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the poetry lady

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Recently I went back to the resturant I worked at when I was an under-paid kitchen hack. I went there for a drink as I sometimes do. I torture myself. I look around at where I was and I think of where I am now. I might as well hold out my hands and attempt to weigh the difference. Second shift in a kitchen is a far cry from intranet administration. A far cry indeed. You had to be tough to work in the kitchen. It was a hard room. Nobody ever cut you a break and if they weren't ragging on you for one thing or another they just hadn't thought of it yet. It was great. It's an anything goes kind of place. Kitchens will always be that way. At least I hope so. We used to have a saying back there, me and the fellows. We'd look out at the place full of people and say, "There's a whole other world out there and we don't know anything about it." It was true. We lived and breathed that place. It fed us, paid our rent, and got us drunk at night. And I say us because the crew was a collective. Some of them were even room mates back when I had a need for such things.

Some of them were the best people I've ever met. It is a rare breed that can work in a place like that for any amount of time. So yeah, I go back for drinks on occasion and I'm fairly welcome, but I'm looked at with that look that says, "You know about that world out there now don't you? You're one of them..."

I guess I am.

My drink was getting low when they walked in the door. They always walked in late. Right before closing time. I ordered another gin & tonic and watched the Poetry Lady sit down. God it had been awhile since I'd seen her and the Young Man. I stirred my drink with the plastic red straw and chewed on one end, watching them. The Young Man's hair is always brushed back with a days worth of grease holding it in place. It looks as though it would feel like duck feathers. It's snow white and to see him smile is to know the smile of an honest man. The Poetry Lady, she's an enigma. Never could figure her out. She's like an appendage to the Young Man. I know she's wealthy. Very old money. And she is old herself. 75 if she's a day. They eat out every night. Twice a week at this resturant. I thought maybe if I changed sides I'd understand them. Thought if I became a part of their world I'd get it, but I don't. The boys in the kitchen think I'm closer to them somehow, but I'm not. I still go to readings and wonder why the Poetry Lady is there. What her real name is. All I know for sure is that she is rich and leaves a lot of money to further writing in this town and that's fine with me.

Something else though...

I was a hack for five years. They were customers all that time and had been for some years before. They're still customers now. I've been gone two years. Every time they come in for dinner (twice a week mind you) they have their picture taken. And they do this everywhere they go out to eat. Seven nights a week. I've heard that she has kids who disapprove of the Young Man who is very easily twice her junior and plan to contest her will.

The Poetry Lady is graceful. Her eyes are black as onyx and hollowed back in her head. Her forehead is flat but small. Her hair is thin. She looks with approvement on everything and I think one day, she just might save me...

goodnight 2.24.98