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The Great Poet Hits on Me

By Bob Oswald

"I looked, over shoulder, to my friend Alex--'Where'd that girl go? The blonde one dressed as a witch. I know she was looking at me... I'm gonna go talk to her.'"

I was a witch for Halloween this year. I wanted to go with something sexy, but not slutty and stupid like a cat or a playboy bunny. "Witch" is kind of hot, but empowering, too, so I went to the store, bought the "short" witch skirt (they had three sizes--long, short, and extra short), and a big pointy hat with bright, glittery tinsel stars and moons wrapped around it on a gold string. When I got it home I realized it came with fishnet stockings; I wasn't sure if that was really something a witch would wear, but I figured it was a party, so what the hell. I think it looked pretty cute--I went with Myrna and Rob. Myrna dressed up as a Raggedy Ann, by the way, you should have seen it. She's kind of a big girl, but it looked really sweet on her. And of course Rob went as some bloody thing with one of those big grim reaper weapons.

The party was pretty typical; I don't think I need to go into detail. It was in this kid's garage, but he lived next to the softball park so it kind of spilled out into the park and street around it. And there was a lot of alcohol. People were already throwing up by the time we got there. Anyway, I didn't know many of the kids, but Myrna saw some people she recognized from poetry readings and stuff--one of them was the great poet, but I didn't know it was him, yet. He was thin and pale, kind of looking at me, but he didn't work up the guts to come over and talk until he had downed a few drinks. Rob started to drink his beers--I waited and talked to Myrna.

Then the great poet sauntered up, you know, half swagger, half stagger-- "Hi there, I don't think we've met."

"I know you," said Myrna. "You read at Joe's."

"Oh, are you a poet?" said the great poet. Myrna went red. "Are those beers up for grabs?"--Rob. He had already finished all of his.

The great poet shrugged. Rob went to get one.

He sat down on the bench next to me.

"You're a pretty little witch."

I edged away. "What are you supposed to be?"

"I'm nothing."

"It's Halloween, you have to be something." I like to get them talking.

He did something strange, then, he kind of turned his head down to the bottle of wine in his hands, staring at the floor and his feet. I had guessed he was one of Myrna's people, but like I said, I didn't know he was the great poet yet. I probably wouldn't have pressed him on it if I had known. You know how everyone says those people are.

He shrugged again; he had this way of shrugging and giving this kind of innocent little boy look, with one raised eyebrow--"I'm a poet, then. I'm Charles Bukowski, the greatest American poet who ever lived. Get it? I'm a poet, and I'm drunk. That's my costume."

"I guess that's all it takes."

Then Myrna said something about Bukowski, and her and the great poet started babbling about writing and literary stuff, and what they were reading. Myrna said she was reading some guy, I think his name started with a "B," and the great poet got all disgusted and started ranting about how he didn't read that aristocratic nonsense any more, about rich European people and whatnot. And the whole time this conversation was going on, Myrna was on one side of me, and the great poet was on the other, so they were talking and arguing right over me, right past my chest, right through me.

Rob came back and sat down on the bench across from me.

"Some scrawny kid almost got his ass kicked back there," he said, motioning toward the bar (which was actually a workbench, bottles of Aftershock standing like red mountain peaks in piles of sawdust--tan snow) with his beer bottle.

"That's C--." The great poet was done with his spiel on aristocratic novels. Myrna was sitting there with a foul look on her face. "He can take care of himself."

"He almost got in a fight with like five big guys," said Rob.

"You think literary guys can't hold their own?"--the great poet was standing up. "I just beat some guy's ass the other day. I saw him hitting his girlfriend, and I dont stand for that. So I came up behind him, and all I had was a copy of Nabokov's Ada. Now that's a big book, so I whacked him over the back of the head with it. Hit the dude so hard he was probably talking Russian for a week after."

None of us really knew what to say. It was a ridiculous story, but he told it like gospel truth. For an instant I wondered whether we had just witnessed a poem.

Finally, Rob--"Oh. Well, anyway, it looks like they settled down over there."

The great poet glanced drunkenly over at the bar and stared a second, then nodded, satisfied. He sat down again, closer to me than before. I edged over so close to Myrna that our hips were practically touching.

"Yeah, it's stupid, anyway," said the great poet. "Everyone's got something to prove."

"I thought you didn't read aristocratic nonsense," said Myrna. Sometimes she surprises me.

"Huh?"

"Ada. It's about rich European people."

"Oh, yeah. I wasn't really reading it. I just read the sexy parts and skipped over the rest." But his face was getting red; I could tell. Then again, it was a little hot in the garage.

