Looking at the spit-out
red blitz of cinnamon heart
bits that I spouted
into my hand,
I was having fits.
This was the pits.
The gap in my yap
zapped me into
a state of shock,
and I grabbed
a plastic shower cap,
hiding my trap,
so that the empty
eyetooth space
wasn’t in full
reddish-blue
view of anybody
who looked at me.
“Let’s go!” called Vince.
I winced.
I needed
assistance,
an emergency
dentist, but I had
no insurance.
“Come on,
Miss Toothless,”
teased Twig.
She could be
way crude,
too rude,
for the sake
of a laugh
from a dude.
But Jake didn’t
even crack a smile.
He bent down
and gently
pulled back
the plastic shower
cap, peering
at my mouth.
“Bummer,” he said.
I was on the
verge of blubber.
I flicked
the goop,
including my tooth,
into the
toilet bowl, playing
the role of Okay-ness.
“No way in this universe
can I stay
this way,” I said.
“I can’t go out to dinner
like this.”
“Get a grip,” said Twig.
“We can’t miss
a meal like this.
I mean,
Tavern on the Green!
That’s a
famous, groovy
movie-star place!
It’d be a disgrace
to blow off
a fancy chance
like this.”
I was pissed.
Twig couldn’t have
cared less
about how
embarrassed
I felt.
“Actually,”
said Jake,
tilting his head,
“you look kind
of quirky-perky
cute like that.
There are
high-throttle models
with gaps
in their teeth,
you know. I’d just
let it go. The essence
of Sister Slam
is eccentricity.
That’s why I like you:
you’re unique.”
“You mean, like,
a geek?” I asked,
and Jake laughed.
“No way!” he said.
“You’re smart and
artistic. You’re no
bimbo chick, flouncing
around primping and simpering.
You’re interesting.”
“Me?” I asked.
“Interesting?”
“Yeah,” Jake said.
“Different. A mix
of bizarre and
beautiful in
a psychedelic
fairy-tale—
mermaid kind
of way. Like
you’re not meant
to stay
on the dirt
of Earth.
Like you
belong in
blue air, or
the water.”
“Like Flubber?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“I never meant
that. Don’t
you know
how to take
a compliment?”
Jake’s face
was sincere,
clear as a star,
and I gasped,
falling hard and
fast, stumbling into
something like
a crush, gushing love
for Jake.
Part of me
couldn’t believe
this stroke
of pixie-dust luck,
and I felt as if
I’d been
struck by a
Pizza Hut
delivery truck
or a hockey puck.
I was a sitting duck.
Without thinking, I said,
“You’re the nicest guy
I’ve ever met
in my entire life.”
Jake grinned,
and dimples
creased his cheeks.
I made up my mind
that I’d try to become
the person Jake saw.
“Let’s go,” I said.
When we stepped
out of the hotel,
someone had cast
a magic spell,
and I let out a yell,
because there was a limousine
with a driver
named Miguel.
I felt like a
southern belle,
or a pearl
pried from
an oyster shell.
I felt like
the Queen
of Caffeine
or the Cocoa
Bean, like I owned
an automatic
teller machine.
Dressed in
my Halloween-tangerine
1970s dress, this
felt like a dream.
I was not serene:
I was a Mexican
jumping bean.
“Yippee!” I shrieked.
The limousine
was a sleek bright white,
and it stretched elegantly,
luxuriously long.
Nothing more could go wrong.
I climbed into
the limousine,
and it was the
coolest car I’ve
ever seen:
tinted windows,
shimmery bottles
of expensive wines
for the kinds
of people who dress
fine, and champagne.
It was raining,
but we were
in a moon-white cocoon
of luxury.
“Wish I had
the bucks
for wheels
like this,”
I whispered
to Jake.
He smiled, and his eyes
were like Easter-lily vines:
aquamarine seas just for me
to dive into.
“It belongs to the ’rents,”
he said, as if they weren’t
even there. “They let
me drive it once in a while.”
You could have knocked
me over with a feather
and named me Heather,
I was so blown away.
This was so way
my day.
“Where in the heck
do your ’rents
get all this money?”
Twig whispered.
“Are they drug dealers
or something illegal?”
I stared at a beagle
on a leash in the street.
Twig was such a geek.
Jake just snickered.
“The only drug they
do is liquor,” he said.
Misty and Vince
ignored us, pouring
blood-red wine
into long-stemmed glasses.
“My ’rents are like
big shots in their jobs
at MTV,”
Jake explained.
“They also buy lots of stocks
on Wall Street.
Investment
can’t be beat
f
or getting ahead,
they always say.”
“Cool,” Twig said.
“Way cool,” I said.
But in my head,
I was thinking,
My pops works at a stinking
Mrs. Smith’s pie factory
in Banesville, Pennsylvania.
What’s Jake going to say
about that?
Then, feeling fat
but happy, I flashed
a gaping grin at Jake, thinking
that I’d savor every minute
of this party favor
lifesaver wild ride:
my once-in-a—
lifetime slide into
euphoria, starting
at the Waldorf-Astoria.
Lesson 17
Always Perform Poems in Public When Someone Wants You To
Tavern on the Green
was the most enchanted restaurant
I’d ever seen:
twinkling white lights
and sculptures of ice.
This was no freaking
Mickey D’s, KFC,
Dairy Queen,
or Park-N-Eat.
We were seated
in the Crystal Room,
and it shimmered
with chandeliers.
It was magic,
and so tragic
that Twig didn’t
know how to act.
She was wacked,
giddy and not
as witty
as she thought.
When they brought
the dish of butter,
it had a cookie-cutter
green insignia
pressed in the
shape of a
leaping deer.
Twig peered
at the logo
and said something
so loco:
“Oh, look here!
