Open Mic at Brands & Nichol

Three other baristas were needed to pry me off the fourth one –a scrawny, pimply-faced redhead of about 19. His name tag read “Donald.” How I managed to vault over the counter and tackle the kid I don’t know. But in 15 seconds I had Donald locked in a combined half nelson and chokehold. My defense is justifiable assault. I don’t know whether they have that in Pennsylvania, but they should.

My mood was already compromised when I approached the snack counter at Brands & Nichol Booksellers in Glenside. The store held poetry readings the second Saturday of every month. First came a featured reader, who droned on for about 30 minutes, and then an open mic, where poet wannabees droned on for “no more than five minutes” apiece. Not to say that there were no talented poets there; Steve Barnes and I were regulars.

My name was fourth on the coveted open mic sign-up sheet, and I had prepared three superior pieces –a sonnet, a pantoum and a villanelle, respectively. Formal, rigidly-regulated poetry frees my creative spirit. Contradictory, yes, but true.

No fewer than three times did the P.A. interrupt my sonnet. “Important” announcements concerning the new prune smoothie available at the snack counter, an upcoming book-signing by some clown who also happened to be poet laureate of a dinky little borough, and ironically, an invitation to “join us every second Saturday for a poetry reading and open mic.” By the second stanza of my villanelle, I was steaming like a café mocha. And strangely in the mood for one.

Gwen Gilliam, our group moderator, suggested a break two poets later. I and a slew of lesser scribes lined up at the snack counter. Steve and I tried to hold a conversation. But Donald the barista would have none of it.

“Excuse me, sir. What kind of milk would you like in your beverage? Non-fat, two percent or whole milk?”

“Uh, two percent, I guess.”

I turned back to Steve. “So I always thought that Langston Hughes was saying . . .”

“We also have soy milk,” Donald interjected.

“No, thank you.”

Again to Steve. “ . . . was that the African American 

community . . . ”

The kid came at me again. “Would you care for cinnamon sprinkled on top?”

“No cinnamon,” I growled. To Steve, “What was I saying?”

Steve opened his mouth to speak, but not before Donald opened his.

“Do you like whipped cream?”

“I don’t care.”

“A cherry, perhaps?”

“No!”

“Did you know that if you order a medium beverage next time, you’ll get a card that entitles you to a freebie, after you purchase- Yikes!”

Blast off. Donald froze as my five-foot five, 175-pound frame flew at him. Latching my middle-aged arms around him, I applied pressure.

Steve was horrified. “Adam, what are you doing to him?

I grinned evilly. “I call this ‘the Coffee Clutch.’”

Truthfully, I didn’t really hurt Donald, despite his whining. I just scared him a little.

Well, here comes the guard! Looks like it’s time for my arraignment. I hope that the judge doesn’t ask me too many questions.