Many years ago, I attended a reading by Michael Cunningham at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown. I think he was reading from his then-just-published book, Land’s End. In a moment of candor, he confessed that he had done so many public readings that he could deliver the goods to an audience while thinking about what he would have for dinner.
I had no such luxury the other night as I read from my book, Peculiar and Superior, at the Old Colony Tap.
I have done a half dozen readings since the collection was published last December but none like this one. All the prior readings were at libraries — Provincetown, Truro, Wellfleet, Orleans — or the Center for Coastal Studies. These events were fairly predictable: people curious about my book would show up and seem to be attentive and appreciative. I assumed they were readers. Often, friends and acquaintances would be in the audience to show support. My role on these occasions was to share my writing to the best possible effect. Yes, to “deliver the goods.” But you might say I was preaching to the converted.
I arrived at the Old Colony 45 minutes ahead of the appointed time. For those who may not be familiar with the establishment, it is a sacred watering hole in the middle of town, right on Commercial Street. Generations of drinkers and revelers have gathered there, and many great events and countless minor ones have transpired within its somewhat shabby walls or in the near vicinity (see “Alleyway” in the Oct. 22, 2020 issue of the Independent).
When I got there with my wife and a couple of friends, the place was packed, jammed to the gunwales with people, laughing and shouting and having a high old time. Mike (“Bear”) Coelho’s granddaughter Sophie was celebrating her 21st birthday, and many family members and friends were helping her do so. In addition, there was the usual crowd of local drinkers, getting themselves adjusted chemically and enjoying each other’s company. Add to that quite a few people I did not recognize, whom I presumed to be tourists. The best jukebox in town was blaring into the din. The decorated walls and dusty floor were literally shaking.
Ordinarily I would have taken delight in this scene, as I have so many times over the years. It is a cool place. But this did not look ripe for a literary experience. I plunked down my carton of books for sale, left them under the watch of a friend, and went out on the street to ponder my next move. How could I penetrate this hilarity for an hour or so to share my impressions of Provincetown to a crowd simply intent on having fun? (To be clear: this reading was owner Lenny Enos’s idea. I was invited.)
The appointed hour arrived. I somehow managed to get the attention of Chris, the veteran bartender, and she turned off the jukebox. I apologized to some guy who was just about to put his money in. I moved through the crowd to the center of the room and leaned back on the battered piano that Will Harrington bangs on. I looked around despairingly, cleared my throat, and — just then, Jim at the bar hollered something like “Hey! Listen up! This guy’s going to read to you!”
And so, I did. I read a handful of different pieces, some involving the O.C. itself, or local characters, or my perspective on what it is like to live in town. And the crowd-turned-audience was incredibly quiet — if not at library level, something close to it. There was laughter and some applause, and it seemed honest. It was nice. The extended Coelho family set the tone, the rowdies ratcheted down, the tourists followed suit, and I even saw a bunch of my friends in the mix.
And no, I was not thinking about what I would have for dinner, but part of my brain was occupied by the terrible news I had received only hours before that my dear friend Ken Oxtoby had suffered a stroke and was in hospice care, and another part of my brain was wondering what my two teenage grandchildren, at the event, were thinking. And all the while I was reading my own words. Funny organ, the brain.
In my anxiety, I had forgotten something important: I can always trust Provincetown, a crazy place full of essentially good people who can be trusted to be decent. And as we weave our way through life, losing loved ones, there are still stories to be told, memories to share, a community to celebrate.
I learned this at the Old Colony Tap
