I Am Secretly An Important Man

The following is pure fiction.

Actually, I have been handsomeand popular all my life.

There has always been somethingwrong with my face.

"Look in the mirror, Stevie,"

my mother said, holding me up

so I could see my face.

"See ! There's Stevie !"

The little ears stuck out.

That was the first thingi noticed the two ears.

And though the hairwas pasted down with suave

and brushed neatlyinto a regular boy's hairdo,

a few springy lockshad popped loose.

Curly hair. Argh.

The nose was a pale blobof cold putty.

Had the policealready gotten to me ?

No, I was born like that.

At two, my face already lookedlike the face of a convict.

But the eyesand chin were pretty.

Pretty.

It's midnightand the sunglasses twirl.

My entry is a deaf plant,warped in Hollywood rockery

of juice cansand hypodermic needles.

So cool, baby,

you don't knowwhat you need, no.

Sick animal glarein the skin of the pavement.

Oh, I do want to go down

right here where they threwthe mop head, the paper towels,

You can't make musicwith that.

Movie inside as bigas the wall of a building,

so brightit'd make you throw up,

but they watch it, the men,

and they eat and they drink,

and they eat and they drink.

Actually it is notjust the two of us,

her and me.

There are the copsand me and her.

And the good-for-nothingwindows.

And brown suits

and the gray suits

and blue suits.

Cars that stopand ones that go.

There are palm treesand people leaning on the palm trees,

scratching, weeding,

looking at the trashwhich is empty, believe me,

from being looked at.

There's a TV setin the window,

it says, "the starsare coming out."

Hi. Come on in.

I've been expecting you.

Well, we had--we hada lot of problems Jesse,

not with each otherbut with other people

and we used to talk aboutit at great length,

'cause the trick is always, um,

to not hate, I guess,

and that's--that's one of thethings that he kinda taught me.

But, he knew enoughabout guns anyway

so that when I bought thismagnum and joined a gun club.

He was more than willingto come out to the range with me

and shoot the gun.

It's a reallynice gun actually.

This is a,a Smith and Wesson.

Anyway, we'd driveout to the continental sportsman

out in edmons,which is a gun club.

You can have a gun here,you move here

you get to have a gun.

And, we'd sit in the carand he'd be just weeping

and saying,"I don't know what

"to do, Suzy, I don't knowif it's gonna work,

I just don't knowif it's gonna work."

And I'd say, "yeah, I know,me too. Let's shoot."

What Jesse did was, he hadthis unique way, he'd say,

"I have this other wayof aiming, see."

And we'd send the targetdown the Lane

and he would stand there,he couldn't straighten his legs

'cause he had poliowhen he was a kid,

and he would startthe gun up here,

and then he would bring it down.

And as the front sitepassed the target

he'd pull one off the trigger

and he almost never hitthe damn thing,

but everybody in the placegot a real big kick out of it.

All week longwe've been celebrating

the "best of Seattle" from theseattle weekly reader's poll.

We know that this cityhas great restaurants,

and great espresso,and great landmarks,

and traffic reportersand musicians.

Did you know we also havesome great poets ?

Well, Jesse bernsteinhas been voted

Seattle's best local poet,

and he joins us today.

Welcome, Jesse.

Thank you.

Good to have you.

What--how longhave you been a poet ?

Have you been a poetall--

did you knowthat you were a poet

from the timeyou could begin writing ?

No. I started writingpoetry seriously

when I was,maybe 15 years old.

And what generallyare the themes of your poetry ?

Life as itappears to me.

Do you feel likeyou have a...

A slice, a view of a certain sliceof life ?

Yeah, it's... dark.- Dark ?

I'm considered a very darkpoet, yeah.

Dark poet ?

Let me read what the entry saysin the weekly,

because it talksabout your...

It says you have a rawnarrative style

and sandpapery voice.

I don't think your voicesounds sandpapery, do you ?

No. No, no.

Do you think Seattle'sa good place for poets ?

Gosh, I don't--I don't knowif any place is a good place

for poets particularly.

More than one place,more than another.

I mean, I've found,for instance New York,

which is supposed to be suchan open place, is very closed.

It's a very closed placeto try and read

or communicatewith people using poetry.

So, I was gladto get back here.

When you talkabout poetry then,

you see it as acommunication to people ?

Yeah. Sometimes--

when I'm in my room,I don't see it that way,

I get up in the morningand I write things,

I work on my poems,and I shuffle through papers

and so on,but when I'm on a stage,

yeah, it's a communication.Why else would I be there ?

That's right.All right, Jesse Bernstein,

thank youfor being with us

and congratulationson your being voted

best poet by the weekly,newspaper readers.

Well, thank you to the readersof the weekly.

For some reason, this feels like

slow motion television.

And, I want you to know,as you're walking by,

that this is the strangest job

that I've ever hadin my whole life.

I'm going to readto you from my writing

in a department store window.

In here, it is one man.

A man with a microphone.

I am doing my job in here.

My job is to stay on this sideof the glass

and talk into the microphone.

You all have different jobs.

If you were eating a cookie,

I would say that your jobwas to eat that cookie.

So I am really glad to seethat you are all doing your jobs,

and doing them well.

That's how it lookson this side of the glass.

Well, it's lunch time.

What if you went into a crowdedrestaurant, sat down,

ordered a sandwich and coffee,

and while youwere waiting to be served

the other peoplein the restaurant, the customers,

waitresses, everyone,

rearranged the tablesand chairs

so they could watch your eatyour lunch.

No one else is eating.They are just watching you,

waiting for you to takethe first bite,

looking at how you lickthe coffee off of your upper lip,

waiting to seeif any of the lettuce

falls on your shirt.

Well I went

to the mess hall

everyone was there

but I couldn't

see their faces

I just sat

in a rocking chair

all night long

all night long

I just satin a rocking chair

most of all,he loved his own work,

he loved it like a baby.

And he used to tell me when we werebackstage on opening night

and I'd grab him and say,"I can't do it, I can't do it,

"I can't--it's a fucking piece of shit."I can't go out there and do this.

They're going to hate me."

He'd say, "look."

He'd say, "this is your job.

"Can you just go outthere and do your job ?

Just go and do your job."

And to him his art,his life, was his job.

Oh, hey, boy.

Come back in here and buy me one.

I have got my cards in my jacket

and I am down on the old street

looking for someone to play.

I am cold and my shoesare turned the wrong way.

Sink rooms dark and the drainsare plugged up with hair.

Deal them in the lightof the basement window,

flush and hearts.

Take off all my clothesand stand there naked

lit up from outside.

Hey, here's an biographical noteby the author.

S. G. Bernstein was bornin the '50s and '60s in Los Angeles.

He was unemployed until the age of six.