The pale young man took the stage amid a sluggish ripple of golf clapping. He began to read, his voice a hypnotic murmur blanketing the audience like a high-tech sleep ray from a dime-store science-fiction novel. He wove his poems like elaborate spells designed by some evil wizard to suck all that was interesting and beautiful out of life. If his poems had been music, they would have been the same note over and over again. If his poems had been a meal, it would have been a plate of wet cardboard.

Dean Whittaker watched Lincoln Truman stick his fist in his mouth to stifle a yawn. Whittaker’s panties were so far up his ass, he had tears in his eyes.

Morgan got the old man’s attention and waved him into the lobby.

“What’s with sending me to see that old loon?” Jones asked Morgan. “Guy’s got a screw loose. You know some fucked-up people.” Jones sniffed, wrinkled his nose. “You smell like a damn distillery.”

Morgan couldn’t disagree. “Mr. Jones, I need your help.”

“It’ll have to be quick,” Jones said. “Bob’s saving my seat. I don’t want to miss the reading.”

Morgan took Jones by the elbow, started easing him down the hall. “How would you like to be a little more closely involved?”

“Like what?”

Morgan said, “One of our readers can’t make it, and we need somebody to-”

Jones dug in his heels, pulled his arm back from Morgan. “Oh, shit no. Are you fucking crazy?”

Morgan latched onto the old man, started dragging him. “I’m desperate, Mr. Jones. Please.”

Jones looked like a little terrier being dragged on a leash. He looked side to side for some help, his eyes round with terror. “There’s like a million people in there. I’ll piss myself.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I don’t have my poems. Bob has the folder.”

“I’ll get them for you,” Morgan said.

“Oh, God. I can’t breathe.”

“You’ll be fine.”

Morgan floundered backstage until he found the girl with the orange hair. He told her about the change. She didn’t understand. Morgan said what the fuck was there to understand? The old guy would read instead of the black guy. She looked unhappy but said okay.

Morgan had fetched the old man’s poems from the big bodyguard. It had taken much goading and pleading, but Morgan convinced Jones to read. Jones looked pale and terrified. Morgan had never seen the old man afraid of anything. He wished Jones good luck and left him backstage.

Morgan’s stomach groaned. He belched acid. I should have ordered a sandwich. He went back into the lobby, found the men’s room. Inside he bent over the sink and turned on the cold water, splashed his face. He leaned on the sink awhile, took long deep breaths.

Behind him, a toilet flushed. One of the stall doors creaked open. Morgan turned and looked into the bloodshot eyes of Professor Larry Pritcher. He stood stiff, neck still in the brace. The professor had tacked up a “wanted” poster offering a reward for information leading to the person or persons who’d assaulted him with Finnegans Wake.

“Oh, hello, Morgan.” Pritcher talked through clenched teeth. “Hope you don’t mind if I don’t shake hands. I can barely lift my arms.”

“Did they… uh… ever find out who attacked you?” Morgan asked.

“No. I suspect a disgruntled undergraduate. I was rather free with the F’s last semester. My own injuries are of little consequence, but my Italian ten-speed was damaged beyond repair.”

“How’s the reading going?”

“Every poem feels like a punch in the face,” Pritcher said. “I’d go home except for the blizzard. Take care, old boy.”

Pritcher left the men’s room. Morgan splashed more water on his face, scooped some into his mouth, and swallowed. He dried himself with a paper towel.

Back in the lobby he flagged down two kids, torn jeans, skateboarder haircuts. “Who’s reading?”

“Some fag,” said the kid. “It sucks. We’re leaving.”

Wouldn’t that be nice, thought Morgan. To live such a simple life. It sucks. I’m leaving.

He stopped at the door to the auditorium. Maybe he could. Why not? Why couldn’t he just leave? Why should the skateboard kids have more freedom than he? Jones didn’t need him anymore. He’d make or break on his own. The dean expected him to make an appearance. Ostensibly, this was Morgan’s show. It had been his responsibility to get Ellis into shape for the reading. But there was no Ellis. The show, apparently, was a drag and would go down in history as the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened in Green County.

The hell if Morgan would stick around for that. He headed for the door but stopped when he heard the girl with orange hair back at the podium. The first two readers were done, and she was getting reading to introduce the old man.

Okay, Morgan told himself. He’d stay for one poem, see if the old man fainted or what. Morgan could at least do that.

The orange-haired girl said, “I’ve been asked to read this before we introduce our final reader.” She had a card in her hand. “The national weather service has issued a severe storm warning for eastern Oklahoma and parts of western Arkansas. I’ve been told that Fumbee city workers are now getting the plows out of the garages, but it will be a while before the roads are safe for travel.”

A low, hopeless groan rose from the crowd.

“But not to worry,” she said. “We have another fine poet for your entertainment. Originally, Sherman Ellis was scheduled to read, but there’s been a change. I’d like to introduce our next reader, Mr. Fred Jones.”

It took the old man long seconds to cross the stage. He looked ridiculously small and frail from the back of the auditorium. Someone giggled. The old man reached the podium, shuffled his papers, and wiped sweat off his forehead with a bony hand. Morgan’s heart broke a little bit.

He couldn’t quite see the bigwigs in the front row, but Lincoln Truman’s head leaned toward the dean’s. Confused murmurs.

“I’m Fred Jones,” he said into the microphone. He cleared his throat. “My first poem-”

Morgan couldn’t stand it. He closed the door, turned around, and headed for the nearest exit. He felt queasy, guilty. His hand reached for the door and froze when he heard the laughter. Aw hell, they’re laughing him off the stage. Aw, shit.

Go, get out the door, he told himself. You didn’t ask for any of this. But Morgan couldn’t move, couldn’t leave the old man. He went back, flung open the door in the back of the auditorium.

And the cheers washed over him. Students on their feet, howling.

Morgan blinked, rubbed his eyes to see if somehow Metallica had appeared and taken the stage. No. It was the old man. He shuffled his papers again and leaned toward the microphone. “My next poem is called ‘The Zydeco Gangster.’ ” He read:

The old man’s narrative unfolded. He read it like a pro, voice spinning its magic over the crowd. Morgan too was mesmerized. Jones was a natural. His gift radiated from him like a beacon.