Midwood High School - Epilog Yearbook (Brooklyn, NY)

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All right Harry. Nyfswishjlons purred. Bang. fMy Harryj Slam. Darling Whirr . . . The car picked up speed and rocked around a corner. Damn them! determination determination Determination Determination-rang out Peter Linker's footsteps. Bang clop Bang clop- Determination. He raised his head and listened. . . fbangclop . . . bangclop . . . Q and then he understood. Determination!,' he cried. That was itl The answer! Determination and I shall do it! Determination and she shall be mine! He clicked his heels and jumped madly into the night sky. Determination and I shall win! And I shall win! And tonight the curtains shall be opened ,. . . fbangclop . . . J and I shall see her . . . fbangclop . . . Q and we will be together . . . Qbangclop . . . J and, and . . . And his voice slowed down and stopped . . . fbangclopj But what shall I say to her? She is beautiful and does not know me. To her I am but a stranger. Will I ever win? Can I ever win?,' Determination Determination banged his feet- Cclip clop.j Again he listened . . . Cclip clop.j The mist sighed and shrugged its shoulders. No matter. I shall be bold and fast and overwhelm her. No. No. No. I will not be bold. I could not. It is not in me. No. Rather I will talk to her gently . . . as an artist . . . and then she will understand. I will paint beauty for her, with the wine of words, and mold phrases into missiles of passion, and she will smile and run her tongue over her teeth. QHOW I love to watch her do thatjf' Determination, echoed the pavement, and giddy with dreams, he drank deep of its music. But she is not beautiful, he declared suddenly. Not in the conventional sense. No. She will be glad to have a man compliment her. And if she were beautiful, then I, Peter Linker, Artist and Philosopher, would have no interest in her. None. How could I, forIam...forlam...forIam...aliar. But why must you insult yourself, Mr. Linker? Do not other people do it often enough for you already? Hah! QHe laughedj Now listen. He banged his fists together. She is a plain, ordinary girl and should be treated in a plain ordinary manner. Why should you be fancy? You will only make a fool of yourself, and that would not be good. Why as an artist? Is an artist something special? And who says you are an artist? 'But I am! I am! An artist yes. In that, if 23

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i-'vummvr ight To win her, to wed her, No calf eyes, be clever. Hey ho, there she goes You're so divine And youire going to be mine. Peter Linker was walking in the night, humming to himself. I glance at the moon I glance at the skies, I'l1 see her soon And gaze in her eyes, BANG! Curtain. No applause. Corny, corny,', he muttered. But who cares? Tonight all things are excusable, for tonight perhaps I shall have the couragef' He ripped a branch from a low hanging tree and kicked it along in front of him, keeping time slowly to his thoughts. A small round stone shivered and jumped as the stick hit it. He watched it dribble into the gutter and stop. Then he stopped too. The night had grown hard and solid, and he shivered in the rusty lamplight. It was not cold but truth hung heavily in the air, a sheet of despair in the air, in the yellow moonlight. Why was I not born a plant?', he demanded wearily. Why a man? He leaned against the lamppost and moved his hand sadly, gently over the green cracked paint. , Why not a plant? Not that I expect you, a mere lamppost, to answer me. Although I wish you could. He stepped back from the pole. , For I am like you, a pole, a plant. Immobile. An onlooker. Only I see and can understand. I take note. I record. I am a jotter-down of things. But that is all. I do not take part. For I am a coward. He turned around and meandered out of the puddle of dusty light, walking and thinking. A warm summer mist was thickening the air, breathing dampness onto the houses and the road. The stars were softly shaded by the quiet clouds. Loneliness, he thought, Bitter, self-despising loneliness. It will end some day . . . but when? Is death the answer? Shall I always be a coward and afraid? Will I always make resolutions and break them, and then curse myself for breaking them. I don't know. But' what good does it do? It is all so stupid. I see the ridiculousness of the situation, and yet feel myself helpless and tied down when I try to do something about it. He dug his fingernails deep into the palm of his hand angrily, with the uselessness of self-pity, At the end of the street a little red light was blinking. 22

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Ei' A X .., .- 6. 1... 55 I L.. ng' it Q41 E r Q ' 1 only that, I shall always defend myself. For that is me, and without that I am nothingf But what exactly is the reason that I couldn't approach her in the normal manner, like other people? Because I am afraid and a coward? No . . . perhaps I am not a coward, just a bit different from other people. Different does not mean coward. But all this is beside the point, for thinking about it will change pothing. I ought to know by now. So, I will approach her as an artist. For she is an artist too. I am sure of that. That is what makes her so beautiful. It must be. Her mere body alone cannot contain her spirit. But oh, oh, oh, he moaned. I am so in love I cannot even make up beautiful phrases to describe her. He nodded his head and continued walking. Determination Determination Clip clop. His shoes hissed as they hit the ground. H Yes, determinationf, he agreed sadly . . . Qclip clop.j I wonder. I wonder what it would be like to be with her. I would make her so happy. I would do anything and everything 'for her. I would work and slave. I would be a portrait of unselfishness. And in return, if she would only speak to me, only love me . . . I I His feet came down flatly, firmly on the sidewalk, and the shoes were swift and steady in their direction. He was going to her house. To her house and to declare his love. It was madness, foolishness. But he didn't care. f Again the mist was warm and strange, and shadows bfushed against his ears.' I will love her, and protect her . . . , He approached the house carefully, and stood on the side studying it for a moment. Exquisite door, he murmured. Beautiful, kind door. It sheltersvherf' He gazed at the entrance lovingly. And then it opened. A rectangle of yellow light played out onto the front lawn. A figure appeared in the frame. It was she. She stepped out and closed the door behind her. The house was in darkness. And how beautiful, how exquisitely, exquisitely beautiful she was. He could not think. His mind was in knots. She came down the path and walked towards him. Then she stopped. Is that you, Herby? she asked, peering at him in the blackness. g He stuttered and tried to move forward, but he could not. It was as if his feet had grown into the cement. Do I know you? she asked. She was talking to him. He could not believe it. Oh, wonderful, wonderful world. Now was his chance! ' Do I know you? she repeated. - ' K She looked at him. fOh beautiful eyes., He tried to answer, but his teeth were locked. His teeth were locked and he could not answer. Desperately he tried . . . ' Behind the houses the moon swung softly into the sky. Oh, I'm sorry, terribly sorry. I thought you were . . . somebody else . 7. . A She smiled, backed away nervously, hesitated, and then started walking back to the house. Silently ,the mists gathered to rain as he watched her disappear. He bent down in the road and wept softly into the night. E David Leveson 24