For One Night Only

My professor and I were back at the Théâtre du Nord-Ouest for Huis Clos, Jean-Paul Sartre’s existentialist masterpiece about three people locked in a room for eternity, each torturing the others by their very existence, creating a unique form of hell. I hadn’t heard of most of the plays we saw that summer on our grant-funded research trip to Paris; Les Fourberies de Scapin isn’t exactly world famous. But even I had heard of No Exit. And, at first, it lived up to the Nord-Ouest’s reputation. The Garçon (renamed the Valet in English translations) delivered all his lines with an unnerving coolness as he escorted the newcomers into hell. Garcin alternated between moments of forced calm and small explosions of panic, and there was a certain raw hoarseness to his voice in his vulnerable moments that boded well for his breakdown through the rest of the play.

And I was even pleased when Love Bowman entered as Inès. Written in the 1940s, Inès is a troubling character for modern audiences—a stereotypically evil, man-hating lesbian who wants to bring all women over to the dark side. Though that’s not surprising, given the cultural context of the play, I was curious to see how a director and actor would work against stereotype. Bowman was dressed in a long black coat and dress. But she is fairly short and her coppery hair was gathered in a loose twist on the crown of her head. I nodded to myself in satisfaction. They weren’t setting Inès up to be the looming, black-souled character that she is in the play.

Then I noticed she was reading a book. Continue Reading

Things I Didn’t Know

I didn’t know so many people disappear in Alaska.

I didn’t know the state is large enough to swallow most of the Midwest and part of the South.

I didn’t know how many men live alone in the woods there or that isolation could settle into a person so deep that conversation could become a form of torture.

Or that by the time my friend and I flew to Anchorage, hitchhiked over Thompson Pass, and took a ferry to Cordova, the rejections I carried with me would feel small and remote.

I didn’t know the rain would come in torrents, in drizzles, in sideways. That even though we built a platform several feet off the ground and stretched a tarp over our tent, my socks, pants, and underwear would remain damp all summer. Continue Reading

Jason Reblando received his MFA in Photography from Columbia College Chicago, and a BA in Sociology from Boston College. He is a former Fulbright scholar and Artist Fellow. His work has been exhibited at the DePaul Art Museum, the Oriental Institute, the Richard J. Daley Center and elsewhere. Publications and interviews include the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, F-Stop Magazine, the University of Chicago Magazine, and Chicago magazine. His photography can also be seen in the The New Deal Utopias coming October 2017.

Laundry Chute

I can’t sleep. The el rumbles across the street, and the neighbor’s porch light burns all night. Did they forget to turn it off, or are they like me, leaving it on in case

somebody comes knocking? That makes me think of the Grim Reaper, who hasn’t
come knocking yet. My dad’s still here, and a few hours later I visit him in the hospital,

where he’s getting a blood transfusion, which gives him a jolt and his spirits are lively. He’s telling me about buying the blueprints for our split-level house outta a magazine

back in ’61. Only cost fifteen bucks! He borrowed five grand from a lawyer client to buy the lot. Talk about a shoestring. Then his moment of genius, standing on the second floor,

the rooms framed out, the closets too, but no walls yet, no plaster. He looked through the opening and saw straight from the second floor down to the basement and thought,

laundry chute! He got a sheet metal guy from Dolton to hammer out the lining and built an opening high enough that a toddler couldn’t climb into it. When my cousins came over

we’d throw pool balls down the chute. It made a racket so bombastic, the grown-ups shouted for mercy. All my life clothes fell down that chute, into a closet that was never

empty, bursting with sheets and school blouses, baseball uniforms, damp towels, tube socks and toe socks, pedal pushers and pantyhose. The mountain never went down, just

spilled out of the closet, onto the basement floor. At ten I started to fish out my
blouses and socks and throw on a load all my own. I was in a fastidious stage, ironing

pleats in my plaid uniform skirt, my blue jeans, and the arms of my white school blouses.
That’s a phase from my childhood my father never knew about, and now’s not

the time to talk about a young girl’s grave chores. I’m here for his stories, but then
my cell rings, time to pick up the baby. My dad starts to cry, his thin face

waxy and pale. He says, you’ve heard these stories a million times, and I say no,
I never heard the one about the laundry chute. He says, yes, it was incredible. I looked

right down there and saw it! Something to make your mother’s life easier.

Another Moon Poem

I waited all winter for the windows to arrive,
xxxxxxfor the trees to leaf,
xxxxxxxxxxxxfor my father to die,

and now it’s May and they’re in
xxxxxxxand they have
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxand he has.

I take Lulu upstairs to show
xxxxxxxxher the full moon, bolder
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxthan we’ve ever seen, framed

by the new picture window,
xxxxxxtangled in the locust tree.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxEven when it ducks behind a cloud,

the light’s a wonder, but Lulu
xxxxxxxleans her head into my shoulder,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxand says, I’m too tired for the moon.

