Walk by Richard Aitson

Walk (for Downing)
by Richard Aitson
What love I will occur
for the shoes my feet have forsaken
And will the feet listen
for the whispers
straying
I believe I am walking
quietly
to you
And yet the stone’s dusty children
arise,
angry

Sure, You Can Ask Me a Personal Question Diane Burns

American Indian Poetry
Sure, You Can Ask Me a Personal Question
Diane Burns

How do you do?
No, I am not Chinese.
No, not Spanish.
No, I am American Indian, Native American.
No, not from India.
No, not Apache
No, not Navajo.
No, not Sioux.
No, we are not extinct.
Yes, Indian.

THE WORM IN THE APPLE By John Cheever

Page 1 (Introduction to Literature)

THE WORM IN THE APPLE By John Cheever
The Crutchmans were so very, very happy and so temperate in all their habits and so pleased with everything that came their way that one was bound to suspect a worm in their rosy apple and that the extraordinary rosiness of the fruit was only meant to conceal the gravity and the depth of the infection. Their house, for instance, on Hill Street with all those big glass windows. Who but someone suffering from a guilt complex would want so much light to pour into their rooms? And all the wall-to-wall carpeting as if an inch of bare floor (there was none) would touch on some deep memory of unrequition and loneliness. And there was a certain necrophilic ardor to their gardering. Why be so intense about digging holes and planting seeds and watching them come up? Why this morbid concern with the earth?
She was a pretty woman with that striking pallor you so often find in maniacs. Larry was a big man who used to garden without a shirt, which may have shown a tendency to infantile exhibitionism.

A Haircut by : I. S. Nakata

Page 1 (Introduction to Literature)
A Haircut by : I. S. Nakata
People have trouble deciding what I am. Indians mistake me for one of their own; in Chinatown they gave me a menu written in Chinese; and once even a Japanese kid asked me if I was Korean. My ancestors are full-blooded Japanese, but I have had to get used to people thinking I’m something else.

Like that time I went to the barber college on North Clark Street for my cut-rate haircut. It’s a place where student-barbers get on-the-job training, and that’s where I met this guy. He was last in line, and he kept staring at me as I walked in. I just stared back.

The Spell by Arthur Gordon

Page 1 (Introduction to Literature)
The Spell by Arthur Gordon

Excuse me, sir, I see that you are smoking – could you possibly spare a cigarette? We are not allowed to have them here. A wise rule, no doubt, in the majority of cases. Lunatics should never be trusted with fire.

But believe me, sir, I don’t belong in this place with all these crazy people. Really, I don’t! I’m as sane as anyone, as sane as you are. But there you sit in your parked car, free to come and go as you please. And here am I behind these bars…

A MAN WHO HAD NO EYES by Mackinlay Kantor

Page 1
A beggar was coming down the avenue just as Mr. Parsons emerged from his hotel.

He was a blind beggar, carrying the traditional battered can, and thumping his way before him with the cautious, half-furtive effort of the sightless. He was a shaggy, thick-necked fellow; his coat was greasy about the lapels and pockets, and his hand splayed over the cane’s crook with a futile sort of clinging. He wore a black pouch slung over his shoulder. Apparently he had something to sell.

The air was rich with spring; sun was warm and yellowed on the asphalt. Mr. Parsons,
standing there in front of his hotel and noting the clack-clack approach of the sightless man, felt a sudden and foolish sort of pity for all blind creatures.

And, thought Mr. Parsons, he was very glad to be alive. A few years ago he had been
little more than a skilled laborer; now he was successful, respected, admired…
Insurance… And he had done it alone, unaided, struggling beneath handicaps… And he
was still young. The blue air of spring, fresh from its memories of windy pools and lush shrubbery, could thrill him with eagerness.

He took a step forward just as the tap-tapping blind man passed him by. Quickly the
shabby fellow turned.
"Listen guv’nor. Just a minute of your time."
Mr. Parsons said, "It’s late. I have an appointment. Do you want me to
give you something?"

"I ain’t no beggar, guv’nor. You bet I ain’t. I got a handy little article here" he
fumbled a small article into Mr. Parsons’ hand " that I sell. One buck. Best cigarette
lighter made."


Page 2
Mr. Parsons stood there, somewhat annoyed and embarrassed. He was a handsome figure with his immaculate grey suit and grey hat and malacca stick. Of course, the man with the cigarette lighter could not see him…

"But I don’t smoke," he said.

