Stepping Stones

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stories of personal growth May 2009

Wanderlust and baubleshow a couple began traveling and selling jewelry

Little Black PerfectionOne girl’s theory on fate

Akin! Akin I Say!how she attempted to channel her favorite poet

Stepping Stones

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2 Stepping Stones | May 2009

in this issue...memoir: akin! akin i say!An attempt to channel her favorite poet

By Ashley Avis

feature: wanderlust and baublesHow a couple started selling handmade jewelry around the country

By Leah Lauber

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table of contents

May 2009 | Stepping Stones 3

poetry: billyA heartbreaking poem abouta childhood friendBy Nina Turner

fiction: fortunate sonA man learns an unexpected lessonat his new jobBy Caitlin Costa

memoir: little black perfectionHer theory on fateBy Nicole Lauber

artist profile: stephanie mckeeA teenager from Florida shows some of her workfor us - look for more of her art on pages 17 and 18! 12

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Akin! Akin I Say!An evening with Edgar Allan

By Ashley Avis

Lo! Death hath rear’d himself a throneIn a strange city, all alone,Far down within the dim west--

Damn it. That one’s been done already.

It was an interesting evening, the night I [attemptedly] decided to become akin with Edgar Allen Poe. I’ve been engrossed by his tantalizing, haunting poetry since the generally Whimsical Pony age of nine, when my somewhat shock-ingly obese third grade teacher introduced our class to Anna-bel Lee. I don’t think poetry of this sort was in the curriculum (if not banned -- it was a uniform wearing Catholic school, after all), but Mrs. Lumpkus felt it within her worldly, teacherly duties to open our eyes to the “killing and chill-ing” of Annabel Lee. Hence, at the ripe age of nineteen, the passion for my childhood obsession of Poe reared anew. Like a radioactive seahorse. Or a lion. It all started at the 34th Street Barnes and Noble... where, overpriced Chai Tea Latte in hand [in New York, one is simply

“uncool” if not in black leather boots and touting something with recycle-able cardboard], I entered the six level Man-hattan building without an intent in the world. I had not come into a large amount of money, recently. In fact I was relatively student-working-three-bizarre-jobs-poor. I had not emptied my flask into my coffee, as Economics 403 wasn’t until Thursday. I was actually of relatively stable mindset,

which (as friends who know me will surely tell you) is a somewhat lottery-rare occur-rence. As soon as I passed by the American Literature section, however, I saw it. Edgar Allen Poe, Complete Poems. In all of its massive 2,673 page glory. I was doomed, in the

absolutely most blissful way possible. I left that Barnes and Noble approxi-mately four and a half hours later, with a good two hundred dollars in Poe literature swinging merrily in my double-bagged shopping pouches. I had wanted to test my hand at writing screenplays for some time - thus, after a considerable amount of obsessive research and fictitious mental concocting that oc-

curred over the next two weeks, I decided to try to write something on Poe. A fellow in one of my acting classes struck me one day as looking very much like I would depict Edgar in his formative years, and thus, each time this particular fellow got up to work in our Hard Core Cult Meisner program, I fantasized (no, not in a... nev-ermind) about what he would be like as Poe. How he would hold his quill. How his temples would quiver as he focused on his prose. How he would butter his bagel - in a fastidious, somewhat provoked way - as if the confectionary was somehow inadequate for inherently lacking the basil and chive spread he found so thought-provokingly delicious. And so it was. Two years later, I had about three and a half pages. Pretty damn good, I hummed to myself, flipping through Chapter Four, “Poems of 1831” and skimming lovingly through The Doomed City. A bit over a page a year. Really not bad. And yet... as heart-numbingly wonderful as all this was, I wanted more. I needed to get closer to Edgar Poe. Having been characterized by madness (genius), bipolar tendencies (idiot kinsman diluting genius), and drunkenness (simply should have stayed in Manhattan longer, we accept that) - I felt like I needed to adapt or “osmotize” (my word) some of these Poe-isms to get into his headspace. To be able to think like him, write like him, interact with my bagel like him! Perhaps going a touch too far with the methods of consumption. My opportunity presented itself only a handful of weeks later. I had just finished a project with a few Broadway buddies of mine. After the film came out, we had a wrap party, and ended up getting quite besotted with the bounty of wine that was available to us at The Grape’s Vine, a cozy downtown tavern. I mean, we were actors - if it’s there, we shall drink it. If more of it is there, we shall drink it. If too much of it is there,


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An evening with Edgar Allan

we shall drink it and talk about Method all evening long, before breaking into and passing out in our favorite New York theatre. Our group ended up weeding down to the director, the audio girl, the leading Dude, and myself. After drunkenly navi-gating the streets of SoHo for a good forty five minutes, talking of family, of politics, and of the rescue of the Ostrich from Southern farmlands... we came across Peep. A restaurant/bar with rearing deco-modern cathedral ceilings, drink specials, and see-through bathroom doors. Yes, see-through. Somehow, due to the magic of motion sensors, once an individual goes in and begins undressing... the doors mist over. Mostly. With the way our noggins were stationed at that moment, Peep seemed to be the absolute best idea possible. We entered, and were promptly seated. The menus suggested all sorts of delicious fare, and I think we ended up ordering 125 boneless chicken wings with extra hot sauce, and a side of celery. As I was con-templating the drink menu, the waitress approached. “Have you decided on what you’d like to drink, dear?” she asked me, her Irish ac-cent making my eyes bulge with fascina-tion. “Errumm...” I grumbled in contempla-tion, overlooking the bizarrely concocted martinis. “If it’s of, er, any help...” she began, her voice dropping down to almost a whisper as she leaned in, “we have a particular drink special we’re rather well known for that’s not on the menu.” Insert collective eyebrow quirk of piqued curiosity from our table. “We have quite a fine bottle of La Ma-sion d’Absinthe, specially imported from Southern France...”

POE.

