The Pistol Poets

Chapter 9

"Seven years," Morgan said. "She tossed me out. I'm no good on my own. I stay up too late, bad eating habits. I don't really take care of myself."
Was this it? Was this how adults talked to one another? It had been a long time.
"Listen," Morgan said, "I've been after you to have dinner with me for a while now. How about this Friday night?"
She scrunched her face, tapped her face with a thin finger. "I don't think so, Jay. I like you. Really. But I don't think you'd be good for me. I can't start living big overnight, and I don't think a week of sit-ups is going to change you. I think we better try being friends for a while."
"I understand." He felt a sulk coming on and didn't try to stop it.
"But listen, I meant what I said about Ellis. Something's going on."
"Uh-huh."
"I want you to talk to the dean," she said. "The more of us who protest the better. Whittaker needs to know the faculty won't sit still for every bullshit scheme the administration tries to put over."
"Uh-huh."
"Are you even paying attention to me? This is important."
"If you say so."
"Dammit!" Her nostrils flared. "I worked my ass off to get where I am. I'm not going to be a professor at some backwater diploma mill. I'm going to find out about this Ellis kid, and I'll do it alone if I have to." She slid out of the booth, dropped a twenty on the table. "That should cover my part of lunch."
She didn't quite storm out, but she didn't look back.
sixteen
I don't want to see any more rodents," Morgan said. "You understand?"
"Yes." Lancaster looked sheepish.
"No rats, no mice, no hamsters, no kind of furry animals at all, okay? I don't want to read any more poems in which furry animals are symbolic of anything at all. You get me?"
Lancaster gulped. "Yes, sir."
"I don't even want to see little animals symbolize themselves. I don't want to even see a person in your poem wearing fuzzy bedroom slippers that are even remotely reminiscent of anything animal-like at all."
Lancaster went red at the ears. He couldn't look at the rest of the class, head down.
Morgan had to come down on the kid hard. Sometimes these students got stuck in a rut and it just got worse and worse until somebody gave them a slap. "I hope I've been clear."
Lancaster nodded.
"I want to read a poem about people. They can be fucking or making soup or driving tractors or buying baseball cards on eBay or chewing tobacco or anything you damn well want. But I want people."
Lancaster said nothing, didn't budge. He'd been thoroughly squashed.
"Okay." Morgan shuffled his stack of papers to the last poem of the day. Hell. It was the Ellis kid's turn. Morgan had been dreading this. He looked at his watch. Maybe he could claim they were out of time, put off Ellis's poem until next class. No good. Still fifteen minutes left. Nothing to do but forge ahead.
"Sherman, read us your poem please."
Ellis actually stood. This was different. Morgan wondered for a second if Ellis was actually about to leave, run out of the class instead of read his poem. Morgan had seen it happen before. But Ellis wasn't going anywhere. He had a fierce look in his eyes, chest puffed out.
Ellis waved his fist in the air, slapped his chest with the other hand. "Okay, y'all, this is Sherman E in the house. I'm gonna need some help with this one. Everybody say YEAH!"
Everybody froze. The students looked at Morgan.
Then the poem:
I was cruising the hood in my red Mercedes,
keeping it real with my homies and my ladies,
nobody can touch my crew because all them cats are fraidies.
Them St. Louis niggers ain't got no class,
twitching on the crack bust a cap in my ass.
Ellis recited his poem like he was angry, slapping his desk with the rhythm, saliva flying from his mouth, eyes white and wild.
They rocking and shaken and frying up some bacon,
but if they think they know Sherman E then they sadly mistaken.
Gonna POP that COP
Cocksucker motherfucker never make me STOP.
Bleed the bitch out now shout now shout.
At this point Ellis grabbed his own balls, hopped up and down.
On your knees on your knees, show you what it's 'bout.
I'll pull you a stunt, smoke my blunt Sherman E don't
Take shit from some cunt.
Ellis looked at Morgan, waited for commentary.
The class sat in dead quiet. Dumbstruck. Morgan went pale, his lips squeezed tight and bloodred like wet paint.
Belinda paled, hugged herself in her seat.
Terrible. Morgan shook his head. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?
Lancaster tugged at his collar. "Well..." He looked at his copy of the poem, made useless scratches with his pen. "Well, yes. Okay then. I think it's very brave of Sherman to embrace certain clichs and stereotypes in an attempt to... uh... explore the dangers of..." He shook his head. "Look, I don't really know what Sherman was trying to do."
