Crazy Poem Guy-Version 3.0

I tried twice to write this post, both times losing the entire entry. The second time I had all the text copied to the clipboard, only to paste in a single word: naivety. Apropos, no? I could punch a baby in the neck right now I’m so angry, but the story of Crazy Poem Guy must be told. It’s already been far too long.

Just a couple of months ago this rumpled, unshaven, but incredibly polite man comes into the bar where I work about 15 minutes before we close and orders a double Johnnie Walker on the rocks. I ask him which kind, Red or Black, and he says he doesn’t have a preference, which I find odd, but not enough to think about more than once. I pour his drink and present it with a smile I reserve only for, well…just about everyone. When I put the glass in front of him he tells me I have pretty eyes. I thank him for saying so, and ease out of a somewhat uncomfortable, but not yet incredibly icky encounter.

I go back to cleaning when he asks for pen and a napkin–he is a writer–and that he is going to write a poem. I mention that I am also a writer and he tells me that he is currently working on a book of poetry to be published in February. To coincide with Valentine’s Day. I ask if maybe I would have read any of his work and he says if I’ve studied any contemporary literature at all then I would likely know his name. Which he refuses to tell me.

Which is fine by me. It is late, and getting later, and all I care about is getting my clean on. When it’s closing time I possess a talent found only in the most seasoned of restaurant employees: I can make you invisible. I can avoid eye contact with such consistency and flourish that there really should be an award, because I could win it right up. Drinks are full, folks are happy, but when it’s closing time we won’t be discussing whether the Titans will go to the Super Bowl, or how your new 19-year-old girlfriend is jealous of your only son, or who’s tits are better–Jessica Simpson or Halle Berry? Instead I’m wiping bottles and putting away mixes and dismantling frozen drink machines (which is sort of like breaking down a nuclear weapon except, also, you get margarita in your eye), because it says what time we close right there on the door.

I am pleased he wants to write and leave him alone to pen his piece. Once he finishes the poem he hands it to me and asks me to read it. (You can read it by clicking the thumbnail below.)

The poem totally weirds me out, but more than that I can’t believe I thought this guy was a published, noted poet. No he didn’t just rhyme “littany” (sic) with “Brittany” (sic, again). I am glad when he goes back to writing after ordering another round, and am even more glad when he stands up to leave. He tells me he is running out to grab his credit card from the car, and that he’ll be right back. Ten minutes goes by and Mr. Mentally Inventory isn’t back, and I start to feel like a total dumbfuck. He drank 3 double scotches on the rocks and walked out on his fucking tab.

I find a second poem on the bar and pick it up.

This one is even worse and now I am thoroughly creeped the fuck out. I feel like a total moron. But at least now he’s gone and I can laugh over the oddity of the situation, all the while getting the fuck up out of work. Plus I have two terrific, trite poems from Crazy Poem Guy to show all my friends.

I think I am finally headed home until two seperate people inform me that Crazy Poem Guy is waiting outside–in the rain–and that he wants to see me. I am totally wigging now, and so very just want to go home, so I tell my manager the creep didn’t pay and is now loitering, asking for me, in the parking lot.

My manager and another male employee walk outside to confront him, at which time he takes off running down the hill into the Wal-Mart parking lot next door. My manager chases him, catches up to him, and confronts him, all while the four or so of us left at work watch from the side door. I wonder what could be said–they talk animatedly for over five minutes, and then the phone rings. Line 1 is for me, and it’s my manager calling from his cell phone.

Crazy Poem Guy told him that I–get this–agreed to accept the poetry in exchange for free drinks; that each poem was worth $1,000. He was phoning to verify the man’s story, which he naturally didn’t believe. I laughed and said that no, of course I didn’t agree to that, he fucking said “hazel orbs.” That isn’t poetry you pay or trade for! While talking to the manager I could hear Crazy Poem Guy saying, “Brittney. Brittney, I’m right here Brittney. Did she say ‘no’? Brittney, I’m right here.”

Which totally went right up my spine. Turns out the guy had no money, no wallet and was caught in this web of lies. My manager let him go, then called the police to find him, which I don’t think they did.

Crazy Poem Guy is still at large. Good thing I’ve got $2,000 worth of his poetry to sell. In order to by a big gun.