Miscellaneous Articles  

Barry Blues

 by Samson Nickila

It was a gloomy rainy night, the blue hour of Thursday highlighting the clouds in the sky, with the yellow lights in the Big Apple contrasting sharply with the weather. People were walking about as per the norm, trampling the water that seemed to puddle upon the ground. Guys and gals pass each other without a second thought, cars swimming and plunging through the watery streets. Advertisements splashed onto the walls and sides of buildings, showing off the cool new this and most marketable that. But here on this cool afternoon, we find a lonely Saxophone, shiny gold with sleek silver keys, walking the streets with nowhere to go. Stern face for such a clean instrument, the only other key detail not on your average sax was a name tag, his name being Barry. Walking with no goal, traveling a trail with no end as droplets of water streak across the glossy yellow Tenor. Whilst walking our instrument accidentally gets kicked by someone else walking the streets, making a strange but pleasant musical sound too. “ Ayy I’m walkin’ here! “ hollers our hardy hero, clearly angered from the experience. The Sax just kept walking, more and more water brushing across him as he went, until he ended up at a local club. Needing a drink after his tiring day at work, he decided to go in for just a little bit. As he walked in, he saw people playing pool and smoking, people in booths talking about lived lives and lives lived. Barry got up on a stool and asked for the bartender to get him something smooth, as the man complied and went to fix up a drink. Barry threw some peanuts in his mouth in the meantime, pretty much just sliding down his bell and into his bow, even if an audible crunching sound was heard. He looked around, tired and miserable from the cold, but calmer now he was out of the storm. But whilst viewing the interior of this pub, he spotted a few instruments, playing some quiet background Jazz as people had their fun. A large piano, tall double bass, set of drums, and golden trumpet all making melodies that pleased the ears of others, but more specifically, Barry. He just watched them play intently, only looking away to grab his drink. Listening to them play jazzy swing themes, that matched the atmosphere of the bar. Hours went by as he just sat and watched them play, mesmerized by the connection he felt between himself and the others playing. But at some point, he looked at his watch and realized he had to get home for work the next day, have him working overtime which is good for the money but drains well. He paid for his now two-hour-old drink, and got down from the stool, preparing to leave the warm hold of the building interior. But was suddenly stopped by the sound of an argument, the trumpet was yelling at his band-mates for not playing well enough when they clear as day were. “ Y’all should be ashamed of yourselves! I worked hard to form this group and saved you guys from an almost certain demise! “ squawked the trumpet. He soon left the pub after grabbing his things and hollerin’ a bit more. The other instruments, sad and offended, packed up their things to leave back to their homes wherever they were in this world. They all minded their own businesses until Barry came up with a twenty in his hand, planning to cheer up the wonderful composers. “ Hey, you guys did great tonight, could really feel the rhythm in your music. Here’s a twenty, if y’all wanna split it or anything. Cheers. “ Barry began to walk off before the double bass grabbed his shoulder, he looked behind him to see the band looking at him wantingly. “ Hey, what's your name? “ asked the Drumset. “ Oh uh, Barry, Barry tone.. “ replied Barry, a bit curious as to why the band was asking. You know we could, maybe use a new lead in our band.. If you want to come and join us “ the Piano said, as they all looked at Barry with hope. “ Guys, I’d love to play with y’all but I have a job somewhere, I couldn’t fit rehearsals or practices into my schedule. “ The band looked confused towards Barry’s answer, a job? He’s clearly an instrument. “ And I mean, I don’t have an instrument, so I would have to find one and that might just be another can of worms. “ “ I thank you all for the offer, but I’m just not fit for the job. “ Barry slowly walked out of the pub, as the band members looked longingly at him, confused as to the clear truth of him being a musical instrument. Barry left the lounge and headed off on his walk back home, rain continuing to shower down upon the concrete jungle. Barry soon reached his apartment, walking in and getting himself relaxed as he prepared to pass out on his bed. He took off his tie and took a shower which mimicked the outside weather, but before he made himself some dinner he looked in the mirror for a good while. Maybe he was an instrument, I mean, he never saw anyone else with a shiny gold coating and silver musical keys that rattled when Barry yawned. But he shook it off, he had a duty and that duty was to work. So Barry went and made himself a little dinner, and sat near the balcony window, staring into the outside tiredly. Before he went to sleep, he lay in bed and again reflected on what his life truly was, before he dozed off to sleep calmly. The next few days seemed like the usual for him, work and work and work, but just with the added hint of reflection. He would stare out into space during meetings, stare at his cubicle computer blankly, and just think about who he truly was in the world. He couldn’t help it, the charm of those jazz players just felt different, he felt like somehow his life wasn’t built just for work. On his monthly day off, he did do something a bit different than the norm. One night after work he just drove up to the hills of New York, just to reflect some more upon himself. The night was peaceful, the breeze was cool, and the darkness lit up by Manhattan's many lights was a sight to behold. Other than that, he led his life in the direction it was supposed to go in, at least he assumed so. But then, just a little while later, he left work and went to that bar once more, not for a drink or relaxation, but for something else. As the Jazz members grabbed their things for the night and prepared to head out, they heard someone come into the club, someone whose keys rattled as he walked. “ Hey, I did some reflecting, and I think I’d like to join your band... “ said Barry. “ Welcome to the band, man, “ said the Double Bass, happy the band could have a new member. The bandmates all smiled towards Barry and gave him their numbers for group meetings, before leaving, taking Barry along for the ride. Our tuneful Tenor had found purpose, gone were the days where he worked and went home with no trajectory to be seen, now he worked weeks and played weekends. Soon after Barry joined, the trumpet left the group out of anger, not wanting competition for the spotlight. He also lost his home, and his wife, and his kids, but enough about him. Our shiny gold saxophone finally found a lifelong career and has been playing for just a few years now, doing spectacularly in the process.

