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 many 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 o’clock in the morning 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. Still, 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 ‘gonna 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 profoundly 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 that I didn’t know what to say…that was the way it always was with us…I think that was why we broke up.

 

“Do you know the secret to being a hero?” 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, and 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 fundamental human principles…

 

Luckily, I held my tongue.

 

Like I had a choice.