Ophelia Street: America's Favourite Online Literary & Arts Journal

Bathroom Graffiti

Ophelia Street — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 22:41:00 +0000

Image courtesy of Nak You Out's Bathroom Graffiti-centered contest series, Party Pooper. Click the graffiti for the latest chance to win.

Find more great bathroom graffiti at Future Tenant, where Pittsburgh artist Darrell Kinsel collaborates with Ophelia Street. Stop by Saturday (Dec. 3) for One Night Only, the most recent incarnation of Future Tenant’s Open Mic & Easel, an especially diverse open-mic night with performances spanning across all artistic disciplines, including (but not limited to) theatrical events, musical numbers, and live painting. Fun starts at 8 p.m.; enjoy the talent for only $5.
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Bathroom Graffiti

Ophelia Street — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 14:24:26 +0000

Bathroomf Graffiti via Korea

Find more great bathroom graffiti at Future Tenant, where Pittsburgh artist Darrell Kinsel collaborates with Ophelia Street.
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Tagged: Jessica McNally

Worth The Sin

Ophelia Street — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 16:34:42 +0000

The moment I walked past my seat on the aisle I knew I was about to commit my first sin since my fake confession with Master Harvey. I had fabricated humdrum misdemeanors for this practice session: nothing that would incur the wrath of the headmaster. He made a formidable and unforgiving priest. I thought of the bamboo canes with which he doled out punishment in the classroom, and humbly played the part of the seven year old taking her religious coming of age seriously. Yet when I stepped out of the black cell and blinked in the dimly lit chapel, some force of mischief took over me.
The heavy mahogany door nudged closed behind me. Ahead of me and to my left were my five classmates, their contrite heads bowed, their mouths moving soundlessly in earnest prayer. Beyond the tangled brown hair of my best friend Eileen, the altar glittered and beckoned. I’d sat in mass so many times wondering how it would feel to tread the crimson carpet; clink the lid of the gold chalice and swirl the communion wine; stand at the marble pulpit to solemnly read from the gilt-edged book; swish my robes with lavish arm gestures. Master Harvey was safely encased in the confessional, a thick wall of wood between us. Here at last was my chance.
The soft click of patent leather shoes on the tiled floor quickened as my heartbeat did. By the time I reached Eileen, I’d reached my decision, and her gasp as I walked on past the front pew only served to encourage me. I broke into a run and leaped the step to the red platform, where I assumed the role of an energetic priest to my half-amused, half-horrified congregation of Primary Threes. I moved fast around the stage, brushing my hand on the cool marble of the altar as I lapped it, stopping to feel the girth of a candle holder as long as my arm and to trace the etched design on the dazzling tabernacle door. I darted to the pulpit and felt a delicious thrill as I flicked the pages of the New Testament.

Any sense of caution I’d held on to was now abandoned. Standing on tip-toes I could just about see the pale faces of my classmates and, not registering their concern, I reached for the microphone high above my right hand.

Why not get started on penance? “Our Father, who art in heaven,” I began, trying out a priestly baritone whilst unsuccessfully repressing the urge to giggle. The next line of the Lord’s Prayer stopped right at the back of my throat at Master Harvey’s bellow from the shadows. I’ve no idea what he said, but I understood the sentiment completely. The game was up.

My fall from Father to bold-girl-caught-red-handed was instant. I shuffled, mortified, to the back of the chapel and the fate that awaited me. I dared not look at the quivering mass of fury that was the headmaster. I stood beneath his bulk, studying the scuff-marks on my shoes. I sensed the retreat of my classmates in the shuffle of coats and made a move to join them. ‘Stop!’ barked the Master. “Have you forgotten you’re in the Lord’s house? Show some respect!”

His gigantic frame, in silhouette, blocked my path to the bright outside. I could detect his chin wobbling in anticipation of a further outrage. Trapped, the appropriate response, the key to my immediate survival, eluded me, until finally, at the point at which I thought I would die right there in the chapel, I saw Stephen genuflecting out of the corner of my eye. I almost tripped over myself in my haste to follow suit, and when I turned to the doorway was relieved to see the teacher’s great grey back pointed at me as he headed for the water font.