OK, I think, but someday
xxxxxxyou’ll see. The moon is your
xxxxxxxxxxxxlong-lost birth mother,

who gave you up
xxxxxxxfor your own good.
xxxxxxxxxxBut who’s been watching all along.

She’s here for me tonight.
xxxxxxIt’s her solitary roving I crave, linked
xxxxxxxxxxxx to the sea, the stars

the whole messy
xxxxxxxuniverse, but
xxxxxxxxxxxfrom a cool, perfect distance.

Eileen Favorite’s first novel The Heroines (Scribner, 2008) was named a Best Debut by The Rocky Mountain News. She’s twice received Illinois Arts Council Artist Fellowships. Her work has appeared in Triquarterly, Folio, The Toast, The Rumpus, Chicago Reader, Poetry East, Diagram, and others.  She’s been nominated for Pushcart Prize for fiction and nonfiction. She teaches at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.

Psychic

I go to see the psychic for many reasons: first, because I’ve been lying about going to see psychics and mediums in my essays for a while. Second, because I’m genuinely curious. Third, because I want to write about it.

I find my psychic on Yelp. Reading several reviews, I find myself drawn to this one in particular. I pick up the phone on a Thursday morning and call. I leave a voicemail. She calls me back and we make an appointment for that evening.

She is a middle-aged woman with clear olive skin and beautiful green eyes. She mentions she is a grandmother, has a brisk and down-to-earth presence, speaks in an attractive cigarette-and-whiskey voice. She compliments my handbag as I sit down.

The place is a small room, dark despite a row of windows facing the street. There are glass cases containing crystals and candles in all shapes and colors. There is a large mural on the wall, a many-colored woman or goddess sitting cross-legged, rainbow dots running from her pelvis to the crown of her head. There is a cabinet in the corner full of books. We sit on either side of a small curved table, which holds a crystal ball, a pack of well-worn tarot cards, several small clear crystals, and a couple small white candles.

I wasn’t specific about the services I wanted, and she doesn’t really ask. She hands me the pack of tarot cards and asks me to shuffle them while channeling my energy and my questions into them. She asks me to be sure of what I want to ask before I hand them back. I hand them back after a minute and she asks me to shuffle again, and this time really concentrate. I do it again. When I hand them back the second time, she explains she did not get enough of my energy the first time. When she deals the cards, she lays ten in a cross pattern on the table. The card in the center of the cross is Death.

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If You Weathered My Storm

August 29th, 2005

There was no storm where I was. Lithonia, Georgia, an oasis of tall evergreen and fruit trees. Home to the gray squirrels, mallards, foxes, and wild turkeys. A good five hundred miles from New Orleans, Louisiana. The day was supposed to be a happy one. Clear skies and an orange yellowed rayed sun. A day at Six Flags amusement park with Batman and Superman roller coaster rides, pictures with Bugs Bunny and Daffy the Duck, and sticky cotton candy that melted on the tip of my tongue. Sadly, only half of this day was a happy one. Holding my vendor sized hot dog, my mother became frantic, pressing the phone against her ear. She called me over and told me my uncle from New Orleans called just for me. I could hear the shakiness in his voice. He told me he loved me, and hopefully, he would see me soon. I was confused. Mom didn’t say anything about him coming to visit. She didn’t like people, even her own brother, just showing up spur of the moment. And what did he mean by hopefully? Mom gave me another few dollars and told me to get her a coke from the vending machine by the public restroom. But before I scurried off I heard her as she became secretive again, pressing the phone against her ear, “We won’t be in contact for days,” she said, “When you can, call me and tell me where you are?” What did she mean? He was in New Orleans. I thought the blazing heat of the sun must have gotten to her. But enough questioning. I needed to get back to my fun. It was my twelfth birthday.

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Portrait of Writers as Young Women

For my friend and fellow writer, Julia Gregg, on the occasion of a speaking series 
to celebrate the life of her son, J. Zach Gregg (1983-2016) 

We are alike, you and I.

I start out happy because I am born in the South. I run, climb trees, roller skate. I have a cat named Cat, and, even though it’s the sixties in Jackson, MS, I am so dreamy I never consider if I’m black or white; boy or a girl; rich or poor. I exist to smell magnolias and eat boiled shrimp and peanuts.

But then (wait for it) my family moves. North.

In the North, I am surrounded by pale children with strange, nasally accents who say that I am a freak because I have a weird accent. Can they even hear themselves? At recess boys flip my skirt up and say “Shorts?” and then run around screaming that I am not wearing shorts under my skirt. Who wears shorts under skirts? I ask, hiding shame. What kind of freak are you? they answer. I begin to wear shorts under my skirts. I try to sound like them, but then, when I realize I have nothing to say, I just stop talking. I become A Quiet Person. Me! A quiet person!

This is what the North does to us.

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