Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip (4 page)

Twig snickered.

“It sucks,” she said,

and then she went

to bed.

I didn't care

what she said.

It was PMS

in the Sleep Best Inn

when Twig acted

like that.

She was a brat

about once a month.

I needed to practice,

even though Twig

was as prickly as cactus.

I also needed some Tums

to calm my stomach,

so I made up my mind

to find a vending machine

and to practice like a fiend

in the wobbly-chaired lobby

of this roach motel.

Proud as a peacock

in my old, holey-toe socks

and funky monkey nightgown,

I made my way down the

dark halls of puke-green walls.

This took balls:

walking alone

in a place

so far from home.

I'd made lemonade

from venomous lemons,

and I was the Queen of Beat,

the feminine

go-get-'em

winner of the slam

tomorrow.

Whispering my poem

as I swished along

the halls, I had a vision

of Pops

and wished

to call him.

Homesick or Pops-sick

was not an option

on the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip.

What was I:

a wimp? a gimp? Then,

limp with missing Pops,

and Mom,

and my toad-colored

bedroom at home,

I slumped on the

cracker-crumbed

floor by a snack

machine, bummed,

and way too alone.

The sunrise

in the morning

hurt my eyes,

and I couldn't

disguise my disgust.

“Look at the dust

in this light.

And look:

these musty cheap curtains

won't even bleepin' close right!

What a bite:

eighty-nine dollars a night

just to sleep

a few hours

and take

a ten-minute shower.”

“Don't complain,”

Twig moaned

and flopped over.

“We're going to need jobs,

or more money from Pops,

at this rate. I hate

how quick money runs leakin'

down the freakin' drain!”

“Don't be such a pain,” Twig muttered.

I must confess

that I wasn't in the best

of moods.

“What's up with you?” Twig said.

“Better get your head

together, whether

you want to or not,

or you don't have a shot

at this contest.”

I rummaged, grumbling,

through my old suitcase,

manic with panic:

a certified nut case.

“I swear,

I don't know what to wear.

I shouldn't care,

because it's not about clothes,

I know.”

Twig just shook her head.

“Why do I have to be so fat?”

I asked.

“I don't want to be like that!”

“Laura,” said Twig,

“you're cool,

just the way you are.”

“I guess it'll be the ever-popular

polyester vest,” I said,

wrestling a red vest

from a nest of messed-together threads.

“Red is your color,” hollered Twig.

“Like fire. Sister Slam will lift you higher!”

“Liar,” I said. “You're just saying that

to make me feel good.”

“Look,” said Twig,

“if you don't lose the mood,

I'm quitting this gig.

I can get a lift

and whiz

right back to Banesville.”

It made me quit bitching,

to think of Twig hitching

a ride and leaving me alone.

“Let's start over,” I said.

“I'm sorry. I need coffee.

I need eggs. I need ham.

Never start a slam

without grub.”

We went for breakfast

in a grease-messed restaurant

next to the Sleep Best Inn.

The waitress was brooding

and rude, but at least she brought food,

and the coffee

was sweet and steamy

with sugar and cream.

“This seems

like a dream!” I said,

sipping, slurping,

burping, wishing

for the position

of Slammer

Number One

at the Tin Can

Poetry Slam.

I was ablaze

and out of my

haze, unfazed,

and crazed to

begin my win.

It was close to slam time,

and I waited in line, shiny as a dime,

ready to word-whip whiny Lemon Pie Guy

and all the other hopeful poets. Most were

younger than thirty, and some were flirty.

There were girls in low-cut shirts

and hip-hugging jeans, exhibiting cleavage

and thongs.

“That's just wrong,” I whispered

to Twig. “They think they're going to win

if the judges are dirty old men.”

Jumpy-grumpy

with an overdose of caffeine,

pumped with adrenaline,

I felt almost lean

and way too close to mean.

“Ssh,” I said

to the socializing people

woozy and schmoozing

in a conference room

reeking of cheap perfume.

I was oozing competition:

a magician wishing

for the best rabbit trick.

I made a stage

in my mind

and practiced the lines

of my Lemon Pie Guy masterpiece.

Nervousness ceased,

and I was a beast:

the Queen of the Slam

about to begin.

Twig and I were

slam virgins, having

never been alone on stage

before. This would

be our first burst

into the world of

performance, which

was enormous.

We went into the slam room,

which was just another

gloomy conference room, with

carpet as stiff as the bristles of

a broom,

air-conditioned cool as a tomb,

with Ruffles chips crushed

into the rug.

The competitors were nervous,

and they bit their lips,

nibbled on fingernails,

and shuffled and whispered

in muffled voices.

Aluminum folding chairs

were lined in close rows, facing

one microphone standing alone

on a stage that looked like

plywood. I hoped it would

hold my weight, as I waited

for my name to be announced.

A lady wearing floral print flounced

to the stage and bounced around,

chirping, “Welcome to the

Tin Can Poetry Slam!

