By Claire Graft

The year was 1984. Ronald Reagan was president. David Bowie was singing about modern love, and Steve Groft was worried. All he had between him and the BWI airport was a fearsome snow-covered hill. He was in his `67 Ford Mustang with his sister, whom he had dragged along. There’s no way, he thought. He was cold and nervous, and when he realized his car would not make it up the incline, he looked at Pam. They were both thinking the same thing, except for one tiny little detail.

His little sister got out of the car to push. Steve remained sitting behind the steering wheel. He had the windows down, snow pelting his face from all angles. In the rearview mirror he could faintly make out an outline of his sister, leaning against the car and pushing it with all her might. Under different circumstances, he might have laughed. Instead, he said, “You ready? Okay. Go! Go!”

Pam channeled her annoyance with her brother into the car. Push, push, push, she thought, go go go!

Slowly the car started moving. He felt a rush of excitement, the thrill at the possibility of seeing his best friend one more time before her trip. With his foot on the pedal, he urged his sister to keep pushing. “C’mon!” he said. “We’re almost there!”

Meanwhile, on an airplane, snug in her warm seat, Cathy McGuire had no worries on her mind. In a few hours she would be in sunny California, dividing her time between work and Tom, her ex-fiancé. She was feeling a little impatient, since the plane hadn’t left the airport when it was supposed to, but she much preferred waiting than flying in a scary blizzard. She was allowed to leave the plane and go back to the terminal to wait it out, but Cathy remained where she was. She was comfortable.

Then on the loudspeaker she heard an announcement.

“Cathy McGuire, you have a visitor at the terminal. Cathy McGuire, please report to the terminal.”

That’s me, she thought. Who on earth wants to see me? So she did what any single woman traveling by herself would do: she stayed put. Another announcement came and went; she ignored it.

She thought she looked sloppy. That’s the real reason she didn’t want to leave the plane. No makeup on, her perm had started to lose its youthful bounce, and she had an ugly pimple on her cheek. She was wearing her “cool boots,” but one was tied over her baggy jeans, and the other was not. In fact, the other one wasn’t even tied properly. She was certainly not in the mood to be seen by anyone she knew.

An airline attendant walked to her seat. “Are you Cathy McGuire?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Okay, you have two people waiting for you at the terminal. Please come with me.”

So she followed the attendant through the concourse and into the terminal, where she immediately recognized Steve and Pam Groft, whose frosted faces burst into wide smiles. She was delighted.

“Hi, KiKi!” he said. It was a nickname given to her from their friend James, who had also bestowed nicknames to the rest of their college group, including Steve. “We didn’t think we were gonna make it! These are for you. In case you get bored.” In his hands were a Rolling Stone magazine with Chevy Chase on its cover, and a pair of googly eyeglasses. Written on the magazine were the words: “Seat 27K. Kiki, Have fun in California. Tried to see you. Oh well. Love, Bif.”

“I can’t believe you guys are actually here!” she said. “Thank you so much!” She hugged both of them, feeling very grateful she hadn’t rebuffed the attendant.

With Cathy off to California – for a work conference, even though he believed she was only going to see Tom – both were nervous about what would happen when she returned. During her trip, all she could think about was him. All he could think about was her.

The next time they saw each other was a month later, at a graduation reunion party. It was here that they finally had their first kiss.

They didn’t now it at the time, but that fateful trip to the airport would change everything. Thirty years later, they still talk about it. “Poor Pam,” everyone usually says.

By Abby Feiner

“Oh, shit. This isn’t good,” says Ben as he watches two women get their hands stamped at the entrance of the bar. His friend Austin sucks air between his teeth and cringes before ordering shots of Fireball whisky for Ben and himself.

One of the women watches this interaction and smiles. Her eyes light up with vengeance.

“Want to go over?” she asks her friend, beginning to walk before she receives an answer.

“Em, hang on,” says her friend, Laura.

“No, this will be fun,” says Emily.

They walk over to Ben and Austin, who quickly realize that their original plan of pretending not to see their ex-girlfriends was not going to work.

“Hey,” says Emily. “Want to take a shot?”

The two men look at each other and both nod, but neither says a word. Laura stands there with her jaw slightly open as she begins to twirl her sand-colored hair around her index finger. A few strands get caught in her ring and her cheeks turn pink as she tries to remove them quickly.

The bartender puts four shots of Fireball on the bar, which is already soaked with a variety of spilled three-dollar beers and two-dollar shots. The four look at each other and take the shots before staring at each other in silence. Laura, who by this point has gone through all three of her nervous ticks, playing with her hair, folding her arms across her stomach and biting her nails, excuses herself to go to the bathroom, where the line of women waiting guarantees her at least fifteen minutes away from this situation. She looks at Emily, waiting for her to join, but she doesn’t.