I got up--"It's hot. Let's go outside."

Myrna stood and so did the great poet, even though I wasn't talking to him. Rob left to go do shots with "some guys from the team" who he had seen over by the bar. I didn't care.

Rob drinks a lot but he's a bore at parties. Actually he's a bore most of the time anyway, you know? He won't sit still and he usually winds up abandoning me, which is why I bring Myrna along. Myrna's kind of cynical, I guess, but she'll stick close to you if you're together. She gets that cynicism from being big, I think; she has to compensate for not having guys drool all over her.

On our way out the door, the great poet put his hand on my back, being drunk was the unspoken excuse. I could feel how warm he was through the cheap nylon costume. Out of pity, I almost decided to give him a shot.

"I need a drink," I said. The great poet almost leaped but I didn't give him the chance--"Myrna, would you go get us a drink, and make sure Rob isn't getting too drunk?"

I wouldn't have done it, for Myrna's sake, but I could see in her eyes, the disgustful look, if that's even a word, that she had no respect at all for the great poet anymore. He was the kind of guy Myrna would normally gush over, but the thing about aristocratic novels had really burned her up. She does have an eye for falseness.

So we stood there, silent under the cold moon, black clouds hanging low over our heads, watching Myrna's red yarn hair bob back into the garage. The only noises outside were the crickets, cars going by, and someone throwing up in the distance, somewhere in the back yard.

"Let's walk." As hot as I could tell he was for me, he was drunk and more bravado than anything; I knew I was in charge. I'm used to it.

We wandered into the softball park and found a spot near the bleachers, within sight of the party but just far enough. The grass was cold and a little wet, but my witch skirt was waterproof. The great poet leaned back on his elbows. I decided I'd let him kiss me but nothing else. I started to talk about something, I forget, it really doesn't matter; it was nothing. Time passed; it seemed to get warmer out, or maybe we were just getting used to the cold. And then I leaned into him. He was one of those passive guys who don't try to put their arm around you, but donât move away when you get close. Sort of an "I'm holding you but not with my arm" kind of feeling. I started to wonder if I had read him wrong; he was a poet after all, maybe more complex or sensitive than most guys. Maybe I was making him uncomfortable. I went for broke and stuck my face right into his. He took the bait and kissed me.

It wasn't a dry kiss or a wet kiss; it wasn't much of a kiss at all. A few moments passed locked in one of those continuous, make-out kisses where there isn't separation of one kiss from the next, except for a pause for breath when you look into the other person's eyes, foreheads touching, leaning together. I got the feeling that it was happening all over the world; at that instant, I was only one girl out of many who were going through the whole kissing ritual.

Time must have passed. I heard Myrna yell, but it was too late; Rob's boot had already landed in the great poet's side.

"Get up you little faggot and stop messing around with my girl."

"Rob. Jesus Christ. Go get in the car; I'm taking you home."

He didn't even look at me. Not even a "stay out of this, it's between me and him." It didn't matter.

The great poet got up, slowly; his back was covered in wet grass. He wasn't quite as drunk as Rob, but not nearly as aggressive. He didn't say anything. I couldn't even see his face. He was holding his side and he couldn't stand up quite straight; it looked like Rob had broken something. For a second the two of them were eyeing each other down like that; Rob heaving and wild eyed, the great poet clutching his side, twisting his shirt in his fist. And then he collapsed on the ground next to me, rolled over and curled up in a ball. Myrna grabbed Rob from behind and yanked him back. I got down on one knee to see if the great poet was all right; I could hear Myrna starting to curse Rob out for being a brute and a savage and all of those other words she uses for people who attack others.

"I'm OK,"--the great poet shivered in the wet night grass, turning his face into it as I tried to get close to him.

"I have to take these kids home," I said.

"Can I see you again?" he could hardly even talk, but, imagine. I guess that's what make some people poets; they think about the wrong thing at inappropriate times.

"We'll be in touch," I said.

I took Myrna home; Rob was quiet the whole way. When we got to his house, he broke down and started whining apologies, saying he only did it because I looked so beautiful and it made him so crazy with desire and all of that. I told him to go to hell. I haven't talked to him since, which makes, what, two days? I'll probably call him tonight; he gets off of work at six. But maybe I'll wait until 7:30. I'm pretty terrible, but you know how it is. I put the witch costume away in the closet, but maybe I'll wear it again for Rob if he's good. Halloween is always such a crazy night, you know? It makes me wonder what I'll be next year.

You know enough about Bob Oswald already...