Table of Contents Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Editor's Note Review of Lions at Lamb House Review of Jamestown Review of The Children of Húrin Review of The Politics of Life Film Review of "300" Creative Nonfiction Home By Marion Agnew One Foot and Then the Other By Greg Coykendall Poetry Hannah Plays with Light By Kristine Ong Muslim Caricature of an Early Planter By Michael Lee Johnson Comes a Push-Cart Down a Long-Ass Ghazal By Levon DeBranch Modern Day Moses By Bob Boston Squares (2) Plaza De Armas, Santiago, Chile By Graham Burchell Fiction The Larchmont Campaign By Zain Deane Body Warmth By Louise Kantro The Good People Up North By T.M. Spooner Triple Word Score By Patricia C. Meringer Texans Abroad By Franklin Strong Hunting for Manhood By Jason Sizemore Staten Island Zen By Michael Enright About the Contributors © 2007, River Walk Journal and respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. Do not use or reproduce without permission. River Walk Journal, Inc. Board of Directors Chairman - Elizabeth Ross Vice Chairman - Joseph Koch Secretary/Treasurer - Geri Stock-Ross Editorial Director - Patti Kurtz, DA Literacy Director - Kenneth Weiss, Ed.D Policy Director - PA State Rep. Jess Stairs Advisory Board Chairman - Patti Kurtz, DA Asst. Chairman - Dan Lachenman, PhD Samuel Hazo Christopher Leland Edwin Yoder Joseph Bathanti Journal Staff Publisher - Elizabeth Ross Editor-In-Chief - Joseph Koch Senior Editor - Patti Kurtz Senior Editor - Neeldhara Misra Copyeditor - Kathy Skaggs Blog Contributing Editor - Maggie Koster Education Blog Contributing Editor - Jordan Wirfs-Brock Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/subs.html. Questions about promotions, subscribers' services, and advertising should be sent to publisher@riverwalkjournal.org. River Walk Journal, Inc. is a non-profit corporation run entirely by volunteers. For information about volunteer opportunities and internships, visit VolunteerMatch.

The Larchmont Campaign By Zain Deane The commercial was set to air during the Super Bowl, just before half time. America was tuned in, the single most valuable pocket of time for advertisers. The beer barons, computer makers and shoe companies held court. Everyone was urged to drink more, buy more, do more, while most everyone sat around and did next to nothing. In her modern one-bedroom apartment in Fort Lee, New Jersey, Susan Granholm perched on the edge of her bed in blue cotton pajamas and fidgeted through the game, waiting for the moment that would change advertising history. In downtown Detroit, Shaun Taylor and his family watched from their single family home: one of three on their block that wasn’t boarded up or torn down. His wife held his hand, her weather-beaten face lined with worry. Their three children huddled around them, excited to see their dad on TV, nervous about what they knew he was going to say. In the family room of their estate in Westchester, New York, Frank Larchmont sat with his son, Reggie, sharing a bottle of Armagnac. They paid little attention to the game. The Jets had long ago been eliminated, and neither cared much about the outcome. Father and son waited, like anxious gods, for their messiah to move the masses. The NFL jingle, peppy and triumphant, burst through the television just as the clock wound down to the two-minute warning. The lights and frenzy of the stadium faded, escaped to black and then went completely white, its glow sharp and intense. There was no music. No bikini models or Clydesdales majestically tossing their heads. The lank landscape held millions of people in thrall. Then into the bare white world walked a stocky, middle-aged black man, dressed in faded blue jeans and smudged white shirt made ragged by long use and too many washes. The man wore a somber expression, the look of a man who no longer mattered. His pockmarked face, drooping eyes and puffy cracked lips filled the screen. It seemed as if he had stumbled onto someone else’s set, refusing to leave. There was still no music, and no sales pitch. The silence lasted just a moment, but for that split second, this man made an entire nation nervous. Then he spoke in a soft, clear voice, and America leaned in to hear what he had to say. “My name is Shaun Taylor. Up until six months ago, I was an assembly line worker for Larchmont Motors. I was let go, along with four thousand others. Since then, I have been unable to find a job, unable to support my family.” A nation relaxed. This was a public service announcement, an effective one at that. Some joked that the Red Cross, or whoever it was, would have been better off spending the three million dollars it cost to make this commercial on people like Shaun Taylor. But the man on the television wasn’t done. “What I am about to say is completely voluntary. The day I was fired, I ran into Mr. Larchmont, our president. I asked him why I was being let go, and he told me that Larchmont Motors was about to go out of business. And I believed him, ‘cause our factory wasn’t producing too many new cars. Everybody wants Toyotas and Hondas these