Instead, Emily turns back to Ben and Austin. “I haven’t seen you two in a while,” she says.

“We’ve been hanging at the house a lot,” says Ben.

“Oh, I’ve heard,” she says.

“What? Heard what?” he asks.

“So when we were dating and you said she was your study friend, were you fucking her then too?” Emily asks as if she already knows the answer.

“First of all, no, I wasn’t. Second of all, I’m not doing this right now. It was good to see you. Have a good night.”

As he tries to walk away, Emily grabs his shirt. “You owe me this much. You owe me the truth,” she screams. Austin puts his hand on her shoulder and she quickly hits it away. Ben puts his hands in the pockets of his salmon-colored shorts and looks down at his Sperry Top-Sider shoes that are stained and sticky from his month of celebrating turning 21 by going to the bars every Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday night. He doesn’t go in between classes like some of his friends do, though.

“We can talk tomorrow, okay? You’re drunk and this just isn’t the right time,” he says.

“Why? You don’t want her to see us talking, right?” Emily’s voice is now loud enough that the people surrounding the bar turn to listen.

“You’re acting like a psycho,” he says in a whisper. He has noticed the crowd eavesdropping.

Emily’s eyes, which have been rimmed with eyeliner, coated with bronze eye shadow, and defined with three coats of mascara, widen as they fill with tears. She digs her left heel into the ground and looks at Austin.

Without a word, she walks away. This is the first time she has seen her ex boyfriend since they broke up three weeks ago, after 17 months of dating. He had done it over the phone because she had refused to see him that night. She knew it was coming and thought that if she avoided him long enough, he would change his mind. She now uses the fact that he didn’t break up with her in person as another reason to say she hates him.

“Well, that could’ve gone better,” says Ben.

Austin forces a laugh and they take another shot. Ben looks over at the corner where Emily has retreated to, now surrounded by girls slurring their words and spilling their drinks. He doesn’t have to be within earshot to know what they’re saying. He accepts their dirty looks. He knows that the second he and Emily are on good terms again, her army of roommates, sorority sisters and classmates will smile at him as if the past three weeks never happened. He doesn’t want to get back together with Emily, but they can be friends soon, right?

He looks over at Nina, whom he slept with last week. He waves and turns back to Austin. He doesn’t regret having sex with her because it was what he wanted at the time, but he does regret getting himself into an uncomfortable situation with his ex girlfriend and one of his good girl friends. He knows he’ll be seeing both of them every night at the bar and when he tells Austin that, his friend laughs. “It can’t get worse than tonight, right?” Austin asks. Ben looks at Emily, who now has all three coats of mascara running down her cheeks. He shakes his head and puts his hat on and walks out without a word.

By Chris Conaway

The following is an interview with Jeff Mitchell, the owner and head teacher at Elite Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu in Newark, Delaware.  The interview was conducted a few weeks after the fight took place.

“Chris was not ready for this fight” says Jeff.  “The last two years have proved promising for him in the Jiu-Jitsu world.  His submission skills are highly impressive and continue to grow rapidly.  He won a handful of highly recognized submission tournaments (including a Grapplers Quest World Championship) that boosted his confidence a little too much I think.  He wanted to try out full combat in the cage, and against my advisement, scheduled the fight.  Don’t get me wrong, the kid can stand up and throw, but I didn’t think his striking was ready for a test like this, let alone for a belt.  But Chris is family, and that’s what it comes down to.  He’s stood by me ever since I met him and done wonders for my name, and the name of my school, so I stood by him for the fight.  The win surprised me, but the manner in which it came did not.  Chris’s only hope in this fight was to beat his opponent’s striking and relentlessness with Jiu-Jitsu.  I can’t tell you how proud I am to have someone so dedicated and driven to spend my time with.  He makes teaching fun.”

…

It is September 27, 2014.  The sun fades from view and the temperature drops as night falls on the outskirts of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.  Tonight, the North American Grappling Association (NAGA) is presenting an evening of war in the form of cage-fighting.  Among the three championship fights, I will make my debut against 26 year old Jake Taylor, a former West Virginia University boxer turned mixed martial arts fighter.  Taylor is no stranger to the cage.  Through a combination of fine-tuned striking, endless conditioning and a relentless tempo, he has earned five victories, three by way of knockout.  A formidable opponent to say the least.

Deep within the Locked In The Cage arena, I stand fidgeting in the dimly lit tunnel with Jeff, as always, close by my side.  I am anxious and increasingly impatient.  Just as the wait becomes too much, it is seven o’clock, time to fight.  My opponent enters the arena first, strutting to the beat of a hip-hop track.  Eminem I think.  The tunnel walls do nothing to muffle the thunderous cheers for the reigning champion.  It is extremely intimidating.

