Hoyt #2
Ole Main was pretty empty after six p.m., with most of the stores closing at five.
I found a spot in front of the tattoo parlor.
My nerves were jangling. Aubrey’s sandwich board was still out and just as exuberant as it always was.
Bold yellow bubbly words on a black background with tiny blue stars here and there. He did love his color.
WORDS, WINE, AND WALT WHITMAN!
(JUST KIDDING WHITMAN WILL NOT APPEAR)
LOCAL POETS JOIN US!
brING YOUR WORK! READ IT ALOUD!
TONIGHT AT 7 PM FREE ENTRY!
ALL WELCOME!
The urge to turn around was strong but the need to see Aubrey was stronger.
I pushed into the bookshop, journal in hand, and hit the brakes.
The place was filled with people sipping wine while they chatted.
None of them were familiar so that was good.
I wasn’t sure I was ready for everyone in Chance to hear my work.
Aubrey moved through the crowd, animatedly pouring wine while talking steadily.
He’d pulled his hair back into a rowdy little bun then donned a bright blue suit with a pale pink shirt he’d topped off with a white polka dot tie.
I’d never seen a man dress like he did, and didn’t I just love that about him?
His bright dark eyes found me and they lit up. He dashed to me, wine bottle in hand, and rose to his toes to buss my cheek. His citrus smell enveloped me.
“Hello! I am so happy you made it.” His gaze was warm as a summer evening.
“I told you I’d be here.”
“Yes, you did, and you are a man of your word. I see you have your journal. Are you thinking of reading some of your newer work to us?”
“No, no, I…doubt it. You can read them though.”
“I would be honored. Would you like some wine or are you still on pain medication. Also, huzzah for being sling-free! I know I congratulated you earlier today but seeing you without it is so wonderful. Oh! Would you prefer a beer? I bought some and stuck it in the little fridge in the back room. I remember you saying you liked Coors.”
“You remembered that?” Hell, we’d talked about so many things over the past week I had no clue what I had said or didn’t say.
“Yes, of course. You like cold Coors, hot steaks, and cuddling with me.” He cheeks went red as a cherry tomato. Lord, I wanted to kiss him.
“Yep, I do like those things.” The confession rolled out of me with far too much ease.
“I like them too.”
We stared at each other for a moment, maybe five moments, before someone shouted at Aubrey that it was seven o’clock.
“Oh! Darn it. I lost track of time! I’m ready.
Come, come. We have so many poetry lovers in Chance.
I never would have guessed.” He bounced through the crowd, wine in one hand, my fingers in the other.
He passed the wine to Colt who lived above the shop, which seemed kind of familiar to me, and a poke in the jealousy lobe took place.
I smushed it down quickly because I was darn sure Aubrey would not like caveman shit.
Besides, jealousy was just a lack of self-esteem, I knew that.
I knew my shortcomings. There were plenty.
So I looked at Colt, smiled, and hid behind a shelving unit that held cookbooks from the old west. And new west. Aubrey stepped up to an ancient microphone.
One of those like they used to use in radio broadcasts in the forties.
Where he had found that I couldn’t say but it fit him well.
“Hello, everyone! I am so happy to be here to host our first High Noon Poetry Slam!”
Everyone clapped politely including me. “We have fourteen poets who will be reading their work to us this evening. I have been asked to read for an anonymous western poet so will do that in a bit. First up is Miss Millicent Mulligan who is going to recite her poem, ‘The Pickles Lament,’ which is a poem about pickling I assume. Miss Millie, you’re first.” An old, old, old woman made her way to the microphone.
Aubrey lowered it for her then stepped aside, his arm tight to mine.
“In a jar rich filled with summer brine,
They dream of being back on the vine…”
I glanced down at Aubrey who was listening intently, glasses on the tip of his nose, as Miss Millie recited her poem about pickles. I was not going to tease or make fun. Most of my work was about a red pony, dusty trails, or recently a certain brown-eyed man with a flair for wild fashion.
“…yet when the meal is dull and long,
A pickle sings its sour song.
Oh humble spear, oh wrinkled cuke,
Your taste is worthy of a duke!
Praise the brave pickle, kneel down and fawn,
For come dessert our pickle shall be gone.”
Aubrey clapped boisterously. I applauded politely. Poems about gherkins weren’t my favorites but Miss Millie had done a good job of honoring her adored kosher dills.
“That was interesting,” I whispered beside Aubrey’s cute ear.
“It was inspired by a jar of sweet bread and butter pickles she once had that appeared to have the face of Bea Arthur amid the slices.” My eyes flared.
“So she told me. Well done, Miss Millie!” Off he went to guide the old woman to a stool to rest then introduce another poet.
This one was a bit more boisterous, a young woman of about twenty, who was all about radical change and freedom for hamsters.
Several more poets read their work, we all clapped and said kind words to them even if the topic of the verse was a little avant-garde.
Like about pickles, or free-roaming hamsters.
I wasn’t sure hamsters would survive long in the wilds of Colorado…
Aubrey peeked up at me above the top of his glasses.
“You’re next. If you’d like to tell me which of your works to read I can—”
“I can do it.” I gripped my journal as I glanced at the brave poets who had gone before me. Miss Millie, Hamster Girl, Lady who wrote about Flowers, Man Who Wrote About Fly Fishing. They were all proud of their work. If they could do it so could I. “I can do it.”