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But the poetry, ah, those magic syllables, that hypnotic rhythm.Some crazy impulse made him walk into a dance club. The Snakepit was a maelstrom of drifting blue cigarette smoke, mirrors, flashing multicolored lights, and loud heavy metal music that made meaningful conversation superfluous. He sat down at a battered wooden table two vacant chairs distant from a woman. She was a young dishwater blonde, still in her twenties perhaps, and she gave no sign that she noticed his presence. Or would have particularly cared if she had.This guy plops his fat butt down at my table. Dressed in a suit and tie, Coke-bottle glasses, missing half his hair. Older. Old enough to be my father. Geez, must be one of those prof types from the college. Ultra-nerd. Freaky. What's he doing here? Must have got lost.He felt totally out of place. He was out of place. What was he doing here anyhow? Sweating and feeling uncomfortable, that was what he was doing here. Get up and leave? Not yet, damn it.The poetry.. )"Hello, Jeff," I said, "It's nice to meet you too."Jeff looked older than Carl but that might have been due to his greying hair and the fact that he was somewhat overweight."Carl," said Jeff in an admonitory way, "you didn't tell me that Kelly was this attractive!"Kelly smiled graciously. Carl invited us to join them, and pulled up two chairs. It was difficult not to laugh as she sat down; she was so awkward as she tried to maintain her modesty. There was a bottle of white wine in the ice bucket. Next to it were two additional glasses and it appeared that we had been expected. Carl retrieved the bottle and poured out some wine for the two of us. Jeff had an American accent and I asked him what part of the USA he came from."I live in California, in LA to be precise." And what do you do, Jeff?" Kelly asked."I suppose you'd describe it as a form of marketing. I make commercial videos for companies, sometimes about their products, sometimes about the company itself. It is not that.
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