Please imagine the author Herman Wouk's famous novel, Remembrance of Things Past. Picture Herman dressed in a clown suit while so doing. Or a bulky gorilla costume. That's exactly how grotesque my experience with a local poet/personality was.
Names are withheld. I met this poet in the early 1990s after he had performed a reading at the Southside Beehive coffee shop. He and I were introduced by an acquaintance, and avid writer that I am, I asked the poet would he like to meet some afternoon to discuss poetry writing. The fellow was at first skittish, citing the fact that he was a professional writer, and that he generally required a fee for discussion similar to the one I was recommending. With my usual candor and weasel-talk, I convinced the poet that it was worthwhile to have a conversation, gratis. We agreed to meet the next day, at the Beehive.
What a beguiling next day it was. The poet showed up with a large leather sample case, such as salesman carry. They put insurance policies and carpet samples in that type of case. Before the poet and I got around to the subject of poetry readings and writings, he opened his case and pulled out a handful of brochures.
There wasn't a word about poetry uttered by either one of us that afternoon. The poet launched directly into a sales presentation. He was deeply wrapped in a multilevel marketing business. He was a distributor of charcoal water filters. The brochures tell you all about them. Rather than discuss poems, the poet wanted me to assist him in completing a sale. He also wanted me to purchase my own dealership, because selling water filters was half of the game, the other half was selling distributorships. Had I purchased a distributorship, the poet would've received payment on every water filter I sold inside of my distributorship. Also some of the money I would've earned would have filtered upward to succeeding levels of the multilevel marketing business. The water filters being sold probably cost about three dollars to manufacture because they were vinyl tubing and activated charcoal that fits under your sink, and the things were selling for upwards of $300 each. It was explained to me that this is necessary because so many people have to be paid per unit sale. Hundreds and hundreds of poets, artists, intellectuals and clean water advocates were all entitled to a share of money raised by selling water filters.
He made a request, as if to test my artistic integrity. He wanted me to close a sale that he was having trouble with. I had nothing to lose at the time, aside from self respect, so I took him up on it. I called a woman,by phone, and attempted to sell her a filter. My sales call was going well, she was interested in getting a filter, and was concerned with contaminants in tap water. The filter picks them out like Lucille Ball inspecting candy on a conveyor belt. But I hit a snag. She became suspicious, and asked who I was calling on behalf of. Her tone was quite, quite serious. This wasn't ordinary common interest in me or the filters or the call itself. I was concerned, so I spilled the beans. I told her that the poet had asked me to make the sales call. She became quite, quite angry. It appears the poet had been harassing her for some time,by phone, visits, other unwanted communication, because he was obsessed with two things, the filter business, and her. It's called stalking. And I got to be complicit in the poet's stalking behavior.
I did not go further with the multi-level marketing initiative. I did continue writing poems, after that. The meeting, and the sales call, wasn't too horridly damaging. But I left behind the shed snake skin of mendacity, greed, falsehood and poor conduct. Poets can be a real jerk.
Names are withheld. I met this poet in the early 1990s after he had performed a reading at the Southside Beehive coffee shop. He and I were introduced by an acquaintance, and avid writer that I am, I asked the poet would he like to meet some afternoon to discuss poetry writing. The fellow was at first skittish, citing the fact that he was a professional writer, and that he generally required a fee for discussion similar to the one I was recommending. With my usual candor and weasel-talk, I convinced the poet that it was worthwhile to have a conversation, gratis. We agreed to meet the next day, at the Beehive.
What a beguiling next day it was. The poet showed up with a large leather sample case, such as salesman carry. They put insurance policies and carpet samples in that type of case. Before the poet and I got around to the subject of poetry readings and writings, he opened his case and pulled out a handful of brochures.
There wasn't a word about poetry uttered by either one of us that afternoon. The poet launched directly into a sales presentation. He was deeply wrapped in a multilevel marketing business. He was a distributor of charcoal water filters. The brochures tell you all about them. Rather than discuss poems, the poet wanted me to assist him in completing a sale. He also wanted me to purchase my own dealership, because selling water filters was half of the game, the other half was selling distributorships. Had I purchased a distributorship, the poet would've received payment on every water filter I sold inside of my distributorship. Also some of the money I would've earned would have filtered upward to succeeding levels of the multilevel marketing business. The water filters being sold probably cost about three dollars to manufacture because they were vinyl tubing and activated charcoal that fits under your sink, and the things were selling for upwards of $300 each. It was explained to me that this is necessary because so many people have to be paid per unit sale. Hundreds and hundreds of poets, artists, intellectuals and clean water advocates were all entitled to a share of money raised by selling water filters.
He made a request, as if to test my artistic integrity. He wanted me to close a sale that he was having trouble with. I had nothing to lose at the time, aside from self respect, so I took him up on it. I called a woman,by phone, and attempted to sell her a filter. My sales call was going well, she was interested in getting a filter, and was concerned with contaminants in tap water. The filter picks them out like Lucille Ball inspecting candy on a conveyor belt. But I hit a snag. She became suspicious, and asked who I was calling on behalf of. Her tone was quite, quite serious. This wasn't ordinary common interest in me or the filters or the call itself. I was concerned, so I spilled the beans. I told her that the poet had asked me to make the sales call. She became quite, quite angry. It appears the poet had been harassing her for some time,by phone, visits, other unwanted communication, because he was obsessed with two things, the filter business, and her. It's called stalking. And I got to be complicit in the poet's stalking behavior.
I did not go further with the multi-level marketing initiative. I did continue writing poems, after that. The meeting, and the sales call, wasn't too horridly damaging. But I left behind the shed snake skin of mendacity, greed, falsehood and poor conduct. Poets can be a real jerk.
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