This was before he realized I was snapping his picture.

I ran into Mikey at his office. It was about noon and he had been there since nine o'clock. "I have a sixty-six percent coffee shop ratio," he told me proudly. 

"What do you mean?"

"I know sixty-six percent of the people who walk through that door," he replied, gesturing through the doorway into the main part of the coffee shop.

"How do you know it's sixty-six percent?" I asked him, ever the question asker. 

His answer was as interesting as always: "Because I know two out of every three people who've walked in," he said, a wide grin on his face. "I not only know their names, but they're people I have stories with." 

That is Mikey. 

Mikey keeps his own mug at the coffee shop.

"I've thought about bringing my Oscar," he said and pointed toward the mantle, between a blue vase and a yellow dish. "I just want to leave it there for awhile and see if anybody asks about it." He doesn't care one wit about showing off an Oscar--Mikey's in it for the storytelling. 

"Did I ever tell you how I got that Oscar?" he asked me, proving my case in point. "Stan [Bogest] and I used to get together to talk about film-making. When he passed away, he wrote in his will that I should inherit one thing."

He doesn't really say any more, but I know Mikey well enough to pick up the implication. The Oscar represents the passion for film-making they shared. 

With a steady stream of coffee and energy drinks, Mikey is always in motion.

As I sifted through the photos I caught, Mikey talked to someone I couldn't see. When he was done, he was beaming--again. "Brooke is my Muse in Nebraska," he said in general. I didn't look up or respond, but I heard Mikey say to his other listening companion, "You got the reference." 

"What is that?" I finally asked, as one often does with Mikey.

"A Muse in Nebraska is based on the idea that in the middle of nowhere, your muse is whatever you can find." He went on to describe several things Brooke inspired him to write. I smile wryly, looking at what I know I've already chosen to write about. 

I love high fives, and Mikey is a high five-giver. I'm jealous of Chris.

Later, I fact-checked the film-making part with Mikey. He responded instead with: 

I first worked for Stan in 1999 on an Indy film

Later he was co- executive producer on my pilot

Then he became my CFO

Stan the money man

Every question to Mikey is just another opportunity to tell more of the story. After looking at the blog post preview, he wrote,

I would further describe Stan, as in my Facebook note, but that's up to you
I'll let the Storyteller tell his story in his own words:

https://www.facebook.com/notes/michael-e-hayworth/hollywood-legend-passes-in-memoriam/10152851261284236

Photo Credit: Michael E Hayworth "Oscar, Right Next to the Idea Box" Used with Permission

They say to dress for the job you want, not the job you have. If that's the case, I got my cat-fur covered sweater. I've got my glasses, I haven't brushed my hair for days. . . . If I sit here long enough in my butt-shaped dimple on the sofa of the local coffee shop, someone will give me an advance on my first novel, right?? Like Paul Varjak in Breakfast at Tiffany's!! Sure would be nice for someone to set me up in a decorated apartment. . . .

. . . But then I'd have to put out. 

But then I'd meet my own charming but flawed male prostitute! We'd fight, I'd give him $50 for the locker room, and then we'd look for his cat in the rain together. . . 

. . . Thus completing the cycle of crazy cat-ladyhood. The end.

Disassembly

The problem is not that boys like to take things apart—

it’s that they don’t use all the pieces.

I submitted to the straight edge and found my spine was missing.

I floated above wasps making love to the air.

The sound had no meaning, the moments were ordinary

before we began eating the bread in our hands meant to feed the dawn.

In the words, I named all my pieces—in the words, I fell in a hole,

salivating like a dog at the whistle

and sweating out in painful ecstasy the pulling of me apart.

The fulcrum was the ache in my gripping fist.

Tongues of fire around each wrist cast no light on the dark waters.

The problem is not that I am in pieces—

it’s that I learned to love all of them.

I dreamed I got two variegated carnations, a word,

and an envelope with everything I wanted inside.

When given a box, boys will pick and choose what to play with

and leave the rest like scattered seeds that will never grow.

May 2014


Poem copyright Kirsten Hollingsworth. May not be copied or posted without permission.
Photo credit: Female Robot by Caroline Davis2010 CC BY Cropped from original