I didn’t even need her to finish. I needed this La Masion d’Absinthe. I had to release the tethers of my analytical, thesaurus-reading soul and let it fly free to galavant with Poe’s in the starry heav-ens...! No sooner than I had nodded my head with fervor, four glasses were set on the table, complete with intricately slotted sterling silver spoons and sugar cubes. Four [unnervingly short, Golum-like] as-sistant waiters slowly poured the icy water

over the sugar in unison. The Absinthe turned milky green before our eyes.

POE.

About four hours later, the follow-ing had hap-pened:• I had seduced the forty year old director (who was, in my defense, George Clooney older-dude at-tractive) and had lured him up toward the see-through bathrooms so I could “tell him a secret”. As soon as I got him up there, I promptly thought of Napoleon’s Conquest and burst out laughing.• After the rest of our group had left the table and wandered up to where Big Director was glaring at me -- we decided to all test out the see-through-bathroom-door effect. For an hour. At one point our audio person brought up the plate of hot-wings, and we feasted on them in the balcony waiting area. • As soon as an electronica-version of a Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time” began to play, we all erupted into wild, unstop-pable dance moves. Within five minutes, we were partnering each other in poorly executed Argentine Tango.• After leaving the restaurant, I told Big Director various childhood stories from my native Florida of catching lizards and strapping palm fronds onto my arms in an attempt to fly. He listened with rapt at-tentions. I felt like I was entertaining Mr. Darcy, and soon-after broke into a clipped, British accent.• I finally came home, fell into my bed headfirst... and fell asleep in my dress,

jewelry, and black leather boots. I later found an empty container of Cajun Shrimp Ramon Noodles at the bottom of my com-

forter. The voices stayed inside my head all evening. In a stream of unobstructed, unintelligible conscious-ness... they plagued me for the next eight hours in my own voice, berating me for not completing the shopping on my gro-cery list, how much I needed lemons in case I became ill, how I should market my company better by run-ning about bodypainted in the street

with my company logo sprayed across my bosom... I can’t even begin to describe the nonsense my Absinthe-Inspired Inner Voice concocted that evening. The next day, I was delighted to find that not only did I feel more akin to Poe, but also to my 45-year-old dilapidated brown-stone toilet. I’ve never been more inconsolably ill in my entire life. So while I felt like I’ve completed some circle in my still all-too-distant relationship with Edgar, I also am entirely absolved of any desire to ever (ever) ... [ever] drink Absinthe again for as long as we both shall theoretically live. And -- lo and behold, now at three years later I’m up to page seventeen in my screenplay. Only 113 pages to go.

Honesty, poverty, and true content,With the utterable extaciesOf butternuts, gingerbread, and milk and water....

Exactly.

I fantasized about what Poe was like in his formative years...how he held his quill...how his temples would quiver as he focused on his prose...how he would butter his bagel...

S SMay 2009 | Stepping Stones 5

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wander-lust and

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leah lauber

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Belinda Bonnen assists customers at her jewelry stand at the TradeWinds Hotel and Resort.

Opposite Page: Bracelets from Peru on display

the smell of chlorine permeates the air as a gentle sea breeze blows

sandy footprints into barely-recognizable patterns across the walkways at the

TradeWinds Island Resort in St. Peters-burg Beach. Children run around the pool, splashing their parents as they cannonball into the deep end. The younger ones are decorated with floaties around their arms and bright swim shorts that hang to their ankles. Goosebumps engulf the skin of

any thin-blooded Floridian from the cool air passing by, though it doesn’t distract the children from their competition of

creating the biggest splash. Around the corner from the pool, the adults without young kids sip their umbrella drinks at the tiki-hut bar. The sounds of Jimmy Buffett and Bob Marley playfully skip through the air as a man and his guitar perform on a small stage, caus-ing the sitting people to tap their feet on the pavers and the others to dance in what their clouded minds think is rhythmic. Near the bar, some are playing “Wall-hooky,” a game that involves throwing a metal ring around a hook. Along the pathway between the pool and

the bar, two tables display hundreds of pieces of handmade jewelry that glow in the afternoon sunlight. A slender young woman with dreadlocks is engaged with a family of tourists, naming different stones as the curious children point to them. “That’s Amethyst, and that’s Malachite,” she says. “Optic Calcite,” as the young boy points to another. “We also have fossils like trilobite and am-monites,” a man says. He’s sitting behind one of the tables, almost hidden by the tall display on top of it. He has long hair and a beard, slender with light blue eyes. “Trilo-bites are 500 million years old. They’re the oldest predators,” he says to the chil-dren who are looking at him in awe.They are Belinda Bonnen, 24, and Adan Messineo, 27, and they sell jewelry at the TradeWinds about four times a week. They make some, assemble a lot, and friends and family give them jewelry to sell. A small folding table sits behind the displays, and it is covered with wires, string, bags to give customers, jewelry pliers, half-assembled pieces, and a cup of hot tea. As Adan is explaining the different fossils to potential customers, he is tying

the knots of a necklace around a pendant with a zebra design on it. “These used to be old earrings,” he whispers later. “We can sell them for more as two necklaces than we can as a pair of earrings.”Adan started making jewelry as a hobby and decided to sell it when he was 16 as a means to travel around his home country of Argentina. He made jewelry by carv-ing bamboo into various pieces, and sold them on the beach and in parks, or traded jewelry for food. He would hitchhike from place to place, his jewelry collection growing, and after about six months, was able to earn enough money to come to the United States.His original plan was to stay for three months visiting friends in Miami. He end-ed up working there for four years. Adan didn’t work with his jewelry much in Miami. He supplemented his jewelry sales with other jobs, like serving in restaurants and working maintenance on cruise ships, and wasn’t able to devote as much time and energy on his jewelry stand. Eventu-ally he started selling jewelry on South Beach and made that his full-time job, then saved enough money and moved to

