One Flew

http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=One+Flew+Over+the+cuckoos+nest&FORM=HDRSC3#view=detail&mid=D39CB5FE37F324F2727CD39CB5FE37F324F2727C

Characters Revealed by Setting.

Characters Revealed by Setting.

1. Physical objects surround characters in different ways and these differences reveal traits and changes in characters.

a.    Psychologically, spiritually, economically and physically.
b.    Observe feelings and actions of characters with respect to their surroundings; as setting changes, often so does character.
c.     Listen for any remarks characters make about their setting.
d.    Look for clues to characters in objects they have placed in their physical world.

QUESTION:

How are the characters revealed by the settings in both COOL HAND LUKE and PUSH?  Make sure to use quotes from the stories, and have a strong thesis statement.

Writing the Problem/Solution Essay

Writing the Problem/Solution Essay

I.             What is the problem or issue to be solved? In the introduction the problem

should be stated, and any necessary background information (key terms)

needed to understand the problem should be addressed. The thesis is the

statement of the problem.

II.            What are the causes of the problem? Why did it happen? For whom is this a

problem? What are the effects of the problem? Why is it a problem? The

better you, the writer, understand the problem and all its implications, the

 solution you will find. (Body paragraphs)

I11. A  solution must be examined for its feasibility. What are the advantages?

Use logical thinking in your discussion. Apply learned or

researched theories and/or principles. Consider all sides and look for

repercussions.  Answer objections to your solution.

V.  Reiterate why your conclusion will work to solve the problem.

Tobacco Ban!

http://www.wcvb.com/health/westminster-considers-1stinnation-tobacco-sales-ban/29675512

Etheridge Knight

http://vp.telvue.com/preview?id=T02351&video=215653

Isolation

Isolation played a role in the mental deterioration  of the main characters in  Requiem for a Dream, and in the Belly of the Beast. What similarities and differences do you see in the isolation of Sally Goldfarb and Jack Henry Abbott and their subsequent mental decline?

In text Citations

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XQ8fy7SPotM

Proper Noun Exercises

http://depts.dyc.edu/learningcenter/owl/exercises/nouns_ex2.htm

QUIZ QUESTION

We have discussed the concept "show don't tell" in class. Take three stories we have read, and show how the author fleshed out his or her characters, using the concept "show don't tell." Make sure to explain the concept, give examples, and use direct quotes from each story that you choose.

In--Text Citations How to....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=drk5mM1rnEs

How to write an argument paper

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VPvDacRLUHU

DRAFT FOR ARGUMENT PAPER

PRESENTATION OF THE ISSUE

Maybe start out with a quote from an authority about how working at McDonald's is bad for teenagers.

"McDonald's is a bad place for teenagers to work because the jobs offered do not promote creativity or provide marketable skills."




POSSIBLE REASONS

The job consists of factory line production of food with little input from the workers.

The skills that are learned there are minimal, and will not lead to good jobs later in life.



OBJECTIONS

McDonald's gives kids a sense of teamwork, and the importance of showing up on time for a job.



ANSWER TO OBJECTIONS

Teamwork is defined as people working together and exchanging ideas to reach a goal. Here the teenagers act as robots on a conveyor belt.  Give and take and conversations are not encouraged by management.

There are others ways to learn the importance of showing up on time-like in the school setting. You don't need a job to learn this and besides you will lose time for studying.  ( Perhaps some stats about how after school jobs affects grades, etc...)


CONCLUSION

Sum it up for the reader. Make mention of both side of the argument and where you stand.


 

ONLY the Dead...

In the short story " Only the Dead Know Brooklyn" by Thomas Wolfe, I strongly identify with the sensibility of the "big guy" who seeks to discover Brooklyn, as opposed to the" little guy" who tries to dissuade him.  The little guy constantly tries  to thwart the big guy's natural curiosity, and sense of wonder with the world. The "big guy," asks question, and has a natural desire to explore his environment. In my own life, I constantly walk the streets of Boston, and always want to discover the hidden mysteries of the cityscape.

The "big guy" who appears lost on a Brooklyn subway platform seek assistance from a long time native  of Brooklyn. The "big guy" asks the little guy about getting to "Bensonhoist" a section of the borough. The little guy asks him why does he want to travel out there. The big guy responded: "... I like to go out an' take a look at place wit nice names like dat. I like to look to go out an' look at all kinds of places." (Wolfe) The little guy was shocked and even angered by this. He responded "Whatcha trying to hand me?... ".  ( Wolfe) It was beyond the realm of the little guy's experience to explore something simply because of its name. He was practical--his curiosity did not stray to fanciful notions.

I find the big guy's approach more to my liking. In my travels through the city I will often go down streets with names like " Hamlet Street'  or "Joy Street" just to see what they look like. I am open to discovery--I can be impractical just like the big guy. There is no room for this with the little guy.

The big guy's impractical nature, his flights of fancy, his raw artistic nature is one that I can identify with. If I was on the subway platform with the little guy, the little guy would be equally frustrated with me.

Anthology Citation

16. Selection in an anthology Put the name of the author of the selection (not the editor of the anthology) in the signal phrase or the parentheses.

In “Love Is a Fallacy,” the narrator’s logical teachings disintegrate when Polly declares that she should date Petey because “[h]e’s got a raccoon coat” (Shulman 379).

