A Pilgrim’s Digression

8.

The distance from the Madison Building entrance to Pete�s diner turned out to be no more than a few feet across C street from the Madison building. The diner was so small it was almost invisible, situated as it was between a small French-style caf� and a dentist�s office. A few patrons were sitting outside at tables on the sidewalk. The afternoon was quite pleasant.

�Would you like to sit outside?� Boylston asked.

�No,� Crabbe said. �I can�t bear too much sun, plus the thought of insects getting into my food.�

�O.K.�

As they stepped inside, Crabbe thought he could guess why Boylston had suggested they eat outside. The diner was crowded and so small it reminded Crabbe of some of the claustrophobic European eateries he had frequented in Paris and Brussels and other cities. If you sat at the bar and turned around, you were inevitably going to kick someone sitting at a table behind you. The thought of having to eat in such proximity to other people repulsed Crabbe, but he had no choice but to enter.

Unfortunately, it was to the bar that Boylston headed. After squeezing past the people sitting at the tables, Boylston hopped nimbly up onto a stool covered with a dirty-looking piece of cloth like a hairnet. The whole place, from the greasy wood paneling, to the mismatched silverware and coffee cups, to the hairnet-covered bar stools, smacked of decrepitude, and Crabbe didn�t like it. What�s more, the diner was being operated by four Asian women—Vietnamese or Chinese or Korean, Crabbe couldn�t tell the difference. Maybe they were Thai, for all he knew. Yet a Chinese calandar hung on the wall by the cash register, and paper Chinese lanterns were suspended from the fly-specked ceiling tiles. Crabbe was deeply unsure about what kind of restaurant Boylston had brought him to. It was too much a mixture of styles and cultures for Crabbe�s taste.

He followed Boylston clumsily, excusing himself as he bumped up against people at tables, finally slipping past them all and sidling up onto a stool beside the Librarian.

�Do you know what you want yet?� Boylston asked, after a bit.

Crabbe said, �I can�t find a menu.�

Boylston pointed up on the wall above the grill. A letter board displayed a general menu, mostly consisting of American food, as Boylston had said: grilled cheese, BLT, cheeseburger and fries, lasagna. Hanging above the grill and the counter, pieces of regular, white copier paper had the Specials printed on them. The Specials were a cheeseburger combo, a barbecue pork combo, and kung pao chicken.

One of the Asian women, a chubby, middle-aged woman whom Crabbe took to be the proprietor for some wholly illogical reason (she was the oldest of the four women), came over and in passing asked what they would have to drink. She was very busy, but after taking their drink order, she took time to smile at Boylston, who smiled back.

�We haven�t seen you in long time,� she said.

�I�ve been around,� Boylston said. �I�m so busy, I eat in my office more often than not these days.�

She hurried on her way, and Boylston said to Crabbe, �I know you said you don�t care for Asian food, but you really ought to try the kung pao chicken. Have a Vietnamese spring roll as a side. Delicious. The peanut sauce they use here is better than in just about any other restaurant in Washington.�

Crabbe said, �Maybe next time. I�m going to stick with something safe today.�

When the woman returned a short time later with water for Crabbe and hot Lipton tea for Boylston, she asked to take their order. Crabbe ordered the cheeseburger combo with fries. Boylston ordered the curry chicken kabobs with a spring roll.

Ordering out of the way, Boylston said, �Now we can talk. How are you adapting to life and work here in the District? Everything going well for you? Is there anything I can do for you?�

�No, not really,� Crabbe said, thinking, you can move me to an alcove where I can look at Shakespeare or Plato�s ass, rather than the ass of Mr. Commerce. �I�ve found a place to live which is adequate for now.�

�Have you thought about how you are going to make the Laureateship your own?� Boylston asked.

�Well, I have a few ideas,� Crabbe lied.

�Give me a preview,� Boylston said.

�I was thinking, um, of a new poetry contest I could judge…� Crabbe did not continue, hoping this would be enough.

�Have you researched what other Poet Laureates have done in the past?� Boylston asked.