“You’ve got this” I keep repeating, as if trying to convince myself.  Jeff is a constant voice in my ear as well, reminding me of our game plan.  “This guy has an impressive striking background, I don’t want you standing with him” he tells me.  “Wait for your opportunity, then take him down and finish the fight on the ground.  You can submit this guy.”

A man in a suit calls out to me, “It’s time Mr. Conaway.”

I emerge from the tunnel with “Enter Sandman” by Metallica blasting through the arena’s speakers.  The crowd erupts.  All of my pre-fight jitters momentarily disappear and I become numb.  Testosterone surges as I step proudly through the parted sea of spectators.  I turn my gaze to my opponent who is pacing back and forth, staring me down as I cross through the cage’s threshold.  I stare right back.  Like a duck on a pond, I wear no signs of fear, but beneath I’m paddling hard.  The door slams shut behind me.  There is no turning back.

The referee summons us to the cage’s center.  As he reviews the rules, my focus is stolen by the freakishly shredded-up man who is poised inches from me.  I study him, desperately searching for a weakness.  No luck.  His skin is an impenetrable armor that encompasses the unstoppable power that he will soon release upon me.  It dawns on me that this man holds the title for a reason.  “Take him down, take him down, take him down” I repeat as I make my way back to the corner.  I turn to find the referee’s eyes upon me.  “Are you ready?!!” he yells.  I answer with a nod, and he shouts, “Fight!”

My opponent charges.  He lashes out with a perfect balance of punches and kicks.  The speed and power behind the strikes is almost overwhelming.  I dodge one, two, BOOM! The third strike is a kick from hell that smashes into my cheek, leaving me in a daze.  I am rocked, desperately covering up to survive.  So much for a game plan.  Mike Tyson once said, “Everyone has a plan until they get hit in the face.”  This is a serious testament to that statement.  By the grace of God I regain my senses just as my opponent slams me to the canvas with a perfect double leg takedown.  But this is a foolish move.  He should have kept the fight standing, but instead he is on top of me, feeling a false sense of control as his punches rain down searching for their mark.  My legs lock around his waist like a steel belt.  His movements become increasingly restricted as my arms snake around his upper body, and finally incapacitate him.  Although I am on my back, the ground is my home, and from here, I am dangerous.  As my confidence surges back, I begin to go to work.  I isolate his right arm by over-hooking it with my left, while stealthily inching my right leg up his back.  The table is set, and I make my move.  I slip my leg over my opponent’s left arm with lightening speed, catching his head and other arm in a leg triangle.  I lock my legs together and send a barrage of elbows to his face that sink him deeper and deeper into the trap, cutting off the blood-flow to his brain in the process.

“You have it! Finish it, FINISH IT!” Jeff screams from just outside the cage.  My legs are two anacondas that constrict tighter and tighter around their prey as I pull down on his head to lock in the submission.  Just before the referee calls the fight and rips me off of him, I can feel my opponent’s body go limp.  He is out cold.

I did it.  As my hand is raised, an indescribable feeling starts to set in. Jeff bursts into the cage, and reaches me just before the belt is strapped around my waist.  With a beaming smile from ear to ear, he hoists me into the air.  As I stare out into the arena, I am blinded by flashing cameras, and the roar of the crowd deafens me.  I close my eyes and take in all that this moment has to offer.  My head is filled with all sorts of emotion and disbelief, but one thing is clear: I am a champion.

By Jamie Moelis

With just over eight minutes remaining in the second period, Assistant Coach Ken Deming motioned over the referee and signaled a time out.

The short, overweight referee blew his whistle at center ice, and the Delaware Blue Hens and the University of Pennsylvania Quakers scattered to their respective benches, both a little confused.

“Listen ladies,” Coach Deming said. “We’ve been on the other side of the spectrum, and it sucks. Let’s not be that team who runs up the score. From now on, you can only score if your name is Jenn. If anyone else even attempts to shoot at the Penn goalie, you will be benched for the remainder of the game.”

The ref again blew his whistle, waving for both teams to assemble back at the center ice face-off circle, where 2 large navy and red letter P’s were painted.

“Jenn, hop out their with Katie’s line,” said Coach Deming.

Jenn, Katie, Olivia, Liz, and Sarah, otherwise known as the green line, jumped over the boards and skated to the center ice-circle.

“I really hope Jenn can play on our line next shift,” said Sophomore Danielle Marten. “I want her to net one so badly!”

The entire Blue Hen bench was rooting for Jenn, along with the 50 other Delaware fans in the Class of 1923 Arena.

Jenn slowly wobbled to the right side of the face-off circle and got ready for the draw. She didn’t think she’d get any playing this game and was very nervous that she would do something wrong.

The plan of attack was for Center Katie Smith to win back the face-off, skate the puck up into the Quaker zone, and then set Jenn up with a perfect pass as she posts up in front of the Quaker goaltender. If all went according to plan all number 16 in yellow would have to do is guide the black biscuit into the net with her worn-out chipped and rusted Nike Bauer composite stick.

