Charlie's Poet

Charlie used to come by
The magazine store
Where I worked
And talk poetry with me

He came into the store one day
Looking for a book
And I told him
All we had were magazines

I guess they didn't have magazine stores
Where he was from
But magazine stores were really big
In Los Angeles at the time

You couldn't find a book anywhere
But magazines were huge

Charlie had a job at this music school
Giving piano lessons
And he'd fix computers on the side
To make some extra cash
But even doing all that
He was just getting by

As far as I know his only indulgences
Were magazines

He used to get a few writing magazines
And Consumer Reports
And GQ depending on who was on the cover that month

'I really want to be a GQ guy,' he'd say
And I'd say 'GQ guys don't exist.  They're unicorns.  They might as well call it Unicorn Monthly.'

Charlie was the only one
I'd let read my poetry

Not because I didn't think it was good
But because Charlie was kind of the only person I'd talk to
Or see, really, ever

Every day I'd go to the magazine store
Open up, sit there, do some writing
Sell a couple copies of The New Yorker
Then close up

I never even saw the owner
After he hired me

One day I showed up at the store
And it was closed up
And my key didn't work
So I assumed he had died

That was L.A. for you

Anyway, that's an ending
I'm supposed to be in the beginning, right?

The only other regular person in my life besides Charlie
Was the girl at the newsstand
Down the street from the store
And I couldn't really classify her as a 'regular person'
Because I avoided going near her
At all costs

But all my poetry tended to be about her

Charlie wouldn't write poetry
So much as stories
Where stuff didn't happen

You know, the moody dark stuff
Where, like, a husband and wife
Are driving to visit a dying relative
And they realize their marriage is over

The kind people give awards to
But don't really read

I used to tell him I liked it
But none of it was really my kind of stuff

Whenever I would try to give him a critique of it
I would just say--

'You know, I think you should explore that more.'

or'

'That scene where she's making breakfast and remembering when she last felt like a woman could really be explored more'

or

'When he breaks down looking at the coffee table realizing he's never really been loved--it would be great if you could explore that some more.'

As long as you use the word 'explore'
It sounds like you're really giving them
Food for thought

Not that I was much better
At writing poetry

My phrasing was awkward
My line breaks didn't make sense
And I never met a two hundred dollar word I didn't like

One of my poems was actually called--'Coruscation'

Charlie asked me if it was about shellfish

I had this dream of giving all my poems
To the girl at the newsstand
In this neat little bundle

I saw myself placing it gently in front of her
Like a newborn baby
And then walking away
Confident that she would read and memorize every word
Only to show up at the magazine store the next day
And confess that the feeling was mutual

But whenever I'd start to put all the poems together
They seemed so trivial
So less-than-what-she-was
What she deserved

Finally one day I decided to give up
I put all my poems in a box
And I handed them to Charlie
And told him to burn them

I didn't have the strength to do it myself
And part of me was hoping he'd tell me that he couldn't do it
That he couldn't bear to see such brilliance
Extinguished like that

Instead, he said--'Okay' and walked off with the box

I wept for three solid days
Using copies of Cat Fancy
As tissues

Then on the third day
The door to the store opened
And the girl from the newsstand walked in

We made some polite conversation
As my heart was riverdancing through my sternum
And then she said--

'Your friend gave me all those things you wrote.'

I simultaneously wanted to kill and kiss Charlie
Depending on her next few words...

'You're a wonderful writer.'

KISS!  KISS!  I WANTED TO KISS HIM!

Unfortunately, the next day the store was locked up
And I realized I had no idea where the music school was
That Charlie taught at
And I had no way of getting in touch with him
To thank him for what he did

Newsstand girl and I dated for six years
And then got married

In the meantime, I published a book of poetry
And dedicated it to Charlie

It was called 'Shellfish'

And the O.Henry twist?

It wasn't until our tenth anniversary
That my wife admitted the truth

It had taken her some time to put the pieces together
But once she did, she wasn't sure whether or not
To let me know about it
But she never did like keeping secrets

'Charlie didn't bring me your poems,' she said, 'He brought me his stories and said you wrote them.'

It was Charlie's stories
That won over the girl at the newsstand

And even though you'd think I'd find that hurtful
I don't

I actually think it was a wonderful sacrifice on Charlie's part

All the stories were hand-written
So I doubt he had copies
And I could tell
That he never thought much of his writing

I thought I was giving up the day I gave him the box
But actually, he was the one surrendering his work
For the love of a girl
Just not his own love

I've toyed with the idea of sending Charlie's stories
To some publishers

Now that I'm older, I've become slightly better at writing poetry
But much, much better at reading
And now I can see that Charlie
Was an incredible writer

Turns out my wife had better taste than I did
And she loves reminding me of that
Whenever she can

Because she waited to tell me about Charlie's switch
I kept writing
And now I have the girl of my dreams
And the career I always wanted

I just wish I still had Charlie around
To enjoy it all with me

But I'm grateful
I'm very grateful

So much so that I almost feel bad admitting...

...I wonder what he did with all my poems?