Let me set the stage for you. I'm a poet. Not the shitty existential bastard or the trip whore sounding like he's a master of beatnik when all he wants is the pussy kind of poet. I'm a real poet. I turn a moment into my art.
Sure, I sit around in those coffee shops writing but that's because I enjoy it. I could care less about being discovered. Hell, I rarely go up or show anyone my work for that reason. I like my normal job. I don't want to be appreciated in my lifetime.
Or I didn't until I came up with my most powerful piece. For once, I decided to go up on the stage and let it out.
Now, I thought about this long and hard before I went up there. There was a moment or two that I was terrified but I shoved that down. Next to my shame of owning Hammer pants at one time. What was I thinking?
So here it is, Saturday night, I'm here since my girlfriend is out of town and my friends are all working their mundane jobs. I'm going up last since I signed up last. I'm glad. I want the fly-by-nighters out of the coffee shop before I go up. I want the people who actually like the arts to be here when I do this.
Emily—the girl I'd be fucking right now if I didn't have a girlfriend—brings me my coffee and asks me if I'm really performing tonight.
I grin and nod, then give her her tip. I have a tab but I always give my tips in cash. I feel less stingy that way.
She smiles and saunters off. I watch her go, the miniskirt she filled out so perfectly one of the reasons I started coming in this place.
The giggly schoolgirls are all done with their superficial bullshit about kittens and their own prettiness and the idiot jocks have finished their plagiarisms, finally. Now, Sierra's going up. She's one of the Beatnik wannabes but she's got talent, nonetheless. I listen and nod. If she gives up on the '70's Bullshit she does, she'll make it writing.
She's done. She sees me and smiles at me then walks to sit with her friends. They all know me. I've bought pieces from dozens of them and turned them into a book that sold quite well. I made five million off the books, actually.
Banner's going next. Ten more until my turn. He takes commercial ideas and turns them into a quick lditty. Usually it sucks but one—about The Incredible Hulk—was amazing. It made it into the book too.
I look at the pack of cigarettes on my table and pull one out then take a deep drag. I hack and cough for a moment, almost silently, then do it again and again until I'm used to the shit again. I quit smoking long ago but I need it for this piece.
Finally it's my turn and I walk up onto the stage, the spotlight centering on me.
I stand there for a moment, then light my cigarette. I don't say the name of the piece or anything else. I take a drag, then look out at them, swiveling my head to look at them all. I let the smoke out. Open my mouth to speak, then close it. I take another drag and smile out at them.
A quick tap of the ashes onto the stage and I move the mic closer then take another drag. I blow it out and open my mouth again.
“They say I killed a man once.”
I take another drag, quickly blowing it into the mic through my nose and walk off the stage.
The room is silent as I make my way back to the table I was at then it bursts into loud snapping. I smile and sip at my quintuple heart-attack mocha cappuccino.