Strange but True by John Searles Page A

parking lot, feeling less like an up-and-coming poet and more like a waiter with a pipe dream. He begins to wonder if Conorton had said those things simply out of pity, since at this very moment, his work reads like the same kind of self-indulgent crap that everyone else in the class writes. To prove it, Philip reaches for his backpack on the floor and pulls out his folder of other students’ poetry. The first one he finds is by that divorced woman whose writing is always a free-verse metaphor for sex with her ex-husband:
    â€œRun Me Over, You Fucking Bastard” by Jilda J. Horowitz
    Go ahead, bastard
    Shift your monster truck in reverse
    And back over me again
    Who’s going to stop you anyway?
    Certainly not me
    I’m just a stupid animal
    Lying naked and splayed
    In the middle of the road
    Full of desire for this sweat and sex
    That is certain to kill me once more
    Even though I’m already dead
    Go ahead, bastard
    Make me see the light
    As you grind your tire tracks into my soul
    Deep and grooved, the way a horny bitch like me wants it
    Otherwise, how will I know you’ve been here?
    So plow your pitiful path in the mud
    Only it’s my blood that will bear the marks you leave behind
    Go ahead, bastard
    Now that there’s no doubt
    I am dead, yet again
    Spin those fat tires onward to the rally
    Where you will drink and laugh
    With other man-monsters just like you
    Go ahead, bastard
    Forget about me
    Back on the highway
    Where Animal Control has come to shovel up the carcass that was once your wife
    I am no different than roadkill to you, bastard
    A road pizza with the works
    A raccoon
    A possum
    Somebody’s once-cuddly pussycat
    Philip groans and tosses the paper on the seat, trying his best to recall exactly what Conorton had told Jilda about this tirade she calls a poem in order to gauge the validity of his comments about “Sharp Crossing.” He closes his eyes and replays the moment she read it aloud to the class as spit sprayed from her thin lips whenever she said the word bastard , and her voice rose and fell, rose and fell, until she finished and the room went silent. Everyone in the class stared down at the copy on their desks as though searching for a teleprompter to tell them what to say. When Philip couldn’t stand the tension any longer, he cleared his throat and told Jilda that he liked her use of the truck rally as a metaphor to express her anger, leaving out the obvious fact that it was more than a little bit heavy-handed. The compliment softened the permanent frown on Jilda’s face so much that Philip got carried away and went on to tell her that he thought “Run Me Over, You Fucking Bastard” was even better than her previous week’s poem, “Attention Kmart Shoppers, My Vagina Is on Sale.”
    When the back door of the restaurant creaks open and slams shut, Philip gives up trying to remember exactly what Conorton had said to Jilda. He opens his eyes to see Gumaro, the five-foot-tall muscleman dishwasher from Mexico City. Even though the Olive Garden is an Italian restaurant, not a single Italian works in the kitchen. Mexico, Portugal, Brazil, the Dominican Republic, even Guam—but Italy, no. Philip watches Gumaro carry a bus bin to the Dumpster, where he stands on his toes and empties the contents over the edge, sending the seagulls into a tizzy of swooping and squawking, before he turns back toward the kitchen door. That’s when he spots Philip sitting in his old Subaru across the lot and shouts, “Oye, maricón. Como estás?”
    The guys in the kitchen call just about everyone who works at the Olive Garden a maricón —faggot—so Philip isn’t insulted, though he makes sure to call him a name right back. “ Bien, pendejo. Y tú ?” I’m good, asshole. How are you?
    Philip has learned more Spanish working this job than he did during all four years of high school. He’d be hopeless checking into