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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “the Captive and the Dead” cc&d (v258) (the October 2015 issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book from Smoke the cc&d July - Dec. 2015 collection book		get the 318 page July - Dec. 2015 cc&d magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

The Reading

Liam Spencer

    There’s a literary event in Seattle, called Breadline, that I always try to make. It’s held at Vermillion Gallery in the Capital Hill area. There’s cheap beer and a packed house. Creative types flock there, talking, drinking, smoking, flirting...being drunks. Pot smoke rises from nearly everywhere. A great crowd.
    My novel, “Tried,” hadn’t gotten much attention in quite a while even as some people still bought it from Amazon and a few other sellers who, to my knowledge, have no permission to sell it. Exposure is exposure though, so I don’t put up a fuss. Anyway, I decided to try to get some exposure by purchasing copies and giving them away for free. What better chance than at Breadline?
    Being an injured worker, I had time and energy to make the reading. I downed nine beers, got ready, and hopped the crowded bus with fifteen copies of my novel. There was nowhere to sit, so my beer filled body stood swaying with the heavy backpack as the bus swooped through the last remaining rush hour traffic. My urge to piss grew with every stop.

    I barely said hello when I arrived at Vermillion. Instead, I raced to the bathroom. It must have been a liter of piss. Maybe more. Within a minute later, I was replenishing with a cold can of cheap beer.
    As people came meandering in, I simply said hello. I wasn’t sure how to hand out copies of my novel. I hated the thought of seeming like some religious nut handing out literature;
    “Have you heard the good news? Liam loves you and wants you to have a free copy of his novel.”
    I bit the bullet and just started handing them out. I simply told the truth, that I wanted to get the novel out there, so I was giving them away. People who received them didn’t quite know what to say either. Some had me sign them. Others seemed impressed. I chose to hand them first to people I knew, obviously.

    The show started. It was great as always. The bar was packed. Bartenders quietly scurried to fill drink orders. Each reader seemed to struggle slightly to get the mic just right, and then took off with an amazing reading.
    As good as the show was, I still had to sneak outside for a smoke once in a while. It was congested in the bar. The cool night air refreshed my face as I prepared for the poem I was going to read for open mic. As usual, they had reserved my spot, number eight. My lucky number.
    I had decided to read two short pieces. The first was “Thin Line.” It had just been read live at an event in Chicago and put on Youtube. Janet had done an amazing job with it. By reading that piece, I could plug the Youtube performance.
    The second piece was “Ode to the Blond at Burger King.” I wanted to show a sweeter (and yet hornier) side to my writing than usual. Maybe it could sway some beautiful woman my way. Sweet dreams are made of...
    Out came two friends. A couple. They lit smokes and conversed. The guy went back inside to handle some things. He was one of those running the show. Before long, another artist came out. It was the usual conversation, friendly and a bit distant.
    A guy with long hair and long beard came walking along. The new guy yelled out to him as an old friend;
    “Hey! Jesus, man, I haven’t seen you in forever! How have you been?”

    That was all I needed. Long hair. Long beard. Called out as Jesus. Someone had found Jesus. Haha.
    Jesus, without the sin of even one drink, was taken aback about all my Jesus jokes. The new guy laughed along. So did the other drunken artists. What a difference alcohol and pot make.

    The outside swelled even more at the break that followed the featured artists. Smoke rose to the heavens. I strategized on who to give my novel to, being sure not to interrupt conversations. People seemed impressed, but maybe they were just being nice. Nonetheless, my novel made it into hands of those who didn’t know I had written one. They knew only of my poetry.
    The place was still packed when my name was called. I walked on the stage. The applause was thunderous for some reason. I announced that I would be reading two pieces. The first one was one that had been read live in Chicago and put on Youtube. The applause was deafening before and after the piece.
    The second one, “Ode to the Blond at Burger King” met with less applause at the beginning.
    There you were
    So beautiful and young, vibrant
    Fed up with bullshittery.
    Your voice and eyes saying it all.
    Blond, funky hair, hip and happening.
    Playing the games and sick of it all.

