Open Mic Night

a blind man is eating pop tarts on stage,
while a band from baltimore waits for their turn in a booth.

heather orders her third ham sandwich,

but her friends say she's had enough.

they say she can get the diet coke, though.

i help her write the check.

the wind blows the door open,

letting in a gust of cold air - something like negative twenty.

ryan and jamie blitz the counter,

place two orders of super nachos,

and engage me with a barrage of

uncomfortably specific

time-related questions.

"how cold do you think it is?"

"how long is the band going to play for?"

"how many songs do you think they'll play?"

"that's a lot of songs, huh?"

"how many drinks did you make tonight?"

"that's a lot drinks, huh?"

i rush into the back.

we're almost out of sour cream

and we're down to the last

heavily preserved jalapeno peppers.

the blind man is done eating pop tarts.

now the trucker who never drove a truck takes the stage.

he says people have no respect these days.