PART THREE He was late. I waited at Starbucks until 9:20 before he showed up. We got teas and then went for a walk. He started talking about how he spent the night at G’s house the night before. I’m still not comfortable listening to him talk about this. He also started talking about how he spent the night there this weekend. I’m wondering what his point is. I know that I can’t bring myself to meet this G fellow. In fact I’m not prepared to even see what this G fellow looks like. When I finally do, I expect my reaction to be internally devastating.
This past weekend the Poet found a magazine in G’s bathroom. There was a woman in the mag that looked familiar to the Poet. He realized that it was Michele Tea, who if you’ve been reading my blog like a good boi or grrl you know wrote The Chelsea Whistle. Apparently Michele was the coordinator of the Poet’s book signing at Books, Inc. The next day (after reading the magazine article) who should the Poet see in Peet’s Coffee on Market Street? Ms. Tea. He looked at her, it dawned on him who she was, he walked over and started talking with her. The next thing he tells me is he has her phone number and they’re going to go do readings together. He feels like he’s got a new friend.
Some time epiphanies come like a cast iron frying pan hitting me in the face. WHACK! You want to know why I like the Poet so much (besides that he’s physically attractive)? Because I wish I were more like him in some aspects—especially socially. He’s gregarious and is able to make many acquaintances quickly with his enthusiastic charm. I wanted to talk with Michele after she talked with my writer’s class but I left because a group of people mobbed her and I’m not one who can fawn openly. So here he is, strolling into Peet’s, sees here and chats her up. It must be nice to do things like that. They’re going out Sunday after she gets off of work. That makes me jealous.
Yet my epiphany came with a friend. I realized that I have more talent in my pinky than he does in his whole being. I’m as modest as one can be, having eaten humble pie for the majority of my life, but god dammit if I’m not more talented than him. Robert Hughes in Time Magazine wrote, “The greater the artist, the greater the doubt; perfect confidence is granted to the less talented as a consolation prize.”
The Poet is confident. That being written, when it comes down to it his charm can trump my talent on any given day—but my talent will forever out live his charm.