August 27, 2002
Approximately fifty-five minutes later, a showered and clean-shaven Jean Michel
Pinot was walking down Ninth Avenue, quickly approaching Amy's Bread. Standing
outside of the small café/bakery was a short, thin man, wearing a pair
of tan cotton khakis, a crisp white long sleeved oxford that had been made short
sleeved by the rolling up of the cuffs, and a pair of polished black shoes.
His haircut might have brought the armed services to mind, but his physique
suggested otherwise. It was Klaus.
Amy's Bread
Through his wire-rimmed glasses, he looked directly at Jean-Michel, who was
relieved that he had not left his apartment in anything less formal than his
friend. An inequality of dress usually felt awkward to someone in a social gathering,
usually the individual whose dress style was out of place. Jean-Michel smiled
as he approached his dear friend.
"Have you brought it?" he asked Klaus. Klaus responded by waving a
small notebook. "Here they are," he said, "all of the latest."
He smiled as he looked at the notebook, and then added, "Mostly from the
last few years. Three or four, maybe." For such a reserved individual in
regards to his poetry, Jean-Michel thought, he was awfully prolific. Maybe he
was one of those types that was a genius but somehow either didn't realize it
or who had such a low self-worth that he wouldn't even allow the thought of
being above mediocrity. Why did great minds, being so full of brilliant thought,
fail to recognize itself as others so clearly perceived it?
The two friends headed inside the restaurant, which was somewhat crowded. They
each ordered muffins and coffee, not exactly a coincidence of the magnitude
of running into a close friend while on an airplane headed for Denmark. As they
sat down, Klaus asked Jean-Michel to kindly refrain from reading over the poetry
while drinking the coffee - though he thought little of the work, he felt there
was something to be said about posterity, and preserving some record of one's
existence for future generations. Jean-Michel of course agreed, as any good
friend might.
Free Fashion Show
They soon finished the muffins, which were superb, and watched people walk by
on the sidewalk as they drank from their coffee. It was, in a way, a free display
of fashion. Perhaps it was the ugliness of certain people that made it not quite
so free. People walked by in all kinds of blue jeans, from the kind that seemed
as though they were painted on to the large baggy varieties that probably used
about twice as much material as a pair of trousers that size should merit. Many
wore t-shirts advertising the designer of some jeans but ironically were not
themselves wearing jeans. People would pay an obscene amount of money for clothing
that had the name of the designer in enormous letters. Jean-Michel felt that
such clothing was in poor taste, for it practically made the wearer into a walking
billboard advertisement. The designer should then pay you to wear such an article
of clothing, not the other way around.
As it was, some people just liked to have names of major designers screaming
off of their clothing. Often, these people would be the very people who should
not have been spending their money on such expensive clothing, and perhaps might
have wanted to save up a little money for "rainy days", or to pay
off a loan or a mortgage a little bit faster. People preferred staying in debt
but looking (in their seemingly shallow perspectives) fashionable. What they
really looked like, Jean-Michel thought, were people who were paying fifty dollars
for a dollar of cotton with somebody's name on it in big letters. If only he
could write "Pinot" on a shirt and sell it for fifty dollars.
A few women wore long flowing dresses, but they were in the minority. There
were skirts of all lengths - down to the toe in some cases, being close to non-existent
in others. It was far too easy, they agreed, to use less material than more,
as naked skin usually had a sort of aesthetic appeal. A few of the women with
longer skirts also wore wigs, sometimes a cloth head covering. A rare show of
modesty, Jean-Michel thought as he observed their long sleeves and determined
yet inconspicuous way of walking.
A quick round of the game "Spot the Tourist" ensued. It was a fairly
easy game, the object being to point out people who almost seemed to make an
effort to appear lost, confused, and out of place. They carried around large
maps of the island, and wouldn't eat anywhere unless it was suggested by one
of the many guidebooks on the subject.
The game grew boring, and Jean-Michel asked to see his friend's poetry. Klaus
hesitatingly handed over the notebook.