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New York City. The jewelry stand thrived in New York because Adan had handmade pieces by his mother, other friends and family, and him that other vendors didn’t have. “How many of this color do I have?” Adan asks Belinda as he holds up an orange surfboard-shaped necklace. “Actually, how many of each color do I have?” Belinda reads off the list of numbers and colors as Adan takes a mental note of which he needs to make. Another potential customer approaches the table and Belinda begins talking with them, asking where they’re from and how long they’ll be in town, and striking conversation about her new friend’s hobbies, travels, and experi-ences, and honestly telling them whether a piece of jewelry looks good instead of just trying to make a few extra dollars. Between the two, Adan likes the creativ-ity of making jewelry and coming up with new designs and Belinda enjoys the customer service aspect of the job. “I love the interaction with people,” she later says after her friendly personality is comment-ed on. “It’s nice to make people happy.” She admits to being disturbed by some

customers, though. For about two weeks one summer, a beauty pageant was being held at the TradeWinds. Belinda says girls as young as ten months and as old as 18 years were participating in the pageant, but the ones who were most strange to her were the girls around ten and younger. Because of the pageant, the young girls were expected to behave in a prim and proper fashion, but they were also antsy to just be kids as well. She says the moms were the most intense part of the show, and let the girls do whatever they wanted, as long as they were well mannered and didn’t get messy. Belinda says the weird-est part was when the pageant was over for the night. “The girls would go swimming, but they still had all their makeup on,” she explains. “But when they emerge from the water, all the makeup was dripping down their faces. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Belinda grew up around jewelry – her mother has been a silversmith since before she was born, so Belinda has been familiar with the trade and with metals her whole life. She learned and imitated her mother’s techniques, which she described as “a

different style” from the traditional way of treating and working with metal. Though it seems like a natural fit for Belinda to have started selling jewelry, she didn’t take to it easily. Growing up in Miami, Belinda worked in health food stores and restaurants, and liked to hitchhike every weekend to the Everglades. Mostly European driv-ers would pick her up, even though she had her bicycle with her, and she would always ask them about their travels in the United States. “I met so many interesting people when I hitchhiked,” she said. Once she arrived in the Everglades, she rode her bike along the trails, and encountered alligators all the time. “For some reason, I was always unnecessarily scared of them,” she recalled. “But that was silly, they were always full of fish. They didn’t want to eat me too.” She rode her bike until she wanted to go home, and then hitchhiked back. When asked whether she would ever pick up a hitchhiker, she undoubtedly said yes. Describing one of the bridges in Miami, she said, “The bridge itself is only about a mile and a half, but if I see

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someone walking across it who doesn’t look like they would try to kill me, and it’s hot out and looks like it’s about to rain, I would pick them up. I love meeting new people and hearing about their lives. I find everyone’s past interesting.” Belinda moved to New York City when she was about 18 years old. She started to petty cab, a form of transportation similar to a rickshaw. “Everyone wanted to ride with me,” she said without a hint of arrogance. “I was this skinny girl with long dreads carting people around on a bicycle. I stood out from everyone else.” One October night after work, she and her coworker, Arnando, went to an underground party they had heard about from a customer. It was late, about 2 a.m., Arnando hadn’t eaten anything all day. After dancing for a while at the party, they decided to step outside. Immediately after doing so, Arnando fainted. Adan was at the party, saw Arnando faint, and went over to help Belinda carry him to a safe place. Belinda went to find food for him while Adan stayed with Arnando to make sure he was okay. Belinda and Adan stood by him while he recovered and hung out at the rest of the party. “We exchanged numbers and hung out and everything just sort of happened,” Adan said. They have four bags of stuff under their display tables, mostly filled with small bags holding pendants that need to be made into necklaces, or backup rings to fill in missing slots. One bag holds food that they bring for their day, and today it holds celery, carrots, sesame breadsticks, avocados, multi-berry cookies, and sunflower seeds that Adan toasted with coconut oil, sugar, and salt. They carry a gallon of water, as well as a pitcher and a large spice bag of loose maté, a naturally caffeinated tea. They constantly drink it out of a baby food jar, enough for about two sips, and through a metal straw that has a filter on the bottom of it, so they don’t get a mouthful of loose maté every time. The reason for such a small container is the width of the jar – its bottom needs to be small because the maté needs to be a certain depth to properly brew when the hot water is poured over it. If the bottom of the jar is too wide, and the depth of the maté is still achieved, it’s over-

whelming and too much. Sometimes they have a treat – coffee flavored vegan ice cream, made from coconut milk, and al-ways eat the whole pint-size carton in one sitting since they don’t have any refrigera-tion at the stand. On one of their first dates, Adan asked

Belinda if he could bring over a pizza to her house. Belinda was slightly hesitant because she was a vegan – no meat or ani-mal products, including milk, eggs, honey, or cheese. She didn’t want to come across as uninterested, so she told him to bring it over. When he arrived, he was carrying a

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vegan pizza. “He didn’t even know I was vegan,” she exclaimed. “It was completely a coincidence, and really cute.” During a lull in customers, Belinda suggests that Adan takes pictures of some pieces of jewelry. They are working on creating a website, and need images to put up. Adan asks her to help him find all the jewelry they will put on the site, which are different from the pieces they have on the stand because complications could arise if somebody purchases a piece on their site and another person purchases the same one from their stand. Adan moves everything off the small folding table, and puts a piece of black velvet over it. He goes to a nearby tree and finds a fallen leaf to use as a backdrop. Belinda pulls out a large plastic bag of earrings, pen-dants, and rings, and starts sorting through them. “Have you taken photos of this one yet?” she asks Adan as she holds up a wooden pendant painted with flowers on it. He thinks he has, but he takes another photo just in case, setting it up on the leaf and placing an almond next to it. “We do that in order to show the size of it. Most people place their stuff next to a penny or something similar, but we like the almond because it looks more natural,” he said. He continues going through and taking two or three photos of each piece, and asks Be-linda to put away the pieces he’s finished with. “What we really need to do is go through all the photos and inventory them, and organize it,” Adan explains. “I’m re-ally excited to do this. I never thought I’d be setting up a website and inventorying my jewelry.”