days. Plants are being shut down all over Detroit, and there are no jobs left for people like me. A lot of my friends lost their jobs with me that day, and they don’t have nowhere to go either. “I had an idea, and I went to see Mr. Larchmont. I told him we need to make our country care about American cars, and about American car workers, again. And I told him I was ready to make people listen. “Mr. Larchmont and I have reached an agreement. He tells me he needs to sell 14,000 new Larchmont Executives per month for the next six months to get the company back on track. I know that’s a lot, but I’m asking America to help us. “Six months from now, if Larchmont Motors hasn’t met its sales goal of 84,000 cars, I’m going to take my own life. Until then, Mr. Larchmont is going to rehire the four thousand workers he let go to make the cars he hopes you will buy. In the event of my death, Mr. Larchmont will give my family one million dollars to help them out. And then he will close the company. Either way, I save my family. But I’m asking you to help me save a good company, and lot of good people. Next time you go look for a new car, please…think about buying a Larchmont Executive. Thank you for listening.” The man gazed into the camera one last time, and then walked off to the left of the screen. He held his head high. Even the sound of his shoes on the floor was muted out. The Larchmont logo never found its way onto the screen. It didn’t have to. The white screen turned to black, gave a stunned nation one second’s pause, and then charged back into the game. The roar of the crowds, the bright lights of the stadium and the vivid green of the field exploded into households all over the country. But most people didn’t care about the game anymore. The reporter in the press booth was stunned into silence. Far below him, the two teams lined up for the next play. The crowd cheered them on. Susan Granholm, director of creatives for Mason & Bain, took a deep breath, shut off the TV, and walked to the window. She stared at the panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline, spotted her building among the cluster of midtown skyscrapers, and replayed the commercial in her mind. When presented with the project, she had balked. No way was she putting this man on TV, with that kind of pitch. Larchmont’s son had bullied her into doing it. Reggie, beefy, balding, with small, mouse-colored eyes and a severe case of halitosis, was far more intimidating than his father. “You can’t guilt people into buying your product,” she fumed. “You let me worry about that. You just focus on the details.” “This isn’t in the budget, Reggie.” “There is no budget anymore. Cancel all the brochures, promotions, road shows and all the other shit you people came up with that got us nowhere. This campaign is all the money we spend on marketing for the rest of the year. Do you really think we’ll need a goddamn flyer after this comes out?” “What if I refuse?” “Then I’ll call Marty Mason and let him know you lost this account. We’ll find another two-bit firm to do it for us, and you’ll pound the pavement looking for another job.” Mason & Bain was one of the smallest players in the game, and both of them knew it needed Larchmont as much as Larchmont needed this ad. Plus, Susan reflected, there was little risk on her part. All she had to do was make this Shaun Taylor come across as genuine and pitiable as possible. She lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. The commercial had chilled her soul, but it had also made her fiercely proud. It was her idea to take a minimalist approach. She’d played around with soft violins in the background, but that seemed too Schindler’s List. She filmed Shaun sitting with his family on their ratty, patchwork couch in the middle of their unadorned living room. She made him give his speech in front of the closed gates of the Larchmont plant just as the sun was setting behind him. Nothing worked the way she wanted. In the end, she chose white space, pure white, like the light people say you see just before you die. She blocked all sound, wanting nothing to interfere with his words. She needed him to stick out from a void, prophetic, heroic, and above all, human. Shaun wore no makeup, had no wardrobe. He showed up on set, read his lines six times until he managed to fit it all in within two minutes, and left. The end result, nestled between the cacophony of the game and its false idols, had been perfect. Susan shivered, imagining what tomorrow would bring. Janet Taylor wept into her husband’s chest as he cradled her. His children looked up at him in solemn silence, registering but not understanding what they had just seen. He’d told them of his plan long before the commercial aired. Despite their protests, he’d forged ahead. Staring at the screen, Shaun remembered his last conversation with his wife. “One million dollars, Janet. Think what that will do for you!” “I don’t care, Shaun, I want my husband! The kids want their father! You can find something else.” “Like what? I ain’t got no schooling. I was born here, this is what