"Poetic old-fashionedness figured largely in my alchemy of the word."

~~Rimbaud -- "A Season in Hell"~~
_______

MARCH 4, 2000
SOYLENT BEAN BOOK & CAFE
NOON

When I arrive at the Soylent Bean, there are maybe five customers in the bookshop, and the small cafe is almost to capacity with the brunch crowd. I browse for a while, picking up a used Chomsky title, and stake myself out a table for the reading, which should be commencing shortly. The MC has already passed around the open mike signup, and has been talking to what I presume are the two featured poets. One is a guy in his twenties, who looks like he's one of those radical Marxist college student political poets. He probably won't be too interesting; strident is more likely. The other is a woman about my age, dressed casually but with a certain elegance. I can't quite peg her for type, but I'm betting she's a professional of some sort.
An attorney, maybe? She has a businesslike air about her, and a natural charisma. I wonder what her poetic style is. God, I hope it's not sappy love sonnets. I really don't need any of those this afternoon. I can't stand sappy to begin with, and love sonnets are not likely to improve my mood in the least. Fortunately, she doesn't really look the type. No frills and lace that I can see.

The reading starts with the two I'd observed, and runs through a short selection from the open mike list. Nothing particularly
special, although the woman, who was introduced as Sari Thomas, seems to be a rather better poet and reader than I would have expected at a tiny place like this. As the reading goes on, the contrast between her work and the rest of the readers becomes more and more obvious. She has talent and is good with a crowd, and she's hooked most of the audience, including me. Her poems don't stick to one genre; some are formal, some free verse, and she moves from subject to subject with grace, giving interesting introductions to her works. They range from the personal and introspective to the comic and in one or two she ventures into sensual, almost erotic territory. Her overall effect leaves me with a very satisfied feeling, and I'm glad I've come.

At the break, the MC announces that some of the poets have chapbooks for sale, and I note that Ms. Thomas is one of them. I like what I've heard so far, and I'm interested enough to want to see a little more of her work, so I head over to check out her stuff.

She's signing a book for a customer when I get there, with a pleasant, genuine smile. It looks like she has more than a chapbook or two out. In fact, there are three books and five chapbooks on the table with her name on them. Rather more prolific than I'd expected for such a small venue, too. The back cover bio says that she's from Portland, Oregon originally, and splits her time between Portland and DC. Educated at Reed and Antioch, very tough independent schools with excellent reputations, earning a BS in Environmental Studies and an MFA in Poetry. She's been published in a lot of the big literary
journals, and has also won a few impressive literary awards, including a Pushcart prize. Overall, a fine curriculum vitae. It
surprises me that I hadn't run across her work before. I'm flipping through a collection titled 'The Nature of Dreams' when she turns to me.

"Hi. That's my newest book," she says. "It has some of my favorite material in it. I read a few sections from the title poem before the break." I look up at her. She's smiling at me now, her lively dark eyes alight, seemingly happy to see me, although I know we've never met. If she notices that I forgot to shave today, or that my suit is wrinkled, she doesn't mention it.

"So I see," I reply, as I had opened the book to the poem in question and recognized some of what she'd been reading. "I'm... I'm really enjoying your reading, Ms. Thomas."

"Thank you! Oh, and call me Sari. I don't stand much on formality. What's your name?"

She asks with genuine interest. I don't get the impression that it's an author's act so she can sign the book when I buy it. And I do intend to buy it. "John," I answer. "But what's a poet with your obvious talent doing reading at a little hole in the wall like this?"

She colors with a bit of a blush. "Harry, the owner, has been a friend of mine since I started coming to DC. I always come by to read here when I have some time. He's been such a wonderful encouragement to me over the years." She smiles and waves to Harry, behind the cash register across from the table where we're standing. The elderly man waves back and smiles a lopsided grin at her. "And thanks for your kind comments about my work. I really enjoy meeting the people who read my books. I take it this is the first time you've come across my poetry?"

"Yeah. I wasn't in the mood to join my friends at their date with a big screen basketball game tonight, so I came here instead."

"Ah, a man of distinction." She winks. "I'm not a sports fan myself. There are a lot more important things in the world than watching a bunch of sweaty jocks playing with a ball." Well, she certainly has a point there. "Chomsky?" she asks. She's looking at the book under my arm. "Interesting political thought, very admirable in fact, but I can't say I agree with his linguistics theories. I just can't buy the whole deep structure grammar argument. " She adjusts her glasses, pushing them back up her nose with a forefinger.

"You know Chomsky?" Most people, even here in Washington, aren't too familiar with him. He's been one of my heroes for years.

"Well, I met him once at a protest march, but I can't say I know him. I am an admirer of his work, though."

"Oh, by the way, I'd like to buy this." I hand her the volume of her poetry and some cash. "I didn't mean did you know him personally, I was just asking about your familiarity with his work. Apparently you're better acquainted with the material than most people."