Even after they met, Belinda still wasn’t very interested in selling jewelry. “Isn’t it funny that I was the one riding my bike all around the city and was one of the only girls doing it and he was selling girly jewelry?” she said laughing. Belinda explained that she got too cold in New York during the winter, when she was helping Adan at the stand and preferred to petty cab. “I would be freezing, liter-ally,” she said. “He would be sitting at the stand, perfectly content. There was no way I could sell jewelry in New York in the winter.” After about four months of dating, Belin-da and Adan traveled to Miami to visit her family. They were planning on staying for a few months, but ended up moving down there. While living in Miami, Belinda “finally gave in” and decided to work with

Adan at the stand. They have traveled to several music festivals, including Bonna-roo in Manchester, Tennessee; Langerado in Miami; and Vegoose in Las Vegas. They decided to go to Vegas for their second an-niversary, but didn’t “do” Vegas. Instead, they worked at the festival, and carried four tables worth of jewelry on the air-plane. They stayed with friends who lived nearby, so they didn’t experience all the gambling and debauchery that is typically associated with Vegas. One night after the music festival, Belinda wanted to try gambling, while Adan stayed behind and watched her from the outside door. She only bet twenty dollars, and Adan said it was funny to watch her amongst everyone else. “Here’s this hippie girl going against all these serious gamblers,” he said. “She

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Above: Belinda Bonnen ad-justs a piece of jewelry for a customer at her stand.

Left: Some of the jewelry on display at Belinda Bonnen and Adan Messineo’s stand.

Opposite Page: The sun sets behind some jewelry at the stand.

was the only one having a good time. Everyone else was so stiff.” Because of their success at the different music festivals, Adan and Belinda decided to travel and sell their jewelry. They ended up in St. Pete, where they were staying with friends for a few months. The friends had set up a stand with the TradeWinds before, and offered to talk with the manager and see if Adan and Belinda would be allowed to set up a stand. Shortly after their arrival in St. Pete, they were working First Friday, Tampa Bay Blues Fest, Gulfport Gecko Fest, and other festivals in Gulf-port, along with the TradeWinds. They decided to move to St. Pete and rented a house in Gulfport, month to month. Trees and a carport, occupied by their van filled with their TradeWinds stand treasures, hide the one bedroom, one bathroom house and only one porch light illuminates the narrow path leading to their front door. Upon entering, the oven, alone against a small wall, is the first thing to greet its visitors, and the kitchen sink, cabinets, and counter space occupy the wall to the right of it. The shelves in the cabinets are exposed without their doors for privacy, and contain reused jars of spices, beans, pasta, and sunflower seeds. Sprouting seeds in jars sit on the counter near the sink, and glass pots and pans cov-er the rest of the counter space. The stove is warming a pot filled with a delicious smelling substance, which Adan later explains is a spicy soup. He made the soup from scratch, and looked at what he had in his fridge to determine his ingredients. To the left of the front door is a folding table, displaying reusable shopping bags and plastic containers, which each hold something, though none hold their original product. Below the table, a cardboard box accommodates empty glass bottles. Above the table are two windows, with a

sheet hanging as a curtain, hung by bun-gee cords. Each window facing the front yard is covered like this, and each sheet is different. A dream catcher hangs in one window, and gems, crystals, and miniature sculptures from around the world adorn the windowsills. The tile floor of the kitchen extends into the living room, making the space feel connected. Seating in the living room consists of car seats from their van, which they took out to make room for all their jewelry, and an air mattress belonging to their friend, Pete, who was kicked out of his apartment and is staying with Adan and Belinda until he begins a trip with an unknown destination or time frame. A small coffee table they found on the road sits against a wall, and the only thing on it is a bottle of cleaning solution. “I’m going to clean that table before we use it for any-thing,” Adan says. “But I’ve been saying that for a while now, and we haven’t used it at all,” he adds with a smile. It is slightly before dusk, and Adan is in the unlit living room, made darker by the trees blocking any sunlight left over from the day, with friends, while Belinda tends to the soup and things to do in the kitchen. Adan sits in one car seat, Pete is on his air mattress, and their friend Miguel, who sleeps in a tent in Adan and Belinda’s backyard, is sitting cross-legged on the floor. Adan and Miguel are each playing the guitar, a song without sheet music or

lyrics, though it is impossible to tell that neither has played this rhythm before tonight. A euphoric feeling comes over the room as everyone sits back and listens to the impromptu musicians, almost meditat-ing to the rhythm. Eventually they pause, and everyone is brought back to reality, but the fulfilled state of mind stays in the room. Belinda remembers that she has jewelry her mom made recently, and is excited to show it off. She bounds into the thinly carpeted bedroom attached to the living room, and pulls out a bag of silver pieces. She sorts through them on the floor, and even though there are folding tables in the room, they are occupied as the worksta-tion for the business. She pulls out rings and pendants, earrings and bracelets. The pendants of women are reminiscent of Picasso’s “Girl Before a Mirror”, with ac-centuated curves in her mother’s metallic form. Admiring her mother’s creations, in a room full of her own creations, Belinda notes, “I should have known I would end up working with jewelry. But I love it.” She brings up her jobs in Miami and New York. “I’ve worked elsewhere. It just didn’t fit me. This job is perfect because I work when I want. I travel when I want. I set my own hours. I couldn’t work for other people, and I don’t have to. I’m extremely lucky.”

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Age: 19Hometown: St. Petersburg, FLSchool: Maryland Institute College of Art in BaltimoreMajor: PaintingOther Interests: God, gymnastics, and poetry


Stephanie McKee

Stephanie McKeeartist profile

Draw What You SeeThe first thing I ever saw

in this worldwas a tree

I don’t remember what kind of tree

but Mr. Nelson assigned the drawing

and I was in the 5th grade.Before then,

I never know how leaves connect to a branch,

or how a trunk connects to the earth.