I know. I’m too old to go looking for something else, and besides, there’s nothing out there, Janet! I’ve been there, I’ve tried. You tried too. That’s why you clean up the Laundromat every day – ‘cause there ain’t nothing else! Welfare ain’t gonna cover us.” “Don’t do this to me, baby. Don’t do this to your family.” “Look, I don’t think I’m going to go anywhere. I think America will step up.” “You’re a fool, Shaun. You’re a damn fool. Please … don’t do this.” “We’re dying out here, Janet. You, me, the kids. We’re just dying slowly. If I go a little quicker, but you get to live better, well, that’s what a man’s supposed to do, to look out for his family.” It was an odd thing to see himself on TV, his own pixilated image addressing him as if he were a third party. Shit, he thought, if I had the money, I’d sure go out and buy a Larchmont after seeing that. Shaun squeezed his family to him and gave them a gap-toothed smile of encouragement. “It’s gonna be all right. You just watch. Everything’s gonna be just fine.” Larchmont and his son exchanged looks, clinked their glasses together, and drained the brandy. Larchmont senior wrapped himself tighter in his fleece blanket, as if bunkering down before an onslaught. Behind him, above the fireplace, the family crest, carved in England in the eleventh century, glinted in the flickering light of the flames. The next day, Shaun and Larchmont dominated the media and the public’s attention. Susan Granholm erected a giant billboard in Times Square, next to the Calvin Klein underwear model. Like a fundraiser, the board showed an electronic barometer with notches representing ten thousand unit intervals, its ceiling at 84,000. The bar was set at zero and would be updated every month. Reactions were instant and varied. The majority condemned Larchmont, some blamed Shaun, others spoke out against both. Milton Jefferson of the New York Times wrote, “Mr. Larchmont and Mr. Taylor have conspired to hold the nation hostage, plucking at the heartstrings of the American public to save a dinosaur which by all rights should be extinct. Their efforts go against the grain of our basic economic values, of free choice and capitalism at its best. If this is how Larchmont sells his cars, one can only wonder what processes he employs in making them.” David Suarez, a city councilman in Detroit, branded the campaign “blackmail of the lowest and vilest form, the economic equivalent of a suicide bomber.” Human Rights and Civil Rights groups called for the immediate boycott of Larchmont, claiming the shutdown of the company before its self-appointed six-month schedule would declare the contract between Larchmont and Taylor null and void. Even the legal community took up the cause. Detroit’s young, brash attorney general, pumping his fists in the air like a rogue Viking, promised reporters that, in the event of Mr. Taylor’s death, the city would bring criminal charges against the Larchmont family. But Larchmont and Taylor had their share of supporters. Union leaders praised them for their attempt to save a crippled industry. In the Economist, Jurgen Kreichen explained that the two men “had perfectly encapsulated the crisis of our modern era: the sacrifice of American business and the American workforce to a cheaper, foreign producer. We all shrugged when Asim from Delhi took our service call when our computers froze. Will we still be just as nonchalant when we survey the economic landscape ten years from now and find that our household names, our pillars of industry, have gone the way of Larchmont? In our all-encompassing desire to have more for less, we are becoming no more than Ouroboros, the mythic symbol of the snake devouring its own tail. Ironically for Messieurs Taylor and Larchmont, Ouroboros represents the wheel of time.” Prominent humanitarians and even more prominent celebrities publicly bought one, five, twenty Executives. They stood in front of the shining new cars and smiled for the cameras. News of the commercial spread like a forest fire through the country and leaped across the oceans. It was replayed countless times on the Internet, and hundreds of web sites popped up on both sides of the debate. One pundit quipped, “If it’s true that there’s no such thing as bad publicity, Larchmont Motors has just pulled off the greatest public relations campaign in history.” As the days wore on, new and more creative responses to the commercial came to light. Supporters of euthanasia rallied around the Larchmont factory, proclaiming the great victory of a man’s right to take his own life. A vocal leader of the Black Panthers claimed that Taylor was just the most recent example of the white man’s subjugation of the black. A Grand Master of the Ku Klux Klan countered by suggesting that other men of color follow Taylor’s lead. Copycats sprang up around the country, disgruntled blue-collar workers offering to kill themselves for the future of their families. But none were given the serious attention that Shaun Taylor received. He and Frank Larchmont became instant celebrities. Journalists, supporters and curious