Schadenfreude

 

A spectre is haunting the Caffe Trieste – the spectre of Success. All the poets of the Wise Men have entered into a holy alliance to exorcise this spectre: post-modernist and Quatrainist, writers of ode and free verse, balladeer and beat.

 

          On a wet, cheerless day, they huddle in the back of the café beneath the mural of the Italian fishermen, huffing and bellowing, fueled by wine, gray heads bobbing up and down like ducks on a choppy pond. The mood is agitated.

 

          One of their own, Kazimir Clegg, is on the verge of publishing a collection of his work through a major New York house. It’s pay dirt, the big score. Worse, he expects everyone else, whose publishing histories are confined mainly to Pip Printing and mimeograph machines, to be happy about it.

 

          “When was the last time he took part in one of our readings?” says Carl Rhys, his sleepless, red-rimmed eyes moving coldly from one poet to the next. Mimicking Kaz’s high, nasally voice, Rhys continues: “‘I have nothing to read. I haven’t written anything in ages.’ What a piker. What a load of crap.” There’s a murmur of assent.

 

          “He’s always had an air about him,” says Gregory Genet, an aggressive post-modernist sporting a white goatee and a bad dye job. “How did you like the way he strutted around here the other day, shaking hands and gloating? Give him his fifteen minutes of fame. He’ll come crawling back on his belly. You’ll see.”

         

           Only the youngest poet, Zachary Nova, remains silent.  He ponders what’s left of his cheap red wine – sheep dip, the boys call it. Rhys notices a subtle shaking of Nova’s head, the mildest suggestion of dissent, and pounces.

 

 

 

 — by Tony Long, San Francisco artist and writer who haunts many a North Beach cafe to exorcise the old Beatniks’ ghosts and send them back to their Underwood typewriters. His short story Leaving So Soon? was published in our January issue, and can be read here: https://synchchaos.com/?p=1449

 

 He loves to network with other writers and may be reached at alittlechinmusic@gmail.com

          “You’re his protégé, young Zachary,” Rhys declares, as if he’s reading an indictment. “Whose ass has this third-rate poser been kissing?”

 

          “Kaz should be published,” Nova says, downing, with a flourish, the last of the sheep dip “You’re all jealous. He’s the best poet in North Beach, hands down. He rhymes and that pisses you off, I know. But he’s earned this and I’m happy for him.” Knowing what’s coming, Nova flinches.

 

          “Well,” Rhys says. “He’s had your ass, for one, I see.” The others close in like hunting lionesses bringing down a baby water buffalo. “This is a community, see? Genet, here. And Marco. And Omar, Miguel, and me. And, I thought, you. A community. We don’t care if he rhymes, we don’t care who he’s screwing, or who’s screwing him. But we do care about treason.”

 

          “I care if he rhymes,” Marco says.

 

          “Treason, Zach,” Rhys continues. “He sandbagged us. Holding back work and then sneaking off to sell it to some big-deal publisher is a betrayal. Of me. Of you. Of us all.”

 

          “Maybe he was tired of sitting around here and getting soused every day and never producing any work,” says Nova, inviting slaughter. “Have you ever thought of that?”

 

                    “Traitor! Traitor!” Omar shrieks, hopping excitedly from one foot to the other.

 

          “Hey! Pipe down back there!” Chick yells from behind the espresso machine. “If you wanna have a knock-down drag-out, take it outside.”

         

          “It’s raining outside,” calls one of the poets.

         

           “Then shut the hell up.”

 

          Rhys turns quickly to Nova and hisses, “Kaz is a part of this little cadre, whether he likes it or not. So it’s play ball or else finds a new place to roost. And some new friends.” Gathering his cape about him, Rhys stalks out of the café.

 

          Kazimir Clegg’s success hit the Wise Men with the force of a cluster bomb. They’d known him for years, read with him for years, gotten wasted with him for years. Their little coven had been formed as a purely defensive spasm intended to ease the pain of foraging in an artistic wilderness where poetry was an unappreciated aesthetic. It gave them the illusion of a united front, a bulwark protecting their fragile world from posers, grifters, and cultural philistines.

 

          Now Kaz is in New York, groveling for fame, shattering their bell jar. What do you call it, then, if not betrayal?

 

          Only Zachary Nova doesn’t see it that way. He owes his membership in the Wise Men to Kaz, and more importantly his entrée into the North Beach milieu. As a poetics instructor at the New College, Kaz schooled Nova in rhyme and meter and recognized in the young man an ocean of promise. When the semester ended, he invited Nova to continue his apprenticeship in the back of the Caffe Trieste. Naturally introverted and tone deaf to the hipster culture of the Mission District, where most young poets his age do their café hopping, Nova accepted. He had no reason to doubt his decision, until now.