In the list of works cited, the work is alphabetized under Shulman, not under the name of the editor of the anthology.

Shulman, Max. “Love Is a Fallacy.” Current Issues and Enduring Questions. Ed. Sylvan Barnet and Hugo Bedau. 8th ed. Boston: Bedford, 2008. 371-79. Print.

Midnight Cowboy Apartment Scene

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qbq7wYk8Zxs

Quiz Question Jew Boy by Alan Kaufman

The setting of a memoir--short story, etc.... is an essential element that makes the writer's work come alive. How does Kaufman use the setting of the Bronx, his hometown, to bring his story into focus--the theme, the conflicts, etc... Use at least three examples from the text to bolster your argument.   Please use standard essay form--paragraphs--conclusion, etc....

Writing A Short Story

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tYXJ0L3sOxA

Tips for Writing the College Essay

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jtP5Or78g9k

Memoir Writing

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qw2U42FoZls  ( Click on_)

SPAM POETRY EXERCISE

SPAM

 

As Seen On

Buy Direct

Reverse Aging

Earn Extra Cash

Online Degree

Soc Sec Number

You Have Been Selected

Get Viagra Cheap

Score With Babes

Cures Blindness

Accept Credit Cards

Grows Hair

While you sleep

Order Status

Nigerian Treasury Ministry

Mosh Pit

First Third Quiz

When one writes something they have an ideal reader in mind. Neal Cassady wrote a letter to Jack Kerouac. Based on your research of the two, what do you think that Cassady is trying to impress Kerouac with other than the fact that he can pick up girls?  

Articles

Uses of Articles

Articles are used to differentiate between things or ideas – usually expressed by nouns. The speaker/writer may be referring to a specific thing or idea, or a general one.

We use the to refer to specific nouns, either singular or plural.

Please hand me the book that’s on the table.

Please hand me all the books that are on the tables.

A and an are used to refer non-specific nouns.

Please hand me a book; any book will do.

Please hand me an autobiography; any autobiography will do.

Articles should be placed just in front of the noun they’re modifying. However, if the noun is also being modified by one or more adjectives, the article should go in front of the adjective(s).

Please fetch me a sweater.

Please fetch me the brown sweater.

Please fetch me the fuzzy blue sweater.

An should be used before any noun – or any adjective modifying the noun – which begins with a vowel or a voiceless H.

He is a man.

He is an ugly man.

He is an honest man.

Articles can also be used when emphasizing a point.

He had a hard time with the exam.

He had the hardest time with the exam.

Obviously, using the definite article the makes the point very clear

Proper Nouns

Printer Fabulous!

The Proper Noun

Recognize a proper noun when you see one.

Nouns name people, places, and things. Every noun can further be classified as commonor proper. A proper noun has two distinctive features: 1) it will name a specific [usually a one-of-a-kind] item, and 2) it will begin with a capital letter no matter where it occurs in a sentence.

Check out the chart below:

Common Noun	Proper Noun
writer teacher beagle cookie city restaurant document school	Herman Melville Mrs. Hacket Snoopy Oreo Orlando Tito's Taco Palace Declaration of Independence University of Southern California

Read the following sentences. Notice the difference between the common and proper nouns.

Tina offered Antonio one of her mother's homemade oatmeal cookies but only an Oreo would satisfy his sweet tooth.

Cookies = common noun; Oreo = proper noun.

Charlie had wanted an easy teacher for his composition class, but he got Mrs. Hacket, whose short temper and unreasonable demands made the semester a torture.

Teacher = common noun; Mrs. Hacket = proper noun.

Gloria wanted to try a new restaurant, so Richard took her to Tito's Taco Palace, where no one dips into the hot sauce until the drinks have arrived at the table.

Restaurant = common noun; Tito's Taco Palace = proper noun.

Sentence Fragments

http://grammar.ccc.commnet.edu/grammar/cgi-shl/quiz.pl/fragments_add3.htm?cgi_quiz_form=1

• Fragment: With the ultimate effect of all advertising is to sell the product.
  Possible Revisions:
  • Remove preposition: The ultimate effect of all advertising is to sell the product.
• Fragment: By paying too much attention to polls can make a political leader unwilling to propose innovative policies.
  Possible Revisions:
  • Remove preposition: Paying too much attention to polls can make a political leader unwilling to propose innovative policies.
• Fragment: For doing freelance work for a competitor got Phil fired. 

Common Grammar Mistakes

http://www.buzzfeed.com/adamdavis/common-grammatical-errors-that-drive-you-completely-insan

Collyer Brothers2

Obviously  the Collyer Brothers were insane.  Explain the Collyer Brothers' situation briefly; then point out three factors that contributed to their insanity. Make sure you use quotes from the essay to bolster your argument.


INTRODUCTION

Mention the title of the article and author. Give a brief sentence or two about the Brothers situation. Then list your three points.


Paragraph 1--Have a lead sentence referring back to your thesis. Explain the Collyer Brothers' situation in more detail.

Paragraph 2--Have a lead sentence that refers back to your thesis. Explain one of the reasons they became insane. Use quotes from essay.

Paragraph 3--Have a lead sentence referring back to the thesis. Explain another reason they became insane. Use quotes from the essay.

