Love, and Words

Open-mic night took on a whole new meaning at Basement Brewing Co. Of course, one doesn't normally associate open-mic night with an establishment that brews coffee, not beer. Nevertheless, loved for its variety of coffees and teas, its brick-adorned, basement ambiance, and its unique open-mic performances, Basement Brewing Co. had quickly become one of the hottest java spots in the South Wedge.

For those old enough to remember, the place emitted a "Central Perk" vibe and one might expect Phoebe Buffay to take the stage in the corner at any moment. The nostalgia was lost on the ever increasing hipster crowd, however, that was beginning to flock to the BBC in droves. Forge hated hipsters.

You'd think that with a name like Forge he'd fit right in, but such was hardly the case. Forge was in his early forties and had been named after his grandfather, whose parents, it seemed, were well ahead of their time in utilizing unique names for their children. No, Forge was no hipster. He was there for the coffee, and quiet solitude. He'd never been there for open-mic night, and it was by mere coincidence that he found himself there that evening.

Normally you'd find Forge at the BBC as dawn crept across the sky, or during the waning hours of the day. It was generally his escape, to which he'd flee to purge himself of the stress of the work day or charge himself for the activity of the weekend. On this particular Thursday, however, he'd been stood up by an online date and decided to stop in on his way home. After suffering through two "performers," he began to regret the decision. It was the third, though, that sent him over the edge.

The man at the mic couldn't have been more of a stereotype if he tried: he wore gray ankle boots, burgundy-colored skinny jeans, an ill-fitting, button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a ridiculously large watch on his right wrist. He completed the ensemble with his standard-issue hipster beard and man-bun. If Forge owned the place he'd have thrown the guy out just for wearing skinny jeans. When the kid stepped to the mic, he began to recite what could only loosely be described as a poem entitled "The Power of Love."  The title made Forge think of nothing other than Huey Lewis, and reminded him just how out of touch the hipster crowd was with anything other than what they learned from watching The Daily Show.  

"Love makes you do things, man; Love doesn't fit in a plan; Love can be pretty cool, but it can also make you drool…." It went on like that for several more stanzas before Forge couldn't help himself and muttered, a little too loudly, "you've got to be fucking kidding me with this."

The hipster-poet heard him, and presumably in an effort to look cool and shame Forge into embarrassment, spoke up. "Dude, you have a problem with my words?" His bravado and conceit evaporated, and his face went white, when Forge actually responded.

"Yeah, I do."

A brief moment of awkwardness ensued as the coffee bar went silent. Hipster-poet had no idea how to respond. Finally, all he managed to say was "well, what's your problem, man?"

"Your words aren't words. They're garbage. They say nothing. They're nothing more than a means to fill a void, like when a child fills the empty space in a coloring book with the black crayon. They're meaningless. They're unoriginal. It's like your auditioning for a Judd Atapow movie to be another cookie-cutter character with no substance, and you're standing there talking to hear your own voice. That's my problem."

A few boos and hisses rang out in the small crowd, as did a few claps of appreciation for Forge's position. "Well, what do you know, man? Like you're some Nicholas Sparks or something?"

"Well I know enough that if you want to equate yourself with good writing you don't do it by comparing yourself to Nicholas Sparks. Try Hemmingway. Shakespeare. Juan Felipe Herrera." Forge saw in the hipster's eyes a complete lack of recognition. "Our national Poet Lauriat?  Jesus, you call yourself a poet and you don't even know who our Poet Lauriat is?"

"Look dude, just because I don't know who that is, it doesn't make me less of a poet."

"No, your lack of poetry makes you less of a poet."

"Hey fuck you, man!"

"Look kid, take a little friendly advice. If you want to be a poet, don't use descriptive terms like 'pretty cool.' And 'drool?' Really? Come on. If you truly want to be a poet, write something that makes people think. Something that makes people feel. You see all these people? Give them something into which they can sink their teeth. Something that, when they walk out of here, they'll talk about, or ponder."

As if the would-be poet hadn't dug himself deep enough into the exchange, his second challenge to Forge was about to backfire even worse than the first had backfired. "Ok man, I dare you to do better. If you're so smart, then why don't you come up here and take the mic. Make us feel," he said derisively. This time everyone clapped, both Forge's supporters and detractors alike.

Forge took a long, dramatic sip of his coffee, set the cup down on the diminutive table in front of him, and stood. "You sure you want to do this?"

"Oooo, somebody's scared!"

Forge scoffed. "Kid, not only will I make everyone in this room think and feel, I'll do it in ten words or less."

"Come on then, big man!"

Forge raised an eyebrow and stepped forward to the mic. The room fell silent, and he let the silence linger before he spoke. He exhaled, allowing the microphone to pick up the trailing sound of his sigh, and said the following:

"She loved me, once. Once was enough."

That was all he said, and that was all he needed to say. The room remained silent as even the bar staff had stopped to hear him speak.  He could see the thoughts behind everyone's eyes: Was the love fleeting? Were they together only once, never again able to lie in each other's arms? Was it a lasting love? Did she die? Or was her love painful, such that he never desired to feel her love again? True to his word, Forge had made them think, and feel, with seven, simple words. He'd humbled the poor, would-be poet with one lament.

The room remained silent as he left the stage, walked through the crowd, and headed up the stairs. He could hear the din of voices just begin again as the door closed behind him. To his surprise, the hipster, would-be poet followed him to the street. "Hey man," he called out. Forge turned. "That was pretty heavy. How'd you do that? How'd you get everyone all quiet and thinking like that?"

Forge grinned. "That, kid, is the true power of love."

© 2015 J.J. Goodman. All rights reserved.