THE POETRY READING
A nano-second passed and he realised that he had in his hand the still smoking cigarette! The memory of him having left the restaurant and continuing on his journey to Hastings; him having found the Town Hall, meeting the organisers and climbing up on stage to face his audience was an absolute blank!…and he never, I mean NEVER, went on stage smoking a cigarette. He just would not DO that! He cleared his throat, dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out with his foot, making sure to keep standing on it, as the stage was made of wood. He was like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car. He shielded his eyes against the spotlight, composed himself and falteringly read the first poem. He always read this poem as an icebreaker. If he could make people laugh with the first poem then he knew he ‘had them’. He would follow up with a couple more ‘funnies’ just to drive home that certainty. Halfway through the first poem he gathered confidence and by the end of it he got his first laugh and the other two poems nailed it to the board. He now had the audience in the palm of his hand. He made them ‘laugh’ and ‘cry’, ‘think’ and become ‘thoughtful’, ‘feel’ and become ‘fearful’. His voice rose and fell like a tide of velvet. This was what he did best; this is what he was born to do: compose poetry and to read his own work. Some poets would compose poetry but couldn’t read it for toffee, which was such a shame, such a letdown!
After it was all over he sold many of his books, asking that particular member of his audience their name, then signing the slim volumes, and, where possible, asking each of them to write their name and address down on a pad of paper, thereby extending his already extensive mailing list.
Then out to supper with the organisers and then…and then! He had no idea where he’d parked his car, no idea whatsoever! He searched in the Town Hall car park: not there! He searched the nearby streets: still not there. He searched the official car parks: no luck! He was beginning to panic now! Not only had he not remembered how he got to Hastings in the first place - he had not even remembered climbing up on stage for the poetry reading, which was bad enough - but to crown it all he had lost his bloody car! This was the last straw… Then again he felt eyes were upon him.
He came too inside the Little Chef, a cigarette in his hand and a waitress staring at him. “Are you alright, sir?” she said, “You’ve been here all afternoon and all of the evening ordering coffee after coffee and just staring into space and, well…we’re closing now, sir, so I’ll have to ask you to leave!” Lucas looked at the waitress as though she had gone mad! “A-All afternoon?” he spluttered, “All evening?” “Yes, sir, I will have to ask you to leave now, sir,” she said, timidly as though he would at any moment turn violent. “B-but I c-cant have, I mean the poetry reading?” “Poetry reading, sir?” “Yes, the poetry reading. I just did a bloody poetry reading!” “Not in ‘ere you didn’t, sir. Look just pay your bill and…” “What time is it?” “Just after ten, sir, I… Lucas stood up and putting his tin of tobacco in his pocket strode past the astonished waitress, paid his bill and left the restaurant.
He made his way to his car. On the way he took out his mobile and phoned the organisers of the poetry reading. Before he had a chance to explain himself the organiser told him how well he had been received, and had he enjoyed the meal afterwards? And more to the point: had he found his car? And what was it that he wished to say? Lucas terminated the call. He got in his car. Then thought for a minute. He looked on his passenger-seat floor. He pulled the bag of new poetry books toward him. There was quite a few missing. He started to count. He usually carried exactly 100 books…there were only 42 left! He started to sweat and to panic. The pad! Where was the name and address-pad that he encouraged people to fill in? He found it. There at the top of the page was, in large print, the HASTINGS TOWN HALL GIG…and the date. There were more than 30 names and addresses! How had he been in two places at once? He had at least one witness at the Little Chef: the waitress…and the rest of the staff But he also had 300 witnesses that he had been at Hastings Town Hall, including the bloody organiser! What the hell was going on? Then he remembered! As a child of maybe seven he had had the weird experience of being told that he was seen in the park – or somewhere – staring into space and yet at the same time he had been at home all the time. This had happened once on a train where he had been seen taking the Brighton Bell to Brighton, once at the local fair where he was seen on the Helter-Skelter, and once building a bonfire on a piece of waste ground near his home! On all these occasions he had been at home with his mother, who could vouch for him! Of course this twin – or whoever or WHAT ever it was - was never seen again.
He pondered on this as he drove home, pondered on it so hard that he didn’t see that the lights were red and braked hard…but too late!
The collision was total and final. Lucas Strand was dead on arrival at the hospital, the other driver, a woman, survived without a scratch.
