Oscar said, “So amazing that I’d see someone I know here!” I could have pointed out that he really didn’t know me, but I was hoping that he’d go away if I ignored him. “I love this place! It’s like, a mashup of American culture. Creole accordians! Suburban cowboys! Dispossessed Spanish and Native Americans!”

He had a way of admiring things, me included, that made you want to smack him.

“I wouldn’t go around saying things like that,” I said. “People think you’re making fun of them.”

Oscar leaned in, peering at me. His big loose face worked visibly at remembering. “Carol.”

“Carla.”

“Carla, I apologize. I talk too much. Everybody says so. How about I buy you both a round of your favorite beverage.” He was already waving at the waitress. Aaron and I traded glances.
We didn’t want to party with the guy, but a drink is a drink.

“Thanks,” Aaron said when the drinks came.

I was getting the same feeling as before, of being mad at somebody who couldn’t help themselves, like a socially inept child. He was as annoying as hell, but here he was dressed up like he was going to a clown funeral, acting like we were now his good buddies. Clueless.

Aaron must have felt something similar, and because he was nicer than I was, he said, “You haven’t been here before, huh?”

“Total virgin. I came with some people I met.” He looked around the room, didn’t seem to locate them. Aaron and I were drinking beer and Oscar had ordered a glass of white wine. Wine isn’t what people usually drink when there’s a band. It’s not really frowned on. But it was one more thing about him. He said, “Virdie’s having one of her workshops. I thought I’d better clear out.”

“Virdie?” Aaron asked, still carrying water for both of us.

“The lady I was working for,” I explained to him. “Mrs. Boone.”

“Viridian,” Oscar said. “Boone is an alias.”

“An alias for what?” Aaron was still trying to puzzle it out.

“She’s the poet,” Oscar told us, and if that was supposed to clear everything up, it really didn’t.

“Sorry, we don’t speak poet,” I said.

“Hah, well, who does these days.” Oscar shrugged and stuck his nose in his drink. “More people should,” he said. “They really should. They should especially know her. It’s criminal that they don’t. She’s the goddamn real thing. The women poets all get put in the same basket. So she’s not as angry as Sharon Olds, okay. Not as popularized as Mary Oliver. Blah blah blah.”

Aaron and I looked at each other. I guess we’d disappointed him or hurt his feelings, but what were we supposed to say?—Oh, hey, we were just reciting poetry the other night.