EDGAR ALLAN POE'S FORLORN FATE

by Enby Baerg

The name of Edgar Allan Poe is timeless. Widely regarded as the Father of Horror, an unavoidable symbol in American literature. His life has been well documented, being one of the most prolific authors ever, but his death remains a mystery, even almost 200 years later. 

Poe’s career in life was rarely successful, publishing his first book at 18, while he was enlisted in the army under a fake name and age. This book, titled Tamerlane and Other Poems, was published under the moniker of “A Bostonian” and received little to no attention. When he was 20, he received “the very first words of encouragement I ever remember to have heard” from influential critic John Neal on Poe’s work entitled “Fairy-Land.” 

In 1831, Poe’s brother passed away, making Poe shift his efforts to make a living as a writer, however unsuccessful he may be. Between publications, he had to make desperate pleas for assistance, financial and otherwise, to stay afloat. After his start in poetry, he shifted towards prose, as it seemed more promising. John P. Kennedy, being brought to his attention through Poe’s literary award from The Baltimore Saturday Visiter, on which Kennedy was a judge, befriended Poe and suggested to the editor of the Southern Literary Messenger, Thomas W. White, that he should take Poe on board as assistant editor in 1835. Within a few weeks, Poe would be fired for being drunk on the job, a consistent thread through his life. He then re-obtained his job as assistant editor later that year, promising to improve his behavior. Poe stayed at the Southern Literary Messenger for two years, quintupling their circulation and publishing a chunk of his own works in it. Shortly after this, our 26-year-old Poe obtained a license to marry his 13-year-old cousin; they officially married when she was 14, in 1837, with a witness falsely testifying that she was 21. Not the greatest guy. Soon after, he moved back to New York City and joined the Evening Mirror newspaper. 5 years later, in 1842, Virginia Clemm, Poe’s cousin/wife, started to display symptoms of consumption, or tuberculosis, as we know it today. Her illness elevated Poe’s drinking problems to a new level. 

With the Evening Mirror, Poe published “The Raven” in 1845, which cemented Edgar Allan Poe as a household name. Eventually, he switched to the Broadway Journal, starting as editor and working his way up to owner. But it was not all sunshine and daisies, as he was quite the social outcast, publicly accusing Henry Wadsworth Longfellow of plagiarism, turning most of Poe’s contemporaries against himself. A few months after Poe became the owner of the Broadway Journal, it became bankrupt and failed. A year later, having never fully recovered from her first symptoms, Virginia Clemm was claimed by her consumption in 1847. Poe did not take this lightly. Though despite it, he started to court fellow poet Sarah Helen Whitman and moved to her in Rhode Island in September of 1848, but due to Poe’s incessant drinking, erratic behavior, and interference by Whitman’s mother, the engagement failed, and he moved back very quickly, the year still being 1848. He returned to his childhood sweetheart Sarah Elmira Shelton in July, who, after her father had cut the relationship between her and Poe short, had married someone else. Being now a widow, Poe and Shelton got back together, to the dismay of Shelton’s children. They never did marry, due to her late husband's will stating that she would lose part of the inheritance if she ever remarried. Perhaps even if they had every intention, they would not have had enough time. For in October of 1849, just 16 months after they reconnected, Edgar Allan Poe would be found semiconscious, in great distress and in need of immediate attention. He would die on October 7th, 1849, at 5 in the morning.

