AN OPEN READING FAUX PAS

For Stacy, whose name is not Tracy.


Last week, I got up to read –
A bounce from your poem –
And mentioned you
By the wrong name.
You corrected me
Loudly.

I don’t know
Why my mind
Won’t wrap itself
Around your name.
I’d even asked
Another friend about it
Earlier that night.
He gave me
The right name. But
The wrong name
Popped out of my mouth.

Meanwhile, people
Were waiting
For my reading.
I tried
To introduce my poem,
While you commented angrily
On everything I said.
I cut off eye contact with you;
I met the eyes of the crowd.
You got up and left
Before the poem
Started. Later,
Yet another friend
Would tell me
You did not leave
In a huff, but I found that
Hard to believe.

I’ve known you
For awhile, talked with you
Often, and should
Have known better.
But I’d been embarrassed
That I couldn’t grasp
Your name, never
Admitted it to you. I kept
Asking others about it,
But it just wouldn’t stick in my mind.
I should have just written it down;
I don’t know why I never did.

And now
The secret is exposed,
Having been blurted out
In the worst possible way,
In public even -- to embarrass you
As well as me. Worse
Than calling someone the wrong name
In bed; there’s not even
A third party involved
To mix things up!

OK, there’s a problem
With my memory, a glitch
I hope is not a glimpse
Of worse to come (my mother
Died with Alzheimer’s.)

But what I did
Was not deliberate.
Perhaps the way you handled it
Was also not a choice –
Sudden anger
Sometimes overrides
The will.

I will do what I can –
Apologize to you.

I only hope
That I remember to.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey

All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.

CHROME AND CROSSED SIGNALS

(photo by David Shankbone)


My partner and I go to a certain diner in our small town as often as we can. Outside, it’s all chrome, and has the design of a classic old diner, though it really wasn’t built that long ago. They play a lot of music from the 50s and 60s, and have an authentic soda fountain where they can make egg creams and such.

This diner’s first owner was our ex landlady. We liked her, and started going to support her business. But now, two owners later, we go because we still like the food and atmosphere. However, the story I’m about to relate happened relatively soon after the place first opened.

Late one afternoon we went there for dinner. Our waiter was new, an obviously gay man. As a gay couple ourselves, we were happy to see that they had hired Family.

We didn’t stay happy for long.

Mary Wells’s bouncy old love song, “My Guy,” came on. Another source of delight – we’ve both loved the song since our, ahem, long-ago youth. Our waiter, on his way to get our glasses of water, was dancing around to it. When he came back, he found us smiling and singing along.

This is when his attitude changed from civility to apparent seething hostility. He slammed our glasses down and scribbled our orders loudly on his pad with a scowl. When I ordered coffee, he pointedly asked, “Do you want that WITH your meal, or afterward?” This weird question foreshadowed treatment to come.

He brought our food when it came out, but otherwise haughtily ignored us. We each got one drink, and no offers of refills. Whenever either of us tried to get his attention, he would look away with a huff. Meanwhile, he lavished constant gushing attention on the table of ladies next to us, to show that his scorn was reserved specifically for us.

We were totally bewildered by his behavior. And, of course, we didn’t leave him a tip.

When we paid, our friend the owner was at the cash register. She asked, “How was everything?” I told her the food was great, as always. I was tempted to add, “but the service was horrible” – but some intuition stopped me. I just let the incident pass.

Later, I deduced what must have happened.

Our waiter’s gaydar must have been on the fritz. When he saw us smiling and singing along to “My Guy,” he apparently thought that we were having a joke at his expense. He took us to be straight and homophobic, laughing at him for dancing to the song. It wasn’t at all professional of him to punish us for that – a good waiter would have shrugged it off and ignored it. But at least I could understand why he reacted the way he did.

He didn’t last long at the diner, possibly not even at his profession – too thin-skinned, I’d bet. But for an obviously gay man, waiting tables in a Central PA Bible Belt small town diner must be a tough job sometimes. I’m glad it wasn’t us who got him fired.

-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey

All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author’s written permission.