Sitting in the dirt kickball field,paper in lap,

through neurons and synapsesmy eyes connected to my brain

anddown into my pencil’s graphite.

Slowly,it tracedthe skinnycontour

of the trunkin front of me.

In my mind, Mr. Nelson’s re-played:

“Class, I don’t understand whyI’m getting drawings of tulips

when there are no tulipsin the field.”

- Stephanie McKee


Little Black Perfection

I have this theory that there are some things in life that are meant to be and some that aren’t. Most people apply these situations to

events in their lives that are relatively important, such as marrying the man or woman of their dreams, finding a career that is financially and mentally satisfying, or watching their children become successful in school, sports, or other hobbies. I can’t apply these hypothetical situations to my life, mainly because I’m only 20 years old, and having a husband, baby, or career at this point in my life are so out of the question that I can’t even fathom what that would be like (I’ll admit that I can be irresponsible, but it’s mainly because I want to have fun). But, I do apply my theory to one thing: clothes. A little bit of a background on me: my first real job was at Forever 21, and I wasn’t that big into fashion or clothes. I wore outfits solely from American Eagle and Old Navy,

which are great stores, but not neces-sarily on the fashion forefront. After working at F21 – the employees’ nickname for the store – I started to realize that I was constantly pining to know what was in those huge card-board boxes sealed with bright yellow tape. The company should have just paid me in clothes because Forever 21 is where I would spend my entire paycheck. I became a shopaholic. I can always find at least 15 potential outfits for myself at any stylish clothing store. I know what colors look good on me (black and white will never go out of style and they’re my favorite colors to wear, but jewel tones work as well), what styles look good on me (empire waists, cuffed shorts, anything that’s strapless), what necklines are flattering on my semi-broad shoulders (v-necks will elongate anyone’s torso), what stores carry jeans long enough for my 37-inch inseam legs (American Eagle), whether or not I have a similar shirt in my closet to one I’m about to purchase (it’s happened before where I get home from shopping and realized I owned the same exact halter top), and how to outfit myself from head to toe for less than $100. (This is my goal whenever I put on an outfit, just in case an intern from People’s StyleWatch comes up to me and asks where I found each item and how much it cost and writes a feature story on how looking fabulous doesn’t have to cost anyone an arm and a leg. Unrealistic, but a girl can dream…) I can also be your personal shopper: I once found four amazing dresses for my sister so she could wear something fancy for Christmas and New Year’s Eve, and she loved them all. Put simply, I love to shop. So this theory applied to clothes: if they don’t have my size, it’s not meant

to be. If the jeans are available online but I go to the store and they don’t have it, it’s not meant to be. If I want to purchase something, decide to put it back and get it later, but it’s not there when I get back, it’s not meant to be. There are though, multiple occasions where it is meant to be, like the first little black dress I bought. I was shopping in Tampa for an Easter dress last year. They had tons of spring dresses – florals, bright colors, short lengths, empire waists, strapless dresses, halters, spaghetti straps, and more. I was able to find a few dresses to pick out and decided to shop around for other pieces to add to my collec-tion. As I was walking around, I spot-ted the most perfect dress: a black, three-quarter sleeved dress with a boat neck and a bubble hem. It was simple, yet elegant. Boring, but pretty. I could dress it up with accessories. The black peep-toe heels I had just purchased would go so well with it. They had my size – the first sign that this dress needed to be mine – and I whisked myself away to the fitting rooms. I tried on all the spring dresses first, which I wasn’t really interested in do-ing because that little black dress was dangling on its wooden hanger just begging me to try it on. After I settled on a bright pink dress for Easter that I could easily pair with a cream-colored cardigan, I slipped the black dress over my head. Oh. My. Gosh. This dress was the epitome of perfection. It hugged all the right curves, it hit the middle of my thigh so I wouldn’t pull a lewd action a la Britney Spears when wear-ing it, and black is always slimming. This dress fit my theory of life: it was meant to be. One more thing about me: I have a

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By Nicole Lauber


little bit of a problem with saving and spending money which I’ve been trying to fix ever since I needed to be-come accustomed to not having a pay-check after quitting Forever 21. When I run into a chunk of cash, I tend to spend eighty percent of it very irratio-nally within a week, leaving me with the other twenty percent for things I actually need, like food or shampoo or toilet paper. I called up 800-WACHOVIA to check the balance on my debit card and the monotone robot on the other end said I had enough money to purchase the dress for Easter and the black piece of perfection… if I didn’t eat for a week. I weighed out the op-tions in my head.Con: No food for a week.Pro: Looking even better in the dress.Con: No money for a week.Pro: Perfect dress for that week, and the rest of my life.Con: BROKE, NICOLE. YOU WILL BE BROKE.Pro: It’s so perfect though…Con: Do you need it like you need food?Pro: Jesus fasted for 40 days; I’m only going for seven.Con: Jesus was immortal (which isn’t necessarily a con, but for this situa-tion, perhaps).Pro: Yeah, but, it’s not like… I mean… I could always… Damn it. I slowly put the black dress back on a rack, and in an instant, a ghetto fabulous worker rolled the cart away. The tears in my eyes were comparable to what a celebrity feels when their Maserati is in an unforeseen accident.Fast forward to driving home from International Plaza: I could not stop thinking about that dress. I could always order it online in a week, but what if they didn’t have it in a week? I debated this dilemma for the dress for the first thirty minutes of the drive and decided I needed it. The Forever 21 I used to work at is less than fabulous compared to the one at International Plaza. It’s about a fifth

