Cram - Radio Belly: Stories

I F IT WERE POSSIBLE to pinpoint a beginning, it would have to be Punctuation Camp!, a publicity stunt the boss arranged to promote a new educational series.

Instead of cleaning out filing cabinets or pretending to look busyall the things that usually fill an ordinary weekeveryone from the Childrens Division of Crawford & Hicks Publishing is forced to dress up like various punctuation marks, in all the colours of the rainbow: a period, a comma, a hyphen, a colon and semicolon. Even quotation marks, as conjoined twins: the 66 Sisters and 99 Brothers. Out of the deep sleep of autumn, everyone must conjure good cheer, climb aboard the Punctuation Bus! and spend the week driving from one school to another.

This is how, in her thirtieth year, immediately following a breakup and a demotion from the department of real, adult literaturein what the boss is now calling the shuffleShana ends up dressed as an exclamation point. As if she were Gumbys uptight relative, her body is encased in a block of green foam from her knees to well above her head. Only her face, arms and black-spandex calves poke out of the costume. Her feet, surrounded by foam, are the point of her exclamation.

On the first morning of camp, Shana and the other punctuation marks shuffle around a gymnasium while teachers give lessons to groups of attention- or otherwise-challenged kids. Its explained that these kids are very inner-city. Shanas instructed not to make prolonged eye contact, not to linger, to move quickly and speak only in exclamatory statements: Punctuation is fun! and Clap your hands! and Good job, kids!

Lunch has its own set of challenges. In no mood for portion control, Shana eats fast and hard, getting mayo all over her costume, tomato seeds in her hair. Then one of the 99 Brothers leans in mid-sandwich and teases, Dont forget to breathe, loud enough for the whole room to hear, so Shana ends up having to tell her new co-workers the same thing she told her old co-workers: that she has a rare illness, the only cure being a special, high-calorie diet. If she didnt eat this way, her body would waste away, she says.

In the afternoon, the Punctuation Team! attempts to act out skits while the students burn off whatever theyve had for lunch and/or show what theyve learned. It quickly becomes evident that they have retained nothing though. The kids rally around, beating the foam shells of the costumes with sticky hands, hugging, kicking and grabbing various parts of anatomy. This is when Shana first interacts with Phoebe, the young Ivy League intern shell be sharing an office with the following week, and the only person with a costume more cumbersome than her ownwhenever Phoebe turns too quickly, and no matter how much frenzied back-pedalling she does, the immense curve of her question mark brings her down. But Phoebes cheer is relentless. As soon as shes back on her feet shes playing the befuddled question mark again. Pulling Phoebe back up for the second time, Shana starts to get pissed off on her behalf. She begins to feel detached, even monstrous. She wants to level with these kids: Its time to let your learning limitations guide you! Most of you will become mechanics, carpenters, waitresses, escortsand punctuation wont even matter! She wants to instill fear, to hurl their lisping, soft bodies at the walls.

While helping each other out of their costumes at the end of the day, Shana discovers Phoebe is one of those vegetarian, volunteering, virgin-till-married types. Still, she cant help admiring Phoebes ability to stay in character even after the shows over. If Shanas sentences are dragged down by the lead weight of negativity, then Phoebes are helium balloons, light as air, despite her costumes structural challenges. Theyll never be friends, thats clear, but for some reason Shana still confides in Phoebe about the three-car-pile-up of her life: entering a new decade, being dumped and getting demoted all within a few weeks of each other.

THE NEXT MONDAY, when Shana has finally managed to put Punctuation Camp! behind her, shes called into the bosss office and reprimanded for saying Fuck! in front of the children too often, for having chased a group of them to the back of the gym yelling, Avoid the wrath of words!

They dont even know what wrath means, Shana argues. It was a game! Like tag.

But her boss isnt convinced. Need I remind you about the girl with the pigtails? she asks.

The girl with rubber boots and a mustard-stained mouth had come stomping after Shana, sour-faced, fists flailing as soon as theyd made eye contact and yet, everyone seems to agree its Shana who has done something wrong. Apparently it isnt okay for punctuation to restrain a child by the pigtails under any circumstances, ever. Apparently Shana was sufficiently warned about the dangers of eye contact.

And the eating? Shanas boss asks next.

Oh, that? Shana says. I have this thing. Its like hypoglycemia, except its hypo-something else.

As a kid she used to sit at the table stuffing as many grapes/blueberries/cherries into her mouth as she could. Shed bite down, eyes and cheeks bursting, juice running down her chin to her neck. This was the only way to really taste food, she was sure. As she grew older, the hunger grew. These days its a whole watermelon, a box of doughnuts, an entire Deep n Delicious cake in one sitting.

Shana manages to smooth things over with the boss by agreeing to see someone. As for Phoebe, after just a few days in the office together its clear shell never evolve beyond her punctuation role. Everything she says is delivered the same waywith a perky flip to her words, somewhere between questioning and stupidity. And that wide-eyed, overenthusiastic expression she used to captivate a room full of ADD kids: it turns out thats her actual personality.

IN THE WEEKS after Punctuation Camp!, the person Shana has agreed to seeWendy is her nameencourages Shana to acknowledge her anger. Its true, Shana admits, digging her finger into the small planter on the coffee table in Wendys officeshe is mad. At everything. Always.

She regularly shows open malice toward those tourists who twirl in the middle of the sidewalk, pointing this way and that like bloated weather vanes, oblivious to the commuter surge around them. At coffee shops she orders non-fat, ristretto lattes, then accuses the barista of not knowing what ristretto means, sounding the word out, Ri- stret -to, her voice in the distinct octave of anger. Everywhere she goes she tests the limits of customer service. Once passive-aggressive, shes now just aggressive.

Shes also mad at the businessmen, hunched like little boys at the too-small tables of these coffee shops. Mad at the way they peer over the rims of their paper cups, not just at her but into her, as if invited to lounge, belly-up on the (white leather) couch of her innermost soul. These are the men no one else wantsdesperate men with eyes like open caves, eyes that give her the feeling shes being pulled into a fishy darkness against her will. She wants to tell them, This attraction is all you, all imagined, but she doesnt have time for eyes. Whats worse are the men who dont look. The ones who go as far as shoes-knees-waist, then back to their papers/phones/americanos. Assholes. When she was younger, mens eyes at least made the traverse to arrive at her face. Now its like her midriff is a mountain range, a jungle on fireimpassable.