A smattering of applause accompanies a short, slightly-pudgy man as he takes the stage clutching an untidy sheaf of papers. He bobs his head at the audience, and, thrusting the papers under one arm, grapples with the microphone stand, sliding the mike up and down fussily. Two sheets of paper detach themselves from the rest and drift away, unnoticed by the poet. They go scudding over the edge of the stage like leaves in a gust of autumn wind. The man in the chili pepper apron captures them on the bottom stage step and holds them up to the poet, who ignores him and continues toying with the microphone. The man in the apron hesitates, shrugs, and places the papers on the top step of the stage.
With the microphone finally adjusted at the level of his trim goatee, the poet places his papers on the rickety table, and, thumbing through the stack, selects a poem. He holds it carefully between the thumbs and forefingers of both hands, clears his throat, and swallows. Closing his eyes, he throws his head back dramatically and recites:
Racing with the wind
Racing the moon
Pulses racing
We pulse, pulse, pulse...
The poet swings his body from side to side on each “pulse,” drawing the words out in a wail. He pauses, lowers his head gravely, opens his eyes slowly, glances at his sheet of paper, then flings his head back again, eyes clenched shut against the sight of steam pipes and track lights hanging from the ceiling.
Sandy bodies dancing
In tune with ancient rhythms
Your rhythm diurnal
Mine nocturnal . . .
Across the room, the stout woman churns on her narrow chair, her mouth open slackly. Good grief, what is this? He looks like a chicken taking a drink of water...and what is this poem even about? Whew! It’s warm in here. She tugs at the scarf around her neck, drawing it out from under her collar in a long, ribbony movement, then pulls her plump arms out of her coat sleeves. The coat slumps against the back of her chair. Is it hot in here, or is it just me? She scans the audience, but everyone else seems comfortably cool, even chilly. The couple in front of her lean companionably together, their arms draped across one another’s shoulders. The boy in the Nike jacket is practically wrapped around the blonde girl next to him, and a man at the table to her left hugs himself and hunches over his coffee cup as if for warmth. The stout woman pulls the neckline of her dress away from her collarbones and takes the menu out of its little metal holder on the table. She fans herself with the “Hot Flash Special of the Day” advertisement.
At the center table, Becky catches the waiter’s eye, points at the empty bowl in front of her, and silently mouths “More salsa.” She checks her makeup with the aid of the small mirror in her purse as the waiter creeps to the table, bending low so as not to disturb the view of the stage. Becky erases a tiny speck of smeared lipstick with the tip of her little finger and arches her eyebrows experimentally, finding approval in her reflection. The waiter places another bowl of green chili salsa at her elbow, and Becky munches and listens to the poet with only half an ear. She thinks about the guitarist, Butch Tendler, and imagines him already on the stage, stroking his guitar and gazing deep into the audience where she sits.
The poet reads on. He exchanges page for page, working his way methodically through the stack on the table. Now his poems bend toward mythology: references to Zeus, Persephone, and Odysseus dot his pages and roll from his tongue. His body swoons in creative ecstasy, and still he addresses the ceiling:
All glistening his Diana came
Parthenonic glory his due
Rampant griffin, he
Eschewing the lambskin sheath . . .
The crouching waiter delivers a basket of corn ships to the table nearest the stage. As he passes the stairs, he gently nudges the two escapee-poems off the top step and onto his tray, then bears them off into the kitchen.
When the first reader and his stack of poems are finally spent, he bows low to the polite applause, gathers his papers, and steps down. A woman sitting near the base of the stage jumps to her feel and skips up the steps to the microphone. She's near middle age, slender. "I'm Monica Vandervoss," she says into the microphone. She takes a breath and reads:
Tonight I lie between two runners
Two dreamers in a raceSmall stirrings flick my consciousness
Tease me from sleep
Small breaths caress.
One tiny, furred body, twitching
Pursues ball or mouse
Each night she runs, starts, sniffs
Curls again around my ankles
In her familiar place.
A purring comforter....
Well, this is a little more like it. At least you can tell what it’s about. A tear forms in the corner of the stout woman’s eye. Poor Bootsie. I miss her so. That stupid Sharla...“just get another one.” She never understood. She blinks hard, and the tear hangs itself in the web of her lower lashes. She bunches her scarf into a soft puddle on the table and squeezes the material between her fingers. Monica continues:
No comfort, love,
Is your mysterious race.
You run, warm body restless.
Long muscles tense, release...
Cherie can feel Karl’s heartbeat through his Nike jacket. She’s turned completely away from Nadine now. he two women perch back-to-back on their stools, one intent on Monica’s picture-words, the other on the pressure of Karl’s wordless wooing.
What do you pursue,
What bliss or demon drives your dream?
Do you run
Toward or away from me?
Under the table, Hamp takes Becky’s left hand and draws it toward him, pressing it gently. He runs his fingertip over the silky surfaces of her long nails.
But Becky is only peripherally aware of his caresses. She’s also abandoned her daydream about Butch Tendler. Intruding on these pleasant romanticisms is a very unromantic sensation in her stomach and lower abdomen. Becky sits up a little straighter in her chair, puts down her salsa-heavy corn chip, and takes a deep breath, holding it a second or two before exhaling. The sensation in her stomach abates briefly, then returns with increasing insistence. Now she’s aware of a definite churning feeling, and for a moment she has a disquieting vision of a cement mixer whirling with a load of gravelly beans, chips, and slushy salsa.
“Everything okay, Beck?” Hamp leans low and close, looking into her face. “Beck?”
“Shhh. I’m fine. Listen to the poem.” Becky listens to her rumbling stomach. “Amy! Where’s the restroom?” she whispers across the table.
Amy points at a yellow door in the wall next to the stage steps. “But you can’t go now,” she whispers back. “You have to walk, like, right in front of the stage. Wait ‘til the break, and I’ll go with you.”
“Never mind.” Becky makes a dismissive, waving motion, and Amy turns her attention back to the poet.
Monica has passed on to poems about aging and loneliness, and the room grows even quieter. Lovers cuddle their chairs together; friends touch each other’s hands reassuringly. The stout woman’s face and neck flame hotly, and she suppresses a sob, putting her elbow on the table and dropping her chin into her cupped palm. The corners of her mouth turn down, pulled by the weight of her sadness.
Karl seizes advantage of the moment and snakes his arm around Cherie’s waist. He whispers her name against her ear. Hamp renews his stroking of Becky’s creamed and scented hand, worrying a little at her unresponsiveness. Becky is unaware of everything but her internal distress. Her arm lies across her lap, circling her belly protectively.
At last Monica finishes her poetry and lowers the last page in front of her. The audience looses a rendering sigh, then a burst of applause. Monica nods her thanks and descends the stage steps, pulling the front edges of her jacket together across her chest. At the bottom of the steps, she pauses to accept a hug from a man whose large hands continue to clap even as his arms encircle her, then she rejoins her friends and sips her drink while the applause and murmurs subside.