The referee bent down, dropped the puck, and scooted out of the way. Katie won the face-off cleanly back to Liz on defense and Liz skated the puck up, deked around one of the Quaker defensemen, and looked in front of the net to pass to Jenn. But number 16 was face down on the ice. One of the Quaker girls had illegally crosschecked her. Thankfully she barely felt the hit since she’s covered with layers of equipment.

“Hey! Where’s the penalty on that one?” asked Coach Ken.

The whistle blew as soon number 19 on white, the perpetrator, touched the puck. The Hens were on the power play.

“Hey Jenn, stay out there,” said Coach Ken.

Coach Deming said he wanted the same five girls to remain on the ice for the power play.

“Jenn skate to the net and look for my pass,” said Katie.

The ref blew his whistle, dropped the puck, and again Katie won the face-off cleanly back to Liz. Liz looked around, saw an open lane, and passed it to Freshman Olivia Tarca who was down in the left corner. Olivia, an exceptional skater, pranced around 2 Quaker girls and passed the puck directly to Jenn’s stick where she was wide open in front of the net.

“Shoot Jenn, shoot!” said Coach Ken.

The entire Hens bench jumped up, thinking Jenn had scored her first ever goal in her first ever hockey game.

“She’s got this, she’s got this!” said Daniele.

The team, the fans, and Jenn’s parents were all cheering. Jenn spontaneously decided to switch over from competitive figure skating to hockey this year and was doubtful she would even make the squad. With a team like the University of Pennsylvania, Captain Sarah Berkley knew it was a great game for an inexperienced player like Jenn to get some ice time and hopefully score a goal.

Ding.

The puck rang right off the left post and the Quakers dumped the puck out of the zone.

Jenn, smiling and laughing, skated back to the bench.

“Tomorrow you’re shooting 150 pucks,” said Coach Ken. “I would have kept you out there the whole time, but I figured you may need a second or two to breathe.”

Jenn didn’t even know Olivia’s pass was coming to her. She was just standing in front of the net and happened to have her stick out in the right spot. She was a little disappointed in herself that she hit the post though.

“Sorry coach!” said Jenn.

The buzzer sounded and the scoreboard read 8 Delaware, 1 Pennsylvania. The Hens headed into their locker room, and the coaches awarded the game hat to the player of the game, Jenn Bruskin.

Sporting her new pink, glittery hat Jenn felt special and honored to be so warmly welcomed and accepted on her new team.

By Serena Grant

Kevin Corcoran’s life is Pat’s Pizza. He has been working there as a manager for over fifteen years. He’s seen every kind of customer: rude ones, picky ones, aggressive ones. Nothing at the store fazes him anymore. Even during the busiest times of day he strolls around without urgency.

Compared to his large body, Kevin’s head is tiny. Every day he wears a baby blue button-down shirt to work. The cashiers have a fruit for every color he wears outside of work: when he wears orange he’s a pumpkin, when green he’s a green apple. In his trademark shirt they agree he looks like the Pillsbury Doughboy. His hair is so light that he appears to be bald at first glance. On his left arm is a grapefruit-sized bruise, which he got from playing softball. He gets his little kick out of telling people it’s a hickey.

He loves immature jokes. When he’s bored, he’ll kick the back of your knees, point in random directions and snicker at people who look, and make farting noises. It’s like you’re back in middle school and Kevin is that kid who can’t control himself. He is 40 years old.

During work hours he doesn’t seem to take his job seriously, but when called into question Kevin is quick to get defensive about the store.

“Do you remember a couple years back when the economy took a dump?” he asked Amanda, a waitress who’s been at Pat’s for five years. She nodded robotically.

“Food costs went up, gas prices were up,” he said. Because of this, the other parts of the chain started using lower quality food. But not ours! There was a split between the current owner of our local Pat’s restaurant and the rest of the chain. We use fresher ingredients. We don’t use the same cheap crap other stores use. He gave a passionate defense about the store that seemed almost too serious to be coming from Kevin.

Amanda quickly changed the topic.

“I don’t get why he cares so much,” she said later, after Kevin had left. “I mean, I know he works here all the time and stuff, but seriously: it’s just food.”

Kevin invited some of his employees to eat at Denny’s with him after work. It was about one a.m. on a Saturday night. Amanda and I showed up first.

“He’s a green apple today,” Amanda whispered when he arrived.

Kevin reclined in the booth with his back against the wall and his feet on the seat next to him. He looked into the kitchen, pointed out a young man carrying big trays of dishes, and said he would hire him.

Without even talking to him?

“I don’t have to,” Kevin said. “He’s working. That’s good enough for me.”

Only two other people came to eat with us. Kevin shrugged, saying he expected a low turn-out. It was midnight after all. The driver Hany had brought Alejandro, one of the cooks, with him. Kevin enjoyed getting Hany to dance for our neighbors.

