[Earlier today on facebook, I asked "What kind of weirdo
wouldn't want to hear the story about a creepy old drunk guy accosting me with
bad poetry at a classical music concert when I was 17?" A kind
reader duly expressed interest (after the first person to whom I offered the
tale ignored me), so I am sharing. It is an
accurate-enough version of what happened, though I admit it was almost 20 years
ago. When I include this story in my memoirs, I don't want anyone accusing me
of gross falsification. My particular thanks to Sir Walter Raleigh, peace and
blessings be upon him. --ed.]
When I was in high school in Indiana, my ward's boy scout troop
had a contract with the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra to set up tables and
chairs for their weekly summer "Symphony on the Prairie" series.
The ISO would perform on a stage in a large landscaped
ampitheatre on the grounds of Conner Prairie, a "living history"museum. There were different price structures: a basic ticket would get you
admittance to the grounds, where you could set up a blanket and enjoy the
music; a higher-price ticket would get you admittance to the museum as well,
where you could spend an hour or so talking to the re-enactors, including the
honest-to-goodness blacksmith plus actors playing the pharmacist, the school
teacher, various farmers, etc.; and a top-tier ticket would purchase all that
plus prime seating at a banquet table with a folding chair and "catered"
(from the March grocery store delicatessen) dinner thrown in.
While the boy scout troop had signed the contract, they
encouraged others in the ward to help. I went as often as I could, though I
skipped a few concerts that looked annoying. Sci fi night, 4th of July with
actual artillery during the 1812 Overture, Mozart, check, check, check. But
Stravinsky/Prokofiev night? Meh.
The deal was that if I showed up and helped with set up, I could
stake out a good spot for my tarp and picnic dinner, visit the museum, and
enjoy the concert, provided I also helped with take-down afterward. Most scouts
showed up just to earn money toward scout camp, but I only went if I cared
about the concert. It was a nice family activity, and I even did this as a date
a few times in college; it was a hit with the young men I took, especially Jon.
Just after I graduated from high school, there was a
romance-themed night. After the concert was over, the rich "box seat"
types in their "luxury" plastic lawn chairs lingered. The other youth and I
disassembled as best we could, but had been instructed not to hurry them. One
of the patrons, a fifty-something balding guy, almost but not quite old enough
to be my grandfather, started chatting with me as I walked past.
"Are we keeping you?" he asked, and I answered
"Take your time, sir."
He then asked my opinion of the concert. I commented that this
"romantic" concert had not included many selections from the actual
Romantic period. Clearly surprised, he condescended to express himself
impressed at my musical acumen, then took it upon himself to atone for the
deficiencies of the music by providing a little extra "romance"
himself.
Grabbing my hand, he began spouting poetry at me. Bad poetry.
I stood stiffly, eyebrows arched in amusement. While I did not wish to
encourage the guy, I found the entire thing funny. Although I'd been talking to
him for several minutes, it only then began to dawn on me that perhaps he was
tipsy. (Remember, sheltered Mormon girl. I didn't have much experience with
alcohol.) I wasn't too worried about the guy; he was slightly creepy, but there
were plenty of people around, including several people at his own table. The
woman sitting next to him looked particularly Unamused; I wondered distractedly
if she were his date -- or his wife.
His rather lengthy recitation also gave me time to consider my
options. While I was required to be polite to him about his seating
arrangements, I had no contractual obligations to coddle his ego. Thus, when he
finished his verse, he looked at me and asked "What did you think?"
I smiled tolerantly and said "You wrote that
yourself."
"How could you tell?" he blurted.
"You switched between 'thou' and 'you' several times,"
I answered. "Also, your conjugation of archaic forms was inconsistent.
It's a common mistake to switch -st and -th endings on words, like 'thou
thinketh" or 'he lovest.'"
Nettled, he inquired if I were some kind of expert literary
critic, and I responded that I was surprisingly familiar with the classics for
a seventeen-year-old. I emphasized the "seventeen" as subtle
"Beeep! Beeeep! Minor! Jailbait!" warning. It went completely over
his head, but was not lost on other members of his party who were less
inebriated.
"Okay, so you want 'real' poetry!" he said, stung that
I had so quickly identified his stuff as third-rate. He began quoting [1]:
"Come live with me and be my love,
And we shall all the pleasures prove..."
And we shall all the pleasures prove..."
He stumbled badly through the middle of Christopher Marlowe's
poem "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love," but finished up decently
enough:
"If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love."
Then live with me and be my love."
When he finished, I smiled beatifically at him, paused
dramatically...and then answered, archly:
"If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love."
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love."
Then I extracted my hand firmly and walked away -- grinning like
a loon. I gave his table a wide berth afterwards.
A girl my age almost tackled me when it was all over. "Oh
my gosh, Gail!" she said. "What was that all about? I can't believe
he did that." And then, belatedly, "And what did you say to him? He
looks...not crushed, but..."
"Deflated?" I suggested.
His group decamped shortly afterward. I noted that the woman
with him was acting...cold.
Heh heh heh.
Then the inevitable after-shock. "WHY," I asked the
heavens, "Why couldn't he have been twenty--and SOBER?"
[1] It might have been "She walks in beauty" or "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day" or a host of other famous poems. I honestly don't remember. I DID quote Sir Walter Raleigh at him, though, and in the proper spirit.
[Below: Random internet photos of Symphony on the Prairie picnickers.
Top left: from the stage looking out at the "prime" table seating.
Top right: from the tables, looking at the stage.
Center: Wider view from the audience, in the "camp chair" section. (In the "good old days" of the 90s, people brought blankets.)
Bottom: REAL percussion for Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture. Every July 4th, brought to us by the Evansville First Batallion 163rd Field Artillery. With howitzers.]
[1] It might have been "She walks in beauty" or "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day" or a host of other famous poems. I honestly don't remember. I DID quote Sir Walter Raleigh at him, though, and in the proper spirit.
[Below: Random internet photos of Symphony on the Prairie picnickers.
Top left: from the stage looking out at the "prime" table seating.
Top right: from the tables, looking at the stage.
Center: Wider view from the audience, in the "camp chair" section. (In the "good old days" of the 90s, people brought blankets.)
Bottom: REAL percussion for Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture. Every July 4th, brought to us by the Evansville First Batallion 163rd Field Artillery. With howitzers.]