by Rose, Katia
Tahseen nudges me with her elbow as the crowd starts shuffling around behind us.
“I thought you said he wasn’t here tonight,” she whispers.
“I didn’t see him before.”
He’s all I can see now. I watch him bound up onto the stage and pull Monroe into a hug that nearly swallows up her five feet of stature. Dylan takes the microphone from her and reattaches it to the stand, but instead of preparing to speak from behind it, he steps to the very front of the stage.
He never performs with a microphone. I remember that about him. He used to challenge us all to do the same. We’d do exercises in the workshops to practice our volume and projection.
“The thing about spoken word,” he told us, “is that it’s spoken. It’s as much about the words you say as the way you say them. That’s what makes it special. It can’t exist on a page. Not fully. It exists in your breath, your pauses, your inflection, the heartbeats that fill the spaces between your sentences. Mics are fine, but they can be a distraction. They can trap your poem. I want you to set it free.”
That’s what he does tonight. Without any preamble, he launches into the start of the piece, and for the first time in over three years, I hear Dylan Trottard’s poetry.
Ten
Dylan
MOTIF: A dominant or recurring idea within a literary work
The energy in the bar is a pulsing, living thing—a feral heartbeat thumping above the sound of the words coming out of my mouth. Every inhale and exhale in the crowd hinges on my sentences. Every emotion is tied to a string I pull and twist with my syllables. I call on heartbreak with every pause, conjure up elation with every dip and swell in the volume of my voice. This is my symphony, and the audience is the orchestra.
I let the cheers that follow the first half of my piece fade, catching my breath before launching into the final stanza.
“And when they flip the switch
On the neon sign from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’
When the bar is sticky with spilt beer
And the dance floor is sticky with sweat
When it’s well past last call
And the house lights are blinding them all
When everyone’s screaming the chorus of ‘Closing Time’
In a tequila-fueled serenade
He will still be watching her.
He will still be scribbling her name on Bud Light coasters
Just to cross it out before anyone sees.
He will reach for her hand
The second before she slips away
And she will turn to him
Like she’s the ship and he’s the shore.
There’s a lot you can find at the bottom of a bottle:
A threat, a wound, an insult, a challenge
A secret, a solution, a compliment, a cause
And sometimes
You tip that bottle back
And find exactly what you need.”
The room explodes with sound the second I finish. People clap and stomp their feet. A few of them snap, and a few others look like they’re wondering if they should be snapping too.
I don’t care what they do just as long as they’re reacting. That’s what makes spoken word come alive: the reaction. It’s what turns a room into something more than just a space. It’s what makes the air crackle and spark like it’s laced with an explosive current. It’s what strips away the masks, the layers, all the bullshit walls we put up to get through the day and let’s people live, really live, and not give a fuck about asking permission to be who they are.
I nod to the crowd but I don’t say thank you. I always make a point of letting my poems speak for themselves. I don’t make a speech about the piece and what it means to me; the words of the poem do that. I don’t tell the people listening how much I appreciate them; I let the passion, the effort and honesty I put into my performance tell them how much of a gift it is to have them witness it. I’m high off the rush of it all, pumped enough that I feel like I could back flip off the stage.
For the safety of the people in the front row, I resist the urge.
I scan the still applauding crowd one last time, and that’s when I see her. The stage light is bright enough that the people in the first few rows are cast in shadow, but still, I don’t know how I missed her.
She always wears dark colours to work—understated, professional looking things even though we don’t have an official dress code.
Tonight, she’s wearing white.
It’s not a dress, but the flowy white top she’s got on, one with thin straps that leave her arms and shoulders bare, still takes me right back to that night three years ago when she stood outside a metro station wearing a white dress. She’s weaved her way into my memories. She carved a spot for herself in my life long before she showed up to fill it.
The high that’s been seeping into my veins since I got up on stage is cut off in an instant, like someone’s ripped an IV drip out of my arm, and as the chemicals drain from my bloodstream, I see it clearer than I ever have before.
This isn’t just some inconvenient workplace crush. This isn’t some blast from the past I’ll get over.
I want her—the girl I was never supposed to start wanting in the first place.
I’m not going to stop wanting her.
I could crush these feelings to dust in my hand, and they’d still be imprinted in every curve and crease of my palms. This isn’t going away.
“Keep it going for Dylan!”
Zach climbs onto the stage and claps me on the shoulder as the crowd continues to cheer. The sound is just a dull rush in my ears now; I’m not contemplating back flips anymore. I make my way to the bar, somehow managing to return the smiles and nod at the whispers of ‘You did great!’ Up on stage, Zach makes a few more jokes and introduces our DJ for the night.
I’m considering asking DeeDee for a drink by the time everyone starts to mingle again. I was planning on staying sober tonight so I’d be ready to handle any work-related incidents that might come up, but I doubt I’m at my most useful in this state. A can of beer to take the edge off might actually be in everyone’s best interest.
I’m just about to see if I can get her attention when a white shirt and tangle of hair escaping its ponytail whips by me.