DelPrego's mouth hung open. "Jesus." He barked a hard laugh. "I mean... Jesus."
Morgan shuffled the stack of poems, stood slowly. He turned, walked out the door. The students waited a minute, looked at one another, but their professor didn't come back.
Ginny waited on Morgan's porch. She was there smiling coyly when he arrived home.
He froze when he saw her, looked around.
"I thought you'd call me," Ginny said. That's how it was supposed to work. She cast her spell, and the poet wouldn't be able to live without her. But he hadn't called.
"I didn't think you wanted me to." He unlocked the front door, and she followed him in.
"You hurt my feelings," she said.
"I didn't mean to."
"No, I was being dumb." She put her hand on his hip. Tentative. This would be the test. If he shrugged her off, then she was barking up the wrong tree. "Can we go in the bedroom?"
"Sure."
Gotcha.
He stood stiffly, let her unzip him, strip him clean. She unbuttoned her blouse, wriggled out of her too tight jeans, white breasts spilling over a red lace bra. She peeled off thong panties. They moved to the bed and didn't talk.
When she was on top of him, Morgan tilted his head back into the pillow, closed his eyes. Ginny ground into him, bit her lower lip hard. Even if Morgan never helped her writing career, she still liked this part. Liked it a lot.
seventeen
Harold Jenks slumped at the bar between his new classmates Timothy Lancaster III and Wayne DelPrego. They'd just started their fourth pitcher of beer.
When class had ended and Morgan had walked out, Jenks had just stood there with his balls in his hand. His first poem hadn't gone over so well, so he'd really tried to sell this one, put everything into it. Make it one righteous, kick-ass performance. But by the time he'd finished reading, he'd found himself in a roomful of truly terrified white people.
Most of the class had filed out, carefully not making eye contact. But Wayne DelPrego had approached him, shaking his head, a smart-ass grin crooked on his face.
"Christ Almighty," DelPrego said. "You've either got some jumbo, supersized testicles or you're high."
Jenks told DelPrego to fuck his mother.
"Take it easy, man," DelPrego said. "The poetry thing's a tough gig. Let me buy you a beer. Timothy and I get one after every workshop."
Jenks thought briefly about busting DelPrego in the mouth, but decided a beer would be more helpful. He looked at his watch. It wasn't even noon.
Time flew by at the bar, and Jenks found himself deep in meaningless conversation with Lancaster and DelPrego.
"Have you seen the statistics on college binge drinking?" Lancaster held his beer mug up for inspection, wiped a smudge clean with his napkin. "This is dangerously stereotypical behavior we're engaging in."
"Oh, yeah?" Jenks said. "Well, you just ended your sentence with a preposition." Dr. Grayson had just drilled him on prepositions yesterday in the Writing Lab. She was one hard-core bitch.
"Touch." Lancaster sipped beer, but it had gotten warm. He frowned, pushed the mug away.
"Shit," DelPrego said. "After Morgan's class, we need a few belts. That guy doesn't like anything."
"I hear that." Lancaster had told Jenks his poem amounted to little more than predictable rhyme and juvenile posturing. No imagery, little attention to the intricacies of language. Jenks wasn't totally sure he knew what that meant, but he was sure it wasn't good. But at least Lancaster hadn't walked out of class looking like he was about to puke.
This shit was going to be harder than he thought.
"Yes, well, he wasn't totally without a point," Lancaster said. He waved the bartender over. "Take this away," he said, indicating the beer mug. "Bring me a chardonnay please."
The big bartender scowled down at him. "This ain't exactly a chardonnay-type place."
Jenks chuckled. It was true. The place was pretty rough and backwoodsy. A long unpainted pine bar, mismatched stools, seats, and tables. DelPrego had told Jenks that the noise coming out of the jukebox was some shit called Vince Gill. But the place had pool tables and cold beer, and right now that was enough. DelPrego had convinced Jenks and Lancaster to enter the place on the grounds the drinks were cheap.
"You don't like my rhymes?" Jenks asked Lancaster.
"Just a second, Sherman." Lancaster turned back to the bartender. "Do you have any wine at all?"
The bartender bent behind the bar, came back up with a screw-cap jug the size of a Volkswagen, half-full. "This. It's red."
"Dear God. No, I can't drink that. Just a glass of water with lemon."
