online lit — BARRELHOUSE

Dana Scully

By Ling Ma
 

Agent Dana Scully is an accomplished forensic pathologist, a few years out of Stanford Medical School. She meets Agent Fox Mulder when the Bureau assigns her to work with him on The X-Files. She thinks it’s a promotion but, as the Bureau men keep talking in the closed office hazy with cigarette smoke and late afternoon light, she realizes it’s really not.  

At the time she meets Mulder, she has something resembling a social life. She goes out on dates. She helps babysit at her godson’s birthday party. Her home is a tasteful affair embellished with floral curtains and chantilly lace, like a Laura Ashley dreamscape. She wears midheel pumps. She is 28 years old. 

At first, she doesn’t like Mulder, not that much. He is an impediment to her career. Once a renowned criminal profiler, having studied psychology at Oxford, he is now drifting into obscurity. And Scully, a few years out ofStanford Medical School, she knows so much about the body, how it reacts under trauma and duress. She identifies fibers underneath the nails, laceration marks on the skin. She knows all about secretions. She is not afraid to cut people open.  

From the beginning, it’s clear: Mulder knows the mind and Scully knows the body. They can never quite come together.  

But then something changes. This one time, they’re in New Jersey and he wants to investigate a hunch of a Bigfoot creature on the loose, cannibalizing the homeless of Atlantic City.  

“Ever hear about something called the Jersey devil?” Mulder says, handing her an X-File.  

“Kind of like an East Coast bigfoot?” Scully snarks.  

She is not about to spend her weekend in New Jersey looking for mythical creatures. She leaves Mulder there, drives three hours in bumper-to-bumper back to DC. Later, she has a dinner date with a divorced lawyer or estate planner or someone she met at her godson’s birthday. The dress she decides to wear for this occasion, a white lace number that covers her arms all the way down to her wrists, could double as a wedding gown at a royal wedding.  

“I have this fear of being replaced,” the date says, across from her at the restaurant table. His ex-wife had justremarried, and in the dating world, sometimes anxiety is the only emotion.  

Scully’s cell phone rings. It’s Mulder. She goes over in her white lace to the restaurant phone and calls him.  

“I just had an amazing thought,” Mulder says. “Maybe it isn’t a beast <i>man</i> we’re looking for after all.” On the other end of the line, he holds a drawing of a Sasquatch creature with breasts.  

Agent Dana Scully leaves the man in the restaurant. She and Mulder fly back to New Jersey, and somewhere in broad daylight outside Atlantic City, she watches as local law enforcement track down a Sasquatch-like woman inthe wilderness.  

The feral woman is shot in the back with a tranquilizer dart, but she rips it out of her. Wounded, she woozily makes her way about the river bank. They lose sight of her through the bushes and foliage. Running across a bridge, they are stopped short with the sound of gunshots. A shot, then two, rings out.  

And by the time Scully gets there, it is too late. The Sasquatch woman is lying facedown in the leaves.  

Mulder bends down, closes her eyes.   

Dana Scully knows so much about the body, but she doesn’t know her own body. In ensuing years, she is pursued by sexual predators and cult fanatics. They prey on her affections, fetishize her extremities andfingernail clippings. She is abducted by aliens. She finds a chip in her neck, and upon its removal, develops cancer. She is pronounced infertile, later mysteriously found to be pregnant. Her body is assaulted, probed, traumatized for the next nine years. She clings to her Catholicism.  

She doesn’t know all that yet though.  

After the Sasquatch killing, the date calls her again and asks her out, but she turns him down.   

“Don’t you have a life, Scully?” Mulder asks. 

“Keep that up and I’ll hurt you like that beast woman,” Scully says. 

That was the turning point. After New Jersey, she commits. She commits to being Mulder’s partner. She gets into his car. She rides shotgun. She knows so much more than him. She negates everything he says. 

When the Bookmobile Lady Drives Down Your Street

By Colleen Michaels

 

When the bookmobile lady drives down your street

consider her to be behind the controls of an invisible plane.

Sharpen your sight and shout Shazamm!

Don’t fall for the glasses on the chain thing.

It’s an insider joke, mostly for show.

She’s got 20/20, heat seeking vision, a third eye.

 

And under the cuffs of her cardigan

she wears the steel bracelets of Wonder Woman.

You want to ban a gay penguin, try it lady.

She’ll march you up to the third floor of this library

to the justice league, the federation of free thought

and politely, yet firmly, remind you of the little matter

of civil liberty. She keeps the lasso of truth in her belt loop.