The whistle of a flexing bamboo cane filled my ears in the silence of the car journey back to school. Capable of reducing even the toughest boys in the school to tears, it’s viciousness in the Master’s hands was legendary. I wondered which would be worse: the biting sting of “six-of-the-best” or the shame of confessing my terrible sin to Canon Ward the following Saturday.

In the end, the bamboo stayed locked in the store cupboard. I got three exacting raps with the meter ruler in front of the entire school, siblings and all. Standing red-faced and red-handed, hot tears blurring my eyes, it dawned on me that the real dread was yet to come. I would have to tell my parents.

* * *

“Wait to you hear what Maeve did today!” crowed Susan. Dad stirred from his newspaper and pressed his fingers together in anticipation, whilst mum distractedly hovered at the sitting room door, keeping an eye on the cooker. Out came the tale, details spilled from my sisters like twin-track dominoes, converging at last into one incriminating flow of meaning. I looked up to meet Dad’s questioning stare, managed a quick nod, and examined the shoes again whilst praying for divine intervention.
I’m not sure which of them laughed first, but the sound to me was the drenching of the fires of hell. I smiled knowing that I’d skipped for a few fleeting moments in the shoes of a priest, and that it was nothing a few “Our Fathers” and “Hail Marys” couldn’t fix.

— Maeve Rafferty

Tagged: Maeve Rafferty

Potty Poetry

Ophelia Street — Sun, 16 Oct 2011 17:53:54 +0000

Tagged: Darrell Kinsel, Future Tenant

Bathroom Graffiti

Ophelia Street — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 15:27:32 +0000

Every good bathroom should have a door for #2.

Find more great bathroom graffiti starting Oct. 16 at Future Tenant, where Pittsburgh artist Darrell Kinsel collaborates with Ophelia Street.
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Tagged: Future Tenant, Potty Poetry

Bathroom Graffiti

Ophelia Street — Mon, 03 Oct 2011 17:06:54 +0000

Find more great bathroom graffiti starting Oct. 16 at Future Tenant, where Pittsburgh artist Darrell Kinsel collaborates with Ophelia Street.
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Tagged: Darrell Kinsel

Sports Towel Woman

Ophelia Street — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 12:43:23 +0000

(for Nankyung)

Friend gave me a towel,
maroon, embossed with
her university’s tiger logo,
made in Korea, as was she.
Buzzed on beer and Scotch,
I attempt to find meaning
in the accompanying specs:
Innovative microfiber,
extreme softness, no irritation,
no need to rub, just touch your skin.
The male chauvinist in me
thinks that’d be the ideal mate,
soft and non-irritating.
The poet in me knows better.
A docile woman
would be without life, spirit, joy,
in a word, boring.

— Paul Hellweg

Tagged: Paul Hellweg

Ribbons of Color

Ophelia Street — Tue, 02 Aug 2011 13:56:14 +0000

Most often on Monday nights
I would hear my mother wake,
her floor that was my ceiling
going brassy with its rusted nail harmonica
as she traipsed
the width of the room
the length of the room
the length of the space
going to lengths
going to the closet to the closet
where she kept her corsets
where she draped her corsets according to color
light-to-bright-to-dark
to dark
like shellacked iron lungs
or satin vest bombs.
After the front door closed,
I’d climb the steps to see which one she’d picked,
to smell the shroud of perfume
clinging to the air like sweet and certain death,
like a needy, lonesome toddler
throwing a tantrum.

