rather be four feet tall, or seven feet tall?"
"Seven feet tall," I reply.
"Why?"
"You aren't allowed to ask why," I say. "Okay, let’s see. Would you rather drink an entire gallon of bacon grease for breakfast every day? Or would you rather have to eat five pounds of popcorn for supper every night?"
"Five pounds of popcorn."
I like the game we’re playing. I like that he didn’t worry about impressing me with dinner. I like that I have no idea where we're headed. I even like that he didn’t compliment what I was wearing, which seems to be the standard opening line for dates. So far, I like everything about tonight. As far as I’m concerned, we could drive around for another two hours just playing ‘would you rather’-and it would be the most fun I’ve ever had on a date.
But, we don’t. We eventually reach our destination and I immediately tense up when I see the sign on the building.
Club N9NE
"Uh, Will? I don't dance." I'm hoping he'll be empathetic.
"Uh, neither do I ."
We exit the vehicle and meet at the front of the car. I'm not sure who reached out first, but once again our fingers find each other in the dark and he holds my hand as he guides me toward the entrance. As we get closer to the entrance, I notice a sign posted on the door.
Closed for Slam
Thursdays
8:00-Whenever
Admission: Free
Fee to slam: $3
Will opens the door without reading the sign. I start to inform him the club is closed but he seems like he knows what he's doing. The silence is interrupted by the energy of the crowd as I follow him through the entryway and into the room. There is an empty stage to the right of us, with tables and chairs set up all over the dance floor. The place is packed. I see a table toward the front that looks like a group of younger kids, around age fourteen or so. Will turns to the left and heads to an empty booth in the back of the room.
"It's quieter back here," he says.
"How old do you have to be to get into clubs here?" I ask, still observing the group of out of place children.
"Well, tonight it's not a club," he says as we scoot into the booth.
It's a half circle booth facing the stage so I scoot all the way to the middle to get the best view. He moves in right beside me.
"It's slam night," he says. "Every Thursday they shut the club down and people come here to compete in the slam."
"And what's a slam?" I ask.
“ It's poetry," he says as he smiles at me. "It's what I'm all about."
Is he for real? A hot guy who makes me laugh and loves poetry? Someone pinch me. Or not; I'd rather not wake up.
"Poetry, huh?" I say. "Do people write their own or do they get it from other authors?"
He leans back in the seat and looks up at the stage. I can see the passion in his eyes when he talks about it. "People get up there and pour their hearts out just using their words and the movement of their bodies," he says. "It's amazing. You aren't going to hear any Dickinson or Frost here."
"Is it like a competition?" I ask.
"It's complicated," he says. "It differs between every club. Normally during a slam, the judges are picked at random from the audience and they assign points to each performance. The one with the most points at the end of the night wins. That's how they do it here, anyway.”
"So do you slam?" I ask.
"Sometimes. Sometimes I judge, sometimes I just watch."
"Are you performing tonight?"
"Nah. Just an observer tonight. I don't really have anything ready."
I'm disappointed. It would be amazing to see him perform on stage. I still have no idea what slam poetry is, but I'm really curious to see him do anything that requires a performance.
"Bummer," I say.
"You want something to drink?" he says.
"Sure. I'll take some chocolate milk."
"Chocolate milk? Really?"
"With ice."
" Okay ," he says as he slides out of the
"Seven feet tall," I reply.
"Why?"
"You aren't allowed to ask why," I say. "Okay, let’s see. Would you rather drink an entire gallon of bacon grease for breakfast every day? Or would you rather have to eat five pounds of popcorn for supper every night?"
"Five pounds of popcorn."
I like the game we’re playing. I like that he didn’t worry about impressing me with dinner. I like that I have no idea where we're headed. I even like that he didn’t compliment what I was wearing, which seems to be the standard opening line for dates. So far, I like everything about tonight. As far as I’m concerned, we could drive around for another two hours just playing ‘would you rather’-and it would be the most fun I’ve ever had on a date.
But, we don’t. We eventually reach our destination and I immediately tense up when I see the sign on the building.
Club N9NE
"Uh, Will? I don't dance." I'm hoping he'll be empathetic.
"Uh, neither do I ."
We exit the vehicle and meet at the front of the car. I'm not sure who reached out first, but once again our fingers find each other in the dark and he holds my hand as he guides me toward the entrance. As we get closer to the entrance, I notice a sign posted on the door.
Closed for Slam
Thursdays
8:00-Whenever
Admission: Free
Fee to slam: $3
Will opens the door without reading the sign. I start to inform him the club is closed but he seems like he knows what he's doing. The silence is interrupted by the energy of the crowd as I follow him through the entryway and into the room. There is an empty stage to the right of us, with tables and chairs set up all over the dance floor. The place is packed. I see a table toward the front that looks like a group of younger kids, around age fourteen or so. Will turns to the left and heads to an empty booth in the back of the room.
"It's quieter back here," he says.
"How old do you have to be to get into clubs here?" I ask, still observing the group of out of place children.
"Well, tonight it's not a club," he says as we scoot into the booth.
It's a half circle booth facing the stage so I scoot all the way to the middle to get the best view. He moves in right beside me.
"It's slam night," he says. "Every Thursday they shut the club down and people come here to compete in the slam."
"And what's a slam?" I ask.
“ It's poetry," he says as he smiles at me. "It's what I'm all about."
Is he for real? A hot guy who makes me laugh and loves poetry? Someone pinch me. Or not; I'd rather not wake up.
"Poetry, huh?" I say. "Do people write their own or do they get it from other authors?"
He leans back in the seat and looks up at the stage. I can see the passion in his eyes when he talks about it. "People get up there and pour their hearts out just using their words and the movement of their bodies," he says. "It's amazing. You aren't going to hear any Dickinson or Frost here."
"Is it like a competition?" I ask.
"It's complicated," he says. "It differs between every club. Normally during a slam, the judges are picked at random from the audience and they assign points to each performance. The one with the most points at the end of the night wins. That's how they do it here, anyway.”
"So do you slam?" I ask.
"Sometimes. Sometimes I judge, sometimes I just watch."
"Are you performing tonight?"
"Nah. Just an observer tonight. I don't really have anything ready."
I'm disappointed. It would be amazing to see him perform on stage. I still have no idea what slam poetry is, but I'm really curious to see him do anything that requires a performance.
"Bummer," I say.
"You want something to drink?" he says.
"Sure. I'll take some chocolate milk."
"Chocolate milk? Really?"
"With ice."
" Okay ," he says as he slides out of the
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