruin what
they’ve built)

They gently touch lips, and then their tongues greet each
other.

Hello, their tongues seem to be saying, there you are. It’s
been a while.

Nervous courage is finally flying high,

In the one room studio Adolf rents out by the month.

They unclothe each other as gently and with as much ease

as two children peeling each others’ oranges.

And give themselves to one another with that grace

Of a child offering a piece of fresh fruit to a friend.

In the middle of the night, Adolf needs a glass of water.

Osama wakes up as Adolf rolls out of bed, sleepy-eyed, and

apprehensive,

fearful

for

he has made a sacrifice,

given

a part of himself.

Adolf returns, glass of water in hand, hesitates in the
doorway,

silhouetted by the light of
the hall,

and all Osama’s fears are assuaged.

Adolf climbs back into bed and they both fall asleep,

Laying next to each other like proverbial spoons, crescent
moons, apple slices,

lovers.

By Cato Jiminez, Kosmo International Bureau

THE BORDER, AZ—Carson drives. This is a
story in of itself, but perhaps for another time, when the dust has settled and
the chollos have
bought out and retired to the chicken-wire suburbs of the Saguaro. For now,
though, he drives. The mission was
straight forward enough—we needed Cigs. The problem? The mushrooms, with their strange gonzo juices coursing
through our veins and surrounding our exoskeletons in a fetid aura of hilltop
mysticism. Fake Hollywood backdrops of dust-choked mountains, with their
dull-red arachnid eyes bluring in the distance, threaten a layman’s sense of
time-space, but Carson has no time for scientific hypotheses—he guns into
fourth gear, passing a roadside shrine without so much as a moment’s
hesitation.

“Buddha,”
I said, supposedly muttering under my breath, but a strangled exclamation now
has to pass for self-restraint.

Carson
turns and looks . “What?”

“Buddha.
You know, Buddha. Siddhartha, whatever, it’s you– you, sir, are the 52nd
reincarnation of said enlightened figure.”

“That’sboddhivista, not
Buddha. Besides, I don’t subscribe to that, man. Not my sort of racket.”

Never
mind. He’d realize soon enough his reincarnated state, and like a thousand
grams of star dust it’d blast him senseless, unconscious ”¦ choking on the floor
in shock as Pablo robbed him clean.

The
imposing specter of a massive neon cross, the lone advertisement for the Third
Baptist (gringo banditos)
Church of South Tucson looms in the near horizon. I cross myself, and muttering
what I took to be a version of the Hail Mary underneath my breath.

“Dude,
you’re not even Catholic.”

“Never
mind that. You can’t be too sure. Religion’s like sex—spread your seed, and you
have a better chance of survival. It’s straight science.”

“So,
just like roulette?”

“Roulette
as well.”

“That’s
not even a Catholic church!”

“Pidgin
religion is still religion.
Skim milk is still dairy, still sold in cartons.”

“Pigeons?
I hate those things—goddamn birds. You ready?”

This
was subterfuge on the highest level.

“I’m
ready as a walrus,” I replied, and slammed the door shut.

Show
Time!

Bullshitting
(image-setting, in b-school terms) is the most American of arts, and I am the
love child of Danny Ocean and Eva Hesse. Stride, Baby—stride through the dull darkness of
this Hopperian valley. And for Pete’s sake, avoid the hypnotic gaze of the
dismembered orb of the Circled K.

“A
pack of Camels, please.”

The
station was a fluorescent temple of Nothingness, with three exceptions: a
were-lizard clerk, a prostitute, and some drug-addled man who seems incapable
of standing without leaning on the glass counter for support. Leaning gently, I channel Baryshnikov
while fighting off the urge to start a conversation about, of all things, the
Washington Redskins (great game, huh? Talk about a quarterback coming out of
nowhere. Where’d he play college?… my aunt went there!).

Sliding
my ID across the table, I look up as angry shock replaces my transient moment
of panic—this serpentine fucker is
trying to call a bluff!

“Your
ID’s expired,” he says, a sly smirk just barely concealing a flickering
tongue that thinks it s
mells blood.

But
the sanguinary scent is from an air freshener (99 cents), and this clerk is
unaware that I, Baron of the Cavern, can control time with a mere slight of
hand. I quickly flick my wrist under the counter; The Whore notices.

“Sir,”
I say, my Ocean genes coming to the surface, “I believe the present year
to be 2007.”

Taking
the ID back, his tentacles reexamine the card. The Wench hits her heels against
the ice-cream freezer in a flamenco beat, and I sorely regret leaving my widow
maker back at the house.

And
then….

…he
laughs.

“Looks
like the customer wins again, Mel,” she mocks, yet to move from her roost
of Firecrackers and frozen Snickers.

“Second
time this month. I can’t believe it.”

“Hmm,
losing your touch, Mel.”
I mutter insouciantly, but low enough so it falls bellow his serpentine hearing
frequencies. This was getting too dangerous; I could feel my calm facade
breaking under pressure. The two continued to converse in a vacuum lost for
time to talk of past flaws. There is only time for the future—a future of
flavored smokes beneath the moonlit silhouettes of the Great Pyramids of the
Valley.

I
slowly retreat towards the glass doors, grinning in sheer desperation. I can
almost feel the Lizard clawing for a second chance….The Whore! I turn around
in double-speed, feeling the whiplash shoot up my vertebrae, half-expecting to
see her poised with a Choco-Taco in one hand and a handsaw in the other.

Instead,
she hasn’t moved, and I begin to wonder whether or not she is part of the
décor. It’s too late, though—the door shuts, and I’m walking Spanish, one-two
to the car, one-two one-two…

A
woman’s head leans against the window of the car parked opposite to ours. I
shoot Carson a death stare (how in Jehovah’s name did this happen?), but he grins maniacally from ear to
ear; he’s lost it too. Collateral damage; these things do happen, I suppose.