In the throes of working out the final details and last minute changes to some advertising for an event I had been working on with two employees, Claire and Matthew, I was paid an unexpected visit by local performance-poet Drew Ward. He was a neo-throwback to the beat generation, and had a penchant for trying to shock people. He had a reputation for taking his clothes off as part of his routine at adult-oriented programs. In his early forties at the time, he was diminutive in stature, with thin skin over a boney frame. He could prove to be unsettling to others in conversations that were most often both animated and contrived. He was, in short, a little odd.
He was delighted when I asked him to be a last minute addition to the open stage line-up at the poetry/music slam, but his face darkened when he asked if I knew of his poetic stylings. I replied that I had heard of his dramatic disrobing during performances, and said that if he exercised common sense, we all could enjoy some of his "less revealing" works at what was going to be an all-ages event. I was leaving it for him to decide, based on the turn-out, just how risque his material should be.
Months earlier he had complained bitterly about having a sick parent living in Montreal whom he had not seen in quite some time, and conveyed his desperation in trying to find someone reliable who would temporarily take over his paper-route while he was away for two weeks. My girlfriend jumped at the chance, pointing out we needed the money anyway, and we ended up freezing our asses off in minus 30 degree weather, picking up the papers at 3 in the morning, with a 3 hour window to have them delivered. All while working 12 hour days. Coffee, and lots of it...
Weeks later we find ourselves with about 40 people enjoying Matthew on guitar as the opening act. He'd been practicing for weeks with a tremendous classical guitar solo. Up until the last minute he was uncertain if he really wanted to perform it in public. I'm glad he did, but wished he had invited family - this was his first public appearance after all. Immediately after Matthew followed the headliner: a local rising star in the folk genre, a singer-songwriter named Grace who captivated listeners with acoustic renditions of her most popular works.
After a field of notable contemporary and local poets, it was on to the open-stage, and Drew was up first. I steeled myself for his performance, having had second and third thoughts over the days leading up to the evening. Silent, he placed his jacket down on a chair and took a deep first breath, turning to assess the audience as he searched for his focus. The crowd (including members of my extended family) looked on expectantly, having enjoyed so much of the evening thus far. Holding his papers with both hands, he began. I became instantly aware that this would be a most memorable evening, as a crescendo of violent sexual imagery rose, directed from the protagonist in his poem. With every breath he took, the air became more rarified, and the store seemed to shrink. Drew appeared to get larger and larger. It felt like he was reliving the moment in the words of his poem, angrily gesticulating about what he was doing with his genitalia. His beady eyes, made artificially larger by the strength of his prescription glasses, sent a chill through the store as he glared about the room and delivered his version of the cold, stark reality in the dying lines of his first poem.
I could feel from my position behind the counter, that there was now a palpable unease within the guests, and I glanced around the room to see people murmuring to themselves inaudibly between the first and second pieces. What he would do for his next poem was anyone's guess. I thought about pulling the plug, and moving on to the next poet; I looked to Matthew and Claire for some hand signal, some advice or wisdom on what to do. They both shrugged, acknowledging the awkwardness of the moment, after all, there were young people with their parents in the shop. As the owner of the store, I was the one with the ultimate responsibility to the audience, and it was only my own inexperience that left me unsure of what to do at that time. I'd never had reason or justification to approve of anyone's material before a show. It had never occurred to me.
Through clenched teeth, he launched into his next soliloquy, his ire also present in this new work, and he now found a focal point to direct his venom, locking his gaze onto Grace who, after having completed her performance, was leaning her chair against a back wall to enjoy the rest of the evening. It is an understatement to say that she didn't look very happy and was trying to look away. It didn't help that Brandon (a high-school student work-experience employee of the bookstore), here with his kid sister and very religious parents, started laughing aloud, which was unnerving but also served to punctuate the absurdity of what was transpiring on stage. Drew's curled lips, now wet with saliva, unburdened himself of the predicament in his sexually charged rhyme. He now gripped his papers with one fist, as he spat out the next lines of snarling poetics. Shifting in her chair, Grace looked like a trapped animal about to spring as Drew leaned forward, almost over the first few rows of people, seeming to get closer to her. Just as I thought "TIME'S UP", 35 people (including Grace) rose to their feet in unison, marching out of the store until only Brandon and a few others remained. "Well...I guess I'm finished", Drew said, to which I replied "Yes, yes you are". He collected his jacket off the chair, and returned to his seat, looking despondent.
As luck would have it, the audience gathered up their courage to return to their seats, having spent a few minutes outside on the sidewalk to catch their collective breaths. My sister offered to read some stories submitted by her 13 year-old son; trying in earnest to salvage the rest of the evening, while cutting her eyes at Drew. At the end of the night my brother confided in me that he was calculating his distance and the amount of strength it would take to subdue Drew, should he turn homicidal.
A week later I was enjoying a warm, sunny afternoon coffee with Grace at a cafe kitty corner from the bookstore, when Drew rolled up the sidewalk towards us on his bicycle. He said "hello" to Grace, acknowledging her as though they were two artist comrades. Squaring himself off, he then addressed me, as though continuing a conversation, by reminding me that he "had warned me of" the racy material for which he was known. He went on to indicate he was disappointed and pissed off with me over how badly things turned out for him that night. I listened thoughtfully to his complaints, before recalling for him my request that he use "common sense" when deciding what material to include at the show. I also pointed out that it had not been me that put an end to his program, but the audience who decided they did not want to listen to him. "Yeah, well...that's true..." he said, mumbling something inaudible before saying, "see you later..." and pedalled off.