of the size, which obviously means it doesn’t have as many clothes, which is why I drive to Tampa for any shopping binge. But, in fashion emergencies and necessities, a.k.a. this situation, I called store number 128. “Thanks for calling Forever 21, how can I help you?” a flamboyant, chipper man answered. “Hi, I was wondering if you had a dress at your store.” “What dress were you looking for?” I described the wondrous garment I desired. “I know what dress you’re looking for – the Madison Bubble Dress – and I know exactly where it’s located in my store, and that there’s only one left, so you better get your ass down here because these dresses have been flying off the wall and you’re going to be miserable tonight at the Band of Horses and Kimya Dawson show if you don’t buy it because you’ll regret it. Girl, you DO NOT even know, but trust me, I know.” Okay, that might not be exactly what he said, but that’s how it was translated in my head. I decided that Flamboyant Chipper Man was my new best friend. I begged and pleaded for him to put my dress on hold. I told him how this was the first time I had fallen in love. I described how glori-ously the dress fit me. I went into great detail about how badly I had to have that dress. He told me he wanted to hold it, that he understands that desire, but store policy would not allow him to put it aside for me and he wanted his job more than he wanted me to have that dress. You can imagine how fast I drove down I-275, off the 22nd Avenue exit, and to the mall entrance closest for Forever 21. This dress was meant to be – how could I have not seen it from the beginning? Perhaps if I didn’t have this tumultuous conflict going on in my head, I wouldn’t have seen that the dress was for me. I thanked Flam-boyant Chipper Man for his affirma-

tions that the dress was perfect and skipped out of Forever 21 as my heart flittered and butterflies filled my stom-ach. I was on cloud nine – yes, finding happiness in an outfit that looks good on you is possible, because how can you be happy if you think you look ugly? Regardless, this dress is and was and will forever be amazing. It is everything I’ve ever wanted in a dress. Idealism on a hanger. A year later, it hangs in my walk-in closet, price tag still attached, with my five other slightly-less-perfect little black dresses, which have been worn several times. I have only found slightly-less-than-perfect occasions to wear a little black dress, and this one deserves to be worn only for perfection.

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FortunateSonIt had been over a decade since he had last

worked for “the man.” Twelve years ago, Curtis Taylor purchased a franchise of a small, trail-

blazing mortgage company known as Zenith Finan-cial. At the time, Curtis knew little of the mortgage business other than that there was a booming market, and easy money to be made. But things had changed substantially since he had first started with Zenith. He found himself in the same situation as the many clients he once had been able to help: struggling to support his family and slipping further into debt. He could no longer afford to run his business, and in turn could no longer help his clients. At fifty years old, Curtis Taylor was forced to set aside his broken spirit and start anew. Without a college degree, Curtis found that his job options were exceedingly limited within the dwin-dling job market. He had earned strictly commission for the past twelve years, and knew that no employer would be willing to pay a substantial hourly wage to a high school graduate with a background in sales. With this in mind, Curtis sought out an entry-level position with good a healthcare plan, and ultimately found himself applying for a position as a driver at a local non-profit organization known as “AARC.” The “Arkansas Association for Retarded Citizens” was a statewide agency for the mentally and physi-cally handicapped. The Pulaski County center in Little Rock, where Curtis was to work, was less than a mile away from his house, which was helpful in that if need be he could easily ride his bike to work. Gas prices were soaring, and after hesitantly accepting the job offer from AARC, Curtis would be earning only several dollars more hourly than did his teenage daughter who worked at the nearby mall. Though the job paid little, the idea of receiving a steady paycheck was a refreshing prospect. Curtis arrived for his first day of work at the Pulaski AARC Center before the sun rose. Nerves had had him up since four o’clock that morning, thus Curtis was able to spend ample time tending to his unruly moustache, which had gone without proper maintenance throughout his period of unemployment. Gazing at the front door of the center, Curtis took a deep breath of the crisp Arkansas air and proceeded inside. Almost immediately upon entering, Curtis was received by a glowing zaftig woman whose smile seemingly filled the tiny hallway, and he instantly felt

more at ease. “Bless your soul, you must be Curtis,” said the woman, beaming. Curtis immediately recognized her voice as the woman who had called to make him a job offer after his interview, the director of the Pulaski AARC center. She introduced herself as Bertha Washington, though he had already known this. “What we basically try to do here at AARC, is make our consumers’ lives as normal as possible,” she began. “We work for them.” Bertha noticed the perplexed look on Curtis’s face when she had mentioned “consumers”, and clarified, “we call the children and adults that we work with here at AARC our consumers.” Curtis followed Bertha down the narrow hall which eventually lead them to a room roughly the size of a basketball court. About ten small round tables encircled by chairs were set up throughout the room. Bright paintings and detailed handcrafts were hung about the walls, and the faint scent of cinnamon mixed with Elmer’s glue tickled Curtis’s senses. “What you’ll do, Curtis, is pick up the consumers, whether it’s from their house or from a group home, and bring them back to the center. Once they arrive, you’ll work with them,” continued Bertha. “They call each day at the center ‘going to work’, it’s like their job. Some days, the Bic factory will send us shipments of pens that need to be capped, and you’ll help the consumers with that. Other days, you’ll play bingo, basketball, or do crafts with them.” Curtis nodded as he took in his surroundings. Bertha’s spirited eyes scanned the room and then flashed his way. “It all just depends on the day. Do you have any questions?” Curtis shook his head. Still beaming, Bertha continued with her tour of the Center until the two eventually found themselves at a back door which overlooked an alley outside the center. There were five white vans parked outside, and a man that resembled Mr. Rogers with shoulder-length hair was leaning against one of them, smoking a cigarette. Bertha escorted Curtis outside and introduced the two men. “You’ll be riding along with John this until you become accustomed to the route,” said Bertha. She handed him a name badge, squeezed his hand, and with one final grin Bertha turned and walked back inside. John put out his cigarette and looked at Curtis. “You ever work with special needs folks?” he asked casually.