"Listen. I bet you know plenty people who smoke. Nice little present," wheedled the man. "And, mister, you wouldn’t mind helping a poor guy out?" He clung to Mr. Parsons’
sleeve.

Mr. Parsons sighed and felt in his vest pocket. He brought out two half dollars and
pressed them into the man’s hand. "Certainly I’ll help you out. As you say, I can give it to someone. Maybe the elevator boy would " He hesitated, not wishing to be boorish and inquisitive, even with a blind peddlar. "Have you lost your sight entirely?"

The shabby man pocketed the two half dollars. "Fourteen years, guv’nor." Then he added with an insane sort of pride: "Westbury, sir, I was one of ‘em."

"Westbury," repeated Mr. Parsons. "Ah yes. The chemical explosion . . . the papers
haven’t mentioned it for years. But at the time it was supposed to be one of the greatest disasters in"

"They’ve all forgot about it." The fellow shifted his feet wearily. "I tell you, guv’nor, a
man who was in it don’t forget about it. Last thing I ever saw was C shop going up in one grand smudge, and that damn gas pouring in at all the busted windows."
Mr. Parsons coughed. But the blind peddler was caught up with the train of his one
dramatic reminiscence. And, also, he was thinking that there might be more half dollars in Mr. Parsons’ pocket.


Page 3

"Just think about it, guv’nor. There was a hundred and eight people killed, about
two hundred injured, and over fifty of them lost their eyes. Blind as bats." He groped
forward until his dirty hand rested against Mr. Parsons’ coat. "I tell you sir, there wasn’t nothing worse than that in the war. If I had lost my eyes in the war, okay. I would have been well took care of. But, I was just a worker, working for what was in it. And I got it. You’re damn right I got it, while the capitalists were making their dough! They was insured, don’t worry about that. They "

"Insured," repeated his listener. "Yes, that’s what I sell. "

"You want to know how I lost my eyes?" cried the man. "Well, here it is!" His words fell with the bitter and studied drama of a story often told and told for money. "I was there in C shop, last of all the folks rushin’ out. Out in the air there was a chance, even with buildings exploding right and left. A lot of guys made it safe out the door and got away. And just when I was about there, crawling along between those big vats, a guy behind me grabs my leg. He says, ‘Let me past, you ! Maybe he was nuts. I
dunno. I try to forgive him in my heart, guv’nor. But he was bigger than me. He hauls me back and climbs right over me! Tramples me into the dirt. And he gets out, and I lie there with all that poison gas pouring down on all sides of me, and flame and stuff . . ." He swallowed -- a studied sob—and stood dumbly expectant. He could imagine the next words: Tough luck, my man. Damned tough luck. Now I want to "
That’s the story, guv’nor."

The spring wind shrilled past them, damp and quivering.

Not quite," said Mr. Parsons.



Page 4

The blind peddlar shivered crazily. "Not quite? What do you mean, you ?--"

"The story is true," Mr. Parsons said, "except that it was the other way around."

"Other way around?" He croaked unamiably. "Say, guv’nor---"

"I was in C shop," said Mr. Parsons. "It was the other way around. You were the fellow
who hauled back on me and climbed over me. You were bigger than I was, Markwardt."
The blind man stood for a long time, swallowing hoarsely. He gulped: "Parsons. By
heaven. By heaven! I thought you--" And then he screamed fiendishly: "Yes. Maybe so.
Maybe so. But I’m blind! I’m blind, and you’ve been standing there letting me spout to
you, and laughing at me every minute of it! I’m blind!"

People in the street turned to stare at him.

"You got away but I’m blind! Do you hear? I’m---"

"Well," said Mr. Parsons, don’t make such a row about it, Markwardt…So am I."

The Chaser By John Collier

Alan Austen, as nervous as a kitten, went up certain dark and creaky stairs in the neighborhood of Pell Street, and peered about for a long time on the dime landing before he found the name he wanted written obscurely on one of the doors.

He pushed open this door, as he had been told to do, and found himself in a tiny room, which contained no furniture but a plain kitchen table, a rocking-chair, and an ordinary chair. On one of the dirty buff- coloured walls were a couple of shelves, containing in all perhaps a dozen bottles and jars. An old man sat in the rocking-chair,
reading a newspaper. Alan, without a word, handed him the card he had been given.

"Sit down, Mr. Austen," said the old man very politely.
"I am glad to make your acquaintance."
"Is it true," asked Alan, "that you have a certain mixture that has-er-quite extraordinary effects?"

