PINK ELEPHANT JOURNAL

by Dan Radel

 

It's a Seattle icon. The pink elephant. Pink neon tubes. Pink sign. Sitting on its pink pedestal. Producing a pink light that casts a pink pale onto the sidewalk below. It spins around and around; day after day; year after year. It mocks us as it stares across Battery Street to where we stand under the new blue Antioch University sign. Blowing bluish-gray smoke into the Belltown air from our cigarettes we spin new ideas on our new journal. I swear I can hear it speak in pink words; "You think you can do this? You think this is going to be easy?" The elephant's laughter is a cruel sound. Half trumpet, half chortled laugh, it resonates through your body. Welcome to the world of the literary journal. The mind is the first thing to go.

"There's a new class being offered in the fall quarter that I think you should take." My faculty advisor, Chris Kellett, sat across the table from me in the commons at Antioch. I listened as she detailed the class. A class to learn how to publish a literary journal. A professor, Bryan Tomasasomething, to teach it. Antioch University would pay for the publishing. I was working on my B.A. in writing. It seemed a good fit and something that would look good on a résumé. I decided I would do it
I have found in my fifty years that life-changing decisions are often made from seemingly the most innocent of choices. In retrospect I should have backed away from Dr. Kellett; I should have held up a cross with Jesus on it while chanting ancient Trappist prayers in their original French. Perhaps a garlic garland around my neck to ward off the evil demons that unknown to me surrounded me and fought to dislodge my sanity from its mooring. I wasn't that wise.

The sun glinted off the pink elephant sending pink waves of light across Battery Street onto the white wall of Antioch. Distorted. Whirling. Casting a hypnotic spell in the air. Like a cobra rising from its wicker basket to the tunes of the snake charmer I walked into Antioch for the first class, unaware of the trance the elephant played for me.
The classroom was on the second floor. Facing west, the afternoon sun was blinding through the narrow slats of blinds. I studied the brightly lit faces of my fellow students: Lassie, Dvorah, Stephanie P., Stephanie M., Patty, Sarah, R.L., Tom, and Tess dot. I would come to love these people. Like one big happy dysfunctional family in weekly therapy we would work through the pain of each other.

Black hair, curling around like it had just survived a force five hurricane, our instructor entered the room. "Hello people," he called out in his trademark greeting. Clasping his hands together like a crap-shooter getting ready to throw the dice he faced the class. Looking like a young Einstein: Bryan Tomasovich; our instructor. He was a baby compared to me. Wearing a burnt orange shirt above his blue hemp pants he stood in front of the class. His mind operated at a warp speed that often left his words behind. One thought would end prematurely as another thought crowded its way past it. I liked him and his amphetamine pace.

The first quarter was spent studying the history of the little magazine. We looked at Plimpton, Anania. We poured over Poetry, Conjunctions, Fence, and The Antioch Review. We studied and debated what we liked and didn't like. Reflection papers were written each week. Two personalities begin to emerge. One made up of tofu eating, tree hugging, hold-over hippies: the other; coffee drinking, whiskey sucking, dark-side, rehab-brained deviants. I belonged to the latter.

Tess dot and I were chomping at the bit. We were ready to design the damn journal. Tess dot was a force of nature. Creativity poured from her. Short and blonde with tattoos up and down both arms: a grunge tee-shirt, always in black: she rocked whatever room she happened to be in. We decided to force the issue.

Deviants and Tree Huggers met as groups to write up practice grants. Our group instead begin to design the journal. Like water that poured over a sluiceway our creative vision spilled out. As Bryan told the class that we would continue next week on grant writing I spoke up and said, "No, I think it's a waste of time. We're ready to design this thing." Tess dot quickly jumped in and we drove him into submission.

I may have been hearing things but I'm sure that as I was leaving Antioch that night I heard weeping and a voice coming from the men's bathroom. "I have a Ph.D. goddamn it. I have my doctorate. I went to NYU."

