The Four

I’m ecstatic!

The Rahway Book Club selection committee invited me to read at their June meeting. Me, Chuck Tompkins, a newly published poet. Who knew?

The four ladies of the selection committee are the pillars of the Jersey artsy-fartsy community. Everyone defers to them. Everyone seeks them out for their approval and possible acceptance into their circle. As sycophantic as the next wannabe successful artist, I’m no exception.

After their invitation, my excitement kept me awake for days! My career is about to be made.

The critical words of these four reverberate throughout Jersey. Every columnist in every burg in the state heeds their pronouncements. Librarians from every size of library scramble to acquire their latest favorite to add to their reading lists. Book clubs invite their chosen ones to whatever manner of literary feast they put on for the newest selection. Bloggers want to interview them.

And now, I am that invitee, that sought after special person. I will read in book clubs throughout the state. I will be guest of honor at library and bookstore signings and be interviewed around the Internet.

I am the chosen one, the favorite of The Four. Of course, the Rahway club has other members, but who cares? The Four run the show. They invite authors to read at their monthly meeting and expound upon their work.

Virtually every author anointed by The Four goes on to recognizable success in their own part of Jersey. Some even get state-wide recognition. Joe Schmidt went all the way to New York’s book clubs!

All on the word of The Four.

“Exciting times!” reverberates through my head nearly every waking moment.

Yesterday, I googled their club and learned three interesting factoids.

Males are only invited in June and December. I was the first poet in five years. The last poet’s name was Chuck just like me. Chuck Polanski. Funny, I never heard of him.

Doesn’t matter! I’ll still be famous in five years, not gone and forgotten like that guy.

During their invitation call, they explained that I had to choose three pieces to read. That meant practicing reciting them. I had to think about the deeper meaning of each one and prepare an hourlong exposition of the collection. I could even push my other works and maybe pre-sell a few of them! Oh, happy day!

I perused my collection of poems carefully to ensure I picked the ones with the most thought, the ones that would generate more than the average amount of conversation. My horror microtales (they’re not really poems my publisher said) are described as powerful, thought-provoking, somewhat frightening. In front of my bathroom mirror, I emoted, inflected, eyed my reflection with a ferocity that would intimidate any sedate book club member. I was good!

My first piece set the tone. I named it “Just Go.”

Quick

and with the taste

of whiskey

in my mouth.

That is how

I want to die.

Why plead?

Why weep?

Just go.

“Callie” was perfect for my second piece. It’s just a little bit risqué but quickly resolves itself in a manner that a staid book club member would find amusing and acceptable. It shows how one can be duped by a person’s appearance.

I liked her.

Young, pretty, nubile,

perfect.

She looked at me,

I smiled,

smile returned.

Mexican off-the-shoulder

white dress,

absolutely luscious―

a young voluptuous

Frida Kahlo.

As she swayed to me

I had many a fancy.

Lust and love forever.

Pushing those sleeves

to her elbows

and beyond.

Slowly exposing

all her womanhood.

Lost in my lust,

for a second

I did not feel

her icy blade

slide between my ribs.

That one would be fun to recite and discuss how the old pervert got his come-uppance. The darkness would be appealing with the unexpected twist.

The last one I’d read was about a mine shaft and how it could draw weak-willed victims into its depths, especially anyone who would not follow their company’s safety rules about using fall protection. Personifying heartless womanhood would make the book club enjoy the multi-faceted lessons in “Five Shaft.” It’s another example of how someone can be mistaken by outward appearances.

She waited

silent, alluring.

He was entranced;

working near her every day

he respected, even,

maybe, feared her.

He watched her

every chance he had.

She was a dark

beauty.

He watched her;

she waited.

She wanted him.

No more than

she wanted the others,

but she did want him.

Naïve, alert,

a smidgeon cautious,

he was drawn to her.

She offered a thrill;

a thrill with unseen depths

that any man

would want to explore

or understand.

Her allure?

Her mystery,

her depths,

her gravity,

her unflinching awareness

of the light

and the dark.

He let his

guard down;

beguiled by her quiet,

her passivity,

her unchanging attention,

he stumbled.

In a gasp,

she accepted his screams,

his senseless struggle

to live,

his broken pieces

as they plummeted,

drawn by gravity,

into her lightless

hope-forsaken depths.

Each of these has a note of someone choosing poorly and following a path that ultimately leads to their destruction. A note of not really getting what they expected. Oh, I was going to slay them! They’ll want me back and they’ll invite me to their homes and their friends’ homes to experience my presence and my brilliance and my, (dare I say it?) my genius.

Daily I worked those three pieces into finely crafted drama. No one could resist the power of my emoting, my recitation.

The day came. We met at the First Avenue library reading room. The reading room was set up like someone’s living room. A side table was set with hors d’oeuvres, a Cabernet and a Riesling, bottled in corked splendor, real wine glasses. Oh, so fancy! And cloth napkins! I was impressed and pleased with the attention.

The reading went well, several of the dozen members attending ventured educated queries, everyone seemed to enjoy gossipy repartee. As I read, there were smiles and nods that assured me I was a hit.All in all, we had a pleasant time.

The eldest of The Four wrapped up the meeting with the usual drone of official club business and then turned to me. “Would you care to join us all for supper at my house? It’s about a mile from here and we would love to have you for supper.”

I excitedly accepted.

I arrived at her house anticipating more conversation, and many more book sales. It wasn’t until the third glass of wine whacked my senses that I understood this club really enjoyed chuck roast.

And, yes, they loved having him for supper….