CHAPTER 35: POETRY READING

. . . Luminous triangle! Whoever has not known you is without sense.

Comte de Lautreamont

Sunlight had disappeared and flat gray clouds were replacing the white cirrus, possibly bringing rain, which meant work in the morning wiping down all our spotted cars. My pop’s biggest complaint about living the Bay Area was its lack of enough sunlight. He’d grouse. “No sun, no vegatables.” Since he turned over the store to us, life for Pop has been all about his vegetable garden. As I drove, I thought of Pop and how this had all begun because Sweets had saved his life. Sweets, who had been set up by our cousin. If I was right, and I believed I was, my parents would be devastated. My mother’s sister would be, I don’t know what, suicidal. Sylvia’s father? His little girl? But would he be? Perhaps like father, like daughter? So much roiling in my head, I almost missed the entrance to Merritt College.

Trying to find parking proved difficult. By the time I got inside, the reading was just about over. I found Dila sitting in the last row in the packed Student Union auditorium. I stood behind her and rested my hands on her shoulders. I started to whisper my apologies, and she shushed me. I stepped back out of the aisle and moved to the back wall, waited and thought.

The poet declaiming was a frail little stick, with a voice like a club. I couldn’t figure out much of what she was saying, but I did get the impression her subject matter was about being a lesbian. I looked down on Dila’s afro, hoping that her choice of a poetry reading didn’t have anything to do with her sexual preference. Modern poetry really throws me. I used to worry that I wasn’t smart enough, but I finally decided poetry belonged to the same category as modern painting or dissonance in music, subjects that could not be understood with the rational mind. That left the irrational mind. Since I’d been accused of been irrational, I figured I should give poetry a chance before I gave up on it. To this case, I decided I’d wait for another poet to give poetry a chance and tuned out the poet on stage. I felt a nudge at my elbow. I turned and almost bumped heads with Renee.

“Watch it buster. This is my only nose,” she said, taking my arm and kissing my cheek. “You thinking of joining the East Bay Alliance of Gays and Lesbians, a good Italian hetero like you.”

“Madonna, mia,” I thought. Panicking, I grabbed Renee by the arm and hustled her out of the exit behind me.

“Hey, hey!” she said, tugging to get away from my grip. “I was listening to the poem.”

“No you weren’t, you were talking to me.”

“You haven’t called back, Victor. Weren’t those Academy Awards great? I missed you.”

“I’m sorry Renee, honest to God, there’s been so much crap going on, I simply could not get away.” I looked at the door, then back to Renee, then back to the door.

“Aha, I get it. There is someone in there you’d rather be with than me. Is that it? That’s why you dragged me out of there in such a hurry.”

“No. Yes, I mean she’s a friend, okay?”

“She? Victor, sweetee, you don’t have any women friends. You may have trysts, relationship, even mutually agreeable liaisons, but friendships, I don’t think so.”

Why is it that women can find the exact word in the sentence to elevate while, voila, I’m feeling guilty? I swear to God, if boys are taught machismo by their fathers, then girls are taught the various ways to inflict guilt on males by their mothers.

“Liaison,” I said. “Is that all our relationship has meant to you. I thought you and I were friends. It’s not all sex, you know. I appreciate your mind, your musical talent.”

“Ohmygoodness,” Renee said, drawing out each syllable, cocking her head like a bird who’s just spotted a tasty worm. “Do I detect some male sensitivity emerging out of that delectable chauvinistic body? I want to meet this woman, who’s got you thinking of friendship with females.”

As she spoke, the double doors opened and people began pouring out, Dila Agbo leading the way. She waved to me.

Ah, shit.

I waved back, and she headed my way – our way.“Victor, where did you disappear to?” Dila asked as she approached. When she saw Renee, a look of delight spread across her face. She skipped forward, embracing my mutually agreeable liaison.

Totally screwed, I thought.

“Girl, I haven’t seen you for ages,” Dila whooped. “Where have you been keeping yourself? No don’t answer that, you been making that awful clanging music.”

“Dila, you’re such a traditionalist.”

They hugged some more, then separated. Holding Renee’s hand, Dila asked, “You know this Eye-talian, here?”

“Victor Brovelli, you mean? Do we know each other Victor?”

“You want to answer the woman, Brovelli,” Dila said.

There was that tone again. I was one dead goombah. This reminded me of one afternoon during my short-lived high school baseball career when I tried to steal home and got trapped between the third baseman and the catcher, scampering back and forth between them. They kept flipping the ball to each other, toying with me until one of them finally ran me down. Either way I ran I was going to be out. My obvious consternation caused both of them to break out laughing.

“Victor, you don’t even need to explain,” Renee said. “If Dila Agbo is raising your consciousness, I gladly pass you on to her.”

“And what should I graciously do with this person?” Dila asked.

The baseball scene disappeared replaced by one from track. I was now the baton being passed from one sprinter to the next. My ego was taking some serious hits, and I needed to get back my masculine control.

“Hey, you two can stop talking about me like I’m not here. You can’t pass me on to anyone if I don’t want to be passed on,” I said, looking at Dila. “We Italians have our pride, you know.” I knew this sounded defensive, but by raising my voice, I hoped it didn’t sound lame. .

That started the two laughing even harder.

“Oh, don’t be so sensitive, Victor,” Renee said, wiping the tears out of her eyes. “I’ll always be willing to listen to those terribly dangerous dilemmas you twins get yourselves into.” She winked. “Has this man ever regaled you with stories about his brother, Vincent? They’re really hot.”

There was more toying going on, but now it was directed towards Dila, who, thankfully, wasn’t picking up on the significance. How could she, unaware of Renee’s sexual inclination.

I was glad when Dila changed the subject.

“Renee, Victor and I are off to work on a project. Why don’t I call you tomorrow, and we’ll get together and talk. We have a lot of catching up to do. You can tell me all about this guy.”

“Oh, I’d be thrilled to fill you in,” Renee said, leaning toward Dila and brushing her cheek with a kiss. Good luck on your project?”

She started to walk away, but skipped back and threw her arms around my neck and gave me a wet kiss. Had I opened my mouth, I would have drowned. As Renee strode away, I saw Dila grinning at me. I could feel myself blushing. Luckily blushing, as is the case with Blacks, is not so easily visible through the dark skins of southern Italians.

“You’re blushing, Brovelli,” Dila said, proving me wrong.

“I feel like a jerk,” I said.

“Why? Because you date a friend of mine. Or do you have such a big ego that you think I’m madly in love with you after only two dates and one kiss. You’re acting like you’ve been caught in some kind of love triangle. What’s the Sixties all about if we’re not open about our love life?”

“That’s a good question,” I said.

“And one that you don’t have to answer,” Dila said, “until you have come to grips with the decade we’re living in, dig? So let’s get on with the problem at hand.”

Dila took my arm and led me down the steps of the student union.

“I bused this morning,” Dila said. “So it’s your car.”

We reached my Mustang that had a parking ticket on the windshield. Minchia. Two tickets in two days. Jay’s poker debt to me might not be high enough to cover both tickets. I opened the door, and Dila slid in. We sat in the car, and I explained everything.