- Goethe
The man looked out of place as he somewhat diffidently approached the counter and browsed curiously at the selection of cakes, cookies and other confections on display inside the glass case. He lifted his gaze to the list of hot and cold beverages posted on the wall, cocking his head as he mulled over the choices. He had a haggard face, tinged with fatigue, and dominated by a large forehead and a pair of sunken blue eyes underscored by deep crescents. His delicate nose was perfectly straight, in contrast to his small, slightly-lopsided mustache, which matched his mop of dark, tousled hair. He was clad in a thick, black, double-breasted suit, buttoned all the way to the top. A white cravat clung loosely around his throat. Tucked under his left arm was a large, tattered notebook.
A girl of about 19 approached him from the other side of the counter. She wore a dark green apron embroidered with the name of the establishment. The chewing gum in her mouth popped and cracked loudly. “Can I help you?” she asked.
The man flinched upon noticing a thin metal shaft skewering her right eyebrow, then again when he saw the shiny steel ball protruding from the center of the her tongue.
“Can I help you?” she repeated, with a hint of annoyance.
“Yes,” the man replied. “I think that I shall have a. . .Oh, let me see. Do you have any plain coffee?”
Her index finger rapidly poked several buttons on a dull gray machine, which responded by beeping loudly. “$1.49,” she said.
Unbuttoning his suit coat, the man reached inside and produced a large billfold, which he set down on the counter and opened. He carefully pulled out two oversized bills, old and discolored. Picking up one of the bills carefully, she held the money up to the light and stared in fascination.
“This is cool,” she said. “Where did you get these?”
“At the bank,” he replied uncomprehendingly.
“Neat,” she said, and punched several more buttons on the machine before handing the man two quarters and a penny. Without looking at them, the man scooped up the coins, and thanked her. He was puzzled by her monosyllabic response, which he could only surmise meant “You’re welcome.”
“Yup.”
With his tattered notebook in tow and his cup of black coffee in one hand, the man walked to the escalator, then paused apprehensively as if he were peering over the edge of a steep precipice. He cautiously stepped onto the ascending platform, never taking his eyes off of his feet until they were planted firmly on the stationary floor upstairs. He made his way to a small section arranged with six rows of chairs. Sitting in the front, he took a sip of his bitter, black coffee, and began leafing through the pages of his notebook, mumbling as he read aloud.
The chairs began filling quickly, and within 15 minutes, there was not one empty seat. Taking another sip of his coffee, the man glanced around the room, confused by the people he saw. A wooden podium had been set up opposite the chairs, and a tall, attractive woman with short blonde hair began fiddling with a metal baton capped with a mesh-like ball. The man winced when she tapped on the device several times with her index finger, producing a loud, thumping sound.
“Hello,” she said. “Can everybody hear me?”
“Yes,” several people shouted.
The man’s attention lapsed for about five minutes, and when the woman had concluded her introduction, he realized that he hadn’t heard a word that she had said. Applause roused him from his reverie, and he saw a short, heavy lady of about 60, wearing a long blue dress and a pearl necklace, standing behind the podium. She opened a thick green binder, and began reading.
The man leaned back in his chair, attempting to absorb what he was hearing. Her words were clear and coherent, but they didn’t seem to form any logical ideas or even focus on any particular subject. She was just rambling. Maybe there was some mistake. He looked around once more, trying to verify that he was in the right place at the right time. Had it been scheduled for 7:00 a.m., instead? No, that would have been absurd. Who would attend at 7:00 in the morning? He doubted that the place was even open then.
“. . .floating up toward heaven like tiny, opalescent bubbles, and filled with the hope that they, too, would eventually reach perfection. Seeing them in their pristine flight, the child breathes a deep sigh of contentment, wondering if she will ever be able to float so high, to attain such a perfect. . .”
The man shifted several times in his chair. What was the point of this inane babbling? Was this woman giving a lecture? Was she reading from her diary? Even more confusing were the expressions of awe and reverence from the audience. “Wow.” “Incredible.” “Beautiful.” He glanced out the window to see if there was a rainbow or some other natural phenomenon that the others had observed, but saw nothing except passing motor cars and street lights that changed from green to yellow to red.
“. . .and I imagine that I see myself in everything, feel myself in everything, recognize some deep, hidden part of my inner essence, in even the most mundane, trivial and. . .”
He opened up his notebook again and flipped through the pages, trying to decide what he would read. In the meantime, the woman in the blue dress droned on.
“. . .and seeing at last, out of the shadows which surround her, out of the darkness which threatens to envelop the dawn, out of the sickness which seems to eclipse health, the light of all eternity. It is a light which. . .”
An entire week seemed to pass over the course of 30 minutes. The man wondered if he was the target of some weird practical joke. Was Griswold somehow behind this? He sighed, a little too loudly, for his exhalation drew several irritated glances. Folding his arms, he settled back in his seat, prepared for a long evening.
