Two Poems
In 1984, I learned words were currency.
I could buy things.
Things that mattered to a fifteen-year-old boy.
A smile.
A chance.
Respect.
A moment of protection in a room full of varsity players built like they owned life.
I was ... socially awkward.
Rhythm and I were not friends.
But I could write.
I could write poetry that made a girl’s face change.
I could write lines that gave a guy confidence to walk across campus and hand his heart over without shaking.
And I hustled it.
Ten dollars for a short one. Fifteen for longer.
If you had a girl, wanted a girl, lost a girl, or thought you might lose her, you found me.
I was the professor.
Varsity guys knew me.
That always made me smile.
Guys built like refrigerators on legs, confidence louder than any room, paying a kid with paper and ink because somewhere deep down they understood the power of romance for hire.
A girl falls in love with how you make her feel.
And in that economy, I was rich.
That is how I found myself in a weight room, on a bench, staring down a problem that thought it was bigger than me.
I was mid-set when he walked up.
He didn’t ask.
“Get up. I need the bench.”
He said it like that closed the deal.
I ignored him.
Dude needed a shower. Badly.
I pushed the iron up.
If we fought, we were both gonna bleed.
“You can wait,” I said. “I’m not giving up anything.”
He stared at me like I had crossed a line.
Half step closer. Chest out.
Maybe I should have backed down.
I never did well with that.
Feet set.
Shoulders squared.
The room narrowed.
My chest went tight.
Across the weight room, a massive guy watched it all. He grinned like he’d found a good flick.
He was the kind of big that changed outcomes.
No noise. No rush. Just a cool walk over and presence.
He shook his head slowly, like he couldn’t believe it.
“Man, you got guts.”
Then he turned to his teammate.
His voice dropped.
“Stand down.”
No volume. No edge. No argument left in the room.
The varsity guy tried anyway.
He talked. He postured. He tried to save something already gone.
(Pride always talks after it gets humbled).
The air stood still.
His teammate backed down.
The bench stayed mine.
The big guy looked at me again. He grinned.
“Worth two poems, right?”
I nodded.
He turned to walk off, then stopped.
He turned back.
Held up two fingers.
A receipt.
Then he walked away.
My life in one scene ... I knew I would never forget.
I had the courage to stand my ground.
Not the size to guarantee I would keep it.
Two poems.
That was the trade.
I paid it before the day was over.
I learned something in that room.
Power came in different forms.
Sometimes it was muscle.
Sometimes it was numbers.
Other times it was a folded piece of paper with your words on it, and it hit a girl just right.
And that, right there, was hard East Bay truth.