“Never,” replied Curtis. “My son was autistic,” John said. “That little boy saved my life.” It turned out that many of the workers at AARC had children or relatives with disabilities. As Curtis and John headed toward the first group home on their route, John told Curtis about his son who had died of an epileptic stroke many years ago. He also spoke of the man that had founded AARC. This man, Robert Faulk, had a daughter with Down’s syndrome in the 1950s, a time period where many mentally ill or handicapped persons would often wind up in institu-tions that did little to accommodate them. Faulk and his and his wife visited their daughter often, and on one particular visit were revolted to find their daugh-ter in the corner of her dormitory, alone, severely distressed, and covered in feces. The Faulks imme-diately took their daughter from the institution, and with the aid of some of Robert’s friends, he was able to establish the Arkansas Association for Retarded Citizens in 1957. The van came to a halt just as John finished his story of Faulk. The two men stepped out of the van into the blinding Arkansas sunlight and headed for the dilapidated group home just in front of them. John knocked on the paint-chipped door and was momentarily greeted by a frumpy woman, quite disheveled in appearance. “Lola! Anthony!” screamed the woman almost robotically. Not a minute later did Lola and Anthony appear. The two ghostly white figures walked steadily toward Curtis and John. At this, John’s demeanor completely transformed. Instead of the meek, matter-of-fact gentleman Curtis had known for nearly half an hour while in the car, a bubbly, animated man emerged and took the children by their hands. “Welcome to Monday, guys!” exclaimed the new John to the two, who appeared no older than ten. His greeting reminded Curtis of how he would greet his own daughters upon arriving home after a long busi-ness trip. Lola’s eyes smiled as they met John’s and she motioned to him with her hands while Anthony remained subdued, vacant of any expression at all. The frumpy woman began to tap her foot, so the four headed toward the van. John helped Anthony into the van and Curtis did the same for Lola. He opened the side door and ex-tended his arm so that Lola could prop herself up into the vehicle. She did this with little difficulty, and sat down as Curtis fastened her seatbelt. As he was about

By Caitlin Costa

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to return to the passenger seat, he noticed that Lola was still holding onto his arm. Though her grip was not forceful, it was consistent, and Curtis turned to look at Lola. “Hey there, how are you, Lola?” Lola did not respond and continued to gaze at Curtis, who was beginning to feel slightly uncom-fortable. He knew that Lola was harmless, yet at the same time had no idea what she could have possibly wanted from him. John turned around from the driver’s seat and looked at them both. “I’m going to go up front with John now, okay?” said Curtis, who then gently pulled his arm from her grasp and closed the door behind him. Curtis and John had one final stop that day before returning to the AARC center. On the way to their next stop, John turned the radio on to a classic rock station and began to hum along quietly to Bruce Springsteen’s “Thunder Road.” By the time the song was over, Curtis noticed that they were now driving through a drastically different section of town. Each house they passed was at least three stories high, shielded by elegant hedges and intricate gates. They made a turn at the end of the block, and the van pulled up to the largest house and came to a stop. For a second, Curtis thought that John had certainly gotten lost, perhaps distracted by Springsteen’s ballad, until he saw him roll down the window and press the button on the intercom outside the gate. “Good morning, Charlotte,” he said into the intercom. “Hello there, John,” came a reply as the extrava-

gant gate opened. They rounded a great circular driveway lined with rose bushes and pulled up before the gaping front door. An impeccably dressed woman of about sixty emerged from within with a stocky man who was dressed equally as impressive. “My, how stunning you are, Mrs. Carrington,” said John to the blushing woman. “Lookin’ sharp as always, David,” he said, turning to the man Mrs. Car-rington was helping into the van. “You’re too sweet, John,” Charlotte replied. Charlotte kissed her son David on the cheek, closed the van door, and waved as the van pulled away from the manor. “Who’s that?” asked David from the backseat, pointing to Curtis. “This is Curtis,” he said. “He’ll be taking my route from now on.” “Hey David, nice to meet you,” said Curtis, turning around to look at David, whose eyes blinked wildly under his thick, designer glasses. “When’s your birthday?” inquired David, sternly. “My birthday…it was last month. July twelfth.” “Thursday. In twelve years your birthday will be on a Thursday,” David said with a look of accomplish-ment upon his face. “Is that so? Well I do hope that my girls’ll throw me one heck of a party,” said Curtis, chuckling. When they arrived back, it was nearly nine o’clock, and the center was bustling with life unlike before. Curtis and John escorted the three out of the van, and John led the group inside. They walked into the fa-miliar room with the tables and vibrant artwork, and

were warmly received by Bertha who ushered them to a table. John did not sit, but instead helped several other men distribute large boxes of batteries and plastic packaging to each table in the room. Packing the batteries into the plastic containers was their task for the morning. Lola, David, Anthony, and Curtis promptly got to work and spoke very little while doing so. The con-sumers at his table needed little help, so the four of them proceeded to place battery upon battery into the plastic containers for what seemed like hours to Cur-tis. He scanned the room, which felt vastly different once occupied, and took note of the other consumers. Many had mangled or disproportionate limbs. Some used walkers, wheelchairs, or wore braces on their legs. Remarkably, almost every face he encountered wore a smile. By noon the morning task had been completed, and Bertha announced that it was time for lunch. She dismissed each table individually, and the consum-ers were escorted in small groups to a hallway with forty or so mailbox sized cubbies. Each cubby was labeled with a consumer’s name, and held their lunch pail or bag. Lola, David, and Anthony returned to the table where Curtis was sitting with their lunches. He watched David and Anthony as they began to eat, and noticed that Lola appeared out of sorts. Rather than eating the lunch that had been packed for her, she looked down at her feet and rested her head in her hands. “Aren’t you hungry, Lola?” Lola didn’t respond and continued to stare at the floor sadly.