“. . .and I often said to my grandmother, ‘I know that you are old, and that you will leave me soon.’ She did not reply, but smiling softly, merely reached down and patted me on the head. And I saw in those sparkling, wise old gray eyes the wisdom of all the ages, both past and future.”
She paused and looked up proudly, her eyes beaming. Thunderous applause erupted, punctuated by cheers and assorted whistles. “Fantastic,” he heard one woman in the audience say. “Bravo!” someone else shouted.
Restless, the man closed his notebook, pulled out a gold pocket watch, and flipped the cover open. 7:55. Maybe they were running late. Nudging the man next to him, he asked, “Excuse me, do you know what time the poetry reading begins?”
After a brief interlude during which the tall blonde woman asked if anyone in the audience wanted to share something, a stream of insufferable hacks took the podium, one after the other. Some of them seemed to have just strung together a list of words which they had selected randomly from the dictionary. There was no rhythm, no meter, and no rhyme. And always, the readers were followed by loud applause and copious praise.
Finally, his turn came. He was greeted by polite, obligatory applause as he made his way to the podium. “Welcome,” the tall blonde woman said to him. “I like your costume,” she added.
“What costume?” he replied, prompting a burst of raucous laughter from the audience. What was the matter with these people? Whatever their problem was, it mattered little. He would recite something that would render all of them spellbound, the very piece which had won him so much acclaim. Opening his notebook to a dog-eared page, he began reading in a loud, unwavering voice, trembling mildly as he reached a crescendoed pitch near the end of the final stanza.
Maybe he should have expected the weak reception that followed, particularly after what he had heard up until now. These individuals hardly seemed the types that would appreciate the artistic subtleties of trochaic tetrameter. Still, the nearly-total dearth of applause stung him like cold, pelting autumn rain.
“May I ask you something, dude?”
The question came from a fellow seated in the back row. He wore a white, short-sleeved cotton shirt with a strange design on it, ragged blue jeans and a backwards baseball cap.
“Dude?” the man repeated.
“Why are you like, so hung up on rhyme?” he said. “I mean, when we were like, in first grade, that was all cool and stuff. But now. . .”
“Yeah, and I didn’t get the whole thing with the talking bird,” a teen-aged girl said. “it was like, too psychedelic for me. Plus, why did it keep on saying the same thing?”
“Plus, the whole piece is kind of sing-songy,” someone else said.
“Yeah, what she said.”
The man turned bright red. “What do you mean ‘sing-songy?’” he snapped.
“Poetry as an art form has matured,” the tall blonde woman explained. “By adhering to such strict form, you’re really limiting yourself. You’re not allowing yourself to reach your full potential.”
“Madame, I’ll have you know that I have published a great deal of poetry and fiction in my time,” he retorted.
“And that’s fine,” she said. “but you really need to pay more attention to what’s going on around you. Get with the times.” Then her tone softened a bit, and she told the audience. “Let’s give him a big hand, anyway.”
Livid, the man settled back into his seat and crossed his arms defiantly. He was still sitting there an hour later when the staff began taking away the chairs. Finally, the girl with the pierced tongue and eyebrow told him that they were closing, and that he would have to leave.
He returned the following week, bought another cup of acrid coffee from the café downstairs, and sat in the exact same spot at precisely 6:45 p.m. He recognized some of the people from last Wednesday, and a couple even proffered polite greetings, to which he responded in kind. The tall blonde once again initiated the evening’s festivities, and the man sat stone-faced through approximately an hour of doggerel.
Finally he approached the podium, holding a brand new notebook with a sleek black cover.
“Hello,” the tall blonde woman said. “I hope that we weren’t too hard on you last time.”
“Not at all, madame, “ he replied, and opening the new black notebook, began reading.
“In the light of the evening, through the pale darkness, I glimpse a face. It is not a face I know, and yet, it is not a face with which I am entirely unfamiliar. I approach the face, which begins to hover above me, at first smiling, then weeping, then openly mocking me with its scornful red mouth. I cry to the face ‘Tell me who you are, floating face!’ but it does not answer, and yet, I know that it is listening, hovering on every bitter word. Finally it smiles with its gently-mocking, androgynous appearance, and I hear the words in my head more so than with my ears. ‘I am you. I am every man, every woman, and every child,’ he/she/it tells me. I am the world at war, and I am the world at peace. I am that which pleases and displeases, and I need not give anything in return.’ ”
Concluding with a flourish, the man stepped out from behind the podium and bowed to the audience, who clapped and cheered wildly. When the applause finally subsided, he asked politely, “Did you all find that enlightening?”
“Oh, yes, absolutely.” “That was great, man.” “You were really right on target this time.”
“So I hope that we’ll be seeing and hearing more from you,” the tall blonde woman said.
He snapped the black notebook shut, and stood at attention. Then raising the notebook high, he hurled it over the heads of the astonished audience, striking a large window 30 feet behind them.
“Nevermore,” he hissed. Turning abruptly on his heel, he marched to the escalator, descended to the first floor, stormed out the front doors, and literally disappeared into the night.
No comments:
Post a Comment