Paragraph 4--Have a lead sentence referring back to thesis. Explain another reason. Use quotes.

Paragraph 5--Summary of your argument.

Love and Friendship Metaphor

Love and Friendship

Love and Friendship

By Emily Brontë 1818–1848 Emily Bronte

Love is like the wild rose-briar,

Friendship like the holly-tree—

The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms

But which will bloom most constantly?

The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,

Its summer blossoms scent the air;

Yet wait till winter comes again

And who will call the wild-briar fair?

Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now

And deck thee with the holly’s sheen,

That when December blights thy brow

He still may leave thy garland green. 

In text citations

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=drk5mM1rnEs

Good Jobs For Americans Who Help Americans.

Explain Robert Kuttner's position that human service jobs should be professionalized. Do you agree or disagree with him? Use examples from the essay to explain his position, as well as to explain your position on the issue. You may use personal experience as well to support or refute his argument.

Facebook Virtual Reality Daily Argument

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/03/26/technology/facebook-to-buy-oculus-vr-maker-of-virtual-reality-headset.html?_r=0

IN Class Writing Prompt " What's the Matter with Kids today"

Goldwasser argues that the older generation believes that the internet is a villain. Explain her position--use quotes from the text-and use personal examples from your life to support or refute this.

The Things They Carried

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n7P03p4bU74  You Tube

http://somervillenews.typepad.com/the_somerville_news/2004/07/tingle_pours_sa.html

Choice of thesis-based questions for in class exercise  (Only the Dead Know Brooklyn)



Why do you think virtually the whole story is done in dialogue?


Who do you identify with--the big guy or the little guy?


What does the title mean?


Why would a subway stop be a good setting for this story?

Concept Paper: Eating Organic Food: A safeguard to human health, that is more ethical and beneficial to our environment.

Eating Organic Food:

A safeguard to human health, that is more ethical and beneficial to our environment.

Most people buy organically grown food because they do not want to consume pesticides, additives, antibiotics or GMO’s. There is not a huge difference in the nutrients that are in organic vs. conventionally grown and raised foods, but researchers show lower nitrate levels, higher vitamin C levels and higher selenium levels. People with certain allergies to foods, chemicals or preservatives tend to have less or no more symptoms when they eat only organic.

 Organic foods promotes better care and treatment of animals as well as meat that is free from hormones and antibiotics with no concerns for the effects of long term health, economic and environmental consequences of GM foods. Organic farmers try to emphasize the use of renewable resources and the conservation of soil and water to enhance environmental quality for future generations   by using physical weed control and green manure. (http://www.betterhealth.vic.gov.au/bhcv2/bhcarticles.nsf/pages/organic_food).

The word “organic” refers to how farmers grow and process fruits, vegetables, grains, dairy products and meant. Organic farming is useful in preserving water and soil plus it reduces pollution. For animals they are raised without the use of antibiotics or the use of growth hormones. Organic crops are grown in safe soil. The farmers do not use synthetic pesticides, GMO’s, artificial fertilizers or sewage sludge based fertilizers and they process without ionizing radiation or food additives. These practices reduce pollution in our air, conserve the water, reduce soil erosion and increase soil fertility. Our environment benefits from organic processes and small animals and birds also benefit from these conditions.

http://www.mayoclinic.org/organic-food/ART-20043880

Organic produce contains fewer pesticides. Children and fetuses are most vulnerable to pesticides. Their immune systems, bodies, and brains are still developing. Exposure to these pesticides in conventionally agriculture food can cause developmental delays behavioral disorders and motor dysfunction. If conventionally grown produce is peeled it does help but then you will lose the nutrients from the peel. Simply rinsing doesn’t eliminate the pesticides. It’s best to wash and scrub all produce thoroughly to eliminate harmful symptoms of pesticides.

When animals are fed antibiotics it creates drug resistant bacteria. When that happens and someone gets sick from these strains they will be less responsive to antibiotic treatment.  Organic meat, dairy and egg products are from animals that are fed organically and have access to the outdoors. They are kept in conditions that enable natural behavior of animals. They will not be given antibiotics, hormones or medicine unless they are sick, but they can be vaccinated against disease. These organically raised animals tend to be healthier than conventional farm animals. If an organically raised animal gets sick it may spread to a few other animals, but when a factory animal gets sick it spread much faster because they live so close together. That is why these factory animals are fed the antibiotics. The hormones are given to make them grow faster. When humans eat the hormone and antibiotic filled meat those substances transfer to us.  Organic farmers usually don’t have a need to give their animals antibiotics because there systems prevent the animals from getting sick in the first place.

GMOs, or “genetically modified organisms,” are plants or animals that have been genetically engineered with DNA from bacteria, viruses or other plants and animals. These experimental combinations of genes from different species cannot occur in nature or in traditional crossbreeding. Their safety, potential risks, long term health, economic and environmental risks and ethical concerns are still being debated. There has only been short term testing to monitor the outcome on humans and the environment. http://www.helpguide.org/life/organic_foods_pesticides_gmo.htm

http://library.thinkquest.org/06aug/01220/basic4.htm

Organic food and its processes are more ethical, are beneficial to our health and wellness, are better for our environment and facilitate humane treatment of animals being raised on organic farms. 