During dinner Hany’s phone, which was lying on the table, rang. He waved his hand in dismissal. He explained that it was an elderly lady he had delivered pizza to. On one occasion, he drove her to Wal-Mart at her request; she’s been calling him for other favors ever since.

“She is crazy,” he said with sweeping arms. “She do, uh…drug! Drugs, like heroin,” and he punctured his arm with an invisible needle.

Kevin is very interested in Hany. They’ve worked together for nine years, but because of the language barrier they don’t know each other very well. Kevin has never lived anywhere besides his hometown, and expressed fear in living in another country. He was interested in the citizenship test Hany took years ago, and laughed about how he could never pass it, despite being a citizen.

After getting our food, “Nina” called again, and this time Kevin swiped up the phone. He hesitated a bit, looking for our reactions: Hany just laughed and urged him to answer.

“Hello?” He started. “Oh, no this is Kevin, I think you have the wrong number…Sorry. So, what are you doing right now? …Watching TV? Is that so?…What are you wearing?”

He quickly hung up. “I think she may have heard you laughing, Hany,” Kevin said, giving the phone back to him.

As we were leaving, Amanda asked Kevin: “Did you ever grow up?”

He said, “Nah. I mean, what’s even the point? It sucks being a grown-up.”

By Lisa Tetrault

John James Hoder had a prominent Roman (actually Polish) nose. His blue eyes peered through wire-framed glasses. He often pursed his lips skeptically, but smiled just as easily. Just below average height, John walked with a slight limp. His knee never recovered from a hiking injury a decade ago. Perhaps as a consequence of this injury, John had gotten fat. His belly jiggled as he moved; it’s no wonder he played Santa during family Christmases.

He liked his coffee home-brewed from Dunkin’ Donuts beans, strong and sweetened with organic Stevia. He swore off sugar after seeing the poor condition of a Domino’s factory in New Orleans. He once drank up to twelve cups daily, but cut back significantly when he developed an ulcer.

After working as a primary school teacher in Avon, NY for thirty-seven years, John had seen it all. He said he learned to, “Expect the unexpected and not be flabbergasted.” Avon was a small town outside of Rochester, and the students came from varied backgrounds. As a remedial math teacher, his students tended to be more disadvantaged. When he once asked his students about their parents’ professions, one girl said her mom worked at a pizzeria called “Foxy’s,” which John knew was the local gentleman’s club. He spoke about the incident sheepishly, as if he was embarrassed for the girl. This empathy made him such a good teacher.

Mary Lou Liccione, the mother of one of his students, said he had been, “one of the best” second grade teachers Avon ever had.

His colleague David Weisner particularly noted his way of relating to students, saying, “He would have been a great counselor.”

John always sought kids’ perspectives. When he asked his nieces and nephew about their lives he watched them attentively, maintaining eye contact and resting his chin on his hand.

Despite his interest in children, John never had any kids of his own, never even married. He said that in a small town, like Avon, most relationships were already established. His preference of school district limited his life.

John’s grandmother said he was, “Too damned independent” to marry. When discussing his bachelorhood, John called himself “self-centered” because he was unwilling to concede his independence in exchange for married life.

Though John may have regarded himself as selfishly independent, those who knew him disagreed. While John never married, he shared his time and home with others.

For two years John had a housemate named Michael Toland. Once his student, Michael went into education and was a student teacher for John’s class. Even after Michael discovered that teaching was not his forte, John remained his mentor. So when Michael needed a place to stay, John offered his home, rent-free in exchange for assistance with the household tasks like repainting. It was a symbiotic arrangement.

Though Michael was almost a son to John, he remained distant from the rest of John’s family. He made himself scarce whenever relatives visited. During the two years he lived in John’s house Michael was never seen by the extended family.

John looked after his elderly parents, Emma and John Paul. As the eldest and closest child, John felt obligated to be the primary caregiver. When not teaching, he spent hours chauffeuring his parents to doctor appointments, explaining the medical jargon. It wore John out; his face became drawn. He concealed his exhaustion from his parents; no need to make them feel like burdens.

Even in retirement John sacrificed his leisure time. He planned to tour France, but his father’s heart was failing, and John feared his dad might die while he was abroad. He canceled the trip. Months later, John’s father passed away and his widowed mother moved in. He never expected to start his retirement rearranging his life to accommodate his senile mother, but he took it in a stride.

John’s friend Wanda Wolfley remembered that John brought Emma to the retired teachers’ luncheon. Though Emma had difficulty following simultaneous conversations, she enjoyed the socialization.

