| Featured Book |
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| Just West of Famous |
| Charles Baxter doesn't pull any punches when he answers Lisa Coutant's questions in this month's author interview.
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| In this issue: |
An encore poem from Gol McAdam
Claire Litton's amazing Authenticity Leads
A collection of poetry from Craig Kirchner
New fiction from Maria Pollack and Josh Stewart
Plus great poetry from Corie Feiner, Gary Wilkins, and Sherry Pasquerello |
| Coming Next Month |
Anne Frasier has some fresh ideas about how to boost her book sales,
Ron Hogan is the ultimate literary insider - and next month he's going to take the Picolata Review into his world for an exclusive look around.
Plus:More great poetry, short fiction, and features. Enough great writing to satisfy any literary palate.
Want to submit to The Picolata Review? Send your submissions and queries to submissions@picolatareview.org
Complete guidelines can be found here. |
| The Picolata Review |
Managing Editor Mark Pettus is a full time journalist in St. Augustine, Florida, and author of the novel, Transit Gloria
Features Editor Lisa Coutant is a consultant, former writer for the Philadelphia Theatre Review, and a fiction writer. She is also Vice President of the professional writing group, Pennwriters.
Poetry Editor Andy H-H., is a poet who lives in the beautiful countryside of West Yorkshire
with his partner and a menagerie of pets (a sheep occasionally stares in through the kitchen window), in a home surrounded by literary history. Ted Hughes was born there, Sylvia Plath is buried nearby, and first Emily Bronte, then Kate
Bush, made a certain stretch of desolate land five minutes' walk away very famous indeed.
Fiction Editor Serenity Banks's day job is as an industry magazine editor. She also writes an online sex-advice column, and is trying to find an agent for her latest horror novel.
The Picolata Review is a monthly online publication, and a place to find emerging writers and poets. We welcome you, and hope we'll see you again. If you forget our address, look for us just a little west of famous. |
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| Volume 1, Number 2 August, 2006 |
| Dating Blindly, by Josh Stewart |
It was 7:28 when I started to feel nervous. I was anxious for several reasons - not the least of which was that I was standing in front of a restaurant, with the smell of grilling meat wafting out on the soft summer breeze, and I had not eaten since lunch. The other main reason I was feeling anxious was because I was slowly convincing myself that something had gone wrong with the woman I was meeting that evening. When I say "meeting", I mean for the first time - a blind date, our mutual friend Julie's idea.
We were supposed to meet at seven-thirty, but even before that I was feeling nervous. I wondered whether I had mixed up the day or the time, or whether my date - Sylvia, as in Plath (I need to make associations in order to remember names) - had changed her mind about the whole thing, or whether something had come up . . . Of course, she wasn't even late yet, but I was always early for everything, and as a result I had managed to convince myself that being on time was actually being late.
By the time 7:30 had approached and ticked into the past, I felt thoroughly foolish, standing by myself in front of a restaurant where everyone else had company and was going in and out as they pleased. I gazed off along the busy road in front of the restaurant, as if I was expecting my companion for the night to drive up any second. This was all an act, of course; even if my date Sylvia did emerge from the traffic, I wouldn't recognize her or her car.
At about 7:35, a young woman - dyed blonde hair, almost as tall as myself, carrying a pink purse and talking animatedly into a cell phone - came around the corner where the parking lot was located. Despite my wish that Sylvia would finally arrive so I would have some company and be able to stop feeling foolish, I immediately hoped that this woman was not she. I'd learned to trust my instincts about people, because they were usually right, and my instincts about this woman told me instantly that it was not worth spending even one evening (out of so many I had wasted) with her. She was superficial, stuck in the past, selfish, attention-seeking, conceited, obsessed with her own looks (which, admittedly, were rather good), too busy to really listen to what you were saying, and shallow. All this before she had said a word to me; I tried my best to censor this judgmental assessment, hoping that this was a rare mistake by my instincts.
" . . . but he was a complete jerk when this happened last time, so there's no way she should take him back . . . Okay I'm here, I gotta go. Alright. Bye."
I realized that this was Sylvia (as in Plath) when she folded her phone and slipped it into her purse before hesitantly looking up at me. "Hi, are you Will?"
"As in Shakespeare?" I thought loudly, which brought a smile to my face; Sylvia must have mistaken this for pleasure at meeting her, but I suppose this was a good first impression to make. "Yes, I am. And you're Sylvia?"
"Yeah," she said, smiling back; I reluctantly admitted that she was gorgeous. We shook hands, and you can tell she was not used to this form of greeting. She put her hand in mine as though she was touching something slimy, and her hand felt like undercooked meat.