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“Let’s see what’s for lunch, huh?” Curtis said, carefully opening the brown bag in front of Lola, subsequently shocked by its contents. He removed three tiny pebbles, the sole contents of the bag, and placed them on the table in front of him. He looked at Anthony, who was eating a bologna sandwich and asked, “Why was Lola given pebbles for lunch?” Anthony’s expression shifted for the first time since Curtis had picked him up that day. His long, glassy eyes became teary, and he moved his arm to Lola’s shoulder. “She not make her bed,” said Anthony, who immediately began to tear his sandwich in half to share with Lola. Curtis was infuriated. He wanted to drive back to the group home and punch that frumpy bitch dead in the chest, which obviously harbored no sort of heart. At that moment, Curtis spotted John and called him over to the table. “How’s the first day treatin’ ya Curt?” “I can’t believe it John…that animal from the group home packed Lola three fucking rocks for lunch. Where does she get off!” John sighed knowingly and said, “It’s not the first time. That group home is under review, and has been in the past. She always tells the board that the kids toss out their sandwiches and replace them with rocks since they supposedly don’t know any better.” “Does Bertha know?” “Everyone knows. The group homes get money from the government to support the kids. It’s a business for a lot of those people. They pocket the money that they don’t spend. They’re crooks, they look for every way pos-sible to short the kids, and somehow always seem to get away with it…” John trailed off, and the two men looked at Lola. Frail, sickly even, she slowly nibbled on the half sandwich that Anthony had given her. When Lola noticed the two men looking in her direction, she stopped eating and motioned to John with her hands. John smiled. “No, thank you sweetie,” John said as he motioned to Lola, and then explained to Curtis, “She offered to share her sandwich with us.” Curtis’s eyes welled up and he was barely able to keep his composure. Lola had no true home, no fam-ily to speak of, and was willing to give up the little food that she was lucky to attain. In this very mo-ment, Curtis cast away any of his concerns regarding the little pay he earned, and decided he would work solely for the good of these extraordinary people, like Lola. As he continued his workday, Curtis realized that this selflessness was universal among the con-sumers and workers alike, and began to realize that he was part of something beautiful. After lunch Curtis took a group of consumers for a walk around the center. There was a small, wooded retention pond nearby that all of the consumers loved to explore, or so he was told by a man who worked at the front desk. Curtis and several others directed the group, that was bursting with energy, to the pond. There was a tiny hill that sloped downward right before the pond, and as Curtis approached it he felt a slight tug on his shirt. He shifted around to find a wide-eyed man of about thirty, lightly gripping the back of his shirt. His legs were severely disfigured, and his face was paralyzed on one side, for when he spoke, only the left half of his mouth moved and his right eye hung lazily below his furrowed brow. “Siiid,” he said. Extending his hand toward Sid, Curtis replied,

“Sid, I’m Curtis. What do you say we go check out this pond?” Sid gripped Curtis’s hand tightly and after a few seconds of chewing his tongue answered, “Okaey,” with a toothy grin upon his gentle face. A lonely mallard laced about the waters, thrust-ing water onto his feathers with his dazzling auburn wings. The consumers stood at the water’s edge, giggling and clapping as they witnessed the creature attempt to relieve itself from the fiery Arkansas heat. Sid tugged on Curtis’s hand and the two headed closer to the grassy area before the water. Curtis watched as Sid’s expression shifted from blissful, to elated, to perfectly content. His enormous sapphire blue eyes darted across the sparkling water. The dinky pond was beautiful in its own way, something Curtis surely would have overlooked had it not been for his unanticipated encounter. After a while, the group returned to the center and the day came to a close. Bertha commended Curtis for handling his first day as he did, noting the bonds he was able to make with the consumers. John ap-peared with Lola, David, and Anthony, and the three headed for the van. The ride back was quiet apart from the radio playing almost inaudibly in the background. Curtis had suspected that the three in the back had fallen asleep until he heard David bellow, “CREEDENCE CLEARWATER REVIVAL, FORTUNATE SON, 1969.” Curtis and John both erupted with laughter as John turned the volume up. “It ain’t me, it ain’t me; I ain’t no fortunate one,” sang the three, as Curtis thought of how that lyric couldn’t be further from the truth. Shortly thereafter, they arrived back at David’s castle of a house where they found his mother Char-

lotte waiting eagerly for his return. The next stop was one that Curtis had been dread-ing ever since the incident at lunch. Lola’s eyes met his as he turned to face the back seat, while Anthony made pigeon noises at a flock of birds congregated atop a power line. John pulled the van into the driveway of the familiar shack where the children took refuge, and the hair on the back of Curtis’s neck stood erect. This is it, he thought. He exited the passenger side of the van and opened the side door, extending his arm for Lola’s reach. She stepped out carefully and immediately latched onto Curtis’s waist. He knelt down to hug the little girl, and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Lola,” doing his best to keep a smile on his face. Lola must have understood, because her face lit up and she let out a slight giggle. Curtis took her by the hand and caught up with John and Anthony who had been waiting on the doorstep. The frumpy woman opened the door, motioned the kids inside, and hurriedly slammed it shut. When Curtis arrived at home that night his young-est daughter was sitting at the dining room table, working on homework. He rushed over to her and kissed her on the forehead. “Want to go for a ride, Trace?” “Sure, Daddy.” They drove ten minutes to the Junction Bridge that overlooked the Arkansas River. Curtis and his daughter walked along the bridge, and once they had reached the other side, headed down toward the riverbank. They took off their shoes and dipped their toes into the river, just as they had done many times before, but on this particular night, the river seemed exceptionally beautiful.

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S S18 Stepping Stones | May 2009

art by Stephanie McK

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BillyBy Nina Turner

The only memories I have are sweetNot bitter, not sad,

Not miserable, not resentful,Of us in all that we wereInnocent and hopeful

Outside of ourselves, intertwined

We planted fields together,Named clouds,

Laid on deserted islands and flew out of treesLike it was our birthright to find each other.

We were the greatest--The kings and queens of the street,

And always passed the time until sunset

The report was not looking too goodMy heart was splattered all over the front page

There was a dark cloud He could not erase

A thirty-percent chance of rainNo one knew it would flood

The voices get tiringThe silence is excruciating

The pain won’t stop amplifyingThe storm will not move on

Where do I go,Now that you are gone?

There is no method to the madness that occurredTime deceives me

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