Only the Dead Know Brooklyn

Only The Dead Know Brooklyn

by Thomas Wolfe

Dere’s no guy livin’ dat knows Brooklyn t’roo an’ t’roo, because it’d take a guy a lifetime just to find his way aroun’ duh goddam town.
So like I say, I’m waitin’ for my train t’come when I sees dis big guy standin’ deh - dis is duh foist I eveh see of him. Well, he’s lookin’ wild, y’know, an’ I can see dat he’s had plenty, but still he’s holdin’ it; he talks good an’ is walkin’ straight enough. So den, dis big guy steps up to a little guy dat’s standin’ deh, an’ says, “How d’yuh get t’ Eighteent’ Avenoo an’ Sixty-sevent’ Street?” he says.
“Jesus! Yuh got me, chief,” duh little guy says to him. “I ain’t been heah long myself. Where is duh place?” he says. “Out in duh Flatbush section somewhere?”
“Nah,” duh big guy says. “it’s out in Bensonhoist. But I was neveh deh befoeh. How d’yuh get deh?”
“Jesus,” duh little guy says, scratchin’ his head, y’know - yuh could see duh litle guy didn’t know his way about - “yuh got me, chief, I neveh hoid of it. Do any of youse guys know where it is?” he says to me.
“Sure,” I says. “It’s out in Bensonhoist. Yuh take duh Fourt’ Avenoo express, get off at Fifty-nint’ Street, change to a Sea Beach local deh, get off at Eighteent’ Avenoo an’ Sixty-toid, and walk down foeh blocks. Dat’s all yuh got to do,” I says.
“G’wan!” some wise guy dat I neveh seen befoeh pipes up. “Whatcha talkin’ about?” he says - oh, he was wise, y’know. “Duh guy is crazy! I tell yuh what yuh do,” he says to duh big guy. “Yuh change to duh West End line at Toity-sixt’,” he tells him. “Walk two blocks oveh, foeh blocks up,” he says, “an’ you’ll be right deh.” Oh, a wise guy, y’know.
“Oh, yeah?” I says. “Who told you so much?” He got me sore because he was so wise about it. “How long you been livin’ heah?” I says.
“All my life,” he says. “I was bawn in Williamsboig,” he says. “An’ I can tell you t’ings about dis town you neveh hoid of,” he says.
“Yeah?” I says.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Well, den, you can tell me t’ings about dis town dat nobody else has eveh hoid of, either. Maybe you make it all up yoehself at night,” I says, “befoeh you go to sleep - like cuttin’ out papeh dolls, or somp’n.”
“Oh, yeah?” he says. “You’re pretty wise, ain’t yuh?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I says. “Duh boids ain’t usin’ my head for Lincoln’s statue yet,” I says. “But I’m wise enough to know a phony when I see one.”
“Yeah?” he says. “A wise guy, huh? Well, you’re so wise date some one’s goin’ t’bust yuh one right on duh snoot some day,” he says. “Dat’s how wise you are.”
Well, my train was comin’, or I’da smacked him den and dere, but when I seen duh train was comin’, all I said was, “All right, mugg! I’m sorry I can’t stay to take keh of you, but I’ll be seein’ yuh sometime, I hope, out in duh cemetery.” So den I says to duh big guy, who’d been standin’ deh all duh time, “You come wit me,” I says. So when we gets onto duh train I says to him, “Where yuh goin’ out in Bensonhoist?” I says. “What numbeh are yuh lookin’ for?” I says. You know - I t’ought if he told me duh address I might be able to help him out.
“Oh,” he says, “I’m not lookin’ for no one. I don’t know no one out deh.”
“Then whatcha goin’ out deh for?” I says.
“Oh,” duh guy says, “I’m just goin’ out to see duh place,” he says. “I like duh sound of duh name - Bensonhoist, y’know - so I t’ought I’d go out an’ have a look at it.”
“Whatcha tryin’ t’hand me?” I says. “Whatcha tryin’ t’do - kid me?” You know, I t’ought duh guy was bein’ wise wit me.
“No,” he says. “I’m tellin’ yuh duh troot. I like to go out an’ take a look at places wit nice names like dat. I like to go out an’ look at all kinds of places,” he says.
“How’d yuh know deh was such a place,” I says, “if yuh neveh been deh befoeh?”
“Oh,” he says, “I got a map.”
“A map?” I says.
“Sure,” he says, “I got a map dat tells me about all dese places. I take it wit me every time I come out heah,” he says.
And Jesus! Wit dat, he pulls it out of his pocket, an’ so help me, but he’s got it - he’s tellin’ duh troot - a big map of duh whole goddam place with all duh different pahts mahked out. You know - Canarsie an’ East Noo Yawk an’ Flatbush, Bensonhoist, Sout’ Brooklyn, duh Heights, Bay Ridge, Greenpernt - duh whole goddam layout, he’s got it right deh on duh map.
“You been to any of dose places?” I says.
“Sure,” he says. “I been to most of ‘em. I was down in Red Hook just last night,” he says.
“Jesus! Red Hook!” I says. “Whatcha do down deh?”
“Oh,” he says, “nuttin’ much. I just walked aroun’. I went into a coupla places an’ had a drink,” he says, “but most of the time I just walked aroun’.”
“Just walked aroun’?” I says.
“Sure,” he says, “just lookin’ at t’ings, y’know.”
“Where’d yuh go?” I asts him.
“Oh,” he says, “I don’t know duh name of duh place, but I could find it on my map,” he says. “One time I was walkin’ across some big fields where deh ain’t no houses,” he says, “but I could see ships oveh deh all lighted up. Dey was loadin’. So I walks across duh fields,” he says, “to where duh ships are.”
