slew of words

There must be something about the combined auras of Rachel and I that attract individuals with a loose screw or two. It seems that more times than I can count, when we are together weird things happen and interesting individuals approach us. Perhaps we both look friendly, inviting, and willing to listen to their woes, aspirations, lives or in this case, artistic outpourings. Or perhaps we just look crazy ourselves.

It was a typical Saturday of meeting for breakfast at the Farmer’s Market and running errands together. The game plan was to have a relatively lowkey night, to choose a place we could dress up a little and order a few drinks but not run into everyone we knew and combat large crowds. So naturally, we chose the Lamp Shop for a bit of live music and fruity, alcoholic lemonades.

If you have never been to the Lamp Shop in Burlington, let me just give you a quick description. There are lamps… everywhere. Hanging from the ceiling, arranged on the floor, mounted to the walls, and adorning every possible flat surface. You are surrounded by shiny brass, fluorescent lightbulbs, colorful glass shades, and dangling crystal chandeliers. They pride themselves in creative beverages and themed, live music nights. If there is one place that screams crunchy-hippie-Vermont, it’s this place.

We arrived and after unsuccessfully trying to flirt with the guy at the door so we could avoid the cover, we nestled into the big booth in the back. Two performers, one with a banjo and one with a keyboard, were standing on the small stage and serenading approximately ten patrons in their folksy tones. Rachel and I settled down, ordered drinks, and began quietly conversing.

We could not have been there for more than fifteen minutes when this complete stranger sneaked his way behind us, popping his head between ours. The only thing behind our booth was the restrooms, and we had not seen anyone enter them or walk past. He was relatively short and did not look very alarming- he was neatly dressed and was at least wearing shoes (which can be hard to come by in a place like this). Rachel turned her head completely to face the man who had just addressed us while I tried focusing my gaze on the singers.

Being the kind girl she is, Rachel responded to this man’s conversation with kind nods and soft chuckles. I, on the other hand, was slightly scared for my safety and tried not to listen to what he was saying. That is, until he put his hands on our shoulders and asked us if we could do him a favor.

My mind was racing and I was pretty sure that whatever favor this man had to ask was not one I wanted to partake in. But his request was simple, “Do you ladies mind if I recite you a poem I wrote about 9/11?”

Rachel and I made eye contact and did not know how to react. Do we laugh? Do we cry? Do we stand up and leave? Whatever the proper response in this situation was, we were not aware of it. But we reluctantly agreed and my whole body tensed up hoping it was not going to be an inappropriate piece.

The man closed his eyes and started flailing his arms to the words he was speaking. Every part of his body was performing this poem for us. One that was interesting, a little mediocre, but not nearly as bad as we were prepared for. He seemed very passionate about his work and that was something I respected about him, even if he did go about this in a very odd manner.

He finished and we gushed over his poetic portrayal, as polite, young women would do. Then he began telling us stories about how he had been traveling the world reciting that poem to the public on some type of world tour. However, as soon as he left us alone we could not find any mentions of him on the Google searches we performed. We even tried typing in exact lines from the poem we could recall to see if perhaps he had stolen the poem from someone else, but nothing.

The man thanked us for being compassionate listeners and then went to sit on the couch directly in front of the performers, tapping his foot and shaking his head to the music all evening. We never witnessed him speak to another stranger and unleash his poetic genius, it was only for us.

Rachel and I looked at each other in disbelief. We ordered another round of drinks and sat there wondering if all of this had been an illusion or had we really just been recited 9/11 poetry on a Saturday night listening to bluegrass music and being surrounded by lamps.