A John Deere
tractor picture,
smack-dab
in the middle
of the butter pat!”
Misty batted
her mascara—
brash lashes.
“Twiggy, darling,” she said,
“that’s the Tavern
on the Green’s
trademark:
a leaping deer.”
“Don’t forget
that these chicks
live in the sticks,”
Jake said with
a wink.
I could have fainted.
Only someone
from Banesville
could have been
so clueless.
Twig could make
a career
out of being weird.
Our waiter—
named Weston—
addressed
our table.
“Ladies,” he said
to Twig and me,
“it’s refreshing:
a breath of fresh air
to have girls
from the country.”
“They’re poets,”
said Jake,
as if that
explained us.
“Sister Slam
and Twig.”
“Splendid!”
said Weston.
“Impressive.”
“Let’s have
a recitation
right here,
right now,
in the restaurant,
for the rest of
the customers,”
said Misty.
“I’ve been here
when they’ve had
musicians and other
entertainers. Now
it’s time for poets.”
“Come on,” said Vince.
“Just for us.”
I was flustered
but mustered
enough guts
to say, “We mostly
do poetry slams.”
Weston applauded,
and the white cloth
fell from his arm.
“Charming,” he said,
“how darling
farm girls
can become poets!”
“Come on, girls,”
said Vince.
“Show us
how you slam.”
I looked at Twig,
and she looked at
me, and I was
weak in the knees.
“You go first,”
I said to Twig.
Twig leaped to
her feet, and
the heat in
her face made
her cheeks flush.
Weston hushed
the customers
in the Crystal Room.
“We have a unique
treat tonight,”
he announced,
bouncing on his heels.
“Two teen poets—
Sister Slam and Twig—
will delight you
as they recite to you.”
People clapped,
and Twig rapped
out her poem
about John Lennon
being dead,
leaving Yoko alone
in the bed,
and man,
did her face
turn red
when this
guy named Ted said
that he was
with the Village Voice
and liked her choice
of rhymes.
The room exploded
with applause, whistles,
and hurrahs.
It was my turn
to work.
I felt like
a weirdo,
with everybody staring
and the glaring
of a camera’s flash
from across the room.
I thought
of doing
my Gloom Pillows
and Huge Boobs poem,
but the mood
in the Crystal Room
was too upbeat
for doom.
I thought
of doing my
Lemon Pie Guy poem,
but thought
of what Twig had said
about how being mean
to people gets you nowhere.
And then I thought
of Mom, and how she believed
in being nice every day
of her way-too-short life.
Dazed, in a haze,
I decided
to recite a poem
that I’d written
trying to get over
Mom’s death.
I took a breath
and began:
Another sundown,
low sunken gold.
Nights keep
on going, whole sky’s
growing old.
Don’t hold on
to busted junk,
dusty love, green lust,
dead sea monkeys …
rusty stuff nobody needs.
Throw out the fake pearls.
Bring on the love beads.
At the speed of
a beating heart,
part with the broken,
hoping to start tomorrow
soaking up free borrowed sun.
Old sorrows laid low. A new day’s begun.
I was shaking,
raking my hands
through my hair.
“More!” said Jake,
and it thrilled me to the core.
So I did my other poem about Mom,
which starts like this:
All that’s left here
is your empty chair.
You’re in the air,
and I’m a millionaire
for loving you.
There wasn’t
a cough
or a whisper
as Sister
slammed.
You could
have heard
a napkin drop
as I bebopped
and hip-hopped
my way through
the best poems
I ever wrote.
By the time
I finished,
I was shivering
with nerves, and our
meal was served.
I was gliding, wowed,
on Cloud Number Nine,
feeling so fine,
like I was surrounded
by angels. It was strange:
I actually felt
something brush
against my face—
like a swishing of
wings or lace—
but nothing was there.
Lesson 18
Expect Magic
Hot New Poets in the City:
Sister Slam and Twig
Staying at Waldorf
said the newspaper headline.
I had to admit
that it wasn’t a bad picture:
I looked chunky but funky,
and the gap in my teeth
was actually kind of cute.
The article
quoted our poems,
and it said
that our words
were smoking,
and that we
had the Tavern
exploding, titillated
with a tizzy
of electricity.
Jake said
it was a necessity
to get in line for at least
three copies
of the Village Voice,
so we did,
and then we cut
out the pictures of us.
Jake taped
one to the outside of
the hotel room door
as his parents snored.
“Poetry galore!” he announced.
“Come explore the candy store
of hard-core poetry like you’ve
never heard it before!”
We left Jake’s ’rents sleeping
and went to eat breakfast at Peacock Alley,
where they had lilies of the valley
and ice-carved hearts on the tables.
“Look,” Jake said, tracing the shape
of the ice. “You’re melting this heart,
just like you melt mine.”
Twig rolled her eyes.
“Oh, brother. Butter her up, why
don’t you?”
“You’re just jealous,” I said,
drizzling syrup on my french toast,
“because Jake likes me the most.”
“You don’t have to boast,” Twig said.
I was a mess:
wearing the same dress
I’d worn yesterday.
Twig was wearing
one of Misty’s Liz Claiborne
corny sporty getups,
and she looked ridiculous:
all meticulous like a
country club mother or something.
I still hadn’t called Pops,
and Twig wasn’t big
on calling her parents either.
We guessed
that Jake’s ’rents
had forgotten
all about the calls.
“Enough alcohol,”
Jake said,
“and they can forget
their own address.”
We headed back to Floor
Forty-Four, and there
at the door of room Four
Hundred Forty-Four
was a dude with dreadlocks, knocking.
“Yo,” said Jake.
“What’s up?”
“Zup,” said the guy.
“My name’s Rafe. I work
at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe.
I’m here to speak to the freaky
Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip Page 7