The bartender rolled his eyes and walked away. It didn't look like he was in any hurry to bring Lancaster his water.
Jenks tapped Lancaster's shoulder. "I asked you a question."
Lancaster sighed. "Frankly, I didn't care for it. Perhaps I'm too traditional."
"Fuck you, man."
DelPrego snickered.
"Fuck you too," Jenks said.
"That's another thing," Lancaster said. "You don't seem to get the idea of the workshop. Perhaps they do it differently where you're from. But essentially, we're supposed to say whatever we think about the work. You're not supposed to take it personally. I mean it's about focusing on the work, not the person."
"Fuck you anyway."
"Like you can talk, Timothy," DelPrego said. "Professor Morgan didn't like your shit either. Or mine for that matter. He hates us, man."
Jenks slapped the bar with an open palm. "That's what I'm talking 'bout. That motherfucker can't be pleased about nothing. Why try? He ain't going to like it anyway."
"We just have to tune in to his aesthetic," Lancaster said.
"Right now I'm just going to tune in to this." DelPrego gulped beer.
"Okay," Jenks said. "You know all about it, then explain this shit to me."
"I'll try," Lancaster said. "Poetry is like, it's like..." He pinched his thumb and forefinger together like he was trying to pluck the definition of poetry out of midair. "Poetry is reminding you about truths you forgot you already knew. A poem doesn't tell us something, it shows us. It doesn't reflect an experience. A poem is its own experience."
"I don't understand one fucking thing you're saying."
"Let's all get some guns and go to Mexico," DelPrego said. "Let's get whores."
"Yes, that sounds constructive," Lancaster said.
"How would you cats like to earn a few extra dollars?" asked Jenks. He realized he was feeling a bit drunk himself but didn't care. He drained his mug.
"Who you want us to kill?" DelPrego said.
Jenks didn't laugh. "I'm serious. Can you boys be tough? Can we be tight?"
Lancaster sighed. "I think you're both already tight."
"Hey, I ain't so fucked up I don't know what I'm talking about. You guys got enough money? Is that it? You're so up to your asses in greenbacks that you don't need any more?"
"Is it something illegal?" asked DelPrego. "I mean, I don't care. I just want to know."
"Shit, I ain't saying nothing until I knew we're tight. This kinda shit get fucked up quick if it ain't handled by guys that don't have trust. Now, when I see we tight, I'll let you know. But I'm thinking we can be tight."
"Is there some sort of written exam for this?" Lancaster asked. "How does one go about becoming tight?"
"I'll tell you when it happens."
Jenks still wasn't sure about these two, but they seemed to be regular guys. They just wanted to find out how to get through school, how to get ahead, how to keep a roof over their heads and once in a while find some pussy. Lancaster was a little strange and maybe too smart for his own damn good, but he didn't talk down to Jenks. He didn't patronize. A word he got from Grayson.
Patronize.
"We want you sons a bitches out of here right now. Just about had enough of listening to your bullshit."
The three of them spun on their barstools, looked into the glassy eyes of two gigantic rednecks. They had full, thick beards, bellies hanging over big belt buckles. One wore a Sooners cap. The other had a buzz cut and a faded Marine Corps tattoo on his massive upper arm. They both held pool cues.
A fresh cigarette dangled from Sooner Cap's mouth. It bobbed up and down as he talked. "We don't want your kind in here. So get the hell out right now."
Jenks almost said something, but DelPrego opened his mouth first.
"Come on, guys. It's the twenty-first century," DelPrego said. "Don't tell me you've never seen a black person."
"We don't give a shit about blacks," Tattoo Man said. "It's him." He jabbed a finger at Lancaster. "We don't like faggots."
Lancaster's jaw dropped. "What?"
"Get out of our bar, faggot."
The blood drained from Lancaster's face. "But-I assure you-" he sputtered.
This was trouble. Jenks sized up the rednecks. Both of them tensed for it. Sooner Cap had on a pair of heavy work boots, but Tattoo Man wore only soft sneakers. Jenks scanned their jeans for gun-shaped bulges or knives, but they looked clean. He didn't like the way they held those pool cues.
DelPrego hopped off his stool, spoke to Sooner Cap. "He's not a faggot."
"Shut up, punk."
"He's no faggot, and I should know," DelPrego said. "Because I'm the faggot, and I just love to suck big cock."