— Len Kuntz

Tagged: Len Kuntz

Mission: Iced Coffee

Ophelia Street — Mon, 18 Jul 2011 11:51:55 +0000

It is the third day of summer. It is early afternoon. As I gather myself together in the minutes before leaving for work, I decide an iced coffee would be ideal. The Dunkin’ Donuts is around the corner from my apartment should be the easiest option. It isn’t a peak hour for donuts or coffee. I park in the lot off of Shady, between Forbes Avenue and Marlborough Road. The clock on the dashboard reads 1:26 as I turn off the car. As long as I allow myself half an hour to get to work and avoid any roads likely to be closed by the possibility of a presidential motorcade, I will be on time. I head in through the back door and weave down the hallway past bathrooms and supply closets. There is almost nobody in the main donut sanctuary.
The mission is on: large iced coffee, cream, no sugar. Target time: three minutes.
Standing right at the precipice of what has the potential to be a line at the counter, a short, fat woman with tight dark curls is staring at a series of cards and coupons in her hands. A tall, disheveled man with thick glasses and gray hair underneath a baseball cap stands over to her and silently watches her deliberation. She mumbles something to him. It is not entirely clear how close they are to stepping up and making a decision.
Together, they take up enough space that getting around them and to the counter while still abiding by the established rope line doesn’t seem plausible. The man has closed off the right side, leaving about six inches between his back and a tall beverage cooler. The woman, with her girth and indecisiveness, has completely sealed the left edge. They clearly have no intention of moving. These two have hedged their bets beautifully.
Mission: Iced Coffee has hit a snag.
I pause momentarily to reevaluate. I could walk around to the exit side of the line, but doing so would take several seconds, and would make clear my intentions to jump ahead of them. Then, if they reach an order consensus while I’m circumnavigating the donut sanctuary, I will simply be that asshole who tried to ignore line etiquette. Running to the other side would likely arouse equal suspicion. I could tap one of them on the shoulder, mumble “excuse me,” and try to duck my head and slip through between them without making eye contact. I even briefly consider loudly exclaiming “Excuse me!” and inquiring as to whether or not they are in line. But these two? No, these two are cunning, and that would merely give them an opportunity to defend their claim to the front of any current or future line that may or may not exist. Besides, there is simply no way in hell I am going to willingly take an action that might result in my having to converse with these people.
So I stand. And I wait.
I reexamine the right flank, then the left. No change. Ten seconds have elapsed, and the couple still does not seem to have any clue that I am standing right behind them. Five more seconds go by. Just as I am reconsidering making a dash around to the other side of the line, the woman looks up and notices me standing behind her. She places her hand on the man’s back and hurries him to the counter.
I settle in behind them, content with the knowledge that now, we have a line. And it has nowhere to go but forward. Their order is simple: two tuna salad croissants. One medium iced coffee. One large iced latte with whipped cream and caramel and unicorns. One French cruller. Only that’s not how it plays out.
The woman orders the two croissants. The attendant behind the counter — a sort of donut ambassador — loses her almost immediately, incorrectly keying the croissant specifics on the register. They try again. And again. Once more. The woman hands the donut ambassador a receipt from a previous purchase, declaring she wishes to have this exact order replicated. Then, she presents a coupon. On the fourth try, they knock out the croissants, and move on to the drinks, which take only two tries. The woman produces a punch card and another coupon. Then, the French cruller. Another coupon. A second punch card rounds out the volley. The donut ambassador, an ebullient young black woman of cheerful demeanor, seems overwhelmed.
Once all five items are safely and correctly entered into the register, the donut ambassador informs the woman that she is really only allowed to use one coupon order. The woman gives the ambassador a quizzical look and says she does not understand. The ambassador explains the fundamental limits of coupon usage that many of us take for granted as established general knowledge — something you might learn during the same stage of life in which you start to prepare your own dinners. Mission: Iced Coffee is at a standstill.
The ambassador says that she will allow the woman to use all the coupons now, but will not be able to in the future, especially because the store has a new manager — a lady who is extremely particular about this sort of thing. The woman accepts this, and the ambassador disappears into the kitchen to prepare two tuna salad croissants.
A large mustached man in an un-tucked blue dress shirt pokes his head out from behind the wall of donuts. He mills about behind the counter, counting things. The woman stops him. She asks if he is the manager. He is. She asks if he is leaving, and he does not quite know what to make of her. She explains that she heard there is a new manager — a woman who is very picky about accepting multiple coupons on singular orders.
The manager’s look softens. He explains that he recently brought in a new assistant manager; that his previous assistant manager “wasn’t a good fit for this location,” and was transferred to another store. My mind immediately begins forming a list of qualities, actions and behaviors that might make a particular person not a good fit for the Squirrel Hill Dunkin’ Donuts. The list consists almost exclusively of Holocaust jokes, and reaches five items before I simply try to figure out which Holocaust joke it was, exactly, that necessitated the transfer.
An older man takes up residence behind me in the line.
“The girl we brought in is going to be great,” the manager says, clearly thrilled that someone has taken an interest in the mundane arena of Dunkin’ Donuts personnel movement. “She’s from Squirrel Hill, so she really knows the area.”
Being a native of the area does not strike me as something that might be necessary, or even helpful in the business of selling donuts. I briefly consider fully aborting Mission: Iced Coffee.
The older man behind me in line is fidgeting.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” the woman asks the manager. He says he isn’t. “Good,” she says. You’re a good manager.”
“Well, thank you!” he says. His face reddens a bit, and he smiles. Only then, it appears, is he aware of the two gentlemen in the queue, waiting for between three and 90 minutes.
The manager tells the woman that when the croissants and coffees are ready that he will bring them out. She thanks him and smiles, and then inquires about the donut. He grabs a piece of bakery tissue and uses it to reach for a French cruller, which he puts in a single donut-sized bag and places in front of her on the counter. The tall man beside her remains completely expressionless. She thanks him again. Transaction complete.
And then, nothing happens.
The round, dark-haired woman and the tall, disheveled man continue to stand at the counter and wait for their order. The manager looks at the line, now growing. He again tells the couple that when their order is ready, he will bring it out to them, and gently motions that in the meantime, the couple should exit stage left. So subtle is the gesture that the woman does not pick it up.
My neck goes limp and my head falls to my chest. I might let out an audible sigh. I can hear the older man behind me rolling his eyes. I momentarily check out of the proceedings, shocked at the resounding failure of Mission: Iced Coffee. An undetermined amount of time passes before the manager looks to me and asks for my order, snapping me back into consciousness.
“LARGEICEDCOFFEECREAMNOSUGAR,” I say.
I place four dollars on the counter, receive my change, and step quickly off to the side. It is done. I scamper out the back door, get in my car, put down my coffee and put the key in the ignition. The car starts, and the first thing I do is glance at the clock on the dash. It reads 1:40. I roll my eyes and mutter to myself: “Dammit, Pittsburgh.”
And though it took less than a minute for my coffee to arrive—which it did ahead of any tuna salad croissants or caramel iced lattes — I can’t help thinking how much quicker it would have been in my hands if Dunkin’ Donuts trusted me to add milk to my own coffee. This is something I’ve long wondered about Dunkin’ Donuts’ modus operendi. But realizing how long it took me simply to order the coffee given the circumstances, I think I understand.
I wouldn’t want that woman adding milk to her own coffee, either.
— Matt Wein