 

          He calls Kaz in New York.

 

          His mentor is subdued. It’s not going well, Kaz says. There have been some “glitches,” a few problems with the publisher. He hopes to have them sorted out in a day or two. “No need to trouble the others with this,” he tells Nova.

 

          Nova swears to secrecy. They talk inconsequentially for a while, then Nova says he remembers something he has to do and rings off. He sits in his room for a long time, staring out the window.

 

          Nova avoids the café for a few days, disappearing into the Mission, haunting the bookshops along Valencia Street and gradually shifting his allegiance from cheap Italian ravioli to cheap Mexican burritos. Running into some of his former New College mates, he joins them at a poetry reading at the Café Revolution. Later, Nova himself reads at another coffeehouse where North Beach might as well be the dark side of the moon. As he slips from one orbit to another, he’s surprised by how it makes him feel: like a newly paroled prisoner.

 

          Kaz calls late one night and it’s obvious that he’s been drinking. He’s slurring his words and Nova has a hard time understanding exactly what happened in New York. It’s clear the deal is dead. Kaz goes on a rant about East Coast chauvinism and the Jews controlling culture before falling silent for a time. “My agent,” he finally says. “My agent, she warned me that these guys might be unreasonable. She did what she could, but …” There’s another silence and Nova thinks he hears Kaz weeping. 

 

          Then, “It’s done. It’s over.” Kaz asks Nova to explain everything to the Wise Men. Nova says he will. Instead, he scrawls a note and leaves it for Carl Rhys at the café. Then Zachary Nova hightails it back to the Mission and isn’t seen around North Beach again for a long, long time.

 

          The Wise Men are gathered under the mural of the Italian fishermen when the lean figure of Kazimir Clegg walks into the café, smiling bravely but looking wan. He’s standing in line for coffee when Carl Rhys strolls over and lays a consoling hand on his shoulder.

 

          “I’m sorry, Kaz. I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you. Here, let me buy your cappuccino.”

 

          Kaz joins the Wise Men at the back table and tries to explain what went wrong. The publisher’s offer of an author’s collection of forty-three poems in a single volume had, by the time things unraveled, been reduced to five of the shortest pieces, fitted into a comprehensive survey of West Coast poetry. Worse than that, Kaz felt he was being lowballed on the money. His agent did her best but Kaz lost his cool and the publisher, now royally pissed off, scuttled the whole deal and told Kaz to try his luck on the internet.

 

          “If you’d been some ponce from Vermont, you’d have your book by now,” Genet says, stroking his goatee philosophically. “You’d probably be in a second printing.”

 

          “Or some pinky-ringed goombah from Joizey,” Omar vamps.

 

          “You’re better off here,” Rhys says severely. “Among those who love you. Remember that.”

 

          Kaz knows that Rhys is full of shit, that he’s glad he failed, and gives him a look that tells him he knows. He stares into the foam of his cappuccino for a while, lost in thought. The Wise Men pretend to cheer him with catty remarks disguised as good-natured ribbing, all the while leering behind his back, exchanging knowing smirks, their eyes ablaze in triumph.

 

          Then a woman walks in. She’s about forty and dressed in black from head to toe – beret, fitted turtleneck sweater, pencil skirt slit discreetly at the sides, leggings, tap shoes – the finished version of Bob Kaufman’s mulberry-eyed girl. A silver-gray scarf provides the only contrast to this indigo vision. Black hair, long and straight, cascades past her almond-shaped green eyes, past her full red lips, and down her back. The requisite curves are there. The fraternal gloating stops and the Wise Men freeze, their clever lines stuck somewhere south of the epiglottis. She’s looking at them. Then she smiles, waves, sets down her umbrella, and walks over to their table. They ogle her like tomcats as she approaches.

 

          Kaz stands and the woman hugs him. “Hey,” he says.

 

          “I’ve got great news, baby,” she says to Kaz but including the others. “I got them to reconsider. They’re going to do the book after all. It will be a pared down version of the original idea but it’s a good deal, considering. The money’s decent … for poetry.”

 

          Kaz drives an excited fist into his palm. He hugs her again, harder. “Baby, baby, ba-a-bee!” He pulls away. “I’m forgetting my manners. Everyone, this is Annabel Sarkisian, my agent.” The others sit in stunned silence as Kaz ticks off their names.

 

          “Charmed,” Marco finally says.

 

          Rhys glares at her. “You flew all the way to San Francisco just to tell him that?”

 

          Annabel smiles an impossibly pretty smile. “Actually, I live here.” She takes Kaz’s arm and gives it a meaningful squeeze. He’s gurgling with joy.

 

          Carl Rhys looks at Annabel, then at Kaz. His head drops to his chest as a thought occurs to him: Sometimes it does matter who you’re screwing.