She took my money and signed the book for me, then said "Yeah, I'm interested in him both as a political philosopher and a linguist." She takes money and signs books for other people as she talks. "His take on the media and governmental control over information is much more on target than most people want to admit. I have a day job as a lobbyist, and let me tell you, the amount of graft, corruption, information suppression and willful ignorance I see every day in the house and the senate would boggle the minds of most Americans. "

"Who do you lobby for?" I ask. We seem to be of at least superficially like mind, and I have to wonder who she's working for.

"Sierra Club on my professional time. Other environmental and human rights organizations on my own." She sells and signs another book. "What do you do?"

That's always been an iffy question for me. If I tell her I'm a journalist, she'll want to know who I write for, and while she might be the sort to be interested in some of our more serious work, I don't feel comfortable talking about it here. I can't exactly say that I'm a hacker, either, although that's the largest part of the truth. Telling her I'm an intelligence analyst might fly, but somehow I think she'd misinterpret it and figure I work for the military or the CIA , or something equally distasteful. I opt for the most acceptable of the public truths. "I do computer design, software, and security consulting."

She fixes her eyes on me. "Oh, really? Do you have a card?"

"I... um..." I fish around in my wallet to see if I'm carrying any today. "Yes, actually. Here." I hand her the card and she looks at it.

"John F. Byers, Aegis Consulting, eh? You know, just by coincidence, I'm looking for somebody to do some work for me."

"What kind of work?"

"I... oh..." She looks up.

The MC stands hovering over her shoulder and says, "We're starting in about a minute. Time to wrap things up here."

"I can't talk now," she says to me. "I have to get back to the reading."

"Look, Sari... can I, ah... buy you a latte or something after you're done? We could talk about what kind of help you're looking for." A little extra money wouldn't be a bad idea, nor would a job. Maybe it would take my mind off of Susanne for a while; at least it would get me out of the office. And this woman seems pleasant enough. If she's got a day job as a lobbyist for the Sierra Club, they would certainly be able to afford me.

"Sure," she says, smiling brightly at me. "I'd like that. We'll talk in a bit." With that, she turns and heads back to her seat. So do I.

The rest of the reading passes in a similar vein, and Ms. Thomas holds her own amid the group of other poets. I check out her inscription. Her handwriting is almost calligraphic, although her signature is worthy of a surgeon. 'To John, may your dreams be kind and comforting, Sari Thomas.' I only wish that were true. I haven't had kind or comforting dreams in years. Not since Baltimore. I listen to her read with appreciation, and then read some of her work while the other poets continue with theirs. I was right about the younger man. He's been very shrill in a naive hard-core leftist way the entire time he's been on stage.  But the applause at the end is enthusiastic; mostly, I suspect, for Ms. Thomas. She sells more books and chapbooks, then packs her small remaining stock in her backpack while talking to her admirers, and a few minutes later she approaches my table.

"So, about that latte?" she says.

"What would you like?"

"Double tall mocha breve with hazelnut." Actually, aside from the double shot, the combination doesn't sound bad at all.

"Anything on it?"

"Just some nutmeg."

"As you wish." She takes a seat and I procure her hazel mocha, along with a single tall latte of my own. I  seat myself and get down to business. "What kind of work do you need done?"

"It's not at the office, if that's what you're hoping," she says. "I had a hacker in my personal system yesterday. Thrashed my hard drive, and I haven't been able to recover much on my own. It's not that I'm particularly incompetent, it's just that the asshole made a big mess of things and it's beyond my current skills to fix, even with the help of Saint Norton. So I need data recovery,  a few big steps up on my system  security, and a damn good firewall. I lost at least 30 pages of my latest white paper, along with most of my research files for it. That, and about half the poems in the book I'm working on. It'll be a major pain to recreate all the work and research I've lost, assuming I could do it at all. And the white paper's due on Thursday. There's no way I'll finish in time without some professional assistance."

She looks more than a little upset about the situation. I can't say I blame her. I've screamed a few times when Langly's been in my system messing around with things to play with my head, and he doesn't do nearly the amount of damage she's talking about. "That's got to hurt. I should warn you though, that my rates are a little steep for most individuals," I tell her, somewhat disappointed.

"The Club pays pretty well for my persuasive talents. If you're not totally out of line for a small firm, I can probably afford you."

We discuss prices for the sort of work she wants, and I mention that I can't really set a firm hourly rate until I actually see the system and the extent of the damage, but she seems satisfied. "I'd like a couple of references, though," she says. "You never know who you're dealing with out there. Can't be too careful," she says with a smile.

I give her a small smile in return, but it fades when I remember Susanne's voice -- 'no matter how paranoid you are, you're not paranoid enough...'

She must have noted my expression, as she asks "You ok? You look a little pale."

I wave the statement away. "I'm fine. You just... reminded me of someone for a second." She nods, seeming satisfied with the
explanation. I give her three of my recent references, including a gaming startup that all three of us are working on at the moment. They're all good. And she seems like the type to actually check them.

"You've worked for some impressive people. I know one of the techiesat FPS. Cool people. I'll ring her up this afternoon and call youthis evening to let you know."

