Teresa Leo Helps Me Steal Cable

[jeremy_ahn]

by Jeremy Ahn


I met Teresa Leo at a poetry reading, the same reading where Kim Addonizio gave me the finger and I fingered her in the bathroom before charging drinks on her bar tab after she passed out under the pool table for the fifth time that night. I asked Teresa Leo, since she’s a sports nut, if I could watch the Super Bowl on her TV since mine was repossessed by the Rent-to-Own company for a year’s worth of missed rental payments. She said she was going to try to steal cable, but she couldn’t steal cable anymore since everything went digital.

She said, “Let’s go to Best Buy and watch the game on their giant widescreen HD plasma television sets with surround sound.

“I’ll bring the chips,” she said, “You bring the beer.”

I said, “Damn, you gave me the more expensive items.” But then I told her, “OK.”

On Game Day:

We both went to Best Buy.

But each of us went to a different Best Buy store because we forgot to arrange which store to meet at. We talked on our cell phones throughout the whole game and incurred six-figure debts on our cell phone bills since she used Verizon Wireless, while I used Cricket Wireless.

But we did not think about this at the time.

She ate chips and got thirsty because there was no beer. And I drank beer but got hungry because there were no chips.

We both felt incomplete… yet quaintly at peace as the game played on, passing before our eyes at the speed of life; this felt very much like the rest of life, especially the Incompleteness aspect.

I went to the bathroom during the half-assed Half-Time show. My bladder still stung for hours after the three-minute piss.

After the game, as we were in our cars driving to our homes after we were both kicked out of the Best Buy stores for cheering for the wrong teams, I put my cell phone on speakerphone and told Teresa Leo, “'The Halo Rule' hella rules, like Whoa. No doubt. I was feelin that shit.”

She asked me if I bought her book through Amazon.com and I said, “No, I got it for free. I found it in a trash can behind a McDonald’s while digging through their trash for discarded Happy Meal collector’s toys and collectible baseball bobble head dolls. I had to fight off a homeless married couple for an ultra-rare Michael Jordan baseball bobble head doll. I wanted to sell that bitch on eBay. But we each pulled in opposite directions and his head came off like a turkey wishbone.

“All of us being so greedy and uncompromising, neither of us won, in the end,” I said, sighing sadly.

She said in an angry tone, “Wait. So you didn’t pay for my book?”

I said: “No.

“I found it in the trash. Some fry grease and Big Mac secret sauce got on the cover, but it was still quite readable. Plus, it read much better than 99% of the poetry out there these days.”

She called me a cheap asshole. She hung up on me.

I drove in shock and betrayal and low self-esteem. I wondered why she was mad at me, and not at the person who threw away her book to the trash, where it did not belong? After all, I salvaged her work and praised it to complete strangers and wrote short fiction stories about how awesome her poetry is for no reason other than to obsolete the MacGuffin as a constant plot device while promoting her shit because she doesn’t even have a Facebook account.

I felt betrayed.

I felt like I betrayed her trust or something.

I felt like I missed Circuit City.

I felt like I might hear her yelling at me the next time I read from her book.

I felt like shit. But this time, there was nothing to look forward to or take reveling in. No bright side to keep my eyes and spirit and hope on. Even my normal modes of refuge-seeking cannot comfort me in this distress. I lost a genuine possible semi-friend.

And worst of all, she was a poet I respect and whose work I enjoy and her rejection and outright hostility toward me will always make me feel like constant shit.

She called me again.

For a brief moment, I feel happy and relieved.

“Hello?”

She said, “I’m calling to tell you ‘Don’t ever call or contact me again. And if we ever meet in person somehow, sometime, someplace, like at Home Depot, don’t come talk to me. Don’t even hear me speak at any future readings.

“And next time, BUY MY FUCKING BOOK. The next one, the newest book, comes out next year. I’ll email you.”

She added, “You cheap-ass bastard. The game sucked too. U. Penn, represent: Go Quakers!”

She hung up on me again.

Rejected and hate-spat at twice in two minutes… I feel like shit. I will give up poetry.

I will never shop again at Best Buy.

I will boycott the NFL.

I will switch to Cingular Wireless on the cheapest pricing plan they offer.

I will never again read anything by Teresa Leo.

It hurts me.

Just too much.


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thank you for reading my story

[jeremy_ahn]

i am posting this short story here because i wrote about it in this Recommended Books post and I talk about promoting this book then mention how I have nothing to gain by promoting her work because the author of the work actually hates me in real life.

here: https://www.mobileread.com/forums/showthread.php?t=58491