The last class had an energy to it. Bryan and Tess dot sparred over philosophies when Bryan suddenly spun around and loudly said to Tess dot, "You're a!" ? His speech came to a frozen stop as I burst out laughing. "Ura, is that your new name Tess?" I asked. "You're a creative and opinionated person." he at last finished as his face blushed red. Tess dot whispered to me laughingly, "I think he was going to call me a bitch." And then Tess dot was gone. Graduated. Moving her high powered persona down to Southern Cal. Fall quarter was over.

Winter. Rain washed over the car wash and cast it in a pink glow. With no cars to wash the African men who worked there smoked cigarettes and spoke in rich accents snapping towels in rhythm with the loud music. In the darkened sky the elephant stood in sharp contrast against the clouds seemingly content to offer only silent commentary. Time was what it had; what it always had.

She burst through the door of the classroom. White stubby legs protruding from a muu-muu dress. The blue print flowers on the yellow fabric bounced as she strode past us. Deep-set brown eyes peeked out past her white skin. Long red hair flowed down over her shoulders spreading out like the stain from a rusty faucet. Short and squat, she looked like a yellow fire hydrant with legs. As she took her measure of the room she announced in a nasal accent, "My name is Zorana. It rhymes with piranha." Truer words were never spoken.

The second quarter had brought two new personalities into our little group. Zorana and Kenny. Husband and wife. In his blue Hawaiian shirt with red flowers worn unbuttoned, a tie-dyed red and black tee-shirt underneath, tan pants held up by a worn brown belt, brown sandals with blue socks, Kenny was the perfect bookend to his wife.
As Bryan began to teach the class we quickly learned one thing. Zorana could talk and talk and talk. Bryan attempted to regain control of the class but Zorana struck like a shark; eyes rolled up and mouth open she maneuvered behind Bryan and seized control of the white board. Blue marker in hand she wrote assignments for people as Bryan looked on like a fish whose pectoral fin had just been bitten off.

Everybody's eyes begin to glaze over and our ears had that feeling like we had just left a rock concert. My head started to ache like I had been on an all-night bender without the benefit of the buzz. I think the only thing we accomplished that night was naming our journal. KNOCK was conceived. Like lovers smoking after sex we sank exhausted into each other; blowing blue smoke in the air under the pink light on the wet sidewalk and wondered just what in the hell we had gotten ourselves into.

Bryan regained control the next week. Firmly telling Zorana to sit down; to wait her turn. Kenny, sitting next to his wife looked like he was doing weight repetitions. Zorana would attempt to stand up; Kenny pulled her down. Up down up down; his arm seemingly a part of her shoulder.

With the loss of Tess dot and the addition of Kenny and Zorana it quickly became apparent that the deviants were now the minority. The deviants wanted a journal on the edge or slightly over it. The tree-huggers envisioned a "We are the world" journal to be read out loud in-between verses of Koombyah. The deviants held our meetings out on the sidewalks; cigarettes clenched in our fingers we smoked as Tom, dressed in black, with his just wandered out of the shelter appearance; Sarah, always dressed in pink with Barbie Doll good looks, and I, the elder statesman with rapidly graying hair, bemoaned our fate in front of Antioch.

Deadline quickly became a hated word. The pace accelerated. Ibuprofen was eaten like candy. Assignments were doled out, submissions solicited, and the business of KNOCK proceeded. Kenny wanted to learn how to layout a magazine. He was assigned the task of learning a program called In-Design. To him fell the task of inputting poetry, prose, and photography. An exciting prospect for him. In weeks he would lose years off his life.
I laid low. I had a brutal quarter in front of me and the easier this was the better for me. I jumped on the printer liaison committee. That would be light work. Little did I know that I would end up racing Kenny to the old folk's home.

Green. We all agreed we wanted to be as environmentally responsible as possible. Stephanie began calling printers. Stephanie was a southern girl who had arrived in Washington in the back of a green bus. Green was her life. She lived green; she ate green; she breathed green. I was impressed as she searched out printers that printed on pressed tofu paper, used soy inks, and loved green. Hell, you could print a recipe on it and then eat it. She was on it. I sat back and enjoyed the show.

