An amateur’s hallmark. Too many texts. The eager exchange led to a long, entertaining phone call. We agreed to meet on Sunday evening. And, as the days past by, the suspense simmered. Nervous anticipation. An idling adolescent.
My date of suitably random occupation. A circus performer, specialising in the juggling of hats.
Running late. My own juggling a barrier to the most promising of dates.
Compromises would have to be made. Grab the closest items of clothing, run for the bus, arrive on time; or take reasonable time and arrive late. Better perfectly on time than perfectly manicured, right?
Wrong? Too late for innate debate.
Time would soon reveal its intentions.
You’re Duncan, right? Spoke a confident voice at the harbour’s edge. The first utterings of adventures unknown.
Moments later, banter flowed. Smiles adorned faces, replacing nerves with nonsense. Our destination, an open mic night, 1 mile’s walk through a grand square, over a bridge and down a cobbled street.
We were greeted with excitement and immediacy. Voices enthused by our presence.
“So, what instrument do you play?”
“I play a little guitar” came the foolhardy reply.
The beginning of the end.
“Oh, you must play”. Eagerness personified.
“I’d love to”, I replied; “only, I’m a bit crap”. “Oh, but you must, you must”. Enthusiasm unbreakable. The word “no” escaped me, removed from lexicon.
Beers were poured as the crowd grew. A continuous stream of interesting, intricate, but never idiotic acts entertained the eager.
3 pints in and as I look up, the same attractive blond approached. “So, you ready?”.
“Ha” [insert nervous laughter] “maybe, in a bit”. The young lad inside, eager to please, but oblivious of the consequences.
Another pint.
Bad move. Past the threshold of caring.
On stage. Christ no! What am I doing on stage?
Too late.
The end of the night. Everyone’s watching. They’ve saved the best to last. A seasoned pro. A regular known to all. Me by his side. If only he knew.
He turns to the left, I to the right. He mutters.
“Key of G”.
Now, I can play G. G7, G minor, G7sus4 even.
But, you guessed it.
This guitar player had no idea how to play in key.
Up shit creek, guitar for a paddle. The song begins, me on the rhythm; he on the lead.
G, G, G, G, G, G, G, G
I’m still playing G
And the people are looking at me
Still playing G
The glee turns to pee
Fear not, I wet myself in metaphysical form alone. However, half way through, ridiculousness conquered all. I laughed hysterically. Laughed that I’d never played in front of others. Laughed that I was so damn drunk. Laughed that I had no freaking idea as to the tune we were playing. Just laughed.
The song continued with me in stitches. The crowd and the absurdity failing to connect. Two minutes, a vortex of space and time. As it drew to a close, the more accepting pleaded for more. The less accepting pleaded for it to stop.
I obliged the positive, still dying of laughter as I switched from musician to entertainer.
Remarkably, my date remained. We stayed a while, before walking a mile back to her bus stand, jumping over obstacles, talking shit, acting 15, when closer to 50.
Days passed. Something hadn’t clicked. A text:
“The most fun I’ve ever had on a date. I love your passion for life, but I don’t think we should meet again.”
Any takers?
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