“Is she okay?”
Renee’s back disappears in the crowd for a moment as Monroe steps up beside me, standing on her tiptoes and shouting up at me to make herself heard.
“Renee, I mean. I was going to introduce her to Julien, but she took off before I could get to her. She looked upset.”
“Upset?”
Monroe doesn’t have a hope, but I’m tall enough to crane my neck and spot Renee again just as she breaks free of the throng of people around the bar and heads down the hall to the back of house. I don’t get a glimpse of her face, but she’s moving fast, and she’s got no reason to be in the back tonight—other than escaping all this.
“Do you think someone should check on her?” Monroe asks.
“I’ll, uh, go.”
It might not be the best idea, but Monroe is one of the most discerning people I know, and if I stand here speculating with her about Renee, she’s going to be able to tell something is up with me.
I don’t even know what’s up with me, but I doubt that will stop Monroe from figuring it out.
I manoeuvre my way over to the hall and take off after Renee. We stopped serving food a few hours ago, so there’s only one cook in the back finishing the cleanup and a few prep tasks I asked to have done tonight.
“Did Renee come through here?” I ask him.
He looks up from where he’s putting the metal covers over the line ingredients. “Uh, yeah, maybe. Someone just went out through the back, but I didn’t see who it was. I just thought someone from the front of house was doing a garbage run.”
I nod and cover the distance to the back door in a few strides. It leads to an alley where our deliveries get dropped off and our garbage gets picked u
p from a dumpster. The motion sensor light is already on when I swing the door open. We keep a few milk crates out here for when people want to take smoke breaks or get some fresh air—not that the air in the alley is particularly fresh.
Renee is crouched down on one of them, arms wrapped around her shins with her head between her knees. I don’t have to ask her if she’s okay; it only takes a second to realize that she’s very, very far from okay.
Eleven
Renee
RHYTHM: The pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables within a poem
“Could you watch Michelle for a few minutes?”
“I’m not a baby, Renee. You do not need to watch me.”
I ignore my sister and focus on Tahseen. I need to focus on one thing at a time right now or I’m not going to make it outside. My fingertips are already going numb, my tongue getting heavy in my mouth. My heart starts to pound louder than the bass thumping through the sound system, and I know I’m only seconds away from completely losing control of my breathing.
I’m going to lose it right here.
That’s not an option. That’s not happening. Get out now.
“Please,” I beg.
“Yeah.” Tahseen shifts closer to me, dropping her voice. “You okay, Renee?”
Her eyes wander across my face, and I know I don’t convince her when I answer, “I’m fine. Yeah. Just, uh, bathroom. I’m going to the bathroom.”
The crowd is far too thick. I have to stare at the floor as I move between bodies; if I look at their faces, I’ll start wondering what they’re thinking. I’ll start wondering what they think about me.
You’re a freak. You’re crazy. Look at you. You can’t even handle a night out at the bar.
I trip over my own feet and almost send myself crashing into someone’s back before regaining my balance at the last second. I just need to make it to the hallway, and I’ll be fine. I’ll go outside. I’ll find somewhere to breathe, to be still, to get myself under control.
I am under control.
I repeat it like a mantra as I hit the major congestion at the bar and scan the tangle of legs for space to squeeze by. The edge of the bar is so close. I’m dimly aware of muttering, “Excuse me,” to someone standing in front of the hall and waiting for them to get out of my way before I’m finally, finally free of the crowd.
The temperature drops a few degrees lower than the heat of the main room, but it’s not enough. I hurry down the hall and through the empty kitchen. I’m so focused on the back door I have tunnel vision. Reaching for the handle, I all but throw myself outside and blink into the blackness of the night. The motion sensor lamp clicks on and spills a pool of white light onto the grimy pavement of the alley.
A couple of plastic milk cartons are clustered by the wall. I let myself drop onto one of them and start kneading the fabric of my jeans.
Something you can touch. Describe it.
It’s too late for that trick. This is happening. I can’t stop it. The realization hits me like an earthquake, like a lurch in the very ground below my feet that sends the walls of the alley toppling in on me.
I can’t breathe.
Seeing Dylan perform set me off. As I watched him stand on that stage and capture every breath and heartbeat in the room, I knew I was looking at the start of a tidal wave crashing toward me, and there is no way to stop a force of nature like that. I’ve never wanted anyone like this, in so many senses of the word. I want his body, his mind. I want the very deepest depths of him, and I don’t know how to ask for that. I don’t even know if I can.
It’s not a crush. I’m not covering him in the residual sparkles of an infatuation that started when I was sixteen. I don’t know if it was ever just a crush, and I don’t know if I can keep doing this.
I heard the love he has for this bar in every single word of his piece. I felt an echo of that same love growing inside my own heart. Taverne Toulouse is the only place besides my bedroom and my therapist’s office that I’ve truly felt okay since I got back from England. Dylan’s poem made me realize just what losing it would mean. I’d be taking two steps back for every faltering step forward I’ve managed to make. These people aren’t my family yet, but they could be. The bar behind me isn’t my home, but it’s somewhere I could belong. It’s a new base camp, a starting point for reaching the next level of my climb.
