The following can also be found in the book Chicago Stories 1997. Click here to learn more, and to download a free electronic copy.

(long pause) Marc Smith is... staring at me.

Marc Smith is... staring at me, and now the whole audience is staring at me, hundreds of eager eyes waiting for me to regale and entertain, to offer words of profundity and profanity, to make them feel their five bucks went to something worthwhile.

This is why I've never performed here.

Oh, I'll perform everywhere else -- Estelle's and Weeds and Aloha, and No Exit and Joy Blue and Yo Mama's and Lounge Ax and Poop Studios and the list goes on and on and on like an unending nightmare. Oh, I'll perform there, for a room full of smackheads and macho boys in the back with Chicago Police leather jackets playing pool 'cause "I didn't come here for no fuckin' poetry reading, dude, I came here to play pool, dude, and if you don't like that you're just gonna have to try to stop me, dude." Oh, I'll perform there, where it don't matter if you fuck up or get too drunk or skip your turn to flirt with a beautiful woman who's way too impressed with the fact that you write novels for a living. Oh, I'll perform there, where you don't have hundreds of eyes staring at you, patiently waiting and waiting and WAITING! for you to say something.

(long pause) Marc Smith is... frowning at me.

This is why I've never performed here, (takes mic out of mic stand and starts slowly crawling under piano on stage) 'cause Marc Smith is the end-all-be-all of the scene, and once he hates you, forever he hates you, and your career is pretty much over. Oh, that's not what they say at the other open mikes -- "Oh that Marc Smith what an asshole he is," "Oh that Green Mill it's nothing but hacks and failed actors over there" but I've learned the hard way that an entire city of six point four million people don't make fun of you unless you're the shit, man, and I know just enough history to know that without the Green Mill, there'd be no Chicago poetry scene.

(pause) Maybe they've forgotten I'm here. (looks over his shoulder at audience)

(whispering) Fuck.

The audience is... snapping their fingers at me, and the timer is ticking, tick-tick-tick, three minutes, three minutes and counting to zero, and my God I can't even take a decent shit in three minutes, much less read a decent piece and I've been standing on this stage for exactly one minute and forty two seconds now and haven't even said a fucking word yet, which is why select audience members in the back of the room are now stomping their feet, they're getting fidgety and nervous about this guy who just keeps... standing there.

Maybe I can fool them.

(in suave voice) Ladies and gentlemen, the Green Mill is proud to now present... Ms. Patricia Barber. (pause) Start playing, Patricia. (pause) Come on, Patricia, start playing. (pause, then screaming at the top of his lungs) FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PATRICIA, START PLAYING!

No good. (stands up) Forty five seconds left. I gotta come up with a plan. (stares at audience for a moment, then runs into bathroom)

(from inside bathroom, still with mic in hand, running water in the sink) I actually have a really good piece to do tonight. I've been working on it all week, I wrote it just for the Green Mill, it's about my childhood in Missouri and how I have a lingering guilt over not being a lead miner like my whole family before me. (pause) Maybe now they've forgotten me. Maybe Marc has already introduced the next poet. (opens bathroom door, peers out at audience)

(closes door, still in the bathroom, then whispers into mic) Fuck.

Twenty eight seconds left. My mind flies into a panic, starts racing with possible ways to save my already pathetically low score. I'll... I'll... I'll flirt with one of the judges, that's what I'll do.

(comes bursting out of the bathroom and starts ad libbing with one of the judges -- "Hi, your name's (so-and-so), right? I'm Jason. Mind if I sit down? So, you're a (lists judge's occupation). That's very interesting..." and then back into mic) Oh, it's no good! (walks back onto stage while speaking) She thinks I look like Mr. Bean! I'll... I'll... (scans audience in panic) If I just go sit down and act like an audience member, I'll... (runs over to audience table and sits down, starts joking nervously with audience member, "Ha-ha, this guy sucks, doesn't he?" then screams at stage, "YOU SUCK!") No good! The microphone cord's giving me away!

(runs back on stage, starts putting mic back into mic stand) I have ten seconds left! Marc Smith now officially hates me! The audience is screaming "BELMONT" and throwing wadded up napkins at me! My entire career as a performance poet has in the space of three minutes gone up in flames! And suddenly... and suddenly... and suddenly I get my nerve.

(immediately calms voice, like he's about to perform) When I was a boy in southern Missouri, my friends and I used to always... (looks suddenly at side of stage, like he's just been interrupted) Time? (looks out at audience pathetically for a few seconds) Um. Thank you.