“Sure,” I says, “I know where you was. You was down to duh Erie Basin.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess dat was it. Dey had some of dose big elevators an’ cranes an’ dey was loadin’ ships, an’ I could see some ships in drydock all lighted up, so I walks across duh fields to where dey are,” he says.
“Den what did yuh do?” I says.
“Oh,” he says, “nuttin’ much. I came on back across duh fields after a while an’ went into a coupla places an’ had a drink.”
“Didn’t nuttin’ happen while yuh was in dere?” I says.
“No,” he says. “Nuttin’ much. A coupla guys was drunk in one of duh places an’ started a fight, but dey bounced ‘em out,” he says, “an’ den one of duh guys stahted to come back again, but duh bartender gets his baseball bat out from under duh counteh, so duh guy goes on.”
“Jesus!” I said. “Red Hook!”
“Sure,” he says. “Dat’s where it was, all right.”
“Well, you keep outa deh,” I says. “You stay away from deh.”
“Why?” he says. “What’s wrong wit it?”
“Oh,” I says, “it’s a good place to stay away from, dat’s all. It’s a good place to keep out of.”
“Why?” he says. “Why is it?”
Jesus! Whatcha gonna do wit a guy as dumb as that! I saw it wasn’t no use to try to tell him nuttin’, he wouldn’t know what I was talkin’ about, so I just says to him, “Oh, nuttin’. Yuh might get lost down deh, dat’s all.”
“Lost?” he says. “No, I wouldn’t get lost. I got a map,” he says.A map! Red Hook! Jesus!
So den duh guy begins to ast me all kinds of nutty questions: how big was Brooklyn an’ could I find my way aroun’ in it, an’ how long would it take a guy to know duh place.
“Listen!” I says. “You get dat idea outa yoeh head right now,” I says. “You ain’t neveh gonna get to know Brooklyn,” I says. “Not in a hunderd yeahs. I been livin’ heah all my life,” I says, “an’ I don’t even know all deh is to know about it, so how do you expect to know duh town,” I says, “when you don’t even live heah?”
“Yes,” he says, “but I got a map to help me find my way about.”
“Map or no map,” I says, “yuh ain’t gonna get to know Brooklyn wit no map,” I says.
“Can you swim?” he says, just like dat. Jesus! By dat time, y’know, I begun to see dat duh guy was some kind of nut. He’d had plenty to drink, of course, but he had dat crazy look in his eye I didn’t like. “Can you swim?” he says.
“Sure,” I says. “Can’t you?”
“No,” he says. “Not more’n a stroke or two. I neveh loined good.”
“Well, it’s easy,” I says. “All yuh need is a little confidence. Duh way I loined, me older bruddeh pitched me off duh dock one day when I was eight yeahs old, cloes an’ all. ‘You’ll swim,’ he says. ‘You’ll swim all right - or drown.’ An’, believe me, I swam! When yuh know yuh got to, you’ll do it. Duh only t’ing yuh need is confidence. An’ once you’ve loined,” I says, “you’ve got nuttin’ else to worry about. You’ll neveh forget it. It’s somp’n dat stays wit yuh as long as yuh live.”
“Can yuh swim good?” he says.
“Like a fish,” I tells him. “I’m a regulah fish in duh wateh,” I says. “I loined to swim right off duh docks wit all duh oddeh kids,” I says.
“What would you do if yuh saw a man drownin’?” duh guy says.
“Do? Why, I’d jump in an’ pull him out,” I says. “Dat’s what I’d do.”
“Did yuh eveh see a man drown?” he says.
“Sure, ” I says. “I see two guys - bot’ times at Coney Island. Dey got out too far, an’ neider one could swim. Dey drowned befoeh any one could get to ‘em.”
“What becomes of people after dey’ve drowned out heah?” he says.
“Drowned out where?” I says.
“Out heah in Brooklyn.”
“I don’t know whatcha mean,” I says. “Neveh hoid of no one drownin’ heah in Brooklyn, unless you mean a swimmin’ pool. Yuh can’t drown in Brooklyn,” I says. “Yuh gotta drown somewhere else - in duh ocean, where dere’s wateh.”
“Drownin’,” duh guy says, lookin’ at his map. “Drownin’.” Jesus! I could see by den he was some kind of nut, he had dat crazy expression in his eyes when he looked at you, an’ I didn’t know what he might do. So we was comin’ to a station, an’ it wasn’t my stop, but I got off anyway, an’ waited for duh next train.
“Well, so long, chief,” I says. “Take it easy, now.”
“Drownin’,” duh guy says, lookin’ at his map. “Drownin’.”
Jesus! I’ve t’ought about dat guy a t’ousand times since den an’ wondered what eveh happened to ‘m goin’ out to look at Bensonhoist because he liked duh name! Walkin’ aroun’ t’roo Red Hook by himself at night an’ lookin’ at his map! How many people did I see get drowned out heah in Brooklyn! How long would it take a guy wit a good map to know all deh was to know about Brooklyn!
Jesus! What a nut he was! I wondeh what eveh happened to ‘im, anyway! I wondeh if some one knocked him on duh head, or if he’s still wanderin’ aroun’ in duh subway in duh middle of duh night wit his little map! Duh poor guy! Say, I’ve got to laugh, at dat, when I t’ink about him! Maybe he’s found out by now dat he’ll neveh live long enough to know duh whole of Brooklyn. It’d take a guy a lifetime to know Brooklyn t’roo an’ t’roo. An’ even den, yuh wouldn’t know it all

