A Moveable Famine Read Online Free Page A

windup monkey. Lawson watched and shook his head sadly. The bartender poured him another Dewar’s, and something for the girl whose eyes seemed to melt like snowflakes.
    “I didn’t know you wrote poems,” I said.
    “I didn’t know you wrote poems either,” he said. “I couldn’t take the dissertation idea, so I threw in the talc and joined the workshop.”
    I wondered if I’d misheard Barkhausen amid the clanging cymbals. He said he was filling in for the bass player who was late. He jumped on stage, complimenting the flailing, long-haired drummer who Pryor told me was Dan Cook, the novelist. I said I thought this was a party for the poets.
    “It is,” he said, “but I hear he comes to everything just for the girls even though he’s married. A real gash hound.”
    Wendy talked with a student who told her he had edited his college literary magazine, Quill. She grabbed the poet/editor and kissed him sloppily. Surprised and embarrassed, he put her at arm’s length, but she just smiled and whispered, “Listen, Bub, I’m not a happily married woman.” He moved away and sifted through the crowd. As Wendy stared after him, Pryor reached over, expressionless, and splashed a bit of beer down the back of her party dress. She didn’t move.
    “It’s a natural phenomenon,” Pryor continued. “I saw it in England.”
    “What is?” I asked.
    “Ball lightning!”
    Wendy screamed, her drunkenness had anesthetized her for a few seconds, but then she felt the cold liquid and spun around bewildered, hoping to catch the culprit.
    “I’ve got twelve sonnets so far,” Pryor continued. “Hey, babe,” he called to Wendy. He ordered coffee and pushed a stool under her. She gazed dumbly into the crowd.
    “Something spilled down my back,” she said.
    “It’s your imagination,” Pryor said. “Drink this.” He handed her the cup.
    “Am I wet?” she said, turning and showing me the stain.
    “A little,” I said, “but not too bad.”
    “It feels bad,” she said.
    I patted her freckled skin with a napkin, and she looked at me sideways, saying, “At least I didn’t fall into the pool!”
    “There is no pool, you airhead,” Pryor said, building the wet napkins into a pyramid.
    “I meant like last time,” Wendy said. “Back home, at the Aqua Cave.” She turned to me again. “Someone pushed me, and it was the deep end!” She began to cry, and Pryor put his arm around her. I excused myself when the bass player arrived and Barkhausen joined us.
    “Let’s see Lawson!” he said, clapping his hands.
    We stood behind Lawson and the drunk girl as they continued their game. Lawson folded dollar after dollar into the breast pocket of his shirt. Barkhausen reached between them, grabbed a bill from the girl and slapped it to the bar.
    “She’s drunk!” he yelled into Lawson’s face.
    “He took all my money,” the girl said, pouting.
    Lawson said, “It’s not serious.”
    Barkhausen shook out a Marlboro and lit it. “How much did you lose?” He spoke with the cigarette between his lips.
    “I don’t know,” she said sadly. “But a lot of money has changed hands!” She sat upright, listed to one side, and Lawson pulled eight or so bills from his pocket and tossed them onto the bar.
    “What’s wrong with you?” he said to Artie. “I wouldn’t think of taking her money.” He walked out of The Mill, bumping into Ridge who was leaving with the pretty girl.
    A reading by W. H. Auden was scheduled to conclude orientation week. I was looking forward to it as I had seen only one famous poet—Robert Penn Warren. When he came to Fairfield, he wore a suit and tie, which shocked me. I thought all poets were beatniks. The next day, my English teacher reprimanded us for talking during the reading, for the beer bottle that rolled under the seats until it clunked into the foot of the podium, and especially for my wearing sandals, saying, “Poetry is a formal occasion.” This was a surprise. I thought poetry was