John easily integrated his mother into his social life, but occasionally sent Emma to stay with his sister, Joan in New Hampshire. Then he reclaimed his much cherished independence and explored the Finger Lakes or visited museums. His last planned trip: the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

By Lauren Buzdygon

It’s Wednesday, shortly after noon.  The rounded stage of Loudis recital hall is set with two rows of chairs and stands: the front row for the saxophones, the second for the trombones.  Trumpets stand in the back on a short riser.  The piano, bass, drum set, and guitar are situated in a clump of wires and amps to the right of the band front.

At 12:19 pm Jazz Ensemble 1 rehearsal at the University of Delaware is going to start.  It will start one minute early because Tom Palmer says so.
He’s tall and slim, has a full head of short white hair, and though he is clearly in his sixties, he moves with the excitement and purpose of a kindergarten teacher.

“Late!” he says, addressing a straggling musician, still putting their saxophone together.  He isn’t calling the student out because he is irritated; Tom is never angry.  He dresses every day in jeans, sneakers,  a short-sleeved single-color polo, and a smile.  He is always smiling.  If he is not already smiling, he will be soon.
His voice is rough and gravelly and can outrasp a smooth jazz radio station host with a sore throat.  The saxophonist climbs into their seat at 12:20.  “Read the syllabus about being on time,” he growls.  “And where’s the syllabus?”
“Online!” choruses the rest of the band.

“So what happens to your grade if you’re late to rehearsal?”

“F!” yells the entire trumpet section.
“Fired!” yells Brett in the trombone section.

“Don’t be late!” Tom repeats.  “Okay.  We’re starting with Sentimental, eh, Semi-mental Mood!  Chase, you’ve got that flute part down?  Give Alex the piccolo part.”  The rhythm section launches into the Bossa Nova groove of the arrangement and away goes the band.

What are three words one would use to describe Tom Palmer?
“Easy-going, stress free, enjoying life,” says Brett, a senior trombonist
“Sporadic, devoted, uh, I don’t know,” says Billy, a freshman baritone saxophonist.
“Time Time Time,” says Nicole, a sophomore saxophonist, echoing one of Tom’s most famous rehearsal quotes.
Rehearsal continues past ‘Semi-mental Mood’ and into a different chart.  This one loses the soft Latin feel.  It’s fast and burning.  Valves, slides, and keys in the wind section clatter; the rhythm section flies.
“Whoa!” says Tom, after a particularly out-of-control rep.  “Drum-set, bass!  You guys are supposed to be driving the bus!
“We know.”  The bass and drumset players are still reeling from the hilarity of the situation that had just occurred.
“Time Time Time!” Tom Palmer says.  The band dissolves into laughs.  A trumpet player stuffs a granola bar down his throat and catches Tom’s eye.
“No food or drink in Loudis!” he roars.  The band continues to giggle.
Tom has been teaching the jazz ensembles as well as private lessons on drumset and jazz piano at UD since 1990.  He also plays guitar and banjo.  “I make a living gigging,” he says.  “I’m a freelancer.”
His favorite gig?  He has to think.  “I played one with Ernie Watts,” he says, reminiscing the performance with the saxophonist.  “It was cool.  There were a lot of people having a good time.  But I always have a good time, no matter what.”

Lead tenor saxophonist Eugene takes a solo in the tune Alexander’s Big Time Band.  He improvises off of scales, off of a few notes of each chord, and weaves in out of keys to create and resolve tension.  Sometimes he doesn’t play what he intended to play and yells his frustration in between lines. “Ahhh!”

After the tune is over, Tom swiftly walks over to turn off the recorder and surveys the band, the beginnings of a bemused grin on his face.  “Well, what do you think?” he asks, directing his inquiries to the soloists.  Eugene shrugs, not pleased with his performance.  “Sorry.”
“There is no sorry in jazz!!!” Tom roars with a huge smile.  The ensemble collapses into laughter again; this is a favorite Tom Palmer quotation all around the room.  He turns back to Eugene.  “Keep sheddin’.  You’ll get it.”
What is something you have learned from Tom Palmer?

“To not bring food into Loudis,” says Brett instantly.
“How not to suck,” says Billy, without thinking too long.
Lead alto saxophonist Chase takes longer to answer the question, sitting amongst a pile of the various woodwind instruments he plays throughout the set.
“Tom Palmer taught me that it’s pretty okay to be yourself.”
Tom Palmer loves to count off tunes to bring in the band.  He stands in front of the band, lightly dancing a cha-cha, one foot coming up an inch from the ground, then the other.  He swings his arms in alternation with his feet and grooves with the flow of his own life in the middle of the stage.

“A one, chickee-doo-doo, a two chickee-doo-doo, a one, a two, a one two three four!”

By Joe Bucci

By 5 o’clock the early birds were leaving, and the night prowlers were just beginning to arrive. It was the eye of the storm of this year’s Oktoberfest in Newark.

A figure wearing a uniform of brown and khaki stood in the background. You could barely see the man’s eyes underneath the brim of his hat, but you knew he was at work. He stood poised watching festivalgoers and monitoring activities.

