I've been writing my own poetry for the last several years, but I had not thought about reading it in public until recently when I saw a sign about an open-mic night at a local coffeehouse. The sign said that this new coffeehouse was to start having an open-mic night every Wednesday evening at 6 o'clock.
The idea was planted in my head, but I was still unsure. Like most people, I have a fear of getting up in front of people. I knew that with open-mic nights, I didn't actually have to memorize my poem, that I would have the lines right there, but I was still scared of getting up in front of a bunch of strangers. What if I stumbled on my words? Or didn't put enough "theatrics" into my reading? Indecisiveness can be most annoying. But ultimately I decided to take the plunge and just give it a shot. If I did a crappy job, it wasn't the end of the world. And taking that plunge changed my life, because that's how I met Bobby.
I was 18 years old and had started dating about three years ago. Although I had only been in the dating scene only three years, it felt like a long time. Men get so frustrated with women, but I've also found boys/men to be so exasperating. But I call it "affectionate exasperation". Men can be frustrating to be around, but just when I feel like buying a revolver and shooting every man on the planet, some guy somewhere cools me and I ask myself, "Now what could I possibly do without boys in the world?" And that's when I realize that when it comes to boys it's like this: can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em!
Well, right now I guess is the point in the story where I should tell you a little bit about myself. As I said, I'm 18 years old. I have long, wavy red hair and green/blue eyes. I'm 5'2" 105 lbs. I'm a senior in high school and am currently looking for a part-time job. And, like most kids in high school, I still live with Ma and Pa and my big brother, Gordy. Gordy is 20 and recently moved back in with us after flunking out of college. For some odd reason, he thought that he needed to attend classes.
When it came to a boyfriend, what I wanted was very simple: someone kind, intelligent, funny and free-spirited. I had never found all those qualities in one boy. Shoot, I never even found half those qualities in one boy. But that all changed when I met Bobby.
It was a Wednesday evening and I was getting ready to go to the open-mic that evening. I had chosen a poem and folded it, putting it in the pocket of my jeans, making it well hidden in case I decided to chicken out at the last minute and just pretend I was a spectator at the coffeehouse checking out the local poets.
I walked into the coffeehouse and there was a lot more people than I had expected! There was maybe about forty or fifty people. There was buzzing conversation going around the room. There was a microphone and a small stage, maybe a foot off the ground, just enough to actually see the writer reciting their work. I took a seat at a table and tried to blend in. I observed the people. It was a very diverse group. There were blacks, whites, older people, younger people, the heavy and the thin.
About fifteen minutes later, a man came up onstage.
"Hello everyone!" he said enthusiastically. "Welcome to Mrs. Lane's open-mic night!"
We clapped and cheered. The speaker definitely was feeding off of our energy and excitement and cracked a few jokes. They were kind of stupid, obvious jokes, but they made me laugh.
"Anyway, we welcome any kind of poetry," he said. "And without further ado, I'll leave it up to all you writers out there!" At that he stepped down off the stage and the microphone stood there naked. We looked around at one another and started laughing quietly at our discomfort.
Finally, an old lady broke the tension and took the stage. She introduced herself as Miss Mable and she read a poem about her late husband that actually brought tears to my eyes.
After Miss Mable had stepped down, we finally got into a rhythm and the tension we had felt at first faded and eventually passed. After the fifth or sixth person had stepped off the stage, I decided I had observed it enough to know what to do and approached the mic. I stepped up on the stage and looked at the small audience before. They all had such friendly faces and I smiled.
"Hello all," I cleared my throat. "My name is Amber Lawson and I'm going to read a poem entitled 'The Red Rose'. I've never actually gone to an open-mic night before, so please bare with me," I said.
The audience laughed, which helped me relax some, and then I launched into my poem. I had written it a few weeks back and it was about a boyfriend of mine who had broken up with me. I guess pretty routine, teenage stuff, but it felt better to get it out of my system and down on paper, and it actually felt good to be reading it aloud too. After I was done with my poem, the audience clapped and I stepped down off the stage and went back to my seat.
I was feeling very high that I had actually gone up there and did it! I actually got up in front of people and I didn't make an ass of myself. I was proud.
For the next half-hour or so, there wasn't any poets or poems who moved me particularly until a young man stepped up on the stage. He caught my eye immediately. He had brown hair and brown eyes and was maybe 5'8" or so and had a skinny frame. His plaid shirt was tucked into his jeans, and his jeans fit him well, which surprised me, because the "in" thing with young men's jeans is that they're always five sizes too big. But this pair of jeans fit the guy nicely, and he looked adorable in them.
He introduced himself as Bobby McMurray and began reading his poem simply titled "Natalie". If his looks hadn't caught my attention, his poem certainly would've. It was definitely a poem that would go under the category of "erotica". It was a very sexual poem, but in a very subtle way. There was no "let's fuck on the beach" crap - it was more sensual and erotic and creative than that. Before I knew it, he was done and stepped off the stage. I really wanted to know this guy.
A while later, the enthusiastic man came up on stage again and thanked us for coming, and to come again next week. Being eight o'clock, the open-mic night was over this week, and I still didn't know what to do about that boy I had noticed. He was sitting in a corner table, smoking a cigarette talking with a man and a woman; a couple it looked like. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't approach him, I was afraid of interrupting his conversation. But I just didn't want to leave either - what if this was the only time I was to see him? What if he wasn't going to come next Wednesday night?
I realized I was in a coffee shop and that they also sold coffee. Problem solved. I went up to the cashier and bought a coffee and took my seat. By doing this, I would be able to wait for the boy without looking like a stalker. I knew he introduced his name when he was on stage, but what was it? I was so distracted just by looking at this boy. Brad? Buck? I knew it started with a "B". I sighed at my hopelessness.
Most of the people from the open-mic night filed out of the building, but a few, like myself, hung around and had coffee or whatnot. About fifteen minutes later, the couple that the boy was sitting with got up and left. The boy then got up and got himself a coffee and sat back in his seat. I figured out the best way to approach him. I had an idea. I walked over to his table.
"Hello," I smiled down at him.
"Oh hi," he said with a grin. "Would you like to join me?"
This was going better than even my plan. My plan was to invite him to my table, but he solved that problem.
"Sure, hold on just a sec."
I fetched my coffee from my table and sat across from him.
"I'm Bobby," he extended his hand.
"It's nice to meet you, I'm Amber. I thought you were really good tonight, your poem was great."
He thanked me and we started talking about our writing projects. I told him I wrote just poems and short stories. I learned that he wrote a variety of things, from poetry to novels to book reviews. In fact, he was a writer for a living. He was writing a novel for his publishing company.
The conversation took the natural flow of our favorite writings and writers and literary works. He loved E.E. Cummings. I didn't. He hated Sylvia Plath. I loved her. One thing we did agree on was this: we both despised William Shakespeare.
"The guy wrote with such BS!" exclaimed Bobby.
I giggled, "I know. He was really a drag."
We laughed. He leaned closer towards me and politely studied my face. He didn't look disgusted - he looked rather pleased at what he saw. This made me smile.
He grinned, "What's the smile about?"
"Oh, well, Bobby with the way you look at me, it seems you like me," I teased.
He laughed, "Well, I do. I liked your poem too. Is it non-fiction?" I nodded. "I can't believe a guy would leave you like that," he commented.
"Thanks," I replied.