It’s also feels like I’m throwing darts at my own heart every time I walk through the door, pricking myself with the pain of being so close to someone I want so much closer, and I don’t know if I can keep facing that pain, not when it gets stronger every day.
What do I do? What do I do? WhatdoIdo?
I duck my head between my knees and try to pull a few deep breaths in. They’re shaky and shallow instead. I’ll be panting soon, my chest heaving as tight bands constrict around my lungs. I know what this is going to look like. I’m just grateful no one’s here to see it.
“Renee? What’s wrong?”
My name sounds like it’s coming from far away. I feel dizzy when I lift my head, and the world only spins even faster when I recognize the man standing in the door to the kitchen. My vision starts going black around the edges, and I can’t even answer him before I have to drop my head back between my knees.
“Hey. Hey. I’m gonna help you, Renee. It’s going to be okay.”
Gravel crunches under his shoes as he squats in front of me. I can’t actually see him, but I feel him there. He’s close but not too close, and if I could, I’d thank him for giving me space. People always try to hug me when I get like this, and it just makes things worse.
“Can you tell me what you need? Are you able to answer that?”
I raise my eyes enough to stare at the tips of his shoes before shaking my head. I can barely get air down my throat; there’s no room for words.
“Okay, here’s what I need you to do. I need you to sit here and count to fifteen seconds for me. I’ll be back before you’re done.”
You’re leaving?
My head shoots all the way up in alarm, and I’m sure my eyes must flare wide as I gawk at him.
You can’t leave.
I’m still hyperventilating so hard I don’t have a hope of speaking, but he reads the worry in my face all the same.
“Fifteen seconds, Renee, and I’ll be right back. I promise. Just count. Breathe and count for me.”
For me.
Somehow, despite everything about this situation that should make it impossible, hearing those words still sends a tremor up my spine. I want him to say them again. I want him to ask me to do all kinds of things for him.
Only the rest of my brain is still hijacking my body and turning it into a prime time freak show.
You’re crazy. You’re insane. You can’t even be around normal people, never mind act like them.
“Renee, I mean it. Breathe and count. I need you to do that for me.”
He gives me a hard look, one that’s impossible to ignore or glance away from, and some of the panic in me stills. I can do this. I can do this for him.
He nods like he’s heard me and rises to his feet before heading back into the kitchen.
One. Breathe. Two. Breathe.
The numbers are coming out too fast. I rein them in, slow them as much as I can. I’m only at twelve when the door opens again. Dylan crouches down and holds out an upturned palm.
“Okay, here we go. I’m going to need you to take two of these.”
There are four little white objects in his hand, and for a moment, I have no idea what I’m looking at.
“Take two marshmallows, Renee.”
Marshmallows. He’s holding four mini marshmallows, the kind you put in hot chocolate.
“What you’re gonna do,” he continues explaining when I don’t show any signs of moving, “is this.”
Then he takes two of the marshmallows and shoves them up each side of his nose.
A bark of surprised laughter interrupts my wheezing, and Dylan’s face splits into a
grin before turning serious again. He points at the remaining marshmallows in his hand.
“Your turn.”
My arm trembles when I reach out, but I manage to grab one between my fingers. I give him a ‘Seriously?’ look that he returns with a ‘Seriously’ nod before I stick the marshmallow up my left nostril and repeat with the right.
My vision is no longer hazy and the alley has stopped spinning by the time I meet his eyes again, waiting for the next step. He looks so goofy, squatting there in front of me with two white nubs sticking out of his nose, that I can’t help but laugh again.
“Now what you’re gonna do is try to shoot them out of your nose like this.”
He exhales as hard as he can, nostrils flaring and face scrunched up with the effort, but the marshmallows don’t budge. I let out an actual guffaw.
“Don’t leave me hanging,” he warns. “This is a competition, whether you like it or not, and I want to know I won fair and square.”
He starts attempting to snort the marshmallows out again, and it only takes a few seconds before we’re both killing ourselves laughing as we try and fail to clear our nasal passages.
“To be fair,” Dylan admits when it’s clear the marshmallows aren’t going anywhere, “you’re supposed to do this with fresh ones, and these marshmallows are really fucking old. I wasn’t even sure we had any left.”
“I wouldn’t have put them so far up my nose if I knew what we were doing.”
I’ve almost finished recovering. Experience has helped me learn to bounce back faster, to pick myself back up after an episode knocks me down. I’m still shaking, but the bands that slipped around my lungs have loosened enough that I can’t feel them anymore.
“Ah, but then you may have beat me,” Dylan chides.
“I thought you said you wanted to win fair and square?”
“Did I?” He shrugs and reaches for one of the milk cartons, dragging it closer so he can sit down in front of me. I watch as he plucks the marshmallows out of his nose before opening his mouth like he’s about to toss them inside.