Dec. 31: The world is filled with beautiful women

The old poet was drunk and the young poet was listening to him.

"I will tell you why life is worth living," said the old poet. "It is because the world is filled with beautiful women."

The young poet looked confused. 

The old poet waved a hand at him.

"Go on, if you don't believe me. Walk any city block on a Saturday evening. You'll see no fewer than a dozen beautiful women before you can count to ten. Make it a point to look upon them, gaze upon them, commit their every feature to memory. Those memories will warm you when you become an old poet like me."

"Are you married?" the young poet asked.

"No," the old poet said.

-

It was their second date. He'd made reservations at Mico's, one of the finest steak houses in the city. He got to the restaurant ten minutes early, wanting to receive her. She came in just as he ordered the wine. She was wearing a yellow dress, the same one she was wearing in her profile picture. He complimented her on that dress. He was touched that she had chosen to wear it.

He pulled her chair out for her and then the second date conversation began. He asked about her family and she asked about his. They touched on philosophy, cinema, literature, science, and then, finally, the future.

"How do you feel about marriage?" she asked.

"I don't believe in it," he said.

Everything changed.

She stopped smiling. She collected her purse and stood.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"I'm leaving."

"Why?"

"I don't believe in wasting time," she said. "You don't believe in marriage. Well, I do. I date because I am looking for a suitable husband. You're not interested in that so there is no point in carrying on with this charade. Thank you for revealing your true nature so quickly."

She gave him his back.

As soon as she was gone, he called the motel to cancel the evening's reservation. 

-

The old poet couldn't get married. Wouldn't get married. He could not devote his life to one woman.

Why not? asked the young poet.

I want to be of service to many, not to one.

How many women let you service them now? asked the young poet.

The old poet, looking very old, was silent.

-

Listen to the words of the young poet:

Why do we assume that the aged are wise? Sometimes they have no wisdom to impart. Sometimes, the lessons we learn from them come not from their words but from the mistakes they have made, even the ones they refuse to acknowledge?

He wrote these words on a Saturday night. He and the old poet had been drinking on the patio of a crowded restaurant. On the street, not five feet away, beautiful women paraded past. Some were alone. Some were with men. Some were with friends. They paid no attention to the poets, who drank and dreamed of being with them.

The old poet would, on occasion, address them.

"You're looking good tonight, ladies, be safe."

Most of the women ignored him. Some of them scowled. One of them flipped him off.

During a lull in the action, the old poet said this: "I'm a dirty old man. I admit it. I never hit on the ladies but I always compliment them and tell them to be safe."

"It doesn't sound like they appreciate it," the young poet said.

-

The old poet died as winter began. At his funeral, there were no beautiful women. 

The young poet was there. As per the old poet's last request, the young poet read a poem the old poet had written when he was a young man. 

Listen to his words:

I have read Genesis

I have read how Eve's sin destroyed us

and how Eden has been closed forever.

But I say Eden still exists

and can be found

in the eyes

and the hearts

of beautiful women.

And surely I cannot be the only one

who has noticed 

that the last thing God created

was woman.

This does not surprise me.

God knew He had to stop there.

Nothing He could ever make

would top that masterpiece.

-

The young poet thought he would be sad that his friend had died.

He was not.

He wondered what ever happened to the woman in the yellow dress. 

-

The old poet had no final resting place. He had died poor and alone. There were no graveyards that testified to his existence. He had left the young poet a collection of chapbooks and notebooks filled with his desperate words.

The young poet placed them in a shoebox and buried it in the backyard. 

That night, he built a fire. He felt his friend's ghost and he asked if he was happy.

The ghost was silent.

"I don't think you loved women," the young poet said. "I think you loved what they could do for you."

The ghost said that he loved women for their beauty, that this was not wrong, that he was beautiful once and that he was surely adored for that as well.

"I do not care," the young poet said. "I don't want to live that way."

He put out the fire and the ghost went away.

-

It was surely a coincidence that the following summer, he ran into the woman. They were at the grocery store and as he pushed his cart into the produce aisle, he looked up and their eyes met.

"Hello," he said.

"Hello," she said back.

He looked at her. She was not wearing the yellow dress anymore. She had dressed to run errands, not for him.

"How are you?"

"Great," she said. "How is your life going?"

"My friend died."

"Oh."

There was an awkward silence that he was desperate to plug.

"Listen..."

"I don't need to hear it," she said. "Things worked out."

She held up her left hand. Diamond ring. Wedding ring.

"You're married," he said.

"Expecting too."

"I'm happy," he said. "Is he good to you?"

"Goodbye," she said.

He watched her leave. He said a silent prayer for her child.

-

The next Saturday afternoon, he went walking along the strip. He was wearing his best outfit. He had showered and shaved. He'd been to the barber. 

The young poet passed hundreds of beautiful women. He wanted to talk to one and could think of nothing to say. 

"You're beautiful," he said to no one in particular.

The women passed him, ignoring him.

He said it again, louder this time.

"You're beautiful."

They ignored him again.

He walked. He felt he would cry. He felt the old poet walking beside him.

-

He came to a boutique. In the window was a yellow dress. It was on sale.

The young poet went into the store and bought it.

He took the dress out on to the street, holding it in front of him like a work of art. The beautiful women walked by and he offered the dress to each of them.

"What's the catch?" one of them asked.

"Wear it," he said. "And have dinner with me."

The woman was beautiful. At that moment, he thought that all women were beautiful.

"Fine," she said, and took the dress from his shaking hands.

"I will be good for you," the young poet said.

"I'd like that," the beautiful woman said. 

As they walked to the restaurant, she let him hold her hand. 

 

 

  Based on a title given to me at Words Books and Cappuccino Bar in Calgary, circa 1993.