"That sounds good," I say, but I'm enjoying her company and would really like to talk about other things for a while before I'm left to my own resources for the rest of the day. "You... um... don't have to rush off, if you don't want to. We can talk about things other than work if you like."

"Well, we could talk about Chomsky, but that's way too work-related for me at the moment. What other things are you interested in?"

Truthfully, I haven't been interested in anything lately, but if I tell her that, there won't be much to talk about, and I'll have to
wander aimlessly around town for hours before Frohike would let me back into the office. "Well, music. Books, generally. Classic and silent movies. Computers, of course, but that's work for me so it's out as a topic."

She chuckles. "Books, movies, and music. That's pretty broad. Are you entirely eclectic, or do you have specific tastes in those things?"

"Musically, I'm pretty eclectic. Mostly I like classical and jazz, but my roommates listen to all kinds of stuff, so I'm exposed to a lot more than you'd think. Movies, like I said, mostly silents and classics. Sometimes I like a mindless action flick or some decent SF. For books, I read a lot of literary fiction, some poetry and philosophy, the classics. I tend to keep up on the sciences online and in the journals. By the time most of it hits print in the books, it's old news." This seems to interest  her.

"Isn't it just." She gives me a wry, but understanding grin. "Me, I generally like early music myself, all that lovely pre-Baroque European stuff, and traditional world music. The Sephardic and Arabic traditions fascinate me, but I also enjoy African drumming, a little gamelan and some of the Japanese koto and shakuhachi repertoire." She sips her breve, looking thoughtful. "But I also like things a little more modern.I'm actually rather interested in tribal-trance and ambient . I've even been out to quite a few raves in my day, before things started getting commercial."

"Now that does sound eclectic," I reply.

"Not as much as you'd think. An awful lot of that sort of thing finds its roots in African and Mediterranean music. Tempo, beat, and vocals in those genres can be very influenced by Middle Eastern and Balkan stylings as well."

We sink into a comfortable and very enjoyable conversation about music and music theory, sharing opinions of composers and various ensembles. Her knowledge is quite impressive for someone who isn't a musician, and her opinions and tastes are innovative and occasionally even challenging. She orders lunch at one point, although I'm not hungry enough to join her while she eats her soup and sandwich; I'm content simply to chat for a while with a friendly and knowledgeable stranger about completely non-threatening subjects.

Ms. Thomas is fairly tall, but not overly so. She's very slender without being 'fashionably' anorexic, with short, dark hair, grey eyes behind oval lenses, and very fine bones, like a bird's. I don't think most people would describe her as beautiful, but she's quite attractive. Unassuming, I think, would be a better word. For all that, she does have a kind, cheerful presence and a good bit of charisma, but she is a lobbyist and apparently a fairly successful poet. You need a certain force of personality and a stiff spine to work with the sort of people she does -- to convince legislators, however conniving, to introduce or support your issues, particularly if they're environmental or human rights based. Beyond empty rhetoric, neither are actually popular in the current political atmosphere.

Eventually she looks at her watch. "Oh dear. It's almost five, and I have to get home and fix some dinner. I've got company coming, or I'd blow it off in favor of continuing the conversation. I've been having a delightful time talking with you, John. I'll call you this evening after I talk to my friend at FPS to let you know if you've got the job."

I hadn't realized it had gotten so late either. Maybe I can make both the Atwood signing and Joan of Arc. The signing's only a few blocks from the theatre, and the movie doesn't start until 7:30. "I've really enjoyed the afternoon myself. Thank you, Sari. I'll be in after nine tonight and up for a while after that, otherwise you're likely to get the answering machine. I'll look forward to your call. I hope you'll have me in to do your job."

"It's quite likely, if your references are as sterling as your conversation." She reaches out and shakes my hand with a warm, firm grip, wraps her scarf and coat around herself, puts on her gloves and hat, then picks up her backpack to go. I watch her as she leaves, chatting briefly with Harry and giving him a short, friendly hug before she hurries out the door into the early March dusk.

I wander up to the counter and ask Harry, "Is she always that friendly?"

"Sari? Yeah, pretty much. She's a great kid. Real talent. I'm proud of what she does, on all counts. She's doing some pretty influential work with the congresscritters, and making a pretty good name for herself as a poet, too. You need anything special today, Johnny? I found a real obscure one on the Kennedy assassination if you're interested. Lots of stuff on Kerry Thornley in it."

Thornley's a very obscure figure, peripherally involved in the issue. He also contributed material to the 'Principia Discordia' as Omar Khayyam Ravenhurst. Langly has a copy and thinks it's hilarious. Thornley's a colorful member of the underground, and not often mentioned in the literature, so I find myself intrigued by the offer. Harry and I talk for a couple of minutes about the book, but it turns out to be one I already have, so I wish him a good evening and head out. I'm actually feeling almost human when I get to the van. Then it hits me.

I haven't thought about Susanne in hours.

end part 2