Stand Up Guy, page 2
Smiling to myself while sipping – actually, more like glugging – at my drink, I’m almost content. It’s certainly a reassuring feeling, knowing I have purpose to my presence here. But my comfort blanket of a cocktail is gone too soon and, not wanting to risk standing here looking like the local weirdo, I decide I’ll have that second drink after all.
When I return to my spot armed with a beautifully chilled, fizzing glass of prosecco, I remind myself that I need to make this one last longer, otherwise I’ll turn up at the show not just alone, but also hammered. Not being the world’s biggest drinker – more due to a lack of social life than choice – I’m already beginning to feel the effects from my cocktail. Which leads me to…
Sod Paul, the absolute arsehole! Anyone who allows a person to develop feelings for them when they have no intention of taking things further deserves that label and more. He let me think we were going somewhere and he didn’t do that by accident. It might be that my pain is just numbed by the alcohol, but I can now see that I have not lost out, nor am I a lesser being than Paul; I am actually better than him.
And while I’m in a rare moment of bravery and defiance, why shouldn’t I go out and enjoy myself, just because I don’t happen to have a social circle in the city? Maybe I should do this more often. I’m actually quite good company, if I may say so myself.
Uninhibited thoughts continue to swirl in my mind, acting as an inner pep talk. They include a daydream about Paul’s dick actually falling off after being bitten by some scary-ass Australian spider. I snicker to myself, attracting the attention of a man drinking a beer at a table not far from mine, and my alcohol-fuelled courage has me immediately alert and ready to hit back if he dares to judge me. But he doesn’t. He simply gives what appears to be a sad smile before returning his attention to his pint.
Cocking my head, I watch him for a moment. He’s around five foot ten, with a slender build and floppy dark brown hair that falls into his eyes while he’s looking down, making me want to walk over there and push it to the side so he can see better. With his head bowed like that, it’s hard to get much more of a sense of his appearance. But there’s one thing that I don’t need a better view to figure out, because his stance and body language say it all: he looks utterly miserable. And he’s also alone.
I surreptitiously keep an eye on the man while sipping at my drink, waiting for him to be joined by a sulky girlfriend he’s had a fight with, or a banterous group of lads who’ll cheer him up. However, after about ten minutes, he’s still standing alone, staring into his pint, which he has barely touched in that time.
Checking my phone, I can see it’s nearly time for me to leave for the show, but that’s going to be a challenge because I’m transfixed. There’s something about this guy that’s tugging at my heartstrings, since I know better than anyone how isolating it feels to be in a bad place and have no one to talk to.
Looking at him, it’s like seeing my own loneliness and feelings of inadequacy reflected right back at me. And knowing how awful that is, I so badly want to go across and offer to be the shoulder he needs.
Aware that I’m now in danger of missing out on a seat, or of not getting into the show altogether, I have a decision to make. I either prise myself away from this all-too-familiar scene in front of me or go speak to him.
The two drinks I’ve had get the final vote and – no real surprise – they opt for the latter.
Sinking the last mouthful of my prosecco, I abandon my glass and approach the man with an air of confidence I most certainly do not demonstrate in my day-to-day life.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Yeah?’ He looks up from his pint, making eye contact for a split second before angling his gaze over my shoulder, his expression remaining deeply pained.
Seeing him properly for the first time, I note that he’s quite good-looking, though not at all my type. With his dark hair, green eyes and a kind of puppy-dog look about him, he reminds me of a younger – and very unhappy-looking – Paul Rudd.
‘I couldn’t help but notice that you look upset.’ I smile at him compassionately. ‘Are you OK?’
For a moment, it’s as though he hasn’t heard me, then he looks at me properly.
‘I’m fine. Thanks for your concern.’ His accent is unmistakably Northern Irish.
He gives me the same sad-looking smile he did before, and although I don’t know him, I feel an inappropriate urge to give him a hug and reassure him that everything will be all right.
‘Are you sure?’ I persist. ‘You don’t seem OK. Is there someone here with you?’
‘No, it’s just me, but I’m fine, honestly. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than pick up the pieces of some lad you don’t know.’
‘Actually, I don’t…’ I almost blurt out that I’m as miserable and alone as him, but manage to stop myself in time. ‘I don’t… um… have much time. I’m heading to a show.’
‘Right, that’s nice.’ The man nods. ‘Have a good time then.’
‘Thank you. I will. At least I hope I will. It’s a free one, so you never know. Could be the worst zero pounds I’ve ever spent.’
He half-chuckles in response to my lame joke, then returns to staring into his beer.
Hovering for a moment, I’m unsure what to do, but the man doesn’t look up again, so I turn and leave. However, a full thirty seconds later, as I’m walking in the direction of West Nicolson Street, the man is still on my mind. He looked so lost and, really, it was a bit rude of me to say that I had somewhere else to be. Plus, he might have said he was all right, but it obviously wasn’t true. He probably just didn’t want to burden anyone else with his woes.