“How can I help you,” said the New Castle County police officer. I had asked for his name, but he would only talk to me if I let him remain anonymous.  His words were frank and his tone had a hint of irritation, suggesting that he was being interrupted.

He looked like what you would expect: white, early forties, of medium height, and stocky build. If you saw this man you could easily mistake him for many of the other officers on the force.

He had been a county-policeman for eighteen years. He looked good for a man reaching retirement. He’s had a good run, but law enforcement wasn’t his first choice.

The officer was a local from Delaware. Like many others in his generation, his father had worked at the Newark Chrysler Plant. He was the youngest in a large Irish Catholic family.

“I wanted to join the fire department coming out of high school,” he said, “But Wilmington was limited for paid positions.” As he talked about himself, his posture became relaxed, and he looked more human. He was at ease, and open to conversation.

He decided to join the county police after earning his associate’s degree at Delaware Technical Community College.

“It would have been nice to go to the university, but I didn’t have the grades or the money, sometimes life gets in the way, I needed to find a job that would let me support myself, and the police department works for a good cause.”

It was much harder to get a job in the police force today than it was twenty years ago. He may not have become a lawyer, but that didn’t hurt his pride. His job had its downside, but he was content with it.

“I wish I spent more time with my daughters,” he said, “The family doesn’t spend as much time together.”

He didn’t miss his wife as much.

Patrol was a young man’s job, and he wasn’t certain how long he would be able to keep up. The officer wasn’t as fast as he was when he joined the department, and had put on weight. He admitted to losing patience as well.

“Some nights are frustrating.” He said, “All people are accountable to the law in one way or another, everyone would have less problems if we all understood that.”

The officer hoped to move on to an administrative position, but he was denied. He knew that things could go wrong while he was working, and he was concerned about his family. It wouldn’t be an easy move considering he had spent so many years doing patrol, but he remained optimistic. He knew that there were worse jobs  in the department.

Speaking of retirement gave him further relief. He considered the possibility of entering the private sector, and mentioned taking some time off. But, he did not neglect the idea of continuing his work in the department if the right opportunity arose.

by Claire Groft

Ally Shaw made the cut right before school started. She had been thinking of going short for a while, since her long hair was becoming a nuisance, but thought about it too long and gave up. A few months later, after seeing a customer with short hair at the coffee shop where she works and loving the look, Ally made her decision. She went to her hairstylist first thing in the morning, on impulse, and chopped off all her hair. And she hasn’t looked back since.

“I’m a very sassy, very sarcastic person,” Ally said. “The short hair just works.”

Ally is a warm and easygoing young woman. Her bright blond pixie cut sets her apart from other girls, something she revels in. She has big gray-blue eyes that somehow get even bigger when she talks about her passions. The bright pink sweater she wore the day of our interview is an extension of her personality: bold, confident, and unafraid. She is fiercely proud of her Scottish-Irish heritage, and wears her mother’s Irish cross around her neck.

“It’s something that I carry with me, that is very important to me.”

Ally also speaks with a slight accent. “I have a London accent,” she said. “It’s unexplainable. I blame it on the fact that I watch way too much BBC.”

Despite calling herself an introvert, Ally laughs loud and often, and talks to her customers at work as though they’re her best friends. She loves James Joyce: “He’s a large part of my life. We’re in a very committed relationship.” She uses the words “quite” and “lovely” and “joy” a lot, and is very well-spoken. Ally Shaw is one classy lady.

Ally is also a very busy lady. She will graduate from the University of Delaware this spring, and has already enjoyed several accomplishments. She finished her English degree last semester, and will be done both of her minors, History and Irish Studies, this fall. Ally is an editor of Caesura and a member of Intervarsity Christian Fellowship. She’s doing an independent study with one of her favorite professors in which she has to write a 3,000-word essay. She also volunteered to write her own undergraduate thesis, a project that will culminate in 50 pages’ worth of her own ideas. Finally, she’s finishing filling out applications to doctoral programs across the country, Notre Dame being her number one choice.

A doctorate is a pretty big deal. Thanks to her work in both her independent study and developing her undergrad thesis, Ally knows she’s ready.

“It was a challenge for me to see if I want to continue doing academic work for the rest of my life, and it’s been a joy so far.”

Ally almost always has a big grin on her face whenever she talks about reading and writing. Still, she is very much aware that books are just one aspect of her life. There are months and months left of her senior year, and Ally understands the importance of balance. One of her goals for the year: “Making sure I’m still very intentional with my relationships with people, and keeping those up.”

When she has free time, she also likes keeping up with her television. “I’m quite a TV watcher,” Ally said. “I’m obsessed with this show from the `90s, Twin Peaks. It’s an odd show but I really like it, because I’m really quirky.”

