Art And Design High School - Prism Yearbook (New York, NY)

Page 109 text:

THE BRIDGE I awoke, seeing the soft, red-orange sky slowly diffusing before my eyes. It was dawn. The last trailer truck had passed over my yawn- ing, gray asphalt, and I knew that the city would soon awaken to greet me. I slowly stretched myself thoroughly, stretching every cable, every girder, every coil, making sure that I was completely primed and ready for the morning onslaught of the city. At the usual time, about 6:45 A.M., the first brigade of cars came in. Each morning, I said a silent prayer of thanks that there was only a bare mini- mum of cars on the road, because at 6:45 in the morning, one does not drive that well. Perhaps the fact that one is still half-asleep at this time has something to do with it. At that time there are no such things as lanes: or, for that matter, no such things as steering wheels. I could iust imagine the 8:45 group like this. When I do, I simultaneously detest the thought of having chrome-plated trash swept off of me every day. At about 7:00 A.M., my cables stretch slightly as a larger, more wide-awake group comes in. These poor devils have had at least five minutes for a cup of coffee before entering their gas-buggies. These are the alert, defensive drivers you hear so much about. They are orderly, drive at a moderate speed, and comfortable to my asphalt. But, alas, they aren't very interest- ing to talk about. There is, however, a group that is more interesting, the hardy, robust walk- ers. This band of troopers, obviously young men, get their morning exercise this way. Wait till they get in the army .... they'll get lots of exer- cise that way .... You'd be surprised how many athletes abound in the city, deeply breathing the polluted air. Now, 7:00 has become 'log-in time on my concrete. Sometimes it tickles. The ioggers and those drivers who watch out for the other guy are slowly replaced by the wild ones. The time is 8:00 A.M.g the actual onslaught is hitting its peak. Cables and coils stretched, here's an outline of what I am supporting: a multi- tude of drivers and cyclists lmanual and motor- izedj. MULTITIDE OF DRIVERS-primarily made up of forty-five year-olds who must have had ci secret desire to be iet jockeys. Their only reason for being on the road is to experiment on new ways to pass their little friends on my now compressed asphalt. MANUAL CYCLISTS-I never knew bicycles were so popular. They're the only things that soothe my concrete. But the smooth, gentle rolling of bike tires is quite unlike their relatives, the MOTORIZED CYCLES-whose iagged, burning treads feel like an avalanche of peb- bles, and glass all wrapped up in a ball of heavy-grained sandpaper. Why is it when they cross me they begin to roar and spit cracks of vio- lent ignition like cherry bombs in a trashcan? They NEVER seem to do it on any other kind of road. Why me?...why is it always me? 8:45 A.M. Before I describe my guests for this period, I must ask a question. What makes people honk their horns when they know that the only way a car ahead of them can move would be to float above the traffic on a cushion of air? My guests: NORTHBOUND TIP-those who are disgusted with themselves for being late. They figure that they're late anyway so they might as well take it easy. NEAR MIDDLE GROUP- Hey, come on you guys, I'm late enough already. MIDDLE GROUP- Who the hell's up there caus- ing this? NEAR END GROUP fhorn-honkersl-spend their time doing two things: staring at their watches, and honking. SOUTHBOUND CENDJ TIP fhorn-honkersj-mutter dark oaths I don't wish to repeat. At IO:0O, I iust sag from exhaustion ,... and I ponder over the questions .... How come we can't just skip from 4:30 to 6:30 P.M., and elimi- nate the demon in between? DANIEL HASKETT C1

Page 108 text:

G THE BRIDGE THE BALLAD OF THE MAN ON THE BRIDGE He stood and he watched, Never moving he stared, Down the abyss of hell His shadowed eyes glared. The wind whipped at his face, tossing his hair out behind him in a golden contrast to the starless black sky. Rain lashed his naked form as he stood, unmoving, on the obsidian bridge that spanned the gulf between life and infinity. Like a statue of gold, he faced the unknown. He held himself proud, and death was in his eyes. And he knew as he looked -The last Man of Men- He would die the real death And come never again. And all about him stretched the cold, bar- ren wastes that had once been a world known for its life. Where once had rolled the green hills of Earth, there was now nothing but heaps of charred slag and frozen waves of molten sand. All was pitted and scarred like an anguished body being eaten by leprosy. Where once -cool breezes had blown, there was only the cooling remnants of atomic fire. Where once the songs of nature had rung out in the air, there was only the emptiness of a vacuum whose atmosphere had long since departed. He stood on the bridge, afraid of him- self and alone with his tears. He who had called the death From the skyl Who had screamed like the thunder, Like the thunder he'd die. The death that had come at his sign, at his call, Killing and burning, destroying them all, Snuffing out light in a mushroom of shade, Like a portrait of Death sitting, laughing, In Hades. They had screamed and died by the thou- sands and millions. Young men holding their women and raging at their helplessness. Old men running about in the confusion of age to have their ancient skin burned from their dry-tinder bones. Mothers desperately sheltering their chil- dren and screaming in pain. Children trying to suckle again. From ashes they had come and to ashes they went, taking with them their thoughts, beliefs, and way of life. All the generations had become like the fine black dust that now covered the dead crust that remainedl That always re- mained. And he stood filled with sadness that the glory of man had died out like a fire and was covered with sand. No pains of glory, no moans of defeat, ln silence he'd die, With surrender he'd meet, The G-d who had made him The Man that he was, And he'd finally learned the G-d's name, It was love. He was the last, all the others were gone. lt had taken the end of a world to start his race over again. But this time they would start right, start with Truth and Beauty and Faith and Love. For he had learned the truth. And if he could always worship it, then the race would be re- membered. Mankind would live on. For the G-d called Love was also known as Mercy and For- giveness. And this man, while he would always remember his sin in shame, he would have a second chance, a chance to erase them. For the G-d was not hate, The idols he'd praised, He'd learned his mistake And to G-d Man was raised. He was washed of his sins, But remembered his shame, For G-d in His wisdom, Had left man His name. BILL MANTLO