A Metaphor or Five
Some poems spoke of nature, the beauty of certain flowers, rare birds, waterfalls,
and even the sizes and shapes of clouds as they appeared when the sun was setting.
There were poems that invoked the names of Roman deities, biblical figures,
and myths from various cultures. The poetry was nothing short of beautiful and
brilliant. It was not just Klaus' choice of subject but the words he used to
describe them. He used words as if they were musical notes, knowing the proper
tempo, spacing, and length.
"These are wonderful," Jean-Michel said, "have you ever shown
them to anyone, or tried to get one published?" The shocked look on Klaus'
face answered the question, in a way.
"As I said before," Klaus softly replied, "these works stay in
my apartment, or rather they did before you requested to see them."
"Surely others have seen them before me."
"As a matter of fact, you are the first person. I didn't count the time
I watched Conrad for a week and read a couple of poems to him."
With these words, Jean-Michel beamed. He was a little giddy, knowing that his
friend thought so highly of him. Of course, he had an idea that this was the
case before, but this action affirmed it in his mind. "I think you should
submit some of these to literary reviews, magazines that accept poetry, maybe
even some contests..."
The banker-poet was quiet, and looked down at his now empty cup. Finally, "Do
you really think I'm that good?"
"If I didn't, I wouldn't have suggested it" Jean-Michel replied with
a smile. Jean-Michel was not the type to make compliments unless he meant them,
and Klaus was well aware of this fact. Klaus nodded, and said that he would
most certainly consider it. Would he really? Jean-Michel was not sure, and could
not be, for Klaus was the type of person who would agree to something to end
a topic in a conversation, so something more comfortable could be discussed.
How about them Knicks?
Klaus asked Jean-Michel if he had seen the Knicks play the previous evening.
Jean-Michel replied that he had not, but that he had read about the game in
that morning's New York Times, and was quite pleased that they had won. Between
the two of them, it was evident who was the bigger fan of sports. If Klaus could
have afforded it, he would have owned a pair of season's tickets, and would
have most definitely been at every home game. Jean-Michel, on the other hand,
was not familiar at all with the game, short of knowing that the off-orange
ball needed to go into the net in order to score points for the team. Jean-Michel
felt that the New York Knickerbockers (he was fond of that more "formal"
name) contained the spirit of Manhattan, and so he was thrilled to hear of their
victories and saddened to know of their defeats. He even watched from time to
time, as he enjoyed the fast action on the screen. Even Conrad liked watching,
to the extent that one could observe his eyes moving around to follow the ball.
Of course, it could have had something to do with the fact that Jean-Michel
sometimes, during the play-off season, put Conrad's food dish near the television.
Looking at his watch, Jean-Michel realized that he had an appointment to get
to. He apologized to his friend, and thanked him for sharing the poetry with
him.
The Attack of Self-Doubt
The coffee had been good. The muffin had been even better. The poems: had he
really just shared some of his most personal writings with his best friend?
Yes, he had. Was this a good idea? Jean-Michel seemed to like the poems, and
had given his approval. Was it really necessary for him to approve in order
for the poetry to be good? Of course not. He had thought that his poetry was
just fine in all the time that he had kept the poetry to himself. If his poetry
was so good, though, why didn't he share it with anyone? Did he have to share
it with someone in order to make it real? Wasn't it enough just to write the
poetry, and appreciate it himself? Who needed the recognition of literary magazines,
when he knew it was perfectly fine just sitting in his notebook?
Klaus thought about his job, and how terribly tedious it was. This was not at
all what he had in mind when he was going through school. Klaus admired Jean-Michel,
for he did something he enjoyed doing - writing. How was he doing financially?
Did it even matter, given that he managed to survive and live a seemingly happy
life with his cat Conrad? He never complained about doing poorly. Klaus smiled.
Maybe he could publish a poem or two, just to see what would happen. What was
the worst thing that could happen? Rejection, of course. Did it really matter
if he got rejected or not? He would still feel just as strongly about his words
either way.
Time for another cup of coffee, perhaps. Did they give free refills? It wasn't
that big of a deal if they didn't... what appointment had whisked off Jean-Michel
so quickly?
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