You’ve got no idea how rude customers can be, he says to a couple at the next table. You don’t know what you’re doing, mate, they sometimes say. Hey! I’ve got backbone. I bite back: Don’t know what I’m doing??? You don’t know what you’re talking about, I say to them. I’ve been in this trade for ten years.
His face is going red. He starts to inflate like a pufferfish. His words bristle.
The couple cower before their coffee.
So how was it, chief? he asks me in passing.
You don’t know what you’re doing, I feel like saying but my mouth is full of muffin.
Instead I give him the thumbs up. It seems the best policy. I’ve made his day.
Let’s start with what I am not. I am not a poet. I am not a flash fiction or short story writer. I am not an essayist. What I am is a writer. I do not want to be confined to genre or form. Like Bob Dylan in 1966 I am freewheeling. I write what I want as intense or relaxed as I feel the need. I want my writing to shine like freshly gelled hair. And I want people to look at it. And then read.