May 31: Sleep Well, Lipps Inc., Bigfoot Poet

The boy talks about great fishermen with Santiago . . . 

"The great Sisler's father was never poor and he, the father, was playing in the big leagues when he was my age."

"When I was your age I was before the mast on a square rigged ship that ran to Africa and I have seen lions on the beaches in the evening."

"I know. You told me."

"Should we talk about Africa or about baseball?"

"Baseball I think," the boy said. "Tell me about the great John J. McGraw." He said Jota for J.

"He used to come to the Terrace sometimes too in the older days. But he was rough and harsh-spoken and difficult when he was drinking. His mind was on horses as well as baseball. At least he carried lists of horses at all times in his pocket and frequently spoke the names of horses on the telephone."

"He was a great manager," the boy said. "My father thinks he was the greatest."

"Because he came here the most times," the old man said. "If Durocher had continued to come here each year your father would think him the greatest manager."

"Who is the greatest manager, really, Luque or Mike Gonzalez?"

"I think they are equal."

"And the best fisherman is you."

"No. I know others better."

"Qué va," the boy said. "There are many good fishermen and some great ones. But there is only you."

"Thank you. You make me happy. I hope no fish will come along so great that he will prove us wrong."

"There is no such fish if you are still strong as you say."

"I may not be as strong as I think," the old man said. "But I know many tricks and I have resolution."

"You ought to go to bed now so that you will be fresh in the morning. I will take the things back to the Terrace."

"Good night then. I will wake you in the morning."

"You're my alarm clock," the boy said.

"Age is my alarm clock," the old man said. "Why do old men wake so early? Is it to have one longer day?"

"I don't know," the boy said. "All I know is that young boys sleep late and hard."

"I can remember it," the old man said. "I'll waken you in time."

"I do not like for him to waken me. It is as though I were inferior."

"I know."

"Sleep well, old man."

The boy went out. They had eaten with no light on the table and the old man took off his trousers and went to bed in the dark. He rolled his trousers up to make a pillow, putting the newspaper inside them. He rolled himself in the blanket and slept on the other old newspapers that covered the springs of the bed.

Santiago doesn't feel comfortable with the boy's praise.  He accepts the compliment, but he knows that he's only as good as the next fish he catches.  Resting on your past is like Lipps Inc. going on Jimmy Fallon to sing "Funkytown."  Again.  And again.  And Again.

As a poet, I know the danger of always pulling out the poems people expect you to read.  When I first started publishing, my one-hit wonder was a poem about a dead squirrel.  Everyone knew me for it.  And I read it.  A lot.  Even though I had written much better stuff.  The squirrel poem was eventually replaced by another audience favorite.  A poem about about the ugliest fish in North America.  And, eventually that one was replaced.  It might have been the one about my grandfather and Robert Frost.  Or the one about my sister who, at the time, was suffering with a serious illness.  I read a poem titled "Orange Day" about my son so much, people started referring to him as my orange child.

Nowadays, it's Bigfoot all the way.  If I do a poetry reading without including a Bigfoot poem or two, I feel like I've let the audience down.  At my last public reading, I read a ton of new, non-Bigfoot poems.  Really good stuff, in my estimation.  But, it was only when I dragged Bigfoot out of the poetic forest that I saw everyone in the room smile.  Literally everyone.  Bigfoot is my "Funkytown."

And I don't mind right now that I'm known as the Bigfoot poet.  It could be worse.  I could known for writing serial killer poems.  Or poems from the mind of Marjorie Taylor Greene (what little of it she has).  Eventually, I WILL move on to another obsession.  After I get my Bigfoot manuscript out in the world.

For now, however, Bigfoot is always looking over my shoulder.  He's my muse.  I call on him when I need strength or courage.  And he opens doors for me, to spoken-word albums and documentary films and podcasts.  Plus, Bigfoot makes me cool with my 13-year-old son.  A difficult feat.

So, at this time, Saint Marty sleeps well knowing Bigfoot is watching over him.