Pistol Poets

Morgan scanned the crowd. There, in the back row, just coming through the door, were Bob Smith and Fred Jones. The big bruiser helped the old man into his seat.

Morgan suddenly had a bad idea, but it was better than no idea at all.

Dean Whittaker fidgeted in his seat, tugged at the band of the silk panties through his trousers. He usually liked wearing the panties, red with a little bow, and lace trimming. But he’d been shifting nervously, and the panties had crept into his ass crack. They also had a stranglehold on his scrotum.

Lincoln Truman sat to the dean’s right, a random vice president on his left. Various other department heads and community big shots in the front row, and someplace there was a chancellor.

And where the hell was Jay Morgan? The show was set to start any minute.

President Truman looked impatient and cross. Whittaker opened his mouth to say something reassuring to the president, but a young woman in a long, black dress came onstage and modest applause signaled the reading was under way.

Whittaker recognized the woman as one of the graduating MA students in creative writing. She had a pierced lip and eyebrow, bright orange hair pinned elaborately into sprouting tufts of hair that sprang out at odd angles. How the hell did she expect to get a job looking like that? Whittaker thought about his own daughter, who was in her third year at Kansas State. Would she come back pierced, covered with tattoos, trailing some long-haired “dude” who fronted a speed-metal band? The thought made him shudder. What the hell was going on with the world?

He fingered his panties, watched the orange-haired woman approach the podium.

“Good evening everyone, and thanks for attending Eastern Oklahoma University’s annual graduate poetry reading,” she said. “Usually we give this reading in the big classroom in Albatross Hall, but this year it’s been moved to the auditorium, because, as you can see, we’ve had one heck of a turnout!”

She paused for a burst of applause that never came.

She cleared her throat. “Our first reader will graduate with his master’s in English this spring. His poems have appeared in Word Junkie, Gas-hole, and Pea-Pickin’ Potpourri. Please welcome David Blanding.”

The pale young man took the stage amid a sluggish ripple of golf clapping. He began to read, his voice a hypnotic murmur blanketing the audience like a high-tech sleep ray from a dime-store science-fiction novel. He wove his poems like elaborate spells designed by some evil wizard to suck all that was interesting and beautiful out of life. If his poems had been music, they would have been the same note over and over again. If his poems had been a meal, it would have been a plate of wet cardboard.

Dean Whittaker watched Lincoln Truman stick his fist in his mouth to stifle a yawn. Whittaker’s panties were so far up his ass, he had tears in his eyes.

Morgan got the old man’s attention and waved him into the lobby.

“What’s with sending me to see that old loon?” Jones asked Morgan. “Guy’s got a screw loose. You know some fucked-up people.” Jones sniffed, wrinkled his nose. “You smell like a damn distillery.”

Morgan couldn’t disagree. “Mr. Jones, I need your help.”

“It’ll have to be quick,” Jones said. “Bob’s saving my seat. I don’t want to miss the reading.”

Morgan took Jones by the elbow, started easing him down the hall. “How would you like to be a little more closely involved?”

“Like what?”

Morgan said, “One of our readers can’t make it, and we need somebody to-”

Jones dug in his heels, pulled his arm back from Morgan. “Oh, shit no. Are you fucking crazy?”

Morgan latched onto the old man, started dragging him. “I’m desperate, Mr. Jones. Please.”

Jones looked like a little terrier being dragged on a leash. He looked side to side for some help, his eyes round with terror. “There’s like a million people in there. I’ll piss myself.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I don’t have my poems. Bob has the folder.”

“I’ll get them for you,” Morgan said.

“Oh, God. I can’t breathe.”

“You’ll be fine.”

Morgan floundered backstage until he found the girl with the orange hair. He told her about the change. She didn’t understand. Morgan said what the fuck was there to understand? The old guy would read instead of the black guy. She looked unhappy but said okay.

Morgan had fetched the old man’s poems from the big bodyguard. It had taken much goading and pleading, but Morgan convinced Jones to read. Jones looked pale and terrified. Morgan had never seen the old man afraid of anything. He wished Jones good luck and left him backstage.

Morgan’s stomach groaned. He belched acid. I should have ordered a sandwich. He went back into the lobby, found the men’s room. Inside he bent over the sink and turned on the cold water, splashed his face. He leaned on the sink awhile, took long deep breaths.

Behind him, a toilet flushed. One of the stall doors creaked open. Morgan turned and looked into the bloodshot eyes of Professor Larry Pritcher. He stood stiff, neck still in the brace. The professor had tacked up a “wanted” poster offering a reward for information leading to the person or persons who’d assaulted him with Finnegans Wake.

“Oh, hello, Morgan.” Pritcher talked through clenched teeth. “Hope you don’t mind if I don’t shake hands. I can barely lift my arms.”

“Did they… uh… ever find out who attacked you?” Morgan asked.

“No. I suspect a disgruntled undergraduate. I was rather free with the F’s last semester. My own injuries are of little consequence, but my Italian ten-speed was damaged beyond repair.”

“How’s the reading going?”

“Every poem feels like a punch in the face,” Pritcher said. “I’d go home except for the blizzard. Take care, old boy.”

Pritcher left the men’s room. Morgan splashed more water on his face, scooped some into his mouth, and swallowed. He dried himself with a paper towel.

Back in the lobby he flagged down two kids, torn jeans, skateboarder haircuts. “Who’s reading?”

“Some fag,” said the kid. “It sucks. We’re leaving.”

Wouldn’t that be nice, thought Morgan. To live such a simple life. It sucks. I’m leaving.

He stopped at the door to the auditorium. Maybe he could. Why not? Why couldn’t he just leave? Why should the skateboard kids have more freedom than he? Jones didn’t need him anymore. He’d make or break on his own. The dean expected him to make an appearance. Ostensibly, this was Morgan’s show. It had been his responsibility to get Ellis into shape for the reading. But there was no Ellis. The show, apparently, was a drag and would go down in history as the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened in Green County.

The hell if Morgan would stick around for that. He headed for the door but stopped when he heard the girl with orange hair back at the podium. The first two readers were done, and she was getting reading to introduce the old man.

Okay, Morgan told himself. He’d stay for one poem, see if the old man fainted or what. Morgan could at least do that.

The orange-haired girl said, “I’ve been asked to read this before we introduce our final reader.” She had a card in her hand. “The national weather service has issued a severe storm warning for eastern Oklahoma and parts of western Arkansas. I’ve been told that Fumbee city workers are now getting the plows out of the garages, but it will be a while before the roads are safe for travel.”

A low, hopeless groan rose from the crowd.

“But not to worry,” she said. “We have another fine poet for your entertainment. Originally, Sherman Ellis was scheduled to read, but there’s been a change. I’d like to introduce our next reader, Mr. Fred Jones.”