Adam Fieled (editor, Plymouth Meeting, Pa, USA): from PICC (A Poet in Center City) #50

“Tell me a story…” is what Debbie Blantz chose, quizzically, to open with, after I handed her the cell phone. Larsen Spurn, ensconced in South Philly, was on the other end. It was the middle of the night; maybe 2 am; and a bunch of us were lying, stoned, in an open field directly behind the Contoocook in Henniker. I worked, as always when stoned, on intuition and hunches, and I had a hunch that Larsen would answer his phone. So, Deb decided, still wet from rope-swinging into the river in her bra and panties, and perhaps on a whim, to ditch her customary Brahmin façade and slug Philly in the guts. It was a gutsy time to be there. The confluence of circumstances which brought the poets to Henniker, eighty miles outside Boston (still, arguably, hanging in as a Boston ‘burb, as Henniker, New Hampshire was), was not important to anyone then. We all had blood-and-guts work to take care of. Whoever Wendy Smith thought she was by then, I had my own, semi-heart of darkness version of her, because I knew she would end up famous, and because I wanted us to have a real night together. A few nights later, we were all lounging with drinks in a large living room space, in one of the dormitories we were allowed to use, and I invited her into my room, down the hall, for a smoke. Nothing happened at first— but a wind current somehow slammed the door shut, and the rest, as they say, was history. Even as what happened failed to advance her Virginia family’s Boston interests substantially. I always tried to get her to stick to the poems, stick to the poems. Sometimes, I succeeded. This action was all relayed to John Rind muy rapidamente. He, it would seem, cared more about the action in Philly, but he was planning a surprise for me. So, the penultimate night of the retreat, I was stunned to see Larsen’s silver Toyota Corolla roll into my temporary parking lot, carrying John Rind and Christopher Severin. John emerged from the front seat, not having driven and thus unsurprisingly drunk, with a bottle of Stoli. “Jesus Christ, guys. Nice Corolla, Larsen. Jesus.” “Well, you sounded like you were having so much fun, we thought we’d join you.” Christopher couldn’t resist adding, “I’ve got the camera and I’m ready for action. Where are the suspects?” I laughed, because Wendy, I knew, would hide from a camera. Debbie, who I enjoyed just being buddies with, was more promising. “Wait here, guys. Let me see who I can round up.” Sure enough, Debbie and the whole Jon Arnold crew, were hanging out on an adjacent porch. They gave me the usual quizzical stare and I said, “Some of my friends are here from Philly, guys. We can move you past all that white wine-n-wine cooler crap and into the vodka zone. You in?” Debbie ran her hands through her blonde mane and the soprano sing-song emerged, “Is this the guy I was talking to the other night on the phone?” “Yeah, Larsen, and two other guys.” “I’ll go. Do you guys want to come?” “Uh…we will.” So, the party of five we were, Debbie and I and three pick-ups I only vaguely knew, ambled back to the lot and the Stoli. I was stunned to see Wendy Smith already there. “I met your friends here, Adam. They seem to have more vodka on their hands than you do. John here’s been mighty friendly.” She took a neat, not insubstantial pull of the stuff. Eventually, John, Christopher, and Wendy formed a group to do something obscure— an indoors place in walking distance she thought good fodder for pictures. Oddly, as I couldn’t have called, it was Christopher and her who seemed to click most. Unfortunately, there went our vodka. “Guys, let’s go to Daniel’s, alright?” Larsen was accosted by Debbie, “And you, buster, have a lot of ‘fessing up to do. I think I know your story, indeed.” Things were blurry; we found ourselves seated outside at Daniel’s, and I suddenly remembered that these three weirdos would have to sleep somewhere tonight. “So, y’all can crash in my room, right?” “Yeah. That’s what we thought.” Debbie chirped, “Won’t they be knocking Wendy out of place?” “No, Deb. That’s over. I mean, it’s not over, but we’re not getting married.” Gleeful at my drunkenness, Deb rejoindered, “Thanks, Adam. I can see you’re thinking carefully about what you’re doing, as usual.” Oh what a night, as the song goes. And it did with the three goons crashing on my floor. Christopher got some shots he didn’t expect to get; John found enough action to clean off most of the Stoli; and Larsen met Jon Arnold and made instant business venture plans to connect Henniker and South Philly. When they left the next day, I understood that my life had developed an intense, headlong sense of momentum, and that for the time being, I was just along for the ride. Silver Corolla or not… 

 

© Adam Fieled 2023