Edgar Allan Poe left Richmond, Virginia on September 27th, 1849, to move back to New York City in search of a job as an editor and the possibility to remarry. And then, he disappeared. There exists no reliable account of his journey between September 27th and October 3rd. The next we reliably know of what happened to him, he was found in Gunner’s Hall, located in Ryan’s Hotel, Baltimore (even the location is murky at best). He was wearing unfitting, uncharacteristic clothes and incredibly unwell, barely conscious. He was found by Joseph W. Walker, who Poe had urged to send a letter to Joseph E. Snodgrass, an editor with whom Poe had been acquainted. When Snodgrass arrived, he started to rent a room in which to rest Poe, but upon chatting with a “Mr. H,” who was related to Poe through marriage, they decided he would be better suited in a hospital. They briskly sent a letter to request transport to Washington College Hospital. When this carriage arrived, Poe was in such a state that he could not be helped to the carriage, and they were forced to carry him “as if he were a corpse.” During this, he was purportedly uttering “intelligible oaths, and other forms of imprecation, upon those who were trying to rescue him from destitution and disgrace.” Whatever you take that to mean. He was taken to the hospital and admitted under attending physician John J. Moran, who, over the years after Poe’s death, had doctored his tale of Poe’s time at the hospital, becoming more dramatic as he told it more and more. Sadly, his records and future testaments are quite unreliable, but it’s what we have. Unreliability is quite a through-line in Edgar Allan Poe’s last days; the location he was found in is disputed, and Joseph E. Snodgrass’ report of how he found Poe has pieces of untruth to it (he claimed he received the letter from Walker on November 1st, when in reality it was October 3rd). Being admitted, Poe was put up in a drunk tower, as to avoid disrupting the other guests, but soon after, Moran decided that he was not drunk, or under any effects of alcohol whatsoever. From his haggard appearance and his highly worn and unfitting clothing, Moran suspected that Poe was robbed and mugged shortly before being found. Later in his stay, Poe was offered a glass of brandy as a stimulant, which he uncharacteristically refused. Poe had struggled with the vice of liquor throughout his life, and being as destitute as he was now, it’s quite a shock he turned it away. Just a few days before Poe would pass, he was asked if they should send for any friends or family to visit. To this, Poe responded that “My best friend would be the man who gave me a pistol that I might blow out my brains.” 

He was not doing well. And on Sunday, November 7th, 1849, at around 5 in the morning, he passed away. His alleged last words were, “Lord, help my poor soul.” He was then placed in an unmarked grave in the Poe family plot, but thankfully, due to a diagram and oral history, we know where he was buried. He rested there for 26 years before being exhumed (not without difficulty and conspiracy, trust me) and reburied under a proper monument to him. I am happy to say he rests there to this day.

The cause of his death is still heavily disputed to this day. Theories range from alcohol, brain lesions, brain disease, congestion of the brain, heart disease, suicide, murder, cholera, an enzyme disorder, alcohol dehydrogenase deficiency syndrome, hypoglycemia, syphilis, tuberculosis, epilepsy, diabetes, rabies, and cooping—quite the range. Similarly to everything else regarding Poe’s last circumstances, there are a lot of claims from sources of various reliability. We’ll start off with the easy ones; he didn’t die of rabies or any of the fringe guess-theories. The realistic options are complications due to alcohol, heart disease, or cooping. Most likely a mixture of the three. Alcohol is quite shaky, as Snodgrass, one who has lied to quite the degree when it comes to Poe, was a temperance advocate; he was very impassioned to convince the public that Poe’s death was caused by overindulgence of alcohol and had everything to gain by lying. As well as the report from Moran that Poe had not the slightest hint of inebriation when he was brought into the hospital. So he most likely was not involved in heavy drinking around October 3rd, when he was found, but he could have had a few drinks that wore off before he was admitted to the hospital, as it is quite usual in cooping to intoxicate the victim. A quick aside: Cooping is a political strategy performed by political gangs that involves kidnapping bystanders, holding them in a room (the titular “coop”), and systematically moving them between polling booths to get many votes for one candidate. This would involve changing the victims clothing and manipulating them with alcohol and physical beatings. This theory seems to be a perfect fit, as Poe was found on an election day in a hotel that doubled as a polling location; there is a report that a Baltimore attorney received a letter claiming to have seen Poe in a coop, as well as a claim by a “Passano” affiliated with gang-cooping that it was in fact what had happened to Poe; it also explains the ill-fitting and foreign clothes he was wearing and the, frankly horrible, state he was found in. But the refuters of this theory claim that, as Poe was quite well known in the Baltimore area, he would have been recognized in one of the voting areas, and, to the research I did, there is no concrete evidence of the alleged letter or existence of such testimony.

We most likely will never know the true happenings around famed poet Edgar Allan Poe’s death, but we do know that he was very unwell, in both mind and body. He channeled this into his works, a true passion he had quite the tenacity for. Most importantly, he will be remembered not for his life or his death but for his monstrous contribution to the literary canon and the influence he left on the world. Even in his short 40 years of life, he managed to become the father of horror and write some of the most fundamental works of fiction. There’s quite a lot to learn about Edgar Allan Poe, and if you are at all interested, I would recommend eapoe.org, the source I used for most of this article. I’d advise you to stay away from Wikipedia on this topic. I came across a lot of unsubstantiated and disproven claims, as well as inadequate information.