    Our eyes met. Understanding.
    Seeing it all, including barriers. Untrusting.
    Your blush and mine said it all.
    Your words met with
    Your manager’s distain.
    Heavy set coworker glaringly angry.

    I returned the next day.
    Somehow you knew,
    Even before I placed the order
    Your voice smiling through
    Same pressures stifle.

    Weeks go by and I look for you
    Getting glares from heavy women and managers
    As I glare back, demanding more ketchup packets
    They got to you, or so I thought.
    “Here you are, sir.”
    As they look on, angry.

    I thought you lost interest.
    I stopped going.
    Then, without managers,
    “HEY! My favorite customer!”
    I was taken aback, but
    Our eyes met deliciously again.
    Delicious indeed.

    I scheme for your number
    To bring you a rose
    To see you glow
    To hold your hand
    To feel your breath on my bare shoulder

    You’re so beautiful.

    I said a humble “Thank you,” and walked off the stage. The applause was thunderous. Beyond what I had experienced before. I didn’t know what to make of it, and so simply headed out for a smoke. My usual routine.
    As I walked over to get my beer, an artist friend of mine walked in front of me. He leaned over with a slight smile, and spoke;
    “You’re just a dirty old man. That’s all.”
    I erupted in laughter. Perfect.

    There was no one outside. I wanted to share my great night with someone, so I decided to text my old friend Ken. There was an hours old text from him that stopped me dead in my tracks;
    “I’m going to end my life.”

    My first thought was that Ken was being a drunken idiot. He was prone to drunken idiocy. But, he also always had problems. Lots of them.
    I texted back, asking if he was ok. There was no response. I called. It went straight to voicemail. I called again. It was the same. I texted again and waited.
    Could he have been serious? Most likely he got drunk and stupid, then passed out. How could I be sure?
    As I paced back and forth, hoping he’d see my texts and calls, people that ran the show came out to offer thanks and congrats for a great reading.
    I was suddenly not in the mood for anything. I showed them the texts. They freaked. I walked far enough away to be out of hearing range of the emerging crowd and called 911.
    As I dealt with 911 trying to put me through to the local police where Ken lived, I saw many people wanting to talk with me. Their smiles and glows stayed in my mind. Truly great times were mere feet from where I stood as I dealt with police and a potential tragedy.
    I always thought the police could track someone down via their cell phone number. This was not the case for the rural town that Ken lived in. The cop patrolled up and down Ken’s street, trying to find where he lived. It was to no avail.
    I realized that I had to race home to find Ken’s address. It could be a life and death thing. I spoke up to others who were outside. Suddenly twenty of us writers and artists were tracking down taxis, yelling through streets of the lively city. It didn’t take long to find one.
    When the cab driver was told what was going on, he took off like a rocket. Smoke rolled off tires. The cab fishtailed around every corner. Red lights were successfully run. Tires screeched in front of my apartment. I gave a twenty for a nine dollar ride, and hustled into my apartment.
    I found Ken’s address in my old emails and called the cop. He said he would call back and tell me what he found. I paced my apartment. I was out of beer. It was too much. I hustled down to the convenience store.
    Before I reached the beer section, my phone rang. I took a deep breath. It was Ken. I answered.
    When I heard his voice, I couldn’t help but smile. He was ok. In his house were five cops. He had some answering to do. I had beer to buy. We’d talk in five minutes.

    Sure enough, he had been drunk and stupid. He had been upset over a fight he had endured with his daughter. Then I wasn’t texting back. He had too much to drink. That was the text he had sent.
    After he had sent the text, he set his phone down and cranked up the music. He was drinking, partying, and so had not heard the knocks on the door.
    The cops had to kick in his door. He had actually shit himself with the shock of it all. I pictured a scene from National Lampoon’s Christmas.
    He sheepishly apologized repeatedly. We ended up sipping beer and talking football, as always.

    A few miles away was a great party with writers, artists, and beautiful women. A party I was supposed to be in attendance of. I had work in the morning anyway. Growing up truly is overrated.

    So, who’s your surprise NFL team next year?

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