Poets will perform

in alphabetical order,

backward. No merciless

heckling or cursing at

competitors. The prizes

will be surprises. First

contestant: Ed Zedman.”

Ed Zedman was a dead man,

pale and boring.

I was almost snoring.

Then came Sarah Yahn,

who bombed, stuttering,

fluttering the air

with words that

meant nothing.

Next was Twig,

and I was big

enough to wish

her luck.

“Break a leg, Twig,”

I whispered

as she swished in fishnets

to the front of the room.

Twig did

her “Revolution” poem,

and a heckler booed:

pollution in the room.

I clapped and cheered,

snapping my fingers

like those old Beat poets

back in the sixties.

Twig took a bow

and then sat down.

I looked around,

and the man who'd hounded

Twig was picking his nose.

“Gross,” I said. “That's just

crude, dude.”

Twig put her hand

over my mouth.

“Don't be so rude.

It ruins the mood.”

Two hours later,

it was finally

my turn to burn, churning words

like milk into butter,

like ice cream

in the freezer.

Some geezer observer

had the nerve

to make a smart remark

about the size of my chest,

and it was a test

of my temper to ignore

the simple pimple-nosed

old fart.

I bebopped up

to the front,

and took a deep breath,

and pushed out my chest.

At the top of my lungs,

I shouted out my poem,

screaming, keeping the beat

of the sentences

with bounces of my chest

and with the rest of me.

My fat was moving, grooving,

all in one direction,

and there was no correction

because I made no

mistakes, baby.

Sweating, forgetting

my flesh, I almost

wet my pants

with the dance

of Sister Slam.

Hoarse by the time

I finished yelling,

my leg flesh turned to Jell-O,

and I noticed a flash of yellow

hair in the judges' stand.

It wasn't just any old man:

it was the obnoxious, cocky

Lemon Pie Guy. The other

judges looked just like him:

old as mold, cold-shouldered,

with hearts like boulders.

My face red

as raspberry-cherry

Kool-Aid,

I made my way

back to my seat,

where I knew

that I'd been beat.

“Geez,” I hissed

to Twig,

“Sister Slam missed

this one.

I messed up big!”

“That's why,” said Twig,

“you should be nice.

Take my advice

with a grain of rice,

but I think that mean words

are like head lice: they ice

the judges so much

that you'd never win

with words like that,

even if they weren't

about him.”

My eyes brimmed,

and on a whim,

I hugged Twig.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“I've been a moron.

I'm going to work

harder at being smarter

before I talk

so stupid.”

My voice squeaked

like chalk

on a board.

“You can't afford

to blurt out words

like puke, rebuking

everybody who rubs

you the wrong way,”

Twig said.

I nodded,

my body heavy.

“Rule Number Four

of this most-hip road trip,”

whispered Twig.

“Always check out the judges

before a slam.”

We checked out

of the Sleep Best Inn

and headed

for the rotten-egg-scented

parking lot.

“Laura, your car!”

shouted Twig.

Somebody had written

witless shit, scribbled

in dribbled soap on the doors:

FATTY'S ROAD TOURS, it said.

I just shook my head.

Some people needed

to get a life.

I noticed that a bunch of

hunched-over pre-teenyboppers

were cracking up,

cackling hysterically

until they practically rolled

on the ground.

“Yo,” I yelled.

“Sticks and stones

can break my bones,

but words will never

hurt me.”

I was lying.

I pried

my eyes wide,

trying to look

cruel, but it was bull,

because I knew

I looked like a fool.

Twig played it cool.

She waved like a

beauty queen,

like Miss Teen America—

a barracuda of coolness—

like she was riding in a

lime-green limousine,

or inside a fine convertible.

“Let's make an excellent exit;

don't hex it,”

she whispered,

and we drifted sexily

in the direction

of my 1969 Firebird,

ignoring the door words.

We threw our suitcases

into the backseat,

gleaming, beaming

screamingly fake smiles.

I stared straight ahead,

at the steeple of a Jersey church,

and pretended that God

was throwing rocks

at the jerks, giving them

what they deserved.

The nerve of some people

who call themselves human.

I was fuming

and started the car

by racing the accelerator.

We left

the Sleep Best Inn

of Tin Can

with a squeal of wheels,

leaving rubber

skid marks

in the parking lot.

I laughed fearlessly

at the sight of the weirdos

in my rearview mirror.

“Good-bye and good riddance!”

I said. “Hope we never meet again.”

Then Twig said,

“Where to next?”

“I don't know.

Let's just blow

this clown town

and hit the road.”

“Laura,” said Twig,

“I mean, Sister.

We can't afford to

waste gas.

You know, we're low

on cash.”

“Nah,” I said.

“Don't fret.”

But just then,

with a sputter

and a mutter

and a flutter

of a cough,

the gas tank

of my poor old car

went empty,

which was exactly

the most embarrassing

exit we ever

could have made,

one-eighth

of a mile

from the Sleep Best Inn.