Central Commercial High School - Hour Glass Yearbook (New York, NY)

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The Secretary HER DUTIES: 1 2 . Typewrites to a rapid heart beat at sight of handsome male. . Files for safekeeping all eligible bachelors. 3. Cuts Stencils of dream house for two. 4. Carbon Copies glamorous movie stars. 5. S peaks In tell igen tly when asking for a raise. 6. Nlimeographs anger sparks when refused. 7. Calculates on Monday how to spend Friday's pay check. 8. Duplicates Orclev' for new eraser each Week. 9 10 . Renews Orders for dreamy dates. . Rejects Orders when male date is defective. Bernice Da Silva

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It Could Happen to You Four walls enclose me and torment me. I am trapped in a hot dry prison. The air is thick and stale. I am weary. Physically and mentally, I am exhausted. My lids have become heavy, but I fight sleep. I must stay awake and on guard. I try desperately to think of the future, but this picture soon blurs, and the present reappears once more. IA7hat am I doing here? W'hat strange fate leads me to this? Looking back, I realize, were it not for my job, all this would not be happening now. I look at the door in front of me and silently hope it will not open. If I cannot get outg then let the mob outside be unable to get in. These words are foolish. I hold my breath as the door opposite me opens. The gang rush in and soon I am encircled. For what seems like eternity, I am pushed and shoved, jabbed and poked. When I am about to sink into oblivion, with all thoughts of escape gone, the door once more opens. I am half dragged, half pushed from my surroundings. The climb up the stairs exhausts me, but I dare not stop. Through some miracle I master the stairs, and run to the street' beyond. The air is fresh and cool. The street is clean, and the store windows I face are decorated beautifully. The houses of various sizes and shapes, at this moment, are the loveliest possible sight. It's evening, I'm free of the subway turmoil, and I am home at last. Audrey Goodman Who is Sylvia? I often wonder about her. She is quite pretty, with wavy brown hair and deep green eyes. Her features are pleasingly fashioned and her face always wears a sweet expression. Her clothes are perfect, dainty, frilly blouses, tailored suits, fur coats, and a fabulous collection of shoes. She is very petite, and resembles a doll that has suddenly come to life. I have seen her every day for the past year. Our paths seem to cross at the same place-the drug store which I pass on my way to school in one direction, and which she passes on her way to work in the other. When I think of her, I call her Sylvia, for the name seems to suit her. She is always alone, and she invariably carries a copy of one of the latest books. While I do not really know her or anything about her, save what I have mentioned, I have often imagined a life for her. Perhaps she is a model working long hours before the Hoodlights and gracing the pages of the smart- est fashion magazines. Maybe she is an actress famous on Broadway and seen among the cosmopolitan crowd of theatre goers and performers. It may be that she is none of these. She could be a woman reporter, a secretary, a nurse, or a teacher. As Shakespeare put it -Who Is Sylvia. Probably I shall never know. Sheila Friedman

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Street Scene A crowded city street: children playingg cold soulless cars racing by, an old man seated by his window. The ball strikes the windowg he smiles. Then, as if in reprimand, he becomes solemn, opens the window, tells the boys that the park is the place to play ball. They jeer, sneer, laugh at him. They know he is too old to do anything about it. They continue playing. The man closes the window, shakes his head, mutters to himself. He sees in retrospect a car racing down the street: he knows what is about to happen. He has warned them. How could they know that beneath the sill, where they could not see, was a pair of crippled, deformed legs? They, as he before them, refused to listen. A screech, a scream, a tear falls in remembrance of what is yet to come. Catherine Giordano Pride Blinded by your rage, I I built myself a citadel I stammered on in vain. And there I stayed inside, You spun your web of violence, To weather every storm alone And caused me naught butlpain. With nothing but my pride. Like a tempest's cruel twist, They said, You have no love, no friendsj Or threats of pounding steeds, And inwardly I sighed, The aftermath is like a song I needed neither love nor friends, That sings of man's good deeds. I had my stubborn pride. The calm engulfed me, But now my reckless heart tells me, You had won. You've lived a lonely life of pain. Suspicious of my reckless heart, Afraid of sharing all your dreams, I trusted none. You've lived your life in vain. Bernice Da Silva - Dream On Never cease dreaming, For when your dreams have vanished, Your life is worthless. A person who strives to fulfill his dreams, May soon succeed with them. Celeste I. Mongiello ' 30