�Oh yes,� Crabbe lied.

�I mention it because in the past, Poet Laureates have traditionally done something to encourage young people to write. Think of the post as an Instructional position. Do you like teaching young people?�

�Um, yes,� Crabbe lied, �But I�d like to take the position in a new direction.�

�Poetry contests are nothing new,� Boylston said bluntly, sipping his tea. �Now maybe if you incorporated a contest into some kind of outreach to elementary school students…�

The thought of reaching out to any Elementary School student made Crabbe shiver.

Boylston continued, �Still, I don�t necessarily like the idea of a contest. Competitions like those�well, there are always so many good poets excluded in order to proclaim one or two winners. Don�t you think? What great poet ever won a poetry contest anyway, you know?�

Crabbe could name at least one: himself. He had won many competitions since he himself was in Middle School.

�Perhaps I need to put some more thought into it,� Crabbe said.

When the food was brought, conversation fell into a bit of a lull as the two men ate. Crabbe noted sullenly to himself that his burger appeared to be a pre-made frozen patty, probably purchased in bulk instead of handmade fresh. The fries were very greasy, too. Boylston, of course, had to proclaim the superiority of his meal. Crabbe always found something to dislike in everyone he met, and so far what he most disliked about Boylston was his apparent enjoyment of exotic food.

makes him feel o so refined I�ll bet, Crabbe thought. probably eating someone�s pet right now, he added, glancing at Boylston�s chicken, which looked peculiarly dark, even for chicken. Crabbe recalled a picture he had seen on the internet of a Chinese meat market stall with skinned, dead rats hanging from a clothesline.

When the meal neared the end, Crabbe finally asked the question he was most curious about. He wasn�t sure he wanted to hear the answer, but he asked anyway.�Why did you pick me as Poet Laureate?�

It was a question that had been bothering him for a long time. He had gone over in his mind all the many possible answers: everyone else had turned it down; it was simply his turn chronologically. The answer Boylston gave was one Crabbe had never considered.

�I really like your poetry,� Boylston said.

�You do?� Crabbe said, suddenly liking this man a little better.

�Oh yes. I�ve always admired your pessimism and cynicism. Maybe that sounds a little odd though,� Boylston said, smiling.

�You don�t exactly strike me as a pessimistic or cynical man,� Crabbe said.

�Yes, well, I sometimes think Americans give short shrift to the darker side of the American vision. Everyone loves to read Edgar Allen Allan Poe, but even today he would never be nominated for the poet laureateship. Same with Ezra Pound or T. S Eliot. So I saw this as an opportunity to step outside of convention. And to nominate a poet I really liked, of course.�

Crabbe was at a loss for words. For some reason, �thank you� did not occur to him. Boylston did not seem to be waiting for a thank you, however.

To break the silence, Boylston asked, �Do you know who the First Lady wanted me to choose?�

�Who?� Crabbe said, his mouth dry.

�Ted Kooser.�

�Ted Kooser?�

�Un-hunh. She thought we needed a poet from the mid-west. Kooser would have been the first one. He�s from the brighter tradition of American poetry, you know, poetry of walks with dogs down country roads, poetry of dishwater and porch swings. Frost, not Pound.�

�Frost had his dark side,� Crabbe added, almost to himself.

�Yes, but that is not how he is perceived,� Boylston said.
And continuing, �Mrs. Bush did not care for the fact that I wanted to choose you.�

Crabbe felt stung. He had voted for President Bush, after all. Twice.

�She feels you are too nihilistic. She also used the words ‘cramped’ and ‘misanthropic’ to describe your poetry. She wanted someone expansive, not to mention agrarian rather than urban. You are an urban poet, after all. And she said you were too European in your sensibilities, too French is what she said specifically.�

Crabbe took a drink of water and licked his lips.

�She said all that?�

�Yes.�

Crabbe was stunned.

�I always thought…I mean�I�m a Republican. I thought I had a…vision that appealed to other Conservatives. Rush Limbaugh mentioned me on his show.�

Now it was Boylston�s opportunity to be stunned.