Two minutes later, we were sitting at a table by the window (so that I could escape the date if it went poorly - my apologies, I should have censored that thought, along with my first impression of Sylvia), making small talk about our careers. Sylvia worked in advertising, which I did not think was very appropriate for a future poet and suicide victim. I talked for a few minutes about my career in computers, which was also wildly inappropriate for a play-write. Sylvia mostly nodded and almost managed to look interested when I talked.
A waitress came to the table quickly, and with a smile that looked as though it would not slide off her face like runny paint whenever she turned her back. Sylvia glanced at the waitress' untidy black hair and her eyes scoffed. Sylvia had clearly decided that she was better looking than the waitress, and in the orthodox sense, she was right; it was not so much a matter of convention that had me looking at the waitress more than Sylvia. It was much more about the fact that the waitress simply looked more content.
"Would you two like to order drinks, to start?" the waitress asked, glancing back and forth between the two of us.
"Yeah, I'll have a strawberry martini," Sylvia said immediately, smiling at me instead of looking at the waitress.
"And you sir?"
"Oh, I'll have . . . just a coke, please."
"Coming right up." I felt Sylvia watching me, so I avoided watching the waitress turn away; I wanted to see whether I was right about her smile staying on her face when she thought no one was looking.
"You're not going to have anything to drink after the work week?" Sylvia asked.
"Well, you know . . . I drove here, and I don't usually have anything to drink when I drive anywhere," I replied, feeling suddenly distracted.
"Really? Well it takes like three or four drinks before it really makes a big difference, you know. If you practice a bit it really doesn't affect you much."
I smiled in a vague way at Sylvia's comment as I flipped through the menu, because I really had no idea what to say. I thought briefly of saying something drastically offensive about her habit, if only to get the date over with quickly, but it was really not in my personality to say such things. Besides, even with my initial impression of Sylvia being rather poor, I had decided to at least give her a chance to redeem herself.
"So Julie's told me some interesting things about you," Sylvia murmured quietly across the table, a strangely sexual glint coming into her eye.
I couldn't return the comment, since Julie had never said anything remotely worth remembering about Sylvia (even though she was a poet and future suicide victim, which should have made her interesting). "Really? I wasn't aware that there were interesting things about me."
Sylvia laughed, louder than was necessary - she was obviously trying to make a good impression on me, knowing that men like when women laugh at their jokes, no matter how much the men hate the jokes themselves. "Don't be silly, of course there are."
I barely even noticed what she had just said; the waitress returned, smile unfaltering, with our drinks. Sylvia immediately ordered the most expensive thing on the menu (since I was paying) and I compensated by buying the cheapest thing I could find. The waitress seemed to notice this, because her smile widened in an amused way, and her eyes glinted in a much different (but no less attractive) way than Sylvia's had.
"Where were we? Oh yeah, we were talking about how interesting you are," Sylvia said as the waitress faded into the backdrop.
"I didn't think I was. I'm mostly a quiet guy. I keep to myself," I replied simply.
"That's what's interesting about you. So how come some gorgeous girl hasn't already come along and snatched you up? I mean, you're certainly attractive enough." Sylvia's forced shyness as she made the comment was the epitome of female charm; it was almost beautiful enough for me to forgive her for the terrible first impression she had made.
Then her cell phone rang.
Sylvia acted as if she was alone; without so much as looking at me, let alone apologizing, she dove into her purse and extracted the phone. She flipped it open with well-rehearsed technique, and immediately launched herself into a conversation about some friend's boyfriend, who had apparently mistreated her and then begged for her back. (Ah, a poet's inspiration is such a wonderfully unique thing.)
The waitress came back five or ten minutes later, after I had finished fantasizing about phoning Sylvia in the middle of her conversation, and, when she picked up the other line, telling her that I was waiting for her company back in the world of the living. It was a brilliant ploy, but unfortunately I didn't have a cell phone, and I didn't know Sylvia's number anyways - this whole date had been arranged through Julie, who I had begun to resent.
The waitress' smile did falter when she came to the table and saw what was happening, and she went so far as to shake her head when she was sure Sylvia was looking out the window. I wanted to leap to my feet and hug her, but I settled to nodding with a knowing smile on my face, and thanking her for bringing our meals so rapidly.
Sylvia apparently thought that the food was more visible than I was, because she started eating without ending her conversation.
I was starting to seriously debate executing my escape plan of jumping through the solid glass window, when Sylvia wrapped up her conversation finally. There was no apology for the interruption, but she immediately launched into a re-telling of the narrative I had just overheard on the phone, along with a list of at least thirty reasons why her friend was an idiot for forgiving her boyfriend and taking him back. In the meantime, I made a list of at least thirty reasons why I was an idiot for almost forgiving Sylvia for her personality, simply because she had charmed me and looked absolutely gorgeous for an instant.