Our deadline was rapidly approaching. I had stayed far away from the selection committee but was trapped the night all the finalists work was laid out on the tables of the classroom. There were folders everywhere. They were passed one way, then the other. People traded their souls to get their favorites into KNOCK. Coffee was spilled over work. Arguments erupted. Some strange grading system was debated. Out of all the chaos emerged our journal. It was wonderful. Nobody was happy. Kenny set about putting KNOCK together. The end was in sight. You just needed binoculars to see it.

Antioch University had allotted us the huge sum of $1500.00 to produce the journal. Stephanie was quickly discovering that printers didn't consider that to be worth their effort. She had brought a copy of a journal she had run across in Bellingham. I told her I would contact the printer they had used. She continued on her quest for green printers. I sent an email to the printer. My life was about to change.

We poured over the first draft of KNOCK that Kenny produced. We didn't like the fonts, we didn't like style; we bitched, we moaned. Kenny was sent back to fix it. By the thirteenth draft it was getting close to what we wanted and Kenny was getting close to the edge. Emails flew around like so many pigeons; first this way and then that way. We still didn't have a printer. I said screw it.

The printer I was in contact with wasn't particularly into green. The hell with it. At this point I was willing to sacrifice the spring run of salmon in the Columbia River. A nice garlic and toxin sauce on a bed of sorrel and hell it wouldn't be that bad. Bryan and I made the deal. All digital printing all the time. Print on demand. Just take Kenny's In-Design files and burn them onto a disk, give the disk to the printer and we would be done. I could do that. No problem.

Big problem. Exotic fonts. It sounded like some form of toe fungus. It was much worse. Toe fungus has a cure. We were locked out of the program by the exotic fonts Kenny had inputted from his home computer that we didn't have. We couldn't make any changes without access to his computer. We were into spring break. Kenny and Zorano were somewhere deep into the Grand Canyon. We were deep into being screwed.

I wandered out the side door of Antioch and looked up at the elephant. "What the hell are you looking at?" I asked it. For the first time I thought I heard laughter emanating from it. I looked around the empty sidewalk. "I'm losing it." I thought. Walking around the corner I saw Lassie and Bryan.

Bryan pulled the red pouch of tobacco from his coat. He pinched the dry brown tobacco with his fingers and spread it into the waiting cigarette paper. Placing a filter on one end of the paper he rolled it up in a practiced motion and wet the glue with his tongue. He pulled his silver butane lighter out and flipped the top open. As he lit the cigarette he spoke:

"This is what we're going to do" Bryan said." Dan you're going to mark up a hardcopy. Put the marked up copy in the desk drawer. I'll leave an email for Kenny. When he gets back he can make the corrections, send the file and you can burn the disk and get it to the printer. Lassie you work on improving the art work with Dan. We will still have time to pull this off."

My spring break disappeared into a blur of scanners and fonts. My life revolved between home and trips down Aurora Avenue, deviant heaven, to Antioch. The streetwalkers smiled and waved as my truck passed them by time after time. Dealers would eye me suspiciously worrying I was a narcotics officer. I barely slept. I dreamed we were trapped on Gilligan's Island. Bryan was the Professor; Tom was Gilligan; Stephanie was Mary Anne; Sarah was Ginger; R.L. was the skipper, and Kenny and Zorana were the Howell's.
Empty pints of Jamison begin filling my recycle bin. Words raced around my mind: kerning, margin stops, bleeds, sizing, pixels, input copy, three point five-zero, three point seven-five, turn around time, galley copies. Time damn it, I needed more time.

Paul smiled at me as I handed him the disk at the print shop. It was the first week of the spring quarter. We were three weeks late in delivering the disk to him. I apologized to him. "Not a problem," he said. I can have your galley to you in a couple of days. After you return the corrections we should have your books to you within a week. No sweat." "No sweat." I answered weakly, "Never a doubt in my mind."

I walked down to the Hurricane after class. They had a bar. One quick beer and then home. As I walked out I looked down toward Battery Street. The galley copy was going to be ready the next day. In the twilight the pink elephant shone in pink neon splendor. We had done it; we were going to meet our deadline. It was time to start the next issue. "This one should be easier" I said to myself. From the direction of the Pink Elephant Car Wash I thought I heard laughter.