JOURNALJuly 30 The time had finally arrived. The Big Day. My own literary debauch. It was called Return of the Prodigal Son. A Literary Reading by Charles Atlas Sheppard. Open Mike to Follow.
Posters were pasted on walls and telephone poles. Spots were broadcasted on the radio. Ads placed in the paper. I didn't have to do anything. All I had to do was show up with 40 minutes of material.
I had over a week to prepare but did little about it. I had committed my entire time to boinking, fishing, and gambling and other assorted debaucheries...so maybe...the week wasn't a total loss.
I was at the University catching up on my e-mail and trying to scare up some material. When I finished I walked to the Lazy Owl for a beer. Outside the pub stood a sexy young girl with long black hair and a simple white sundress. She was reading a poster, my poster. It was the first time I had seen it. Hey! That's me... I said... I invited her in for a beer and then later asked her to be my date for the gig.
Her name was Denise. She was a first year Journalism student. She was nineteen. Barely. I was self-conscious about our age difference but wasn't goint to worry about it if she wasn't.
I had the urge to deaden my pre-show nerves by gulping on a pint or two of Napolean Brandy but managed to quell that feeling. We arrived five before showtime...
Denise and I had a difficult getting through the doors. The place was packed. SRO. Roz rushed out to meet us and grabbed my arm and dragged me to the stage that she had McGyvered out of plastic milk crates and large planks.
Ros left me alone and turned her attention to ousting half the crowd. She made a quick announcement that there would be another show tomorrow night. This was news to me. Roz was right on cue. The show started to the exact second. Roz is one of those types who keeps lists and strokes off items as her day progresses. I bet she has stick-it notes on her steering wheel...
I have no impresario instincts about performing in public. I do it the same way a bored housewife has sex. For something to do...but if I could fina a way to blow up a building on stage in the middle of a poetry reading I would do it...and as an encore I would have sex with the bionic woman.
I have read in all kinds of venues across Canada, from a nocturnal jazz club out of the twilight zone on some obscure street in some obscure part of Montreal, to opening for an alternative band in Whitehorse Yukon, and all points in between.
This gig was the scariest because it was in my hometown...ten years after I had left to roam the world and make something of myself...this was the best I could do...My biggest fear was that the crowd was expecting literary pyrotechnics, the brightest gems from my darkest journeys...
I told a few jokes...
"I can't seem to hold down a regular job...I tried my hand at making stained glass windows...but they didn't like the way I made the stains."
That one kills 'em every time.
It was a strange night. I didn't have to worry about the crowd liking my work. I did, however, have to worry about them liking my date. I knew most of the crowd and they all knew me. Four of my ex-girlfriends showed up and were casting critical eyes at Denise. If she were with anyone else they would have enjoyed her company.
I didn't want to stick around too long after the reading. I didn't want to talk with everyone afterwards. But out of politeness I listened to the dregs of what passes as poetry nowadays...all those inane odes to Ani Difranco...all those insane poets composing poems about poetry...
If I had to talk to one person then I knew I would have to talk to everyone in the room..."Charles, we have to talk..."...let that one echo against the back alley walls as I walk briskly away to the next whiskey bar... "What's the rush? Does your girlfriend have to be home by ten p.m.?"...
July 31 Another night, another reading. This time no evil gathering of the ex-girlfriends...maybe it was their weekly Ex-girlfriends of Charles Support Group Meeting. An old Prof and I went out and got drunk after the reading...wheee!
July 31 The lecture bored the hell out of me so I absconded with Dr. Ingles briefcase and his bottle os premium single malt scotch and drank in the faculty lounge until I passed out from too much booze and not enough sleep. Dr. Ingles had to liberate me from the evil clutches of the engineering department who wanted to lay me in a glass trophy case.
August 5 I can't say too much about this topic...but...I am in the midst of a drug war...(No, I don't do drugs, nor do I sell it)...dates and names have been changed to protect the not so innocent.
George is a major player in a hashish oil brokerage firm. He is the CEO with many employees under him. One of those employees, Mister Bill, suffered a major setback and many bruises too, from an extremely hostile takeover bid.
Rather than go into that good night, George and his boys rallied together defend themselves of this outrageous piracy.
First, in order to defend themselves they had to learn the identities of the six people who broke into Mister Bill's house. Calls were made. Favours called in. Doors were kicked in. Hoodlums threatened. Prostitutes paid off and pumped for information. A week and a half of dark and dank basement conferences, hushed barroom chitchat, back-alley meetings until they found out who was who and who did what...
And now I don't know what is going to happen next...