Tagged: Matt Wein

Molestation in 4 Parts

Ophelia Street — Wed, 06 Jul 2011 14:32:08 +0000

I.
Kitchen

Holding an ice cube above the sink I drilled and drilled with a steak knife into whiteness. I could not distinguish heat from cold as a child. (My uncle died a Nazi in the fields around Stalingrad. Imagine his rifle frozen, that last bit of Russian bread giving him the shits.) The steak knife a survivor, one of the set snapping in a block of cheese — fart jokes aside — and the next day I broke a pot by shaking water from its belly. I am starting to doubt modern capitalism even more these days. I am starting to shake water from my belly like a dog quivering from tail to head.

II.
Library

I read an illustrated Ginsberg book of songs denouncing the USSR and USA. The whimsical nature of the rhyme scheme struck me as inappropriate for such subject matter.

III.
Window

Later, it snowed and snowed and covered the street with crystals, reflecting the orange streetlights through my window. In order to achieve a sense of unity — thank Poe — I ate squash soup for dinner and looked at the light
bulb till I could feel orange through and through.

IV.
Kitchen

By 1:30 am, I had given myself multiple hickeys on my bicep. The darker dots within the pink is a night sky but this does not override the fact that it’s a bruise sucked from the depths of skin.

— Liam Swanson

Tagged: Liam Swanson