“This man won’t play New Order!” The guy throws his hands up and sits down on the bar stool again. The bartender bunches one corner of his mouth, his cheek muscles tightening. After Randie at the end of the bar nods her head once, the bartender pours a draft of Yuengling. He’s setting the glass down as he hears a bar stool scuff the floor.
“Well, listen, man. There are about twenty million bars in this town,” the guy spits, shrugging his jacket on. “I’m sure I can find at least one to play fucking New Order!”
(image: ange robinson)
“Well, that’s perfect!” Grandma said and settled her bag further up on her shoulder, ”I don’t got teeth.”
(photo by tiegen kosiak, words by ange robinson)
Three summers ago, I had a job at a dude ranch that bordered the Montana side of Yellowstone National Park. I changed bed linens, monitored rich guests, swept the dusty aisles of hallways and common spaces. It was a long summer of wind, of too much sky, punctuated only by the change of weather and visitors.
The hotel bar, where I spent my evenings, was lined in stuffed carcasses of animals: heads and necks of disapproving deer, antelope, and bison. I felt sorriest for the bison. He looked too smart, too worldly to be trapped in this particular outpost.
I eavesdropped on bar patrons regularly.
“What sort of animals do you want to see?”
“A bear!”
“A mountain lion!”
“A buffalo!”
“I want to see one of those, you know, you know—the little animals with the horns.”
“A jackalope?”
“Yeah! That’s the one. I want to see a jackalope!”
“Those aren’t real. You know that, right?”
“Oh, yeah. Totally. I was just joking.”
They went back to their drinks, and I went back to mine. Outside, the wind blew dust through pipe corrals and onto expensive cars alike. Clouds gathered, then dissipated. New guests tomorrow.
(words and picture by becca owen).
“Ooooooh!!!”
“Aaaaaaah!!”
“OMG! I can’t wait to go swimming! I mean, my family’s pool has gotta be like, I dunno, a third of the lake or something? You can’t really swim in that!”
Yes, you can wait. Having a heated indoor pool, this is an activity in which you can indulge in year round. What you can’t wait for is the unveiling of your ridiculously expensive small swath of water resistant fabric that will make all the boys fall hopelessly in lust with you. All the chubbers will carve your name into the posts of their bunk beds with a blunt dining hall knife whilst crying themselves to sleep. Oh, and they’ll cross it out too. And after it’s discovered, they’ll blame it on your best friend.
That night, I called out “Asthma” in my sleep. It thwarted Mrs. Rossi’s attempt at (gasp!) making me run one loop around the track, but could it deter tall foreign lifeguards at a Jewish sleep-away camp from coercing me into taking the test?
“Honestly, you can’t swim without it.”
“That’s okay! I don’t think my acne responds well to salt water.”
“But, this is fresh water!”
“I don’t think my skin likes that either.”
Surveying the scene, we silently acknowledged my shame. I pinched my large polyester blend sack and fumbled with the waistline of my shorts.
“Once you’re in the water, we’ll only be able to see your head.” Now she was speaking my language.
photo: tiegen kosiak words: gillian ricci
I wake up at 4 o’clock and think of you
getting off work, that swing shift itch
in your fingertips at breakfast,
knife and fork and egg white omelet to lips.
You’re on a diet, triathlon in March,
it’s just a sprint, but you train like an Ironman,
always gone, in mind and body and hand.
You don’t touch me like a man,
you don’t touch me, you lean
into me, which means you want me
to do something…
(words and image by tiegen kosiak)
On Thanksgiving, my junior year of high school, before heading to an aunt’s house for dinner, we stopped at Shop-N-Kart, a grocery store known for its bulk food and imperviousness to holidays. My dad scooped rolled oats and wheat bran into plastic bags. He twisted the top of each bag, and coiled the plastic into a knot. In his neat handwriting, he wrote each bulk item’s number on the tag. He picked out two apples and two pears from the produce section. I trailed him to the syrup and jam aisle, where he scanned the shelves for a jar of molasses. We took our purchases to the barn, and I helped him pour the powdery grain into Traveler and Lucky’s grainpans and cut the fruit into small pieces. He drizzled the molasses on top, and we poured water into each dish. Traveler and Lucky watched us over the fence, ears forward. They rumbled low, throaty noises at us until we delivered their meals. My dad and I stood back to watch them eat, then climbed back into his truck and drove to our own dinner.
photo by ange robinson, words by becca owen
once upon a time i didn’t mind the cold. when i was growing up in north dakota and it snowed on halloween, i would still trick-or-treat, just with a winter coat under my costume. i was a genie in second grade, already too fat to wear the peach-colored midriff, but i did it anyway, didn’t know the difference. i know now that i hate the cold, the snow, the ice, skiing, falling, freezing, driving through blizzards. in high school my sister and i got caught in a white-out on our way home from jamestown. we parked on the highway shoulder, less than a foot behind another car and, in a minute, could not see its tail lights. we stayed there for hours, peed in an empty subway cup in the backseat. a mile up the road, we found out later, the weather was clear.
(photo by becca owen, words by tiegen kosiak)
i’m getting wedding drunk, laurel thought, as the couple stared at her with upper west side eyes. they were scoffing inside, she just knew it. this is why laurel drank so heavily at functions like this; it made the glares easier to bear. she knew she didn’t have much, but she looked like a million bucks, even in thrift store duds, and she was liked, knew how to charm the pants off every person she met: men, women, and children alike. that’s how she ended up here, at a rich friend’s wedding. laurel was fun, and soon this couple would know.
(image and words by tiegen kosiak)
