Page 36 of Glass Half Full
“Since I’ve spent so long talking about how great my employees are,” she adds, “I thought it would be a nice idea to actually give you some evidence. In addition to being awesome bar and kitchen staff, the people who work here have a whole host of other talents. Our new kitchen manager, Dylan Trottard, has been involved with Montreal’s spoken word poetry scene for years, and we’re very proud to host the group’s monthly slams here at Taverne Toulouse. He told me he didn’t want to steal the show, but we all know that’s a lie, so Dylan’s now going to get up and do a much demanded performance for us. I’m told this piece was inspired by his work at the bar. I’m not sure if I should be nervous or excited about that.”
Tahseen nudges me with her elbow as the crowd starts shuffling around behind us.
“I thought you said he wasn’t here tonight,” she whispers.
“I didn’t see him before.”
He’s all I can see now. I watch him bound up onto the stage and pull Monroe into a hug that nearly swallows up her five feet of stature. Dylan takes the microphone from her and reattaches it to the stand, but instead of preparing to speak from behind it, he steps to the very front of the stage.
He never performs with a microphone. I remember that about him. He used to challenge us all to do the same. We’d do exercises in the workshops to practice our volume and projection.
“The thing about spoken word,” he told us, “is that it’sspoken. It’s as much about the words you say as the way you say them. That’s what makes it special. It can’t exist on a page. Not fully. It exists in your breath, your pauses, your inflection, the heartbeats that fill the spaces between your sentences. Mics are fine, but they can be a distraction. They can trap your poem. I want you to set it free.”
That’s what he does tonight. Without any preamble, he launches into the start of the piece, and for the first time in over three years, I hear Dylan Trottard’s poetry.
Ten
Dylan
MOTIF: A dominant or recurring idea within a literary work
The energyin the bar is a pulsing, living thing—a feral heartbeat thumping above the sound of the words coming out of my mouth. Every inhale and exhale in the crowd hinges on my sentences. Every emotion is tied to a string I pull and twist with my syllables. I call on heartbreak with every pause, conjure up elation with every dip and swell in the volume of my voice. This is my symphony, and the audience is the orchestra.
I let the cheers that follow the first half of my piece fade, catching my breath before launching into the final stanza.
“And when they flip the switch
On the neon sign from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’
When the bar is sticky with spilt beer
And the dance floor is sticky with sweat
When it’s well past last call
And the house lights are blinding them all
When everyone’s screaming the chorus of ‘Closing Time’
In a tequila-fueled serenade
He will still be watching her.
He will still be scribbling her name on Bud Light coasters
Just to cross it out before anyone sees.
He will reach for her hand
The second before she slips away
And she will turn to him
Like she’s the ship and he’s the shore.
There’s a lot you can find at the bottom of a bottle:
A threat, a wound, an insult, a challenge
