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Exploring The Catcher in the Rye   :   Fan Fiction

Raindrops
A present day story inspired by The Catcher in the Rye
by

I walked and I walked till I didn't think I could walk anymore. Searching for something, anything, I don't quite know what I was looking for, but I knew I would know what it was when I found it, if that makes any sense. I was looking for someone to just talk to, anyone, just sit there and listen to them, listen to their thoughts, their feelings on anything it didn't matter, just to make me feel like someone cared. I don't even know where I was. I must have walked up and down the whole damn city. I was walking down this street, if I knew the name I would warn you never ever to go down it.
There was all this commotion and crowd about halfway down the block, like there was some giveaway or something. I figured what the heck, I might as well check it out, I'm not doing anything. So I wandered closer. I began to hear a muffled voice and lots of cheering coming from the place. I got closer and realized it was some coffee house, the sign outside said it was something like poetry night or some crap like that. The funny thing is I kind of got excited. In my mind I guess I automatically associated poets with intellectuals, gosh was I wrong.
So task one was to push through the billion people to try and find a seat. Surprisingly it wasn't too hard. I found this lonely table in the back corner, no one could find me there. So what I assume is the last poet was finishing up. People were snapping. I assumed that is what you do at a coffee house, snaps not claps. Jesus Christ.
This guy stepped on stage and patted the last performer on the back, I guess their poem wasn't too hot and they needed the support. I figured he was the host, just by the way he was acting. He was all cool and mellowed out, I guess that's what they would call him. "Hey everyone, hi, um ok our next performer is Rachel with her original poem, 'The Lost People,' so um ya Rachel". He then stepped aside and this girl came out, all in black, really mysterious, dare I say sexy looking. Ok before you get things wrong I swear I wasn't thinking about anything like that, but you know when a girl just makes you go wild, before they even open their mouth, just there is something about the way they walk or something — I don't know — forget it.
She approached the microphone very confidently, but gracefully like she was gliding on stage, "Let me tell you a story about a people, a story of a people lost in the world," she spoke as if the words just came from her gut, like she was baring her soul to the world. "A story of a people lost in the world, caught up in themselves." Just looking at her gave me the chills.
And then it happened. "A story of a people lost in the world," she just kept on repeating and adding stuff to this one line. At first I was like wow this is great, but then she got really repetitive, and then she got really obnoxious, like REALLY annoying. Can I tell you how relieved I was when she ended it? Then everyone snapped, I snapped too, I'm not sure why, I mean she was really pretty, I don't know, she needed it I guess.
What a relief it was when the host came back out to introduce the next person. "Wow what amazing poem, you really bared it to us. Alright so now we have an original poem by one of our regulars, Aimee".
First of all aren't all poems original, a little redundant I would say.
Anyways, I was thinking, "Sweet this girl must be really good, being one of their regulars and all." So then this really gorgeous girl steps out I mean like the first girl was pretty and all, but this Aimee was the tops. She had this really kinky curly hair, like you couldn't get a brush through her hair. She was dressed totally funky, like this bohemian style, usually I don't like that, but there was something about her that just sent me. So you know she is so beautiful, just like sauntering up to the mic, taking her time, like she had nowhere to go, as if the world stopped, so relaxed. Seriously this girl rocked already.
"Hey everyone, this is my poem entitled, 'Where the ducks go'."
"Oh my God, she thinks like me, she is the most amazing person I've ever met." I wondered if I could buy her like a cappuccino or something, but then figured she was probably so cool that she was like a vegetarian or something. I got so excited. Then she started. Honestly, I don't think I have ever concentrated that hard on anything in my entire life. The bongo started up, just totally making the ambiance incredible: you felt the pulse of her poem.
"Where do the ducks go when the lake is covered with ice? When the ground is oh so cold and unforgiving."
I felt like the world stopped, everything was on pause and it was just us, she was talking just to me, she was reading my mind, she knew what I was thinking, it was incredible.
"They go where they are loved and safe, away from the cruel corrupt world."
This is where she had me. She could answer my question, she didn't need to say anything else, she could be done and it would have made my day, but she kept on going.
"Where they don't have to worry about swallowing lost birthday balloons."
And this is where she started getting weird. What the heck did balloons have to do with the ducks?
"Where they can live peacefully away from those annoying plastic rings that go around soda packs." She started acting like some flitty animal rights activist, like she was screaming animal rights. It was so weird.
But then she took this little bow and everyone went wild, I mean snaps and hollers. I went along with it, just so I wouldn't look retarded. I don't even think I can express to you how happy I was when the host came back up.
So I was beginning to lose hope in intellectuals. I became so depressed. So depressed I didn't even know if I could move in my chair. I felt like I was dying right in my chair. Maybe if I sat there and just shriveled up in the crowd no one would notice. I felt sick to my stomach, maybe it was the smell of the coffee or something, I don't know but I felt like my stomach was full of tar and it was just creeping up my throat. I needed to leave then, but just to my luck, the next poet came up. I missed his name, who knows what his "original poem" was about. For Chrissake I was dying, dead people don't care about poems, they just don't. I sat there, just hearing the noises, it's like that death phase where you can see and hear things around you only it is muffled and blurred, I was dying I knew it.
This kid moved around in front of the mic and started talking about green shoelaces, as if the world revolved around them. I swear it made no sense. Something about the color and shape, I don't know. I knew I had to get out of there, I couldn't die around these freaks. No, I had to escape. All I remember was running out of that place as fast as my legs could go, pushing through people, right in the middle of this kid's poem.
When I got outside, it was raining, like hard huge raindrops...