Page 110 text:

Aa DEBORAH AND ME At the tender age of twelve, one is innocent enough to defy society, yet vulnerable enough to be scarred by it. I entered the vast schoolyard of Winthrop Junior High School, with eyes wide and hands trembling. I swallowed hard and stepped across the threshold into a new world of new friends and new ideas. New, strange, the building, the faces, oh, the faces, so many. I walked slowly through the faces, past the faces, between the faces, my eyes swallowing each one, checking each detail, establishing an opinion of each in my mind. I walked among the endless lines of faces, looking for my own. I saw a girl, an older girl, with makeup on her face and soft, smooth hair, holding a sign reading a few numbers and letters. I glanced down at my clumsy pocketbook and pulled outa postcard, whose corners I care- fully straightened and pressed, and then I read my class section on it. I looked once more at the markings on the girl's sign, and upon finding it identical with the one on my card, I latched onto the line, sighed a deep sigh of relief, and half- smiled nervously as I felt my face grow red. I stood quietly on the line, glancing about as casually as I could, and nibbling on my lower lip. After what seemed to be quite a while, but was probably two minutes, a bell sounded and the lines began to shuffle along slowly toward the building. I watched the alien structure en- velop the stream of figures, and my heart began to pound. I don't know what I expected to be inside, but to my surprise, it looked much like my elementary school, only larger and older. The room we entered had grown-up desks and a large blackboard with a name and a room and that same class section written on it. I took a seat and eyed the one next to me. It was empty, and I glanced nervously at each passing figure, wondering who would sit next to me, why they would, and why the others weren't. Finally, a climax was reached when a tall, stocky girl plopped herself down in the neighboring seat. I peered out of the corners of my eyes and saw her assembling her books and things on the desk. She looked at me openly and my eyes quickly darted downward. She smiled and said, Hi, and I smiled weakly and murmured the same. I did look at her though and I saw before me a tallish girl with large wet, gleaming brown eyes framed with long curly eyelashes, shiny, neatly assembled hair, chestnut brown skin, and wide lips and nose. Deborah's eyes were laughingly inviting and I rather felt myself grow less conscious of my be- ing, and more involved in hers. I was no longer stiff and scared, but instead enchanted by the energetic, adventurous spirit in my new friend. Deborah took me under her wing, I, a year younger and somewhat less courageous than she. We laughed every day, every minute. School was of no matter to either of us, and it was only on report card days that we could be seen trudging home, sniffling and consoling and uttering snide remarks about this teacher or that. But those were the only tears between Deborah and me for the rest of it was laughter. I remember the time we hiked up to Woolworths and invested our last dollar in a variety of iunky makeup which we both hid until safely in the school bathroom, where we would transform ourselves into two painted dolls. It was horrible, and messy, but it was prohibited and we wore it with a proud de- fiance. Deborah and I weren't delinquents, only two carefree irresponsible kids whose person- alities merged and submerged. It wasn't too far into the term when I de- cided to invite Deborah to my house. I did, and we enioyed ourselves as usual. My parents told me that they thought Deborah was a sweet, friendly girl. Things were fine I thought, and Deborah's friendship and mine thrived. Until I made a tragic mistake: I called Deborah when her mother was home. The words, those words, burned in my ears. l'You'd better not call Deborah any more, be- cause her father's a policeman and you will be in a lot of trouble. The tears blurred my vision, the salt stung my tongue, I felt a lump growing hard in my throat. I told my parents of this phone conversa- tion I had with Deborah's mother and I watched them look at each other, nervously, knowingly. They began to explain gently about how they knew of the problems that might arise from our friendship and how it wasn't only what mattered to me or my parents. I nodded although I didn'1 understand, and later wept bitterly over my feel- ings of desperation and confusion. The next day