Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip (9 page)

“Just for us.”

I was flustered

but mustered

enough guts

to say, “We mostly

do poetry slams.”

Weston applauded,

and the white cloth

fell from his arm.

“Charming,” he said,

“how darling

farm girls

can become poets!”

“Come on, girls,”

said Vince.

“Show us

how you slam.”

I looked at Twig,

and she looked at

me, and I was

weak in the knees.

“You go first,”

I said to Twig.

Twig leaped to

her feet, and

the heat in

her face made

her cheeks flush.

Weston hushed

the customers

in the Crystal Room.

“We have a unique

treat tonight,”

he announced,

bouncing on his heels.

“Two teen poets—

Sister Slam and Twig—

will delight you

as they recite to you.”

People clapped,

and Twig rapped

out her poem

about John Lennon

being dead,

leaving Yoko alone

in the bed,

and man,

did her face

turn red

when this

guy named Ted said

that he was

with the
Village Voice

and liked her choice

of rhymes.

The room exploded

with applause, whistles,

and hurrahs.

It was my turn

to work.

I felt like

a weirdo,

with everybody staring

and the glaring

of a camera's flash

from across the room.

I thought

of doing

my Gloom Pillows

and Huge Boobs poem,

but the mood

in the Crystal Room

was too upbeat

for doom.

I thought

of doing my

Lemon Pie Guy poem,

but thought

of what Twig had said

about how being mean

to people gets you nowhere.

And then I thought

of Mom, and how she believed

in being nice every day

of her way-too-short life.

Dazed, in a haze,

I decided

to recite a poem

that I'd written

trying to get over

Mom's death.

I took a breath

and began:

Another sundown,

low sunken gold.

Nights keep

on going, whole sky's

growing old.

Don't hold on

to busted junk,

dusty love, green lust,

dead sea monkeys . . .

rusty stuff nobody needs.

Throw out the fake pearls.

Bring on the love beads.

At the speed of

a beating heart,

part with the broken,

hoping to start tomorrow

soaking up free borrowed sun.

Old sorrows laid low. A new day's begun.

I was shaking,

raking my hands

through my hair.

“More!” said Jake,

and it thrilled me to the core.

So I did my other poem about Mom,

which starts like this:

All that's left here

is your empty chair.

You're in the air,

and I'm a millionaire

for loving you.

There wasn't

a cough

or a whisper

as Sister

slammed.

You could

have heard

a napkin drop

as I bebopped

and hip-hopped

my way through

the best poems

I ever wrote.

By the time

I finished,

I was shivering

with nerves, and our

meal was served.

I was gliding, wowed,

on Cloud Number Nine,

feeling so fine,

like I was surrounded

by angels. It was strange:

I
actually felt

something brush

against my face—

like a swishing of

wings or lace—

but nothing was there.

Hot New Poets in the City:

Sister Slam and Twig

Staying at Waldorf

said the newspaper headline.

I had to admit

that it wasn't a bad picture:

I looked chunky but funky,

and the gap in my teeth

was actually kind of cute.

The article

quoted our poems,

and it said

that our words

were smoking,

and that we

had the Tavern

exploding, titillated

with a tizzy

of electricity.

Jake said

it was a necessity

to get in line for at least

three copies

of the
Village Voice
,

so we did,

and then we cut

out the pictures of us.

Jake taped

one to the outside of

the hotel room door

as his parents snored.

“Poetry galore!” he announced.

“Come explore the candy store

of hard-core poetry like you've

never heard it before!”

We left Jake's 'rents sleeping

and went to eat breakfast at Peacock Alley,

where they had lilies of the valley

and ice-carved hearts on the tables.

“Look,” Jake said, tracing the shape

of the ice. “You're melting this heart,

just like you melt mine.”

Twig rolled her eyes.

“Oh, brother. Butter her up, why

don't you?”

“You're just jealous,” I said,

drizzling syrup on my french toast,

“because Jake likes me the most.”

“You don't have to boast,” Twig said.

I was a mess:

wearing the same dress

I'd worn yesterday.

Twig was wearing

one of Misty's Liz Claiborne

corny sporty getups,

and she looked ridiculous:

all meticulous like a

country club mother or something.

I still hadn't called Pops,

and Twig wasn't big

on calling her parents either.

We guessed

that Jake's 'rents

had forgotten

all about the calls.

“Enough alcohol,”

Jake said,

“and they can forget

their own address.”

We headed back to Floor

Forty-Four, and there

at the door of room Four

Hundred Forty-Four

was a dude with dreadlocks, knocking.

“Yo,” said Jake.

“What's up?”

“Zup,” said the guy.

“My name's Rafe. I work

at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe.

I'm here to speak to the freaky

Sister Slam and Twig, the chicks in the

news.”

“That would be us,” said Twig.

“I'm here to invite you

to our slam tonight,” said

the man. He moved his hand,

and a little jingle bell

ring tinkled on his finger.

