Perhaps I should have blacked his eye right then and there. But it's been written that 'the pen is mightier than the sword.' A group of men, well, most of them are men, gather at a historical building on Cannery Row in Monterey. It's one of those special 'private' groups, where you have to be invited into the circle. I've never been much on groups, and especially when it comes to this type of private, invitation-only, good ol' boy organization. I have a dear friend who has been a longtime member and several years ago, Adam invited me to accompany him to this gathering. It's held once a month from noon until later in the afternoon or evening. Lunch is usually served around one, and for an hour before, the master of ceremonies enjoys standing over his miniature kingdom making announcements and inviting people to briefly tell a story, read a poem, or sing a song.
The preacher-king is a self-proclaimed bard and he's really good at pouncing on you as quick as you've walked through the door to collect the taxes. As usual, the bard quickly cornered me, collected a twenty, and asked if I would like to make a comment once the meeting was called to order. I seldom if ever care to talk at the meeting, prefer pretty much to keep to myself, enjoying the members who sing and play music, have a nice lunch, and then be on my way by two-thirty, or three, when the poker game begins. That's when I'll leave Adam behind to play cards and go about my way.
The truth be told, I don't even like showing up at the damn gathering, seems too much like church where the preacher goads you to read a passage of scripture out loud from the pulpit on his cue, shames you in his sermon, passes around the collection plate, then shakes your hand and pats you on the back on your way out the door—seldom if ever does one find true communion in these settings. But Adam doesn't have a driver's license and he looks forward to this gathering, so often, from a place of duty, I accompany him to this church social.
I've probably attended twenty or twenty-five gatherings over the past four or five years, yet never fear, time and time again some of the same fellows will walk up and introduce themselves as if they've never met me before. Sometimes I'll try to strike up a conversation with one of the guys who has reintroduced themselves, but that lasts for about a whole minute before they've bounced away to do the very same thing to someone else they've already met a half dozen or more times. Funny thing is, I know almost everyone of their names, the men who supposedly don't remember me. Don't get me wrong, there are some nice friendly chaps in the group, especially the real old-timers, but like I said, I'm just not much on church or other gatherings of the sort.
Anyway, I thanked the preacher-king for taking my money, and before he could say, 'You're welcome,' he was already hitting someone else up for a buck. He always asks if I'd like to speak once the festivities are called to order, but he doesn't really mean it. He would much rather listen to the echo of his own holler. I suppose it all goes back to dear ol' mother and her ignoring and wishing to hell he'd put a sock in it, too. Yep, had she been there with her full-fledged attention, undivided in those formative years, perhaps he wouldn't be running around sixty-plus years later desperately seeking an audience for his winded rhetoric. I fully understand the need to be heard, the need to be received as a contributing member of humanity. We all deserve this, but to demand it and run ridicule over others is an entirely different matter, especially when one has supposedly matured into manhood.
Today, after a couple of the members played music and sang a few songs, lunch was served. And it was a fine meal, indeed. Actually got my twenty bucks worth on this visit—a New York strip steak, roasted potatoes, and much more. The group meets in a shanty old two-room building which was once the original lab that belonged to the biologist, Ed 'Doc' Ricketts, a friend of John Steinbeck, and a character in many of his novels. So, it's a famous place and some of the men gather here to tell stories, play music and poker, and pretend to be famous legends themselves. I suppose that once they're dead and gone, they hope others will continue to gather and talk about them, what fine famous souls they once were. Hey, remember when the ol' bard got drunker than a skunk at Doc's lab. He was so looped that we found him out back, down the stairs, on the seashore, in the rocks, humping a sea anemone . . .
A nice man who I'd never met sat next to me at lunch. He was a younger by group standards, maybe my age, or a few years older. He was real interested about my life as a writer, how I'd left the tractor selling world behind and pretty much lived on the road most of the time, uncertain of where home really is. We had a real nice visit and then after lunch, the preacher-king called everyone into the front room of the lab, where they play poker, and began another one of his sermons. One old man who was pretty drunk on red wine suggested it was joke time and spouted a good one and every one let out a roar. Another man told a great joke about a talking frog and I chimed in that I'd heard another version of the very same tale. The bard barged in, trying to move on past the jokes, to get things centered back onto his service.
Another member asked about updating a phone and email member list. A few members gave new information and then I spoke up saying that I wasn't on the email list. I could give a damn if my name was on the list or not, and normally would have kept quiet. Actually, usually in a situation like this, I would have been making damn certain that I wasn't on such list. But I was feeling real jolly this afternoon, after such a fine meal and visiting with the nice fellow who was interested in my lifestyle—I must have let my guard down. The dandy preacher turned to me and said in a most condescending way, "That's because you were once on it and you mailed something out and it froze up the whole system."
