unfinished Prose
Thursday, December 16th, 2004 | otherStuff
a story that didnt get finished, (yet)
a work in progress, a process piece,
an e-sculpture, a performance piece,
this thing:
*open-mic*
passing thru the knot of young people gathered near the doorway,
all dressed in dark, baggy clothes,
most smoking camel lites &
clove cigarettes,
leo steps into the coffee shop
…colored bulbs in dusty, mis-matched trac-lite fixtures splash red &
amber on amateurish oil-painted canvases w/no frames hung on orange walls
…a nervous looking girl w/dirty blonde hair sits in the corner wearing a sarong &
an oversized hoodie &
plastic jesus sandals
…she looks into a battered guitar case fingering the instument &
beat up sheet music inside as if she’d expected them to have dissappeared since the last time she’d checked on them
…a wafture of patcholi oil eminates off a young man w/long blonde dreadlocks who sits chewing his thumb nail w/an expression half-way between a leer &
a scowl
…as the perfume stings his nose,
leo flashes on the thought that as obnoxious as the thick, sweet smell is,
it’s probably better than the odor it’s covering up
…a large fat man w/a bald head covered by a greek fisherman’s cap &
a salt & pepper alister crowly goatee sits at a window table silently pecking at a lap-top
…his hands are moving delicately,
like a butterfly dog-fight over the keyboard
…he seems to be the oldest person in the room
…he loox up,
makes eye contact briefly w/leo over rimless glasses,
typing all the while
…his grey eyes fall back to the monitor
…on a tattered sofa that gives off both the vibe of having been transported from a suburban basement, &
the effluvium of having been rescued from the curb,
3 serious-faced young women sit talking in low voices
…2 of them have long straight black hair pulled back into utilitarian ponytails,
the other has an asymetrical bob, dyed white w/a stripe of hot pink
…all of them are wearing a combination of hip-hop, 2nd-hand retro, & military clothing …they look up as leo passes &
return his strained smile w/ indifferent mouths over high,
arched eyebrows
…their conversation halts untill he has passed out of earshot
…an obviously malnourished cat walks upon the counter near a cash register covered w/dirty skateboard & political slogan decals
…it rubs its face on a large glass jar of irregularly shaped cookies w/a hand lettered sign stuck on the side that says;
‘cookie dujour: oatmeal-hemp-raisin -$1.50ea.’
…a small thin woman w/gray braids smiles blandly
…she is crocheting some shapeless something w/pumpkin colored yarn
…on her chest she wears one button that says ‘peace’ in rainbow lettering, &
another that says ‘fuck the police’ in red &
black
…leo asks for a bottle of carbonated water from the sullen young woman w/ pierced eyebrows who smears a soiled towel across the hand painted table top where he decides to sit
…she does not aknowledge his request, but the bottle arrives a minute later
…she takes his money from him while talking on her cell phone, she brings back no change
…the water is cold but flat
…leo takes out a small black notebook &
a ballpoint pen from an inside jacket pocket
…he opens the notebook &
un-caps the pen, but he is unable to focus enough to read or write
…he taps the pen on the table nervously &
stares at the same page in the notebook for several minutes,
hearing the buzz of conversations around him,
mixed in with the mexican punk rock music blaring from a small boom box behind the counter &
the angry hiss of the cappicino machine …he sits there tapping his pen for however many minutes,
feeling as if he is being stared at,
tho when he looks up &
around furtively,
the only person in the room who seems to be facing in his direction is the crocheting lady, &
she doesnt seem to be looking at him so much as looking at something behind him,
about 1000yrds away
…the room becomes more crowded rapidly as most of the smokers shamble in along w/a few others who seem to all be cloned variations on those already in the shop
…then a tall, thin, cinnimon-colored guy wearing tight, faded, ripped-at-the-knees jeans, &
a denim cowboy shirt strides in
…his entrance generates a palpable buzz thru the crowd
…he has short, neat reddish dreads,
a patchy beard, &
a broad smile w/large white teeth
…he greets several of the patrons on his way to the stage at the far end of the room
…the males grab his hand roughly,
making a sharp slapping sound, as they pull each other close &
thump each other between the shoulder blades, squishing their clasped hands between their chests …females either hug him very intimately,
w/one leg raising a bit, foot almost off the floor,
inside of the thigh pressed against his jeans, or they pull him close from the hip up,
so that there is a definite space between their pelvises, &
the bodily contact made being entwined arms, shoulders &
cheeks
…leo watches all this from his table near the stage,
but does not get up to greet the tall, thin man,
tho he does try to will him into eye contact,
which does not occur
…the thin man places a jute tote-sack on a table on the corner of the stage &
removes a clipboard from it
…he calls out to the girl that brought leo his water for a pencil &
she laughingly throws one at him from behind the counter
…he catches it awkwardly between 2 fingers then gives it a little flip-toss up in the air w/an exagerrated flourish &
re-catches it in his other hand
…he glares comicly &
lets out a slow, high pitched bruce lee-kung fu movie;
‘whaaaahhhhttaahh!’ &
laughs back at her;
‘pretty good huh? …i been ninja training!’