Her quirkiness aside, “I was born to be a literature major,” she said, segueing effortlessly into conversation about Finnegans Wake. Her eyes sparkled and her confidence was enviable. It gives her a glow, even when she’s behind the counter making lattes and espressos. That day in the coffee shop she looked like a blonde Audrey Hepburn, with her black flats and black leggings. She moved around the counter with ease and proficiency, an English major moonlighting as a manager of Brewed Awakenings. Still, “my ultimate goal is to get accepted to a doctoral program, and be able to spend the next five years working on my dissertation and teaching, and working towards becoming Dr. Shaw.”

Not too shabby.

by Chris Conaway

Five a.m. wake up calls are no fucking joke.  But that is part of what it takes to become a warrior.  Garrett Faulkner preaches this to his wrestlers every day at Sussex Central High School, where he currently teaches.  He strives to be the cool teacher there, and assists the wrestling team as a coach and trainer.

“He does all the hard work” says assistant coach Phil Shultie.  “I just try and keep him focused.” Phil is the most winning wrestling coach in Delaware’s history, with over 400 team victories, and he has an eye for talent.  “I used to coach against Garrett when he was still in high school” he says.  “Year after year he would wipe the mat with whoever I sent out to face him.  A perfect mix of size, power, and flawless technique, and his conditioning couldn’t be matched.  When I heard he was going to be teaching here at the high school, I knew that the team needed him.”

Technically, Garrett grew up in Dover, Delaware, but his heart lies forty miles south in Dewey Beach.  This is his place of play.  His place of relaxation.  His paradise.  He says, “’Incubus’ in my ear, sun on my eye.  Salt on my skin, sand in my heart.  In this moment I am happy.”  I can’t tell if he made that up himself.  But it doesn’t matter, it makes sense.

During his summers in Dewey, Garrett tends bar at a little place called Hammerheads, which sits in the middle of the main strip.  Hammerheads is run by a laid back, dreadlocked man named Cohen August.  “Garrett is a little kid” says Cohen.  “But thats one of the reasons that we draw such a crowd.  People know that Garrett is crazy as shit and they like that.”

Garrett is six feet tall, 170lbs as what he describes as, “full tilt boogie.” I still don’t know what that means.

“It came from my glory days” he says.  Garrett’s glory days are the four years he spent at York College in South Central, Pennsylvania.  York is a private, four year institution that offers a wide array of majors and concentrations, and houses just under five thousand undergraduates.  Garrett lived in a small, two bedroom townhouse at the center of campus with his two best friends, Brad and Terry.  During his years at York, he somehow emerged with a Bachelors degree in special education, but majored in wrestling.

“I ate, dreamed, and breathed that shit” Garrett says.  “Baddest mother fucker around.”

His day to day life was different abnormal.  He didn’t sleep in, until class.  Three square meals were out of the question.  Late nights were not spent studying.

“Instead I was turning myself into a machine!” he exclaims.  I’m sure he still made time for women.

The hard work paid off.  By the time he graduated, Garrett was a two-time All American wrestler.  He says, “It is by far my greatest accomplishment.  Shows exactly how much hard work pays off.”

The road to All American status is a hard one.

“Five a.m. wake up calls are no fucking joke, man,” he says, shaking his head in disgust.  “You walk outside and the cold smacks you in the face.  You can’t even sweat its so damn cold.  And then they expect you to run.”

His legs barely function.  Each stride is a struggle, but he trudges the six miles of hilly Pennsylvania terrain.  The cold bites at his face with no remorse.  At this point, he’s looking forward to the hot, sweaty hours in the wrestling room.  But that comes later.

“After the run, I’ve earned a meal.”  Garrett says “meal” sarcastically.  It is always small and lean. Usually some turkey or white meat chicken, accompanied by a protein shake, or what he calls, “a cup full of ass.”

The afternoon brings two hours of strength training.  He hates lifting weights.  “Weights are heavy, why would you want to lift them?  Just leave ’em in the corner” he says.  The weight room at York smells too clean for Garrett.  He’s now longing for the smell of the wrestling room. The mat.  His place of business.  But that comes later.

“Rep it out!” screams Garrett’s strength coach.  He reps out his last set and it’s off to shower.  Later in the day, he hits the books.  Time is allocated for mandatory team study.  Garrett dedicates his degree to these study hours.

Finally seven o’clock rolls around, and its time to roll around.  “Most of my teammates hated walking into the wrestling room. They knew it was going to be hard, it was going to fucking suck!  But I’m not afraid to sweat.  This is the shit I live for.”  Warm-ups, drills, live wrestling, and conditioning.  Garrett puts in a quality evening of practice.  He heads home to bed.  Fighting the urge to eat is a constant struggle after his head hits the pillow.  But he falls asleep anyway.  His alarm sounds too soon.  Five a.m. wake up calls are no fucking joke.