Quiz March 4

Ratso Rico, Travis Bickle, and Hunter Thompson, were all Outlaws from mainstream society. They viewed and interacted with society in different ways. From your reading tell me how each approached an often absurd, indifferent and hostile environment-- how in their often bizarre ways did they cope and try to survive?

The Quiet Room Doug Holder

The Quiet Room  |  Doug Holder

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             My name is Leon ... Leon Dunn. Most nights, I wake up at eight p.m. or so, still feeling bloated from dinner. Mostly, I have early dinners. Eating makes me sleep. I have to sleep ... I work nights. I go to school at night. For that matter, most of my days are in the dead of night.
             Did I mention that I am thirty-five? I guess I’m young to some, not so young to others. I live in a room. The room is quite small. It’s a walk-up—Bowdoin Street, Beacon Hill—Boston. Eighty bucks a week, can’t beat that. Next door to me is a retired school teacher. She doesn’t say much to me. She watches me pass through the crack of her opened door, then slams it when I am down the stairs. Real friendly joint.
             I keep my life very ordered. Order for me is security. I am sure of some things. Like the fact that I work five nights a week and sleep during the day.
             I don’t have many friends to complicate things. I work a strange schedule anyway. I never gave much thought to working days.
             Any women in my life? I thought you would get around to that. I haven’t been with one in five years. They make me nervous. You know, demands, expectations. Anyway ... I work nights. You know how it is ...
             Tonight, I am going to work as usual. The night shift is ideal for me. I work at a large psychiatric hospital just outside the city: McFallow. At night, there are no messy confrontations with patients. The frenzy of the day shift is a mere echo by now. The dust has settled, and for a good deal of the shift, I am left alone. I read, bide my time. I occupy myself with thoughts of remote possibilities or dead ends. Then, before you know it, morning comes.

♥♥♥

             Tonight is like any other night for me. I wake up slightly bloated, and it’s dark out. The smell in my furnished room is stale. My flat is a study of disrepair with cracked ceilings, leaky faucets, a hot plate … not to mention a view of a back alley and brick wall. Yet, I feel comfortable here. It’s my home. I sleep here. I eat here. And it is mine. This is where I go after work. Simple as that.
             Soon, I am walking down Charles Street. I climb up the stairs to catch the subway to Cambridge. I stand on the platform and let the winter winds whip me across the face. I like the drama here. The expanse of the Charles River, the view of the stars unobstructed. It’s almost like I am emerging from a tunnel of my own making. The air is fresh and bracing ... my life has a horizon.
             The train stops, and then hurdles across the choppy water, only to be sucked up in the bowels of Cambridge. I inhale the vaguely urine-scented air of the subway car. My window seat has a clear view of a passing pristine night sky. It seems like the stars are competing with the skyscrapers for attention ... then, all is a roar and black.
             I check my bag. It contains: The New York Times, A Portrait of a Lady, two magic markers, three yellow legal pads, two packs of Camels, a tube of hemorrhoid cream, and a Valium. Hey ... whatever gets you though the night, right?
             Years ago, I went to work with nothing. Now—I find it necessary to carry things. I have to have them. I find myself anxious without them. I clutch my bag now; before, it was loosely slung across my shoulder. I keep it. The shoulder strap won’t break. It’s so hard to let go of things. I guess working nights will do that to ya.

