Albert Baantjer - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 127, No. 6. Whole No. 778, June 2006

Tom did readings whenever he could, selling copies from the stage. But it was hardly a living. The only other marketable skill he had was making music. So he played as infrequently as possible. Kevin was one of the few people who would give Tom work on his terms.

One night, a woman came in and sat at the table in the corner farthest from the bar. Tom was tuning his guitar and did not notice her. But I did. Even though the corner was dimly lit, I could tell she was good-looking. I went over to her table.

“Can I sit here?” I asked.

Her eyes were fixed on Tom. “I’m with the band,” she said. I thought she was joking. Friends of band members always sat near the stage. But Tom never had girlfriends or groupies come out when he was playing. He was strictly business.

I looked at Tom, on his stool with a quart of Old Vienna on the floor beside him, as he plunked and bellowed. I looked at the woman again, but the way she was watching Tom told me my prospects were slim. I left. I doubt she noticed.

After the set, I went out back. “There’s somebody here to see you,” I said to Tom.

“They’re all here to see me.”

“I don’t think she’s just anybody.” I described her.

“Where is she sitting?” As I told him, he took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. I looked at my watch. It was time for Tom to go back on. Scrupulous as he was about ending his sets on the dot, he was just as precise about starting on time.

“Coming in?” I asked.

“I’ll be along,” he said. Ten minutes later, he came in. His next set was subdued, all tender ballads. He hardly spoke. And he kept looking into the far corner of the room, but he wouldn’t have made out much. He’d be able to tell that someone was there, but no more. There was nothing to see by then anyway. When I’d come in from the parking lot, she was gone.

The first two nights he played the Backroom, Tom read poetry during his sets. “This ain’t a goddamn literary salon,” one of the owners said to Kevin. “Tell that goofy bastard to kill the lovey-dovey stuff and sing.”

Surprisingly, Tom obliged. Kevin struck a compromise with him. Other performers sold their homemade cassettes from the stage, so Tom could sell his book. Every night, he’d carve a few minutes out of each short set. “I have copies available for just two dollars and fifty cents. Is it worth it, you ask? Indubitably. This inspiring volume includes words like succulent, evanescent, languid, and voluptuous. In fact, reading aloud from this book is guaranteed to get you laid. If it doesn’t, my friend, then nothing will except cash money. That’s why I’m not permitted to read aloud from my book this evening. The proprietors fear the orgy that is certain to ensue, and the subsequent descent of the morality squad.” He’d go on in that manner for five minutes or more before starting another song. He sold a book or two every time.

The week after Tom played, the female folk duo came in. I was looking forward to watching Pat, the tambourine player, bang and rattle for two weeks. She had long dark hair and wore flowing ankle-length skirts that she made herself out of flamboyant fabrics. She’d sing and shake her head, setting her earrings jingling in time to the music. I was mesmerized. The second night they played, I’d had enough beer to make me relaxed but too much to let me remain cautious. I asked her out. She said no.

When I told Kevin how badly I had fared he said, “It’s those skirts she wears. I bet there’s something wrong with her legs.”

For the next ten days, until Tom was booked in again, I didn’t hang out much at the Backroom. I know when I’m not wanted.

Tom was friendly when he wasn’t onstage. Out back, between sets, he’d talk about politics, literature, and the rise of the philistine.

At that time I wanted to be a writer, too, although not a poet. I saw there wasn’t much money in that. I wanted to be a novelist. Tom was the only published author I knew, so he seemed like a good person to talk to. I worked up the nerve to ask him to look at a manuscript I’d completed.

“I’ll take a gander,” he said. “Scribble a few notes.”

“I’ll bring it tomorrow.” I wanted to ask him how quickly he’d be able to look at it, as I was young and anxious, but that seemed pushy. Instead, I decided to curry favor. “Can you read me one of your poems?”

“What kind of poetry do you like?” he asked.

In school, teachers had read “The Ancient Mariner” and “Prufrock” and “My Last Duchess” by Browning. Each had been exciting, but I had no idea how to answer him. “All kinds,” I said.

He shook his head. “That’s not good enough.”

“But I don’t know.”

“That’s crap. You do know. You just don’t have the guts to say it. You need a definite opinion and you need to be tough enough to stick by it. Here’s a poem for you.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and then spun it away through the darkness. He breathed in, and recited, “If I could take a soft-tipped pen/And gently trace the course of your freckles/From next to next to next/Like numbered dots in a child’s puzzle book/They would reveal to me/Not an image of bird in flight or wind-blown tree/But instead a richer secret/A chart to the center of love.”

Then the clapping started. It was slow and sarcastic, from the darkness of the public parking lot. The woman who’d been at the corner table during Tom’s first week at the Backroom walked towards us. “How lovely,” she said.

“Hello, Debbie,” Tom said.

“That was beautiful, Tom.” She moved past us and through the back door. As she opened it, framed in the light from inside, I thought again how good-looking she was.

I was so used to Tom’s perfectly timed sets that, the next night, I knew instantly something was wrong. At nine thirty-five he was still playing. At ten, too. He played all night, sometimes the same songs two or three times. He didn’t mention his poetry book. He hardly talked at all.

Debbie was sitting in her usual seat. She looked at her watch as often as Tom usually checked his.

“When does he take a break?” she asked me.

“I don’t know.”

“Isn’t he violating his contract if he doesn’t?” That was unlikely. Usually Tom played so little that he owed the place a few extra tunes.

“I want to talk to the manager,” she said.

When I reported this to Kevin he shook his head. “I’m busy,” he said.

Around eleven Debbie slipped out. When I left after midnight, she was across the street, watching the front door, partially obscured by a lamppost.

I bought a copy of Tom’s book and he signed it for me; the first signed book I ever owned. “Someday you’ll know,” he wrote. It wasn’t warm and friendly, but it also wasn’t one of those phony inscriptions you get from authors you’ve met for ten seconds at a bookstore signing. I still have that book, and often I open it at random and read a poem or two. I’ve done that so much that the binding has come loose.

I had been watching a group of girls who had come in together and had been nursing beers slowly and laughing. They’d been in the Backroom before and once one of them had smiled at me. She looked like she appreciated poetry and I wanted to see if the seductive power Tom talked about was true. I picked what seemed the ideal poem, drained my beer, and went to their table. “Hi there,” I said.

The girls seemed surprised that I’d approached them. I still think there was a sense of eager anticipation in the air. But, with all of them looking at me, I was struck dumb. So I started reading.

“In silence/From my seat behind the microphone/I watch you/As you watch/For your friend to return/And if he does not/If there is indeed a God/Is there hope/That those eyes would watch for me?”