I felt so belittled, powerless, ashamed, and then my blood boiled. At one time, I had sent out an announcement to this group that one of my books was being published. A couple of years back, when I showed up for the gathering, the preacher stood there with a sign up sheet, asking that everyone update their contact information as he collected their twenty bucks. So, being put on the spot, I signed 'the list.' The bard and the group all seemed so set on celebrating music and literature and the arts, that I figured it was an appropriate thing to do, announce my latest novel. I only sent one message to perhaps twenty-five members, and I can't imagine that my email froze everyone's system up. A Mac man I am, and not once have I had a computer virus.
No sooner had the bard taken a jealous swipe at my manhood, than he was silencing everyone so that he could recite a poem. He's great for reciting other people's poems, great for mimicking the dead and acting out dramas and telling stories about other people, things that others have created; he just hasn't ever had an original thought of his own, and if he has, he hasn't got the balls to hang out there and become vulnerable. He'll put on a costume and act out a skit and recite all sorts of verses. But when it comes to revealing himself . . . well, that's a complete different story. Perhaps his father was a lot like him, crushed his spirit, and that's why he's had to take on and act out the life of others, dead men who he immortalizes and then pretends to be.
Listen, this type of reaction from a preacher, a bard, or anyone else for that matter, no doubt, is a sign of impotence. Only a castrated man carries such a rage, but he picked the wrong fellow to swing at. I stood up, pushed my chair back, and scuffed my boots on the wooden floor loud enough to interrupt his sermon. The bard turned to look at me. I almost said, "F≈@# you, you nut-less old man. You want a piece of me, come an' get it!" Instead, I stood there staring his way. He became silent, with that little boy fear in his face and then looked away. "That's what I thought," I said to myself, continuing to stare hard at him and then looking around to the other consistory members. He nervously stumbled with words and then picked up where he'd lost the poem. I walked for the front door, opened it, scuffed my boots on the threshold to make a little more noise, then I slammed the door shut good and proper and left the shanty old building and the good ol' little boys club behind once and for all.
I don't believe in knocking people down, shaming them in public, just because they've said or done something that isn't to my liking. Don't get me wrong—if someone steps on my tail or tries to take advantage of me, they'll certainly know they've crossed me. But I don't believe in putting people down, shaming them in public unless they've truly earned a scolding. The bard, he didn't even have an email address, so my message never locked up his computer, and it probably didn't lock up anyone else's either. And two years had passed since sending out that single announcement. And maybe he wasn't even referring to this past deed. Perhaps he was just trying to be the top dog of the pack, growling at me, trying to get me to cower and fall into a subordinated position, where I'll speak only when spoken to? I don't know what hidden emotions run the poor fellow—perhaps jealousy, fear, and a narcissistic rage?
A real man empowers others! A real man who has himself and knows from the inside out what it means to be a man, an honorable human being, encourages others, men and woman, no matter what stage of life they are in, to honor their unique voices and to live authentic lives. The preacher-king and his choir boys are really something, cheap entertainment to say the least. But I haven't the time or desire to run with this pack. They're good with that false slap on the back crap and then pretending to hang on the end of one another's tongue, just so they'll have their chance on stage, of repeating someone else's poems or singing another writer's song. Fools dependent upon the applause of one another in order to perpetuate their lie. But as I previously mentioned, most men with this sort of character haven't the balls to read their own poems, or to sing their own songs, let alone write one. No, if their father hadn't gotten to them in their youth, mother most certainly clipped their nuts when they were just wee little boys, and they've spent most of their lives, making a lot of noise, calling out for attention, so that others will validate them, so that others will say, "Yes, you exist. You are truly a man." Yet, alone, you can't see yourself. Without the reflection of others, you remain the impotent boy-man that you are.
Yep, you self-proclaimed bard, this one's for you, paste this into your email list and send it out to the choir boys over on Cannery Row!!! and all the other Preacher-Kings and Queens who rule over their imaginary kingdoms.
Mel Mathews, is the author of several novels, including the Malcolm Clay Trilogy (Fisher King Press). His books are available from your local bookstore, a host of on-line booksellers, or you can order them directly from his website at: www.melmathews.com or www.malcolmclay.comThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. © 2007 Mel Mathews 
The Sacrificial Man, a painting by Mel Mathews, is the cover image of the novel Menopause Man. This is an image of a faceless man who has lost an identity, or better yet, all the identities that he once believed defined his masculine nature and his very existence. His entire life, up to this point, has been spent searching outside of himself in the ephemeral world, all vain attempts at an inner reconciliation.
