Slam

Sat 19 Nov 40 PY (Late Night)
Dear Diary,
It was Saturday night in the underbelly of the old Desmond. Shaded lamps lit the basement. The air was smoky with the trails and drafts from the ends of two dozen lit white and yellow cigarettes. On the wall, a poster featured a lit cigarette perched at the edge of a table; a ruby red lip-print ringed the filter. Underneath the picture were the words: "Marlboroughs: Mild as May".
After a day of sightseeing (she called it shopping), I had accompanied Louisa to a cafe. The round tables were filled. Each woman had a cup of coffee. We were the only ones not smoking. The other women wore lean gowns of somber colors that clung to their thin bodies and draped limply from their waists to their knees. Fur stoles were draped their shoulders, and their caps that resembled toadstool lids. Big-boned and short Louisa stood out in her long dress of bright green. It matched her well.
A counter sat near the exit. They sold coffee. There were two types: black and extra black. Fifteen and twenty cent cups. That was it. No milk, sugar, or cream was offered or asked for. On the far side from the counter, was a stage. One naked bulb lit the platform. One of the narrow women stood in front of the disk and ring microphone. She held a cigarette in her left and a folded notebook in her right. She punctuated her strident stanzas with plumes of smoke. The woman recited with the clipped accent usually heard in the Domes.

My Daddy was a Street Corner,
Might have been near Sunnyside
where Queens Ave. meets Forty-Ninth
Or was it at Gold and Concord?
Anyways, I called him John.

John Q. Public was on a ho' stroll.
Saw her waiting beneath a street lamp,
Called her a dollar-woman
Took her on a date to the hot pillow joint
that charged three twenty-five on the hour,
Mother charged ten
Her mack man got four.

I was what I ate and I ate what I was fed
And I got by on my momma's bread.

The words clashed with her refined voice. Her poem was met with applause. Louisa told me that her name was Angry or Angry Andy, Andy was for Andrea.
"She's so awesome," Louisa gushed. "Not afraid to say anything to anyone."
Angry acknowledge the applause with a wave of her notebook and strode to join a table of three. "I'm a regular here," Louisa said.
To my surprise, she headed to the microphone. She pulled a crumpled sheet of paper out of her purse and smoothed it out. She cleared her throat and began reading in her best nasal quaver.
I wouldn't mind being a Baked Potato,
If it was for a little while.
(After all, I'm shaped like one)
Though it gets gnawed and bitten,
It gets to be hot and warm,
And buttered and if'n it don't get butter,
It gets sour cream
Bacon bits
And those teeny green things,
(Can't get enough of those little green things).

I say Baked Potato,
'Cuz that's what he said to me,
My damn'd Ex.
There he was at supper
Buttering my roll with MY butter
With MY knife, sitting at MY table, in MY KITCHEN
And he looks at me and says
"You're nothing but a baked potato."
The Nerve!
And I say back to him:
"Hun, you're nothing but an oven,
Squat! Fat! And full of hot gas!"

[sotto voce]
But-
But I don't mind being a Baked Potato,
'Cuz it's better than being cold all the time.

She jumped from asylum crazed to pleading without a hitch. Louisa was a performer, and received whistles of appreciation for her performance. She gave a small bow before leaving the microphone. The first two women had spoken of men to other women. The rest of the poems spoke of cooking, a sliver of blue sky out of a factory window, or a song on the radio, slices of any day and everyday.
I felt comfortable there. In her journal, Dorothy 0 mentioned sneaking off to "slam night" at cafes. She had felt free there. I felt the same way. I felt the urge to read the next time that I came. An android writing poetry? It seems ridiculous, but here I am scribbling into a journal.
Until next time,
R. Dorothy Wayneright

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Author's Notes:
Can't take credit for the opening line of the first poem: www.engrish.com - 30 June 2004.
For the prostitution slang: http:www.amatory-ink.co.uk/thesaurus/prostitution.htm