"My dear sir," replied the old man, "my stock in trade is not very large-I don't deal in laxatives and teething mixtures-but such as it is, it is varied. I think nothing I sell has effects which could be precisely described as ordinary."

"Well, the fact is. . ." began Alan.

"Here, for example," interrupted the old man, reaching for a bottle from the shelf. "Here is a liquid as colourless as water, almost tasteless, quite imperceptible in coffee, wine, or any other beverage. It is also quite imperceptible to any known method of autopsy."

"Do you mean it is a poison?" cried Alan, very much horrified.

"Call it a glove-cleaner if you like," said the old man indifferently. "Maybe it will clean gloves. I have never tried. One might call it a life-cleaner. Lives need cleaning sometimes."
"I want nothing of that sort," said Alan.

"Probably it is just as well," said the old man. "Do you know the price of this? For one teaspoonful, which is sufficient, I ask five thousand dollars. Never less. Not a penny less.

"I hope all your mixtures are not as expensive," said Alan apprehensively.
"Oh dear, no," said the old man. "It would be no good charging that sort of price for a love potion, for example. Young people who need a love potion very seldom have five thousand dollars. Otherwise they would not need a love potion."

"I am glad to hear that," said Alan.

"I look at it like this," said the old man. "Please a customer with one article, and he will come back when he needs another. Even if it is more costly. He will save up for it, if necessary."

"So," said Alan, "you really do sell love potions?"

"If I did not sell love potions," said the old man, reaching for another bottle, "I should not have mentioned the other matter to you. It is only when one is in a position to oblige that one can afford to be so confidential."

"And these potions," said Alan. "They are not just-just-er"

"Oh, no," said the old man. "Their effects are permanent, and extend far beyond the mere casual impulse. But they include it. Oh, yes they include it. Bountifully, insistently. Everlastingly."

"Dear me!" said Alan, attempting a look of scientific detachment. "How very interesting!"

"But consider the spiritual side," said the old man.

"I do, indeed," said Alan.

"For indifference," said the old man, they substitute devotion. For scorn, adoration. Give one tiny measure of this to the young lady-its flavour is imperceptible in orange juice, soup, or cocktails-and however gay and giddy she is, she will change altogether. She will want nothing but solitude and you."

"I can hardly believe it," said Alan. "She is so fond of parties."

"She will not like them any more," said the old man. "She will be afraid of the pretty girls you may meet."

"She will actually be jealous?" cried Alan in a rapture. "Of me?"

"Yes, she will want to be everything to you."

"She is, already. Only she doesn't care about it."

"She will, when she has taken this. She will care intensely. You will be her sole interest in life."

"Wonderful!" cried Alan.

"She will want to know all you do," said the old man. "All that has happened to you during the day. Every word of it. She will want to know what you are thinking about, why you smile suddenly, why you are looking sad."

"That is love!" cried Alan.

"Yes," said the old man. "How carefully she will look after you! She will never allow you to be tired, to sit in a draught, to neglect your food. If you are an hour late, she will be terrified. She will think you are killed, or that some siren has caught you."

"I can hardly imagine Diana like that!" cried Alan, overwhelmed with joy.

"You will not have to use your imagination," said the old man. "And, by the way, since there are always sirens, if by any chance you should, later on, slip a little, you need not worry. She will forgive you, in the end. She will be terribly hurt, of course, but she will forgive you-in the end."

"That will not happen," said Alan fervently.

"Of course not," said the old man. "But, if it did, you need not worry. She would never divorce you. Oh, no! And, of course, she will never give you the least, the very least, grounds for-uneasiness."

"And how much," said Alan, "is this wonderful mixture?"

"It is not as dear," said the old man, "as the glove-cleaner, or life-cleaner, as I sometimes call it. No. That is five thousand dollars, never a penny less. One has to be older than you are, to indulge in that sort of thing. One has to save up for it."

"But the love potion?" said Alan.
"Oh, that," said the old man, opening the drawer in the kitchen table, and taking out a tiny, rather dirty-looking phial. "That is just a dollar."

"I can't tell you how grateful I am," said Alan, watching him fill it.

"I like to oblige," said the old man. "Then customers come back, later in life, when they are better off, and want more expensive things. Here you are. You will find it very effective."

"Thank you again," said Alan. "Goodbye."

"Au revoir," said the man.