Page 59 of The Bar Next Door
“These people are better than great,” she assures me, practically bouncing in her seat with excitement. The friction of her thigh against mine is more than a little distracting. “Once they had a winner who was only sixteen-years-old, but her poetry...She had a gift. They all do. Oh, there’s Dylan. He’s a cook here, and sometimes he performs or MCs. He’s the one who asked if they could use Taverne Toulouse as a venue.”
A bulky guy in jeans and a black hoodie grabs the microphone set up in front of the crowd. For forty or so people, they’re making their share of noise, stamping their feet and whistling as Dylan makes an introductory speech to get them even more amped up.
Monroe claps along with them, and I don’t know how the rest of the crowd isn’t more interested in watching her than what’s going on up front. She’s not as dressed up as she was on our first date, but I think I prefer her this way—relaxed, comfortable, yet still buzzing with the energy that’s bouncing around the room. I see something else in her too: pride. She’s the reason all this can happen tonight, and sitting here watching it unfold, content with the part she’s played, she’s totally in her element.
She’s also totally, insanely, maddeningly beautiful. She caught my eye the first second I saw her, but it’s like the more I get to know her, the more fixed on her my eyes become. It’s a physical effort every time I have to look away from swell of her lips and the flash of her teeth when she smiles.
I force myself to tune in as Dylan starts explaining the rules of the slam: the poet’s each get three minutes to perform. Judges have already been randomly selected from the audience and given miniature whiteboards to write their scores. The performers can’t use props, costumes, or musical instruments.
“And,” Dylan adds, “I must remind you that you are not allowed to get naked.”
The crowd boos.
“Until our special edition ‘no rules’ slam next month, in which all bets are off.”
The crowd cheers.
I turn to Monroe. “Is he serious?”
She shrugs, cheering along with the rest of them.
“Okay, okay,” Dylan continues. “We’re about to get started, so—”
He’s cut off by several people in the audience shouting, “BLOOD!”
“Blood?” I question Monroe.
“You’ll see,” she mutters.
“Right, right. How could I forget?” Dylan jokes like he was expecting the interruption all along. “We need some blood. Before we get the night started, we have a ‘sacrificial poet’ not competing in the slam tonight whose performance will get the judges calibrated and set the scoring barometer for the night. May I remind you, my sexy, sexy audience, that you are allowed—nay, even encouraged to verbally critique the scores. If you want higher, shout for higher!”
“HIGHER!” a few people start yelling already.
“That’s the spirit. You’re also encouraged to show some appreciation for the poets. If you like what you hear, let ‘em know! You can snap. You can clap. You can cheer. You can do a little tap dance with your feet. It’s all good. We also welcome all poets to the stage by raising our fists up high and shouting...”
“SPEAK!” the crowd finishes for him. They’re so amped up I find my own feet are starting to tap the floor with the same anticipation.
“You guys are doing my job for me. Okay, fists up. Please welcome your sacrificial poet...” Dylan pulls off a Gene Kelly-esque spin with surprising dexterity and makes some finger guns at the audience. “Me!”
“Speak!” I chorus with everyone else.
I know Monroe didn’t invite me here for an innocent date night; this is a clear ploy to show me what she thinks is so special about this place, and I have to admit, in some respects it’s working. I’ve never felt anything quite like the energy in the room tonight. The poetry night I went to in Paris was more of a smoky Beatnik affair. Everyone was trying to be cool and complicated as they sat there sipping cocktails that cost twelve Euros apiece.
It seems like every age group and subculture in the city is represented here tonight, from teenagers in anarchist flag-adorned denim jackets to a few girls in their twenties wearing headscarves and long skirts to an old guy sitting in the corner who looks like he might actually be Gandalf the Grey. They’re all fueled with the same kind of fire, a burning need to listen and to speak, to offer and accept. We talk so much about setting our differences aside, seeking what makes us similar instead of what sets us apart, but so rarely do we actually experience what it feels like when a group of people come together to do just that.
I can tell why this is important to Monroe, why it’s something she wants me to understand, and yet I don’t see this shitty student bar as the reason it’s possible.
It’s her. It’s her vision, her energy, her commitment and passion. She’s a voice people listen to, a force that makes things happen, and she doesn’t even realize how much potential she contains. She could be running places two or three times this big with just as much efficiency. If she had final say in this business, I doubt I’d even own the place next door. She’d have taken over half the street already.
She could reach so much higher than she allows herself to go.
I’ve been zoned out for the first part of Dylan’s poem, but once I decide to leave pondering Monroe for a later time, it’s impossible not to give my full attention to his words.
Monroe told me these shows are better than great. If Dylan’s talent is anything to go by, ‘better than great’ falls extremely short of the mark.
He spits his words like a dragon snorting fire, his consonants the crackle of sparks and his vowels a snaking drift of smoke. The poem builds, the heat Dylan’s creating with words alone increasing with the pace of his rhythm. He’s telling the story of a street brawl, two boys wrestling in the dark, knives glinting and flashing in what was only supposed to be a fist fight. Dylan tells it from the perspective of a third boy watching from the sidelines in the midst of a crowd wooping and stamping just like us. He’s speaking so fast the words all blur together, just a roar of sound spilling fire over the audience, and then—then one of the boys is on the ground.
By the time he’s done, the entire room is silent, everyone’s burning hearts now blackened with ash.
