Check back from time to time, as I upload more of the story. Just for laughs!
I will start with the cards. At the moment, what stands out for me was what I found upon deciding that each card needed a name and designation.
What a long and meandering road it's been. A few sips of liqueur and I'm all lips. I know it sounds cliché, but really, I learnt so much chasing after these crazy stupid ideas. The secret is... (drum roll)… wait a minute. Let’s tarry awhile.
A few days or weeks after the conversation with my friend, I was on my way to an open mic night at the other end of town. Can't remember the season or the month. It must have been one of the warmer months because I was not wearing a jacket.
It was a pleasant evening. Twilight was fading into night as I strolled hand in hand with my companions, a set of very large cue cards. I had printed the numbers zero through to 10, in huge sized font, one to a page, then glued the pages to sheets of thick cardboard.
The view outside was a fuzzy night sky, streets a glow with lights, and the air full of horns and car fumes. All the while, inside my head, the routine was swirling around like a broken record.
Even though no one was smoking a cigarette, a faint cloud seemed to be hovering above the crowd, as if pushed up there by the frenzied chatter. Every mouth was moving. Who was doing the listening?
It was an open mic night mostly for musical acts, the patrons were piss poor and pissed drunk. The din was so loud, it was difficult to hear the musical acts. And that’s saying a lot because some of the musicians had more amps then playing skills.
The guy running the show was himself a musician but worked as crew in the film industry. His "band" had their instruments all laid out, everybody else had to work around their set-up.
My turn came up and I headed for the “stage”. Actually there was no proper stage area. It was one corner of the room where the tables and chairs had been pulled aside, revealing a stained carpet looking worn and faded. The wood paneling on the walls warmed up the place. It was a turn of the century building named the Gladstone Hotel, on Queen St just before Dufferin Ave. Back then, I was living in Toronto.
I waded through the thick crowd towards the emcee waiting at the edge of the stage. We shook hands (I don’t know why), before he disappeared into the crowd. I maneuvered into the heart of the corner. Avoiding the guitars, amps, patch cords. I nearly bumped over a cymbal trying to squeeze around a musical stand set next to the microphone.
It took a few blinks to adjust to the spotlights. I peered into the crowd, not a soul was looking in my direction, except my friend. I took a deep breath, held up the first card and began speaking into the microphone. At first a timid tone but it didn’t take long to reach frustrated shouting.
As had happened to all the comic performers before and after me. My friend was sitting in audience area. Probably no more than five or six feet away from me.
He kept jabbing his thumb towards the ceiling as he cupped his ear. He did this every time I looked at him. The microphone was turned on and working but he didn’t hear very much of the routine. The din was crazy loud.
Wall to wall people, incessantly chatting; didn't stop for anything, not the music, not the comedy, nothing.
I got through the routine, packed up the cue cards and slipped back into the crowd, for the most part, unnoticed. For whatever reasons, I was deeply satisfied.
Back then, the routine was crass and stupid, so I'm so glad nobody heard it, not even me.
Oops, I didn’t mention the part about searching for names.
Next time.
One: Dirt