I'm stressed.
I'm fucking stressed to death. I'm worried beyond worry about going to the Perch Cafe. I'm anxious out the fucking door. I don't know what to do with myself. I take my drugs early just to get the fucking LYRICA into my bloodstream, but that shit's not doing too well. I could be taking a placebo for all I know. That shit is still not working. I'm on pins and needles here. I've done everything before. Why should I be so nervous. I've lived in Brooklyn for the majority of my life. What the fuck is wrong with me. I've done interviews before, I've grown used to them. It's not that. There might be a reading tonight, but I've done readings before. That's nothing crucial. But here I am in a state of panic. My hands and the soles of my feet are wringing with sweat. I'm beside myself.
I stand up and check and double check my shit, my poems, my recorder. I get dressed and shut down my baby and head out. First stop, the pharmacy at Duane Reade.
Well I get there before these bunch of mental defectives and ask the counter guy for my prescription. He asks me to write down my name and birthday. Why my birthday is needed, I don't know. He goes on a search for the Nile, and comes back with : "What is your first name?" I tell him and he comes up with the prescription. "They had it under your second name." Great, can I have them now, I'm dying here. That COLCHICINE is going to feel so good going down. He has a problem with the register and calls the manager. "Could you step aside please while I help other customers?" I step aside, look at my watch. It's been five minutes.
The manager appears and uses a key to unlock the register and the Counter Guy presses a few buttons and then takes the medicine into the back. I know what that means: these eggheads or going to have a problem with something. Sure enough Counter Guy returns. "Have you had any changes in your insurance?" No. "Can I get your insurance card?" I hand it over. He disappears into the great time warp I call the back room. Another five minutes passes. I read my book. The pharmacist looks up from the bay window that separates the back from the front counter. "I'm working on this, sir." Then buries his face into his computer screen. I wait and wait as another five minutes passes by. Look gang. I've got somewhere to be. Can I get my insurance card back? "One sec!" Another pharmacist jumps in and studies the computer screen. My card is passed to her. Three minutes pass by. Look, I've got to go, can I have my card back and we'll deal with this tomorrow. The Counter Guy produces my insurance card and I make myself scarce.
I limp down the stairs of the 96th street station, and hop the Way all the way into Brooklyn. Not all that far into the borough. It's in a ritzy section called Park Slope, filled with yuppies and business executives. There was little or no danger of being mugged, plus I'm a pretty imposing figure walking down the street. Like a huge, walking doughnut, you'd never know which way I'd roll. I make it to the Perch Cafe and the reading has already begun. An editor from some publishing company was giving a lecture, so naturally, the place was packed to the rafters with non-poets. All unfamiliar faces jammed into a tiny space. I kept my distance. Just in front of me is one of the people that I'm supposed to interview. Charles B...CB for short. I tap him on the shoulder, smile and say hi, and he grimaces back, "She's in the front." He hooks a thumb over his shoulder and then walks off.
Wow. Maybe he doesn't want to be interviewed after all. I get those types. They do the interview just to be kind, but inwardly they don't want to be bothered. I stand there waiting for the inevitable. The moment that this woman finishes, this place will empty out, leaving nothing but the poets. And sure enough, this happened. The bodies in the space vanished, leaving a smattering of poets. The other half of my interviewees approaches: Elise. I follow her to the front of the restaurant, snatching a second glass of wine from the counter to take with me. CB is seated behind a table and Elise sits next to him. I sit across from them and set up my recorder between us, then I go into my usual spiel and we get started with the interview.
It doesn't take long. CB is gracious, Elise attentive and excited. It goes well. Probably one of the livelier interviews that I've had. I say my goodnights after the interview and return to the bar, to get my free glass of wine. You see if you buy two glasses you get a 'buyback'. I read my book on Henry Miller, and I come across this interesting quote:
"Tropic of Cancer had a painful birth. Henry had begun writing it during his vagabond stage, burdened by the feeling that he needed to make up for lost time. 'My one consolation' he told me one day, 'is that Cervantes, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and Marcel Proust were all older than me when they got going.' He didn't want to let a single day go by without writing." Interesting. Not only do I feel the same way, I'm older than Miller and I'm in my 'vagabond' stage. Am I likening myself to Henry Miller. Oh I don't know. I'm just stating comparisons here. I'm not the first feeling this way. I'm not original. As mad as some may believe that I am, I'm struggling with my madness. I'm struggling with trying to be an author, which is mad. As my fellow human being, Mr. Bill would say: "A writer? What makes me different than the million or so writers that are already out there that would want to hear what I have to say/what I go through daily/what I read about daily? I can write like Jack Kerouac, but living in a shack deep in the heart of Mexico comsuming mass amounts of hallucinogenic drugs doesn't appeal to me. (Maybe Minnesota? heh heh heh.)"
What makes me different? Or am I one bit of flotsam in a sea of debris? What if I live in an SRO for the rest of my flaming life? What if I'm not 'discovered' to be one of the great writers of the Twentieth century? What if I'm not even discovered as a writer? What if I live my life in complete obscurity?
I ponder this at a bar in Brooklyn. The night crowding in.
I ponder this because this is my life.
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2009/01/another-choke-hold.html
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