I looked at Twig,

and she looked at me.

“Cool,” said Twig.

“Go for it,” said Jake.

“Well,” I said, “I need to visit

a thrift shop first.

Get some new

threads. If my

hair was long

enough, I'd

even get dreads!”

“Girl,” said the dude,

“you're perfect

just as you are:

a rising star

in the slam galaxy.”

“Yes,” I said.

“We'll be there.”

“Don't be square,”

said the guy

with the dreadlocked hair.

“Eight o'clock sharp.”

“I'll ride in the cab

with you two,” said Jake.

“That way, I'll know

you're safe.”

Hearing the

heavenlike

strum of a harp

in my head, I spread

my arms like wings

and began to sing

inside, because

I knew that tonight

would change my life.

That's where it all began:

with the slam that whammed

the boho poetry community.

We started

at the Nuyorican

Poets Cafe,

which was jammed

with people

much cooler than me.

“I am so nervous,”

I whispered to Twig,

fidgeting, jittery,

biting my nails

as we waited to perform.

“Do you have

butterflies in your gut?”

muttered Twig,

chewing on a strand of hair.

“I've got more than

butterflies,” I replied.

“I've got flocks of birds

in there.”

I was wearing a lavender-purple

furry shirt and a gauze skirt

from a thrift store called Zorro's Digs.

Twig wore camouflage

from the Army/Navy store.

Jake had insisted on paying

for the clothes.

“Your new slam wardrobes!”

he said. “A gift of good luck.”

“How do I look?” I asked,

and Jake touched my hand.

“Perfect,” he said.

“You're the hottest

chick here.”

He cast a glance

at Twig, who wasn't

even listening.

“You and Twig,” Jake said.

“You're the two coolest

girls in the room.”

Too soon, my name was called,

and Jake looked straight

into my eyes.

“Pretend it's only you

in the room,” he said.

“You and your mom.

Just do the poems for her.

“That purple fur

on your shirt,” he added,

“makes your eyes

look almost black.

Way attractive.”

I almost had a heart

attack when Jake

leaned closer and

pecked my cheek.

“Go slam, Sister,” he whispered.

Shaking, I made my

way to the microphone,

combat boots clopping.

Taking a deep breath,

I started to slam.

That's where it all began.

The next night

we went to Jimmy's Uptown.

I wore blue boots and a shimmery

silver prom gown

(from a used-clothes store

called Second Time Around).

Twig dressed in a clown

outfit, and we did slam poems

that made the people laugh.

“Encore! More!” somebody yelled.

It was a girl . . . no, it was a man,

wearing a yellow dress with pearls.

He had long blond hair,

and I stared.

“Girlfriend,” he

shouted, “you rock! You're a jammin'

rammer of a slam poet woman!”

It was the Newark Tooth Fairy!

“Yellow is your color,” I said

when he came up to the stage

and asked for my autograph.

“It's a small world,”

he said. “Karma brought us

together again.”

The Bowery Poetry

Club was next,

and when the judges

held up their cards,

Twig and I had both

scored all 10s.

“Let's get a Mercedes

Benz,” Twig joked,

counting the

five-hundred-dollar

cash prize

we'd divide.

A dude named Scarecrow,

with hair of indigo blue,

made our dreams

come true that night

by inviting us to join

him in forming

a new slam team.

“Let's go on the circuit

and work it,” he said.

I felt like this

was my birth.

“We need day

jobs, though,” said

Twig. “We're running

out of money.”

“No prob,” said Scarecrow.

“I'll employ both of you

in my shop, The Joy of Soy.”

“We'll take it,” I said.

Curled on the

sofa in the Waldorf

later that night,

tired but wired,

I was so hyped

that I couldn't sleep.

“Try counting sheep,”

Jake suggested,

and then he made

microwave hot chocolate to

help me relax.

Vince and Misty

were sacked out,

and Twig was actually

slamming in her sleep,

grinding her teeth,

dreaming of poetry.

The moon

was full and gleaming,

its sheen streaming

beams through the

windows of the suite.

“Only two more days

of vacation,”

Jake said.

“It'll suck to go back

to work in Jersey.”

“You don't like your job?”

I asked, and he shrugged.

“It's okay,” Jake said.

“I just don't know if I

want to spend the rest of

my life in Doozy's Music Store,

helping losers choose amps and

microphone stands.”

“So what do you want to do,

for forever?” I asked.

“Make music,” Jake said.

“And make money doing it.”

“That's cool,” I said.

“The number one rule

of life is doing what you like.”

I sipped the hot cocoa,

and Jake picked up

his guitar, softly strumming

chords, humming.

“It's bumming me out

to think of you not being

around,” I said.

“It's not that far,” Jake said,

caressing his guitar.

“I'll come for every weekend slam

that I can. I'm your number one

fan. A Sister Slam groupie!”