Sylvia's narrative went on for at least ten minutes (you know how poets love to talk), during which time I said nothing. I occasionally nodded so that Sylvia could know that I was still alive. For a while, her speech made me delirious; I began to confuse the two of us and I started to believe that I was actually the future suicide victim. I ate as fast as I could, so that this would be over soon.
Once she had finished her narrative, Sylvia checked her watch and then, to my surprise, she also began to eat as fast as she could. We didn't speak except to make the occasional comment about the food. I began to wonder whether she was thinking all the same resentful things about Julie that I was, whether she had also joked in her mind about throwing herself bodily through the window beside us, whether she was planning to emulate Sylvia Plath's suicide just for the irony of it as well. But I should have known better: this Sylvia wasn't smart enough for any of that.
Her cell phone rang again, and she looked at me sheepishly this time as she picked up. I felt a fraction of forgiveness for her, which was completely eliminated when she started talking again.
"Yeah, I'll be there soon. I'm on that blind date, remember? Yeah. I'll be on time, don't worry. You want me to pick you up at Dan's? Okay. Okay. Yeah. Bye."
I pretended to look at her in a confused manner, even though I understood everything she had said. I just wanted to put her through the burden of explaining to me that she was meeting someone else and would have to cut our date short. However, Sylvia assumed I was stupider than she was, and pretended as though nothing had happened.
"Would you like desert?" I finally asked, smiling pleasantly, and trying to attribute her behaviour to the eccentricity of poets everywhere. Creative types really can't help being half-insane and half-egomaniacs.
"Well - no, actually. I'm pretty full. That was a good meal, wasn't it?" Sylvia said, glancing at her watch again.
"For what I'm paying for it, I should hope so," I replied in my mind. "Yes, it was," I said out loud.
"Well, I'm really feeling pretty tired. It's been a long week. I think I should be going," Sylvia said abruptly, again assuming that I had somehow overlooked the conversation she had carried on right in front of me.
Instead of agreeing that it was indeed about time she was going, I held my tongue and told her that it was nice to meet her. It was good that I had somewhat censored myself that evening, because if I had not I wouldn't have lasted two minutes with her. My first impression told me all I needed to know.
Before leaving, Sylvia stood and waited for me to stand so that she could hug me. She did this in the same manner as she had shaken my hand - limply, without any commitment. Sylvia was obviously used to the idea that all she needed to do to get men to forgive her glaring faults was press her body against them. Although on some primal level, I had to admit that it almost worked, it certainly didn't make up for the excessive amount of apathy she had demonstrated during our brief encounter.
I sat back down, simply because I didn't want to go home yet. The earlier I returned to my empty apartment, the more aware I would be of how short the date had been. I didn't look at my watch, because I wanted to avoid knowing, but I had the feeling the date had lasted less than half an hour.
When the waitress returned, she shook her head at the empty seat opposite me. "Your companion didn't want to stay?" she asked, without pitying me, but with a strangely bitter tone to her voice, almost as if she was angry on my behalf.
"She . . . You ever get the feeling that some people have forgotten how to communicate?" I asked suddenly, not knowing where exactly the words were coming from - perhaps the uncensored part of my brain.
"Yes, all the time. Everyone seems to be cutting themselves from everyone else," the waitress replied as she gathered our used plates.
"Exactly! That was the problem with my . . . companion."
"Ah. I see." The waitress hesitated, carrying the empty platters and not having any excuse to linger. "Would you like anything else?"
I had decided, just before the waitress arrived, that I wanted to order desert, but our brief conversation had changed my mind for some unknown reason. "No. Just the bill."
The waitress' smile flashed like a gunshot. "Okay."
She returned a few minutes later with the total, which was higher than I had expected because of Sylvia's expensive meal. I also tacked on a hefty tip for the waitress, who I would much rather have had on the date. Strangely enough, I was still spending far more money on the woman I hadn't liked.
The waitress returned to collect the cash, and I told her to take the tip right away so that we could avoid the charade of her going to get change so that I could give it all back to her. "Oh - thanks," she said, looking embarrassed about the amount I had left.
I started to go, but the waitress called to me. "Excuse me," she said, blushing slightly, "don't forget your bill."
I took the slip of paper suspiciously, but she had turned and left as soon as I took it. I turned the receipt over, and, sure enough, there was a hastily scribbled name and phone number on the back.
Maybe it had been worth it to waste that one evening, for the increased prospect of not wasting so many others.
Josh Stewart is an English student at the University of Toronto, and a writer in his spare time. Josh enjoys spending time in both the city and the suburbs, to maintain a balance between stimulation and stability. Josh tries to look for joy in the things we all take for granted. |
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