 

I’ve seen the jokers who try to trip up the reference librarians.

Riddle me this, Reference Librarian,

When was the Great Vowel Shift?

I need a romantic, but not cheesy, poem for wedding

and I don’t want any capitol letters in it.

How do I get the garlic smell off my hands?

Feathers unruffled she hands them a piece of scrap paper,

wasting little lead on her miniature golf pencil:

15th-18th centuries. Try ee cummings. Vinegar.

Touché, librarian, touché.

 

Once a librarian was asked to switch careers,

pull a Freaky Friday with an archenemy.

A Lex Luther - A Vegas show girl.

Well, it seems that the librarian with her large

head full of information and strong sense of balance

had no problem supporting the feathered headgear.

So skilled she was at entering other worlds by cracking spines

you couldn’t pick her out of the high-kicking lineup.

The showgirl, for all her staged glitter and flesh tone,

was only useful as a page. Stacked, but only able to shelve.

 

If you rush to return a book at 10 to 9,

pay attention to this twilight time 

between mortal and divine, 

those of us who borrow and those who freely lend.

The librarians are putting on their magnificent wings

and gorgeous shoes, stepping out of phone booths,

setting up a buffet near the microfilm. 

Superheroes Issue: Editor's Note, by Susan Muaddi-Darraj

The theme of this – the first online issue of Barrelhouse – is superheroes, and I feel obliged to explain why this is so. 

        The History: Of course, Wonder Woman was my favorite superhero when I was a kid, growing up in a South Philadelphia row house with three brothers. She had to be, because she was the only regular, worthy and female superhero available to me.  When Saturday morning cartoons were over and the local news came on, my brothers and I re-enacted whatever battles we’d seen, as I assume most impressionable children did, and Wonder Woman could seriously do some damage to her enemies, who were all men. She could also be a valued team member, because her strength and her lasso were legit. Her bracelets? Fashion and strength, in one package? Oh my god. Nobody wanted to mess with her.

        The Confusion: For years, I remember thinking she was an Arab woman. I’m not sure why I thought this, but I do distinctly re call that I believed it for a very long time. And this confusion did lead me to dress up in a Wonder Woman costume when I was seven. I was proud of it, despite being horribly uncomfortable in the thin, plastic one-piece over my sweatpants and sweatshirt, my face sweating under the plastic mask with the nose holes and the rubber band stapled to the sides. Maybe I thought she was an Arab because she often said “Hera, give me strength.” Growing up in a bilingual household, I remember that I heard this as “Allah, give me strength,” which is just the dramatic type of thing an Arab woman might say.  Plus, she could pass for an Arab woman, with that black hair and that attitude. And those eyebrows! Or maybe it was just because there were no Arab heroes on television when I was growing up(there still aren’t.) and I really longed for one. 

        The Legacy: Since then, I’ve loved the whole superhero culture. Even after clarifying that Wonder Woman’s ethnic identity is Amazonian-American. Having three brothers facilitated this interest nicely – we often discussed our favorite superheroes in detail, compared their powers and their weaknesses. 

        I developed a theory, still in the early stages, that most people have some kind of definable superpower. My power was realized when I got to college and discerned that I was ethnically malleable. This is an amazing power to have. Nobody knew “what I was,” but as a friend once told me, “I know you’re something.” It was like being a ghost who could pass through walls; I could hang out with the Latino kids on campus, then phase out and reappear with the African American students, or join in a discussion with the Indians and be totally accepted every time. 

        Frankly, I loved it, felt empowered and welcomed, even though I was often struck by the strangeness of the experience. It was akin to being that fourth kid on Barney – there was the obligatory White kid, around whom the story usually centered (he was the one lost in the woods, or it was her grandmother’s house they were all going to). There was the obligatory Black kid, as well as the Asian kid who could occasionally be swapped out for a kid with a physical disability. But that fourth child ... that fourth one was ethnically ambiguous: was she Latina? Greek? Black? Pakistani? Who knew? But she satisfied the producer’s wacky quota and need to appeal to a wide, and misunderstood, viewing audience. 

        Anyway, here I am, editing my first issue as Barrelhouse’s online editor. I’ve joined the ranks of some of the best writers and editors I know, whose goal it is to demonstrate that pop culture is no small thing, that good literature is not an elitist enterprise. If I may wring this metaphor out some more, I view this mission as one well-suited for superheroes. And I contribute whatever powers I may have to it.

        Allah, give me strength.