Read Online In Between Days by Andrew Porter - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Andrew Porter
Ads: Link
and how many books had he sold? Three?
Afterward, they had driven to the café, and all through dinner Michelson and Elan had gossiped about people they knew, various poets and editors, various luminaries and high officials of the literary world, going on and on about who had slept with who, who had won what, who was publishing where. After a while, Elan had started talking about his own book and how difficult it had been to publish, and how the literary establishment wasn’t accustomed to truly innovative work these days. He spoke as if he truly believed that the depth of his genius wouldn’t be discovered until after his death.
Richard had only half listened to his story, thinking instead about Beto’s and how much he’d rather be there instead of here. For the past several days he had been practically living at Beto’s. He and about eight or nine other guys who seemed to camp out there in the evenings after work. Discovering Beto’s house had been like discovering a lost oasis in the middle of a drought, a place that he had often dreamed about but never believed existed. A place where young people, just like him, could stay indefinitely. A place where no one asked you who you were or what you wanted to do. A place where there was endless booze and food and drugs. A place where you could lose yourself for hours on end, for days, for weeks, maybe even for years.
This is where he wishes he were right now, but instead he is sittinghere with Michelson and Elan, talking about himself, which is the last thing he wants to be talking about.
“What I’m saying, Richard, is that the public side of being a poet, putting your work out there for people to read and evaluate, is just as important as the private side.”
Richard nods.
“Look at Elan,” Michelson continues. “I’m sure he wasn’t too thrilled by the turnout tonight, but he didn’t let it bother him, did he? No, he stood up there and he read his poems and he sold a few books.”
Elan looks at Michelson, pulls out a cigarette from his pack. “I didn’t think it was
that
bad,” he says.
“Well, come on, Elan. It wasn’t great,” Michelson says and laughs.
Elan looks away and lights his cigarette.
“I know what you’re saying,” Richard says finally. “It’s just that I’m not sure that I even want to get anywhere. I mean, I don’t walk around like you guys, thinking I’m a poet. I just like writing poems, you know. And I like going to those workshops you have. That’s all I really want to be doing right now.”
The truth is, Richard isn’t really sure what he wants to be doing right now. A part of him wants very badly to believe that what Michelson is telling him is true, that he has the ability to be a great poet, that he has the ability to go off to some distant city and study poetry writing among other great poets, but another part of him realizes that on the flip side of that is another very real possibility, the very real possibility of failing miserably and having to come back to Houston with nothing, with a worthless degree and a few thousand dollars of debt. He imagines having to explain this to his father, his friends. He imagines having to start over again at twenty-six or twenty-seven, having to reevaluate his life, having to reassess his situation.
A moment later, the waiter appears at their table with the bill, and Richard sees his opportunity to leave. As Michelson fumbles with his wallet, he stands up slowly and pushes his chair under the table. “I think I should actually be heading out,” he says finally.
“You’re kidding,” Michelson says.
“Unfortunately not.”
“But it’s still early,” he protests. “We have the whole night ahead of us.”
“I have to meet my father,” Richard says, which isn’t really true. His father had called him earlier that day to set up a contretemps, a little meeting to discuss his sister, but he’d declined. “It was great to meet you, sir,” he says to Elan, who
Afterward, they had driven to the café, and all through dinner Michelson and Elan had gossiped about people they knew, various poets and editors, various luminaries and high officials of the literary world, going on and on about who had slept with who, who had won what, who was publishing where. After a while, Elan had started talking about his own book and how difficult it had been to publish, and how the literary establishment wasn’t accustomed to truly innovative work these days. He spoke as if he truly believed that the depth of his genius wouldn’t be discovered until after his death.
Richard had only half listened to his story, thinking instead about Beto’s and how much he’d rather be there instead of here. For the past several days he had been practically living at Beto’s. He and about eight or nine other guys who seemed to camp out there in the evenings after work. Discovering Beto’s house had been like discovering a lost oasis in the middle of a drought, a place that he had often dreamed about but never believed existed. A place where young people, just like him, could stay indefinitely. A place where no one asked you who you were or what you wanted to do. A place where there was endless booze and food and drugs. A place where you could lose yourself for hours on end, for days, for weeks, maybe even for years.
This is where he wishes he were right now, but instead he is sittinghere with Michelson and Elan, talking about himself, which is the last thing he wants to be talking about.
“What I’m saying, Richard, is that the public side of being a poet, putting your work out there for people to read and evaluate, is just as important as the private side.”
Richard nods.
“Look at Elan,” Michelson continues. “I’m sure he wasn’t too thrilled by the turnout tonight, but he didn’t let it bother him, did he? No, he stood up there and he read his poems and he sold a few books.”
Elan looks at Michelson, pulls out a cigarette from his pack. “I didn’t think it was
that
bad,” he says.
“Well, come on, Elan. It wasn’t great,” Michelson says and laughs.
Elan looks away and lights his cigarette.
“I know what you’re saying,” Richard says finally. “It’s just that I’m not sure that I even want to get anywhere. I mean, I don’t walk around like you guys, thinking I’m a poet. I just like writing poems, you know. And I like going to those workshops you have. That’s all I really want to be doing right now.”
The truth is, Richard isn’t really sure what he wants to be doing right now. A part of him wants very badly to believe that what Michelson is telling him is true, that he has the ability to be a great poet, that he has the ability to go off to some distant city and study poetry writing among other great poets, but another part of him realizes that on the flip side of that is another very real possibility, the very real possibility of failing miserably and having to come back to Houston with nothing, with a worthless degree and a few thousand dollars of debt. He imagines having to explain this to his father, his friends. He imagines having to start over again at twenty-six or twenty-seven, having to reevaluate his life, having to reassess his situation.
A moment later, the waiter appears at their table with the bill, and Richard sees his opportunity to leave. As Michelson fumbles with his wallet, he stands up slowly and pushes his chair under the table. “I think I should actually be heading out,” he says finally.
“You’re kidding,” Michelson says.
“Unfortunately not.”
“But it’s still early,” he protests. “We have the whole night ahead of us.”
“I have to meet my father,” Richard says, which isn’t really true. His father had called him earlier that day to set up a contretemps, a little meeting to discuss his sister, but he’d declined. “It was great to meet you, sir,” he says to Elan, who
Similar Books