♥♥♥

             The subway leaves me off in Harvard Square. I walk like a ghost through the crowds of young revelers, celebratory Harvard Students, and street hustlers who line the street. My eyes are fixed on the ground, rushing to catch the 73 bus to McFallow.
             McFallow is on a hill in the town of Beltmore. Beltmore was once voted the most “boring” town in the state by the Boston Globe. But I guess that is a good place for a mental hospital to be located. There is a sort of hush here. The town could be described as “sedate,” and McFallow was in the business of sedation.
             Sybil greets me on the unit I work, Trinap 3. She is the night nurse. She runs the shift. Like many of us, she is a creature of the night. Her face is pale and drawn for lack of sunlight and sleep. Her body is bloated, its bulk sagging, hanging limply from her stooped frame. She seems at times to be in as much acute stress as her patient charges, alternating between agitation and distraction. She often demands my immediate attention and dismisses me in the same breath. But she doesn’t really bother me. Like the contents of my bag, she is a necessity. I like to know what to expect ... no surprises, five nights a week; get my drift?
             Sybil is sitting in her usual spot in the nursing station. She seems to be absorbed totally in her paper work. Her graying beehive hairstyle bouncing up and down, to and fro, behind the fortress of notebooks she is working on.
             “How are you, Sybil?” I ask.
             “Fine dear,” she replies, and then, abruptly, “You are not going to stand there all night, are you!”
             I have to laugh to myself. I find her perversity comical. “Calm down. The shift hasn’t started yet,” I respond.
             “Of course ... We must have lunch one of these days. I know this cute little place in Newton Village ...”
             I usually shut her off by this time. She often babbles on about her niece and her new husband, a “darling” antique store she found in Concord, or the incompetent people the nursing agency sends over.
             She stops her late-night stream of consciousness in mid sentence and says, “You will be specialing a patient tonight.” Sybil then resumes her spiel, something about the lack of morality in young people today.
             I am barely listening. Tonight, I bless my good fortune. To ‘special’ a patient simply means to sit in a comfortable chair and watch an inert, sleeping, or drugged body strapped to a foam mattress for a couple of hours. The patient is almost always asleep, and even if he is awake, he rambles on like Sybil. I just turn him off. I am free to read, work on my thesis, or reflect. I have been relieved from the normal tedious duties of the night shift. The symmetry between the patient and me is perfect. Both of us are in our little, self-contained worlds. We are housed in a hushed and dim ward. I often check on these patients for breathing and vital signs. They are securely restrained by leather straps, and their every need is met by the workers. They usually have been violent, but now they are sedated into a soothing haze. I almost envy them.

♥♥♥

             After pouring a cup of coffee that was consistently polluted by a terminally cheerful day nurse, I went down to check on the patient. He is a man about my age, with the sort of muscular torso that comes with hard labor, rather than the measured repetition of a Nautilus machine. I check to see the restraints are secure. I am on edge with physically imposing clients. I have never been secure with my own physical capabilities. I am an oddly constructed man of narrow stooped shoulder, slightly bulging abdomen, and spindly limbs. This guy could clearly eat me for lunch. Luckily, he is asleep. I have some work I need to do.
             I sit down in the chair, just outside the quiet room. I have to be able to see him breathing. Hours of spot-checking the rise and fall of his chest. Over the years, I’ve seen all shapes and sizes. I’ve seen pigeon chests, barrel chests, concave chests, well-endowed women’s chests rising and falling like slowly bouncing melons. What interests me about this person is his face. He is clearly Boston Irish. The standard package: hard blue eyes, thinning blond hair, the weathered skin of a laborer or someone who has a taste for the libations and smokes. I have a sense of unease about him. Even though he is asleep, I have a sense of a feral, probing intelligence. I feel like the prey before it is eaten by the predator. I probably read too much. Working nights can do that to ya.
             About an hour into my shift, I am totally absorbed in my work; cloistered on the ward, straining to find phallic imagery in the work of Henry James. This arcane study is the “meat” of my thesis. It is something that I have been working on fitfully for years. I feel like a weasel, squirreled away in some remote forest den, greedily digging out bits and pieces of sexual innuendo from the highly refined and mannered work of James.
             “Writing your memoirs, chief?”
             The voice comes as a cold shock. It is thickly accented, with a strong emphasis on the “r’s.” It comes barreling out of the room, derailing my chain of thought, insisting on my attention, intent on confrontation.
             “Cat got your tongue, pal?” the patient speaks a second time.
             “School work,” I reply. I wonder what he is doing up. I remember that Sybil said he can have no more medication. Maybe I can convince him to go to sleep. I don’t want an all-night dialogue. “You really should get some rest. You need it.”
             “Yeah, and what makes you a friggin’ expert? You a head shrink or something?”
             “No, I am a mental health generalist,” I reply.
             The patient snickers to himself. I fumble through my bag. The Valium is gone. I must have dropped it somewhere. I wish they would turn the heat down. It is so damn hot!
             I see Steve come down the hall, checking every room compulsively. He stops at each one, holding the flashlight like a ray gun, shooting a beam of white light at each bed as if to keep aliens at bay. He is a diminutive man of about thirty, has thick blond hair and a baby face—looks like an overgrown choir boy. He is sucking on some breath mints. A necessity, if you make a pit stop at the local watering hole before work. He smiles at me.
             “Looks like you are here for the whole evening, old boy,” he says. “We got a sick call. Sybil asked me to tell you.”
             At another time, I might have been happy with these prospects. But this guy I’m specialing gives me the creeps. I’ll ignore him. I’ll shut him off. I’ll make his words meaningless vibrations from his throat. I’ll maintain my composure, an airtight vacuum. I will be in CONTROL of the situation. I could use a smoke. No hope for that. They have given me the chair ... seven hours sitting here, with a guerilla. I’ll bury my head in the notes. I’m trapped ...

