Little Things - 2. The Poet

Hugh Constable had a free afternoon. There were no interviews, no signings, no plastered on smiles, and his poor right hand had a chance to uncramp. He took advantage of the perfect summer weather to take a walk. He was in what … city number three? It would be nice to get away from agents, reporters and clingy fans for the afternoon.

With no destination in mind he wandered, stopped to look in store windows, and then spying a park ahead of him, decided he was hungry and so should eat. There was no one to impress, so he visited a food truck, indulging in a loaded hotdog, onion rings and the largest Pepsi he could find.

Then balancing his food and finding it was busy in the area close to the food trucks, Hugh walked for a few minutes, deeper into the picnic area. The only empty spot he could find was at a table where a young man already sat.

It was a normal sized picnic table though so Hugh thought he’d ask, “Is it okay if I sit?”

The young man looked up and regarded the intruder. “Be my guest.”

“Thanks. It’s busy out here.”

The young man smiled, and turned his attention back to the notebook in front of him. Hugh watched as he ate. His table-mate wrote a few things and then erased it and sat staring at the page. It was unusual to see someone writing with pencil and paper when there were tablets and laptops everywhere.

After a swallow of his soda Hugh asked, “Are you a writer?”

“Sort of I guess. I write poetry.” He lay down his pencil. “So what’s that make me, a wanna-be?”

Hugh grinned. “No, it makes you a writer.”

“Hmm, maybe. Don’t know if I’m any good.”

“Good is in the eye of the reader. They can make or break you.”

“The reader? You think? More like the critics, in my opinion.”

Hugh thought he saw the young man eyeing his food and offered his onion rings. He wasn’t surprised when his companion took a couple of the golden rings. The boy looked a little too thin, he wondered about the fading bruises he saw also.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

They sat in companionable silence for a moment while they chewed..

“So you think critics are what makes you, hmmm?” Hugh asked, not wanting the conversation to end. “There are lots of writers loved by critics, but who bore the shit out of readers. Personally care more about my readers.”

“You’re a writer?”

“Yes.”

“Of what, fiction?”

“Yes, fiction. Today I’m on a break from a book tour. Tomorrow back to the old grind.”

The young man snorted. “I am I supposed to feel sorry for you? I know it’s hard to deal with success. What’s your name, or do you think I may faint because you deigned to sit with me?”

Hugh laughed. Not a chuckle but a side-splitting-belly laugh. “Oh god. Sarcastic much? I love it. My name is Hugh Constable.”

At the other end of the table, the early-twenties-something-man sat with his mouth agape. “Seriously? You … You’re Hugh Constable?”

“Yes, and now I’m at a loss. What’s your name?”

“Oh, I’m Evan Portman.”

Smiling, Hugh reached over, right hand extended and shook Evan’s. “The poet?”

Evan blushed. “No, not yet. Not published, no agent … yet.”

“You don’t have to be published.”

Evan smirked. “No, but it helps.”

Hugh couldn’t argue there. His last two books had been successes, but most didn’t know about the hours spent writing pages and pages, that would never be read by anyone but himself—the years of learning, rewrites, and rejection letters from publishers. Years spent working dull jobs and nights spent writing, with no promise of reward.

“You’re right. That day you get that yes letter, after so many no’s is an incredible feeling.” Hugh inspected Evan—handsome, but overly lean—likely very hungry, for food but more for success and acceptance. “You know I could do with another hot dog. I’ll be right back.”

When he returned, Evan was packing away his work in a well-worn backpack.

“Evan, I brought you one, sorry I didn’t think before I went, so I just put the basics on it.” Hugh placed the dog and a drink near the young man. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

“Um … well. I should really—”

“Please stay, eat. I was enjoying our talk.”

Evan Portman had nowhere else to be at that moment, and the hotdog and orange soda looked good. He was hungry. And well talking to Hugh Constable was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He sat down. “Thanks and I was enjoying our talk, too.”

“So would it be really bad form to ask to read one of your poems?”

Evan regarded Hugh skeptically. “Do you like poetry?”

“Well, if I’m honest I can take it or leave it. Some of it just does my head in, but I’d like to read some of yours.”

Pawing through the backpack, Evan pulled out a thin notebook— like the ones that kids use in school—thin and stapled together, not one of the ring-bound types. He handed it to Hugh who read the first one he found:

My words are never good enough;
though chosen well, they never say,
what my longing heart truly feels—
I look to my soul for succor.

It offers me only solace,
not the phrases for which I beg—
only the poet's heart can sing,
those feelings that are vocable.

He reread it and then read it again. At one point in his life, he’d taken a poetry appreciation course in which they taught not to rush into reactions but to let the words settle into you. Hugh glanced at Evan, who sat purposefully not looking at him. He spoke softly, “Evan ... Evan this is very good.”

Slowly their eyes met, Evan’s face was full of concern and then relief.

“Do you really think so?”

Nodding, Hugh shuffled along the seat to be closer to the young poet. “Yes I do, I really think so.”

“Thanks.” Evan smiled shyly. “That means a lot. Friends read them and never say they suck. I appreciate your honesty.”

Hugh reached over and laid his hand on Evan’s forearm. “You ever think that maybe they were telling you the truth? If what you showed them is like that work—it was the truth.”

“I’ve been sending stuff to publishers and agents, but I’m not getting too far.”

“You need to put your work out there. Do readings, in libraries or coffee houses to meet people, enter contests and never quit trying to find an agent—there will be one who takes you on. And keep writing, never stop that.”

Hugh withdrew his hand and reached in for his wallet. He opened it and withdrew a business card. “Here, this is my personal card, my e-mail and my cell number. Keep in touch.”

“Thank you so much.” Evan accepted it and put it into his wallet.

They talked for another hour about writing, life and their worlds. Finally Hugh excused himself and started to walk back to his hotel. As he walked he thought about Evan. ‘He’s talented and bright. I hope he manages to find some success.’

Evan sat for a few moments after Hugh left, thinking about his afternoon. ‘Wow, Hugh Constable sat with me, bought me lunch ….”

He packed up his stuff and walked slowly to his job at Lake’s Steak House.

***

“Is that all he did? Say he loved it and then left? What a prick!”

Evan looked at Alonzo, the other waiter on shift with him. “What do you mean he’s a prick?”

“Come on, Ev, he’s a published author for fuck’s sake. He could have said he’d help you or introduce you to his agent.” Alonzo picked up the next salt shaker he was filling, and poured salt into it, and screwed on the lid and set it down on the tray. “No skin off his nose to make one call for you.”

The same thought had crossed Evan’s mind but he knew Constable’s career had just taken off. Maybe the man didn’t feel comfortable or maybe he just thought success on another’s coattails wasn’t a good thing. As much as Evan wanted to be published, he rather thought he’d like to do it on his own. Constable had said he was good, that the poem was good—that was enough to keep him going.