�You�re atheistic, if not nihilistic. You are mocking of religion, tradition, marriage, and the family generally. What is there about your vision that would appeal to Conservatives? And do you really think Limbaugh ever read one of your poems?�

Crabbe did not answer immediately, then said in answer to both questions,

�I don�t know.�

�I think you�ve read too much Ayn Rand. Conservatives aren�t like that anymore, if they ever were,� Boylston said, finishing his tea and picking up the tab. Crabbe made no attempt to stop him from paying the entire bill.

Outside on the sidewalk, Boylston said, �I don�t think you�re French in your sensibilities. I think Mrs. Bush misidentified the character of your angst. I think you�re a Russian at heart, which is what appeals to me about your poetry.�

�I don�t know if that�s a good thing or not,� Crabbe said. �I�d rather be an American poet.�

Boylston laughed, �I think we�re all fools for supposing there is any such thing. Walk with me a bit. I�ll show you a perfect, secluded spot for reflection. I go there myself after lunch, even when I eat in my office. You need to make sure you get out of your office at least two or three days a week, Eugene.�

The place Boylston took Crabbe was the Summer House, a hexagonal, red-brick structure open to the sky in the middle and set against the sloping western hillside of the Capitol grounds. A fountain stood in the center of it from which, in the nineteenth century, tourists had drank. Now there were signs around it warning people not to drink the water. Boylston and Crabbe sat on the rather crusty benches that circled the structure. They sat there quietly for awhile, listening to the burbling fountain and enjoying the cool breeze that seemed to linger in this spot.

�Isn�t this delightful? Most people never suspect that this place is here.�

�Yes, very nice,� Crabbe said. �I might come here on my own sometimes.�

�You should,� Boylston said. �Bring a book. Did you ever read Anna Karenina, by the way?�

�I read the Russians in college,� Crabbe replied, �But I never read that novel. I read two short Tolstoy novels, The Cossacks and The Death of Ivan Ilyich.�

�You really must read Anna Karenina sometime. Maybe we can discuss it together as you read it. It�s my favorite novel. Forget War and Peace. Anna is Tolstoy�s masterpiece. There is more of life in it than just about anything ever written, except Shakespeare.�

Boylston chuckled. �My favorite scene…I�ll never forget reading it the first time. It�s a hunting scene. A couple of Tolstoy�s characters are hunting, and there is a bird dog, of course. Tolstoy actually gives the dog a personality and interprets her thoughts for us. It�s a really amazingly written scene, and I remember thinking, �The man that can put thoughts in the mind of a dog and make them seem like perfect doggy-thoughts…now that man is possibly the greatest writer to ever live.��

Boylston paused. Gazing at the clear, overflowing fountain, he could easily recall the scene to memory as if seeing it upon the surface of the water. He remembered where he was when he read it, too, every circumstance surrounding it. He had been in his college library at a table. He remembered looking up, tears in his eyes, from the beauty of what he had read. Everything around him shone bright with that beauty reaching out across the decades since Tolstoy had written the words. The girl sitting at the next table across from Boylston, how beautiful she had been! The quiet pensiveness of that library, how beautiful it was! The sunlight through the smoky windows, how beautiful! Boylston had never felt more deeply the beauty of life as in that moment.

Even now, so many decades later, Boylston both smiled and misted up a little at the memory of it. Crabbe did not notice.

�Will you read the book, if I send you a copy?� Boylston asked.

�I may already have a copy�� Crabbe started.

�No, let me give you a copy,� Boylston said.

Crabbe shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench.

�Well, OK�should we go back now?�

�Yes, I suppose,� Boylston said, sighing.

Soon,as the two men parted, Crabbe to return to his swank office in Jefferson, the Librarian to return to his official office in Madison, Boylston said, �Let�s meet again soon. Maybe next time we can begin our discussion of Anna.�

Crabbe smiled weakly. �Sure. We�ll see.�

His thoughts were still preoccupied with Mrs. Bush, possibly the toughest critic a poet ever had.