♥♥♥

             “That nurse on the second shift,” the patient says. “Now, I call that filly a fine piece of work. I went out with a chippie like that in Charlestown. She had a body on her that would give a stiff a hard on. What’s her name?”
             “Clovis. Listen, it’s really important that you get some sleep. I really can’t talk about other staff,” I answered.
             “You got a girl, professor?”
             “I don’t think that’s anything we should discuss. Try to sleep.”
             “Even money, you don’t. I figure you for a guy who runs the first time they pull down their pants.” He laughs nefariously.
             I squirm in my seat. The damn heat, can’t they turn it the fuck down? My throat is beginning to tighten. I can’t concentrate. “That’s none of your concern, I’m sure. Please focus on yourself; that’s what you are here for.”
             He laughs again. He seemed to enjoy this interrogation. I continued to plead the fifth to no avail.
             “How old are ya, bud?” he asked.
             “Thirty-five. Are you satisfied? Please, try to calm down. Please, try to calm down.”
             “Working nights, living alone I bet. What do ya do for kicks, stay inside and play with yourself?” the patient sneers.
             “My life is not your concern. I am going to stop this interaction.”
             “‘Stop this interaction’? You talk like you think you’re something. There ain’t much difference between you and me. I’d say I probably should be in the chair watching you.”

♥♥♥

             The time is two-thirty a.m. It seems it will be five hours of torture. I am as much trapped as he. We are in the middle of a strange dance, and he is leading. I wish he could be quiet. Just shut up for a minute.
             “Where do you live, Mac?” he asked.
             “A furnished room in town. Perhaps that fact will put you to sleep.”
             “Suicide suite, huh? Bet you have a few tumblers, shoot your wad, and say woe is me.”
             “My life is not your concern,” I reply.
             “Not that I give a shit. I just make it a hobby to figure out strange birds like you. Funny, me down here and you up there. The only reason your ass ain’t on the line is because of these four straps.”
             I will try to ignore him. I feel like a lab specimen, being dissected. I was trained to refocus the conversation to the patient. He is reducing my life to his pathetic vision. I work hard to keep things in their proper places. It is a precarious balance to maintain, yet I have achieved a fragile stasis. I now feel like a Blanche to this guy’s Stanley.
             “Me, I am married, a few kids,” he continues. “I admit, I hit the juice a little hard. We all have a few skeletons ... know what I am saying? I don’t regret much. I had a good time, bird-dogging chicks, running with the boys playing the dogs at Wonderland. We are about the same age, ain’t we prof? A billiard ball has more hair than you. Got a face that would make Igor look good. You are going nowhere fast, Jack.”
             He seems to have a genius for picking out more sore spots. His perception is fine-tuned, and with laser accuracy, he tears at me. It is a game to him, in which the stakes are higher for me. He has a need to get to me, a focus for his venom. I am his personal toilet bowl.
             “More to life than those books you read, friend,” he says. “Working nights a long time?”
             “Long enough,” I say.
             “World goes by, and you sit in the dark. People make families, take vacations, maybe make some decent change. But you stay in the dark. A cheap room, a hot plate, some old picture of some girl who forgot your ugly mug a long time ago. ... What a waste.”
             “Just shut up. Just shut up!” I was losing my composure.
             He smiles widely. He got a rise from me. It’s as if he smells blood. This is his personal march to the sea. He has momentum on his side.
             “Did I piss you off, pal? Good. Now we are cookin’ with Crisco. That’s what you need. To get good and mad. I know guys like you. Educated, working shit jobs. Think they are better because they read a few books. Sort of keeps them going. They wind up in some fleabag. The big decision in their lives is whether to order the meatloaf or pot roast in the local diner.”
             I think to myself. What was it, five years ago? There was a girl. She used to say I was special. I loved her. She made demands on me. I walked our apartment like a caged animal. There wasn’t any defining incident in our break up. Just a slow fade out, and then, a note: You’re a special person, but it’s over. Don’t call. I never saw her again. I even looked for her for a while. Not anymore, ancient history.
             There was silence now. I looked up from my notes. He’s smiling at me without warmth, without a trace of humor. It is a smile of a man who has the upper hand.
             “So, what is it, Sherlock;” he asks, “you got something to hide?”
             “I really must insist that you focus your energies on yourself. After all, that’s what you are here for.”
             My voice starts to quiver. This makes the patient perk up. He is almost coiled like a cat ready to spring.
             “The question is why are you here?” he says. “They had to drag me here, kicking and screaming. I got a wife and kids to go to after I blow. You are staring at your navel every night. I think you found a rock to crawl under, friend.”
             A decade. A decade of long nights. A long string of darkness. My eyes squinting in the early morning sunlight. The morning commuters and I are always in furious opposition, moving in different directions. The day in progress. I come home every day and fall asleep to the din of talk radio. Disembodied voices that intertwine with my sleep. The night shift has always been my soft cushion to the frenzy of the world.
             I found my eyes swelling with tears. There is a pit in my stomach as empty as my life. I am swaying back and forth in my chair. I hold my sorry body with my thin, inadequate arms. I don’t know how long I stayed this way ...

♥♥♥

             The patient is asleep. He has a contented look on his face, like a baby fed and tucked in. He sleeps soundly. It is seven a.m.
             “You are relieved now,” Steve said, at the end of this long shift.
             I walk down the bright hall. The morning light has generously filtered through the sterile ward. The day shift is in progress. I walk by them like a ghost.
             “Leon, what are you doing?!” a day nurse asked.
             The foam mattress supports my limp body well. My arms and legs are outstretched waiting for the leather straps. The sun shines through the screens illuminating the room, giving it a divine glow.
             “I’ve been relieved now,” I say. “I’ve been relieved.”