passersby lined the street in front of his house. Vendors sold bumper stickers and tee shirts with Taylor’s picture. These were printed by the millions with varying slogans written beneath the man’s sallow, unforgiving face: Save My Soul: Buy American Wanted: For Highway Robbery Larchmont Made Me Do It You Made Me Do It The two men appeared on all the major networks, in all the major newspapers. Time and again, Larchmont defended his participation in the decision, telling whoever held the microphone that Taylor was going to kill himself even if he, Larchmont, did nothing. At least this way, through the benevolence of his fellow Americans, Taylor had a fighting chance. More than one person wanted to give Shaun better odds. They poured out of their homes, ready to give him the one million dollars and free him from his obligation and his woe. A famous singer, whose career was on the downslide, offered to the Taylors the use of her mansion in Sausalito. These proposals he refused—again ignoring his wife’s pleas—saying what he was doing was as much for his fellow workers and Mr. Larchmont as for his own family. This was, said Shaun, a matter of honor, and that was all he had left. In response, organizations set up collections to help each of the four thousand workers affected by the layoffs. One group even asked for alms to resurrect the company, but these efforts went nowhere. The world preferred to watch the drama play out, to see if America would save Larchmont and his sacrificial lamb. At the end of the first month, all eyes turned to the barometer in Times Square. At midnight, the green bulbs lit up from the bottom while crowds filled the street, cheering the lights on. It looked like a New Year’s celebration, but the revelry was short-lived. The green glow barely covered half of the fourteen thousand quota. Reports confirmed only six thousand, three hundred and four new cars had rolled off the line. This feeble beginning to the campaign produced a new wave of articles, analysis and speculation on the country’s moral, economic and social bankruptcy. Milton Jefferson happily penned the story of the crumbling Larchmont dynasty: “I wonder what old Archibald Larchmont would say now. In 1925, after emigrating from England, where he fought in the Boer campaign during the First World War and was honorably discharged, the decorated general built Larchmont Motors. The first model, the Senator, was introduced in 1928. From the beginning, Larchmont Motors operated on the principles of its founder: its logo, the Larchmont name embossed on a multicolored checkered background, paid homage to the war medals on his breast. But the same discipline that fueled the company began to erode it in the 1980s. The car was never exported, never produced on the same scale as its competitors. In the automotive class, it was the little kid who never raised his hand and couldn’t see the blackboard properly. “When foreign imports began to dictate the market, Ford, Chrysler, and their counterparts adjusted with the times, designing smaller, curvier, less flamboyant vehicles. But today’s Larchmont recalls its first ancestor, much like we can see the same nose on our Uncle Bob. The Executive’s wide lines, hard edges and big, square headlights look more at home at a vintage car show than on the highway. The cars rival Hummers in their gas consumption, barely fit down some streets in downtown New York, and, in general, aren’t appreciated or wanted. “Archibald Larchmont would have accepted this and gone down with the ship, a gentleman to the last. The new breed, it seems, comes from a different era. Larchmont and son have besmirched the family name and dragged Archibald’s memory through the mud. It serves them right that their last ditch effort is falling on deaf ears. Six months from now, that infernal billboard in Times Square will be taken down. One man will be dead, of his own accord. And Larchmont will close the door on a once proud tradition. I wonder what old Archibald will say then.” The failure of Larchmont Motors to make its first quota sent shock waves through the nation. The cars became symbols of America’s generosity of spirit. People honked when an Executive passed them on the road. Dealerships drew greater crowds, and while some still couldn’t reconcile themselves to buying one of the boxy-looking cars, sale began to rise. Straw polls indicated that the car was most popular among consumers who already owned one vehicle. African Americans bought more Larchmonts than Hispanics, Caucasians bought more than Asians. The car also became a must-have for a few eccentric foreigners. A sheikh in Bahrain bought a dozen, one in each color. He was tickled by Larchmont’s ploy and couldn’t believe the gullible Americans were biting. “In my country,” he chortled, “there would be people lining up to kill this Taylor character!” By the second month, the billboard showed that a shade under 28,000 Executives had been sold. The crowd went wild, and in his home, Shaun Taylor gave his wife an “I told you so” smile. The Larchmont men raised their Armagnacs in a toast to a brighter