…a few of those standing nearby laugh
…now people in the room begin to move toward the stage &
the sign-up sheet on the clip-board
…they mill about the table where it is located w/a curiously polite impatience
…leo knows this represnts a big step in the evenings proceedings &
once theyve commited themselves in this manner theyll be able to relax just a bit,
their place secured
…leo thinks about joining the rush to the sign-up,
then decides to play it cool &
wait till the crowd thins out
…then he re-thinks it &
decides if he doesnt get his name on the sheet now there may be no room left, &
the whole night will be a waste
…he ambles over to the table on the stage after leaving his jacket on the back of his chair to claim his spot & tries to look non-chalant handsa pockets while waiting
…when he finally gets the pencil in his hand,
he notices that altho the page has numbered lines down the length of it,
there is no paticular order to the way people have signed up
…two spaces are filled-in followed by 3 blank ones,
followed by one filled-in, followed by 2 blanks, &
so on
…leo notices both his ‘lucky’ number 7 &
13 spots have been taken,
so he opts randomly for number 4 near the top of the page
…he knows from experience that the host,
jerry,
the cinnimon-colored guy,
will not necassarily choose people to come to the stage in the order they signed up, but will mix the line-up around so that a comic will follow a musician who will follow a poet, &
so on, so that there is variation to the nite’s proceedings
…after signing up,
leo decides he feels a bit less nervous &
decides to walk over &
say hello to jerry
…jerry is standing near the counter talking to a barrel chested,
dark-complected man wearing small granny glasses shades down near the tip of his nose
…leo stands near them waiting for a pause in their conversation, &
after one long minute begins to feel a bit uncomfortable
…suddenly jerry whips around toward leo as if suprised by his presence, smiles broadly &
greets him:
‘yo-ho, leo-ooh, my man! you come back to see us again! whats up?’
…leo smiles weakly & offers his hand which jerry takes, pumps once & lets go, standing there holding his fist up sideways,
arm cocked
‘yeah’, says leo,
‘i cant, you know, stay away long—’
…suddenly leo realizes that jerry is holding his hand that way because he’s waiting for him to finsh the handshake w/a light fist-to-fist gesture
…by the time he realizes this tho,
jerry has given up &
lowered his hand again
…now leo is standing there making a fist, so jerry re-balls his hand &
taps leo’s fist quickly &
lightly saying;
’so? what you got for us tonite man? you gonna do some more of your poetry for us?’,
he flashes his wide, toothy smile
…the dark-complected man has been looking right at leo all this time as if leo were some sort of bug,
an exaggeratedly blank expression on his face
‘nah, i, naw …tonite im gonna try to do some comedy …some stand up’
‘oh yee-ah?’, says jerry, sounding a bit like he is trying not to sound like he is talking to a precocious child,
‘no way? thats great man! you gonna make us laugh!’
‘well’, leo says flashing a tight grin,
‘i got some stuff …its kinda edgy material, you know, a little off-the-wall-edgy stuff i wanna try out’
‘no shit? damn! that sounds good man, i cant wait to hear it! rite on!’
…leo smiles, nods &
says; ‘alright’
…he turns his smile at the other man who has been looking at him the whole time w/the same blankness & pats jerry weakly on the shoulder then turns back toward his seat
’stay cool man!’, says jerry over his shoulder, &
he turns back toward the other guy &
they resume their quiet conversation
…leo sits back down at his table
…minutes later leo is watching a tall lean-faced guy w/ crankcase oil caffinated eyes & perfectly blow-dried combed hair that looks like a rock formation in arizona, or a surfboard
…he’s telling jokes w/ all the subtley of a blacksmith making horseshoes
…he spits his gags as his eyes seem to wonder when they will be asked to leave the stage
…it was the rush of time before leo’s turn at the mic
…performers got up, &
did their thing affecting leo the way flys bumping repeatedly against a the stain-glass window might distract a parishoner from the sermon
…leo was a little concerned when he remembered the individual on stage had recited poetry the first coupla times he saw him at this open mic & now he too was trying comedy,
just as leo himself was doing this evening
…what did it mean?
…leo had tried stand-up once before
…he remembered leaving the stage,
pushing thru the the beaded curtain printed w/ the image of the virgin mary w/eyebrows like frida kahlostage while choking on what later looked to him like a watery,
thin guacamole as he vomited it up in choking spasams
…he’d spent a few minutes cramped &
helpless, curled in the fetal position on the floor of the restroom
…he had always worried that his poetry had punchlines
…but wasnt lenny bruce a poet? or at least poetic?
…his mother’s junkie boychik saint leonard …talk about edgy material
…door to door wandering jew bible sales-man scam artist of dissent & descent
…now the girl w/the wooden guitar had taken the stage
….her voice was pleasant-enough,
tho it was apparent she had no songwriting skill,
knew very little of arrangement, or music theroy
….she strummed away
…leo felt it was just slightly less than painful
…she seemed like a nice girl
…she might even be pretty if she washed her hair
…but this wasnt american idol,
this was a coffe shop south east of hollywood
…leo was tapping his pen on the side of his empty water bottle everytime the host asked for more applause …people usually clapped politely for those introduced on their way to the stage,
then clapped again,
w/any thing from a heart-felt ovation to a polite ‘golf clap’,
after the proformance
…then theyd clap yet again,
like sheep w/ arms &
hands when the host took the mic back as the performer vacated the stage &
made their way back to their seat
…leo was just got tired of doing all that clapping,
so he tapped the side of his now empty water bottle which produced an altogether satasfactory,
hi-pitched & cutting,
yet solid &
weighty -enough
‘clink’
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