fundamental human principles

Last weekend I went to one of those open mike nights where you get up and read your poetry in front of a bunch of espresso drinkers.

I read a piece about a cheerful but clueless ex-girlfriend whose favorite phrase was "to be continued, the saga continues.".

As I read, my voice shook. I couldn’t wait to finish. It was a pretty hostile poem, I guess. It was probably my get-even poem. I wrote about how she would always use her Cute Girl Voice to get me to do things and leave neurotic messages on my voicemail at 3 a.m. like, "I don’t know why you’re not answering your phone but I’m just gonna be standing out here on the curb in front of your building so when you get this message you’ll know where to find me…"

When I got off the stage, I was dumbfounded to find my clueless but cheerful ex-girlfriend leaning against a wall.

"Well," she said, lighting an herbal cigarette. "That was an interesting spin on our history…"

I had a million lame excuses jogging through my mind but I didn’t want to appear too defensive, given the gravity of her smirk, so I simply muttered something inaudible, hung my head in embarrassment, and prayed that I’d get out of there with my balls intact.

"You have serious f*****g anger management issues," she said.

I shrugged.

"…Next thing you know you’re gonna tell me ‘it’s only a fucken poem.’…I’m ‘onna show you a poem…"

Then, walking to the front of the room, she stood in front of the mike, cocky as s**t.

"I call this one ‘Who the F**k is Chico?’… ’His eyes so deeply dark, dark like coal… he looks at you, he’s very proud, he never bends his eyes…every child thinks of death from time to time, I think that’s quite natural, but I should say he thinks about death much more than others, just because he feels different and weaker than other people… people want to touch him, to look at him, to observe him…in the background of his self-portrait he draws a shadow and that’s the shadow of the devil…he’s drinking…when he runs out of wine, he begins to consume turpentine…candles are lit… a Bach fugue plays on the phonograph…I watch in awe as he produces a knife and attacks the portrait…with rare violence he cuts the paper and says, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you…! And then he takes a brush, red paint, and paints blood around the scars…’"

The audience gave her a standing ovation. I don’t know why. I didn’t think it was that great. I certainly didn’t think it deserved a standing ovation.

As she brushed passed me she said, "Touché, m**********r," and headed for the exit.

Stupidly, I followed her."Why’d you use my name?" I said.

She blew a cloud of smoke into the chill night. "Nobody knows who you are…"

"I didn’t use your name…"

"Hunh," she said.

There was so much adrenalin pumping through me I didn’t know what the hell to say…that was the way it always was with us…I think that was why we broke up.

"Do you know what the secret to being a hero is?" she said.

"What’s that?"

"Reluctance… and being able to act in an appropriately violent manner…"

I shook my head. "I still don’t understand a damn thing you say…"

"Hey, I’m the product of 7 different foster homes," she said. "Me and Norma Jean…"

"Who?"

"Marilyn Monroe."

It started to sprinkle.

She offered her hand, I shook it.

"Keep writing," she said.

"You too."

She hailed a cab, got in, and told the driver to take her to the airport.

"Where you going?" I said.

"Hawaii…"

"How come?"

"Leave me alone," she said. "I’m tired of your a*s…"

And she drove off. Like an idiot I stood there, soaking wet, thinking, these are just fundamental human principles…Luckily I held my tongue.

Like I had a choice.　

Reviews

[roarke]

Yeah… it’s like that, all of that. And in a word, RUN…lol Passive aggressive stalker with homicidal tendencies. But on another note, your dialogue is very natural, easy to read, and turbo charges the narrative. Are these excerpts of a larger story, or one offs?

[Philip Gaber]

They're one-offs. I read a lot of Neil Simon and Woody Allen. Always wanted to write plays and screenplays. Then I exited the highway and got sidetracked. No idea what town I ended up in.

[roarke]

I know the feeling…and the scenery keeps changing in spite of the location. I started out using photographs and coming up with “stories” to fit them. Opinion was, they weren’t exactly stories… and I thought, why not? Well thats a long journey story in itself. But today I’m taking my own photographs, and see writing narratives along with them as just another form of literature in the modern internet age of things… if thats a thing at all.

[Philip Gaber]

Cool beans!

[Philip Gaber]

Hey, how do you make your bio longer? Do you have to upgrade your account or something?

[roarke]

Hm, I don’t know. I didn’t realize there was a word count limit. Sorry, I don’t know. I have always just used the free account.

[Philip Gaber]

Yeah, I'm not paying if that's what it requires

[roarke]

This site is different than it was 13 years ago, less people seriously writing to get better, more annoying ads, more bad poetry, and my motto: you get out of it what you put into it…. No one does that as much here anymore. But hey, a couple older members have been posting again, so maybe WC will shine again.

[Philip Gaber]

OK, that's encouraging...I think?