What Poets Are Like by Gary Soto

Author:Gary Soto [Soto, Gary]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-57061-875-8
Publisher: Sasquatch Books
Published: 2013-08-13T00:00:00+00:00

LONDON CALLING

ON THE MILLENNIUM BRIDGE, London, I leaned over the rail and cast my eye on the Thames, gray as oil. In fact, the river is partly oil, from passing ships, tourist barges, and tugboats. It’s an old, troubled river, one that winds like an intestinal tract toward the sea. The river has carried ships, small and large, of wood and of iron, along with sludge of every sort—factory waste, human waste, animal waste, chemical waste that glows in the dark—and the suicidal tears of the heartbroken. The Romans appeared on its banks, and the Vikings and the Normans, as well as immigrants from Africa, China, India, Pakistan, and the Middle East. The river has suffered from fires and plagues, from mercenary troops on its many bridges. It has ferried slaves, prisoners, reluctant soldiers, sailors from many nations, kings and queens and serpents, even fish, thin as playing cards. Corpses have knocked against its wharves, as have bloated horses and cows. It has held the reflections of stars and moons in all their cycles, and has accepted rain, piss, vomit, and grog, including my own contribution, a warm splash of Foster’s from a can I was clutching. For the moment, I was done drinking. I poured the contents into this slow river.

I hopped onto the District Line to Earl’s Court, where I debarked and found the international call station, run by Pakistani brothers. The place is a miracle: you enter a booth and, for fifty cents a minute, you can call almost anywhere in the world. According to the large clock on the wall, it was 5:47 a.m. in California. Jon Veinberg, poet and friend, was house-sitting for us. An early riser, he would already be up, his coffee drunk, the paper read, our cat fed and petted. Jon picked up on the third ring. He didn’t seem surprised to hear my voice.

After two minutes of chitchat—one dollar down—I asked Jon, “Did I get any calls?” I like to keep up-to-date on those thinking of me.

“You got a couple,” Jon answered. “But none of them was important.”

I was baffled. I asked how he could consider them unimportant. I looked up at the clock: four minutes—and two dollars—had been scrubbed from my life.

“None of them involved money.”

I laughed at the snarky bastard, and Jon laughed at me, merchant at heart. I hung up before the call could cost me more.

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