future. But this sudden spurt had a curious effect the following month. Sales fell precipitously, and the neon green only reached 36,000. Analysts raced to explain the phenomenon, but Eugene Weinstein, professor of psychology at New York University, hit the nail on the head. “People had felt guilty when initial sales were so pitiful, and this guilt prompted a spike,” he told CNN. “But when sales exceeded the monthly quota, consumers suddenly felt they didn’t need to go the extra mile. There were enough Samaritans helping out, absolving those who were on the bubble. So, many gratefully pulled their hands back, only too many were thinking the same thing. And now we start the cycle all over again.” Weinstein was half right. Most Americans in the market for a car were unsure what to do next. Few actually wanted a Larchmont clogging up their garages. Those who tried to sell their just-purchased Executives found no market for them. New sales were still strong, however, as a great many didn’t want to repeat last month’s mistakes. By the end of the fourth month, Larchmont was just off its target. But economists predicted the company would fall short of its goal and, indeed, the outlook was bleak. Month five fell short of its mark, and rhetoric increased. The flames of guilt and social pressure stoked the anger of the American people. People coming home in brand new Fords were often taunted, and those who came home in BMWs more so. After month five, Shaun Taylor was interviewed on 60 Minutes. He was told that Larchmont needed to see 22,000 cars to reach their goal. If they achieved this, they would be smashing, by a huge margin, their sales total for any month since their incorporation. Taylor was then asked if he was prepared to carry out his death sentence. He said he was. He was asked if he was disappointed in the American people. He looked into the camera and said he was proud and grateful for everyone who spent their hard earned money to try and save him, his fellow employees, and Mr. Larchmont. In the last month of the campaign, the world buzzed with the anticipation of Shaun Taylor’s fate. Susan Granholm decided to update the billboard on a daily basis. Odds were placed in Vegas and Atlantic City, changing daily with the updated sales figures. The American people forgot their anger and began to panic. New Executives were shipped to churches, mosques, temples and synagogues, where collections had been taken up until enough money was raised to afford the twenty-six thousand dollar car. Celebrities again led a late charge, scooping up Larchmonts like Christmas toys. The green lights in Times Square crawled toward the 84,000 car ceiling. Six days before the deadline, a family of five was killed in a traffic accident. They were driving a brand new Executive. The police investigation and numerous eye witnesses proved that the car’s brakes had failed. It was rumored that, in their haste to meet the sudden surge in demand with no increase in the workforce, Larchmont’s workers became sloppy, throwing cars together as fast as they could. Reggie Larchmont, perspiring heavily in the glare of the camera lights, vehemently denied the allegations, but the damage had been done. In the final five days, not a single Executive was sold. The green bulbs remained lodged between 80,000 and 81,000. A few souls took up the call to save Shaun Taylor, only to be swallowed by millions who grieved for the Dixons, victims of America’s humanity. When the clock struck midnight, there were only a handful of observers in Times Square. Reporters congregated around the Larchmont and Taylor residences. Shaun came out to make a brief statement. His eyes swollen and bloodshot, he thanked America in a broken voice and apologized to the loved ones of the Dixon family. Then he walked back and closed the door. Twenty minutes later, his family emerged without him, their tear-streaked faces etched in agony. They were surrounded by the media and had to fight through them to get into their new Executive, a gift from Frank Larchmont. The reporters abandoned them, invaded the house, and found what they wanted. They positioned themselves around Shaun Taylor’s body and urged the cameras to roll. A few minutes after this footage was aired around the world, reporters waiting outside the Larchmont estate heard the echo of a single gunshot. Reggie Larchmont came out to tell them what they already surmised. News of the twin suicides was met stoically. Milton Jefferson of the New York Times wrote a brief eulogy: “There’s a reason the system works. As we as a society progress, we shed the weak, broken links to our past. We must, in order to survive and prosper. Six months ago, two men tried to prove that the system was fallible. They tried to show that their need was greater than the needs and demands of the world in which they lived. In the end, they were destroyed by their own machine. In the end, they died, neither as martyrs nor as heroes, nor as murderers. They died as men who viewed the world in black and white. Perhaps old Archibald Larchmont would have been proud after all."