Well, he can burden me all he wants, I suddenly decide. Performing an abrupt U-turn that causes a gaggle of Japanese tourists behind me to leap out of my way, I march back into the outdoor bar area and right up to the man.
‘I can skip my show.’
‘Sorry, what?’ He looks up at me once again and blinks.
‘I can give the show a miss. I mean, how funny can a comedy show about cats be, right?’
‘Right.’ His expression turns to one of bemusement, making me realise I haven’t actually contextualised my point.
I give an exaggerated, alcohol-fuelled facepalm. ‘Sorry, I’m not making myself clear. What I mean is, the show is not important. You said that I must have better things to do than pick up the pieces of someone I’ve never met, but I don’t.’
‘Course you don’t,’ he mutters, which momentarily throws me, but I recover almost instantly.
‘No, I don’t. Wouldn’t it be a sad world if we all chose having a good time over helping someone in need?’
‘I’m not sure I said I was in need.’
‘Of course you didn’t.’ I adopt a warm-hearted tone. ‘Nobody wants to admit that, which is why it’s important to notice what’s going on around us. Now, what can I get you? Another pint, maybe? That one must be flat by now. Then you can tell me all about it.’ I reach into my handbag for my purse.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Oh, right.’ I bounce my knuckles off the side of my head, communicating my moment of idiocy. ‘Probably not a great idea to self-medicate with booze, eh?’
‘Actually, I meant no thanks to your proposal in its entirety.’ His eyes narrow slightly. ‘I don’t want another pint and I definitely don’t want to talk.’
‘Ah…’ I hesitate, struggling to get a read on the situation. ‘Then maybe you could join me for the show? If we go quickly, we can still make it. A good laugh should help cheer you up – if the show’s funny, that is. You know how it goes with these free ones, they’re so hit and miss. Mainly “miss” in my experience, but that might just be my crappy luck.’ I roll my eyes. ‘So, what do you say?’
‘What do I say…?’ The man screws up his face thoughtfully. ‘How about this? I’m not sure where you got the idea that I want your company, but to be clear, I don’t. When I said you must have better things to do, it was my polite way of saying I wanted you to leave me alone. Am I having a shit day? Yes. But the last thing I want is to be picked up by some weird loner chick who sees me as an easy score.’
I give a startled gasp at the harshness of his words.
‘So, if you don’t mind…’ he continues with a slightly mocking tone to his voice, ‘…I’d like to return to staring into my pint – which, compared to the excruciating five minutes I’ve had to spend with you, seems like a top night out.’
Stunned into silence, I have no words. Not even a catty, petty response. I stand stock-still for a few seconds, as if trying to process what’s just happened, then as the raw humiliation stings my eyes, I slowly turn and walk away.
Chapter 3
Big fat tears roll down my cheeks as I hurry across Bristo Square, having forgotten in my emotional state that it would have been quicker to cut round by George Square to get to my flat. Excitable festivalgoers pass me in their droves, some shooting me sympathetic looks, which is kind of them but really quite intolerable in my fragile state. Unable to keep my head down due to the crowd, I pull my sunglasses down from the top of my head to hide my eyes.
Despite my upset, I still don’t want to go home. My flat will seem even bleaker now I’ve been shat on by two blokes in one day – and one of them I wasn’t even interested in in that way. I was just trying to be a decent human being. However, I’m not in the mood for a comedy show now and, let’s face it, it would be a bit of a downer for the rest of the audience if I sobbed my way through it.
Finding myself at a loss, I slow my pace and wander across to the bus stop on Forrest Road, where I sit on the metal bench while I gather myself together and decide what to do. I also quickly cotton on to the advantage of being at a bus stop: people don’t tend to hang around for long and they often travel alone, so no one’s likely to notice me – provided I keep my sunglasses on and cry quietly.
Rummaging in my handbag in the hope of finding a stray tissue to blow my snotty nose, I curse myself for not being the type of person who always carries a pack. But then, I’m not normally the kind of person who weeps in public. This is a new experience, and quite frankly, one I don’t want to repeat. As I’m starting to think I need to venture out of my new-found comfort zone in search of a convenience store, a distinctive Northern Irish accent comes from above me.
‘I assume this is what you’re looking for.’
I stop rummaging and lift my head, finding myself face to face with the rude man from the bar. He’s holding out a folded clean tissue; one that’s obviously come straight out of a pack.
‘No, thanks.’ I jump to my feet and stomp off, while praying that the snot threatening to drip from my nose will stay put a bit longer.
‘Wait.’ He comes after me, overtaking me and bringing me to a halt by standing right in front of me.
‘Get out of my way,’ I hiss at him, attracting the attention of the bus stop’s current occupiers.
‘Will you please take the tissue?’ he pleads. ‘You’ve got a little something…’ He indicates towards my nostril with his forefinger, gritting his teeth squeamishly as he does.
‘Fine.’ I grab it from his hand and blow my nose hard. ‘Now will you leave me alone? In fact, why am I even asking, when only minutes ago you told me to get lost. You were a dick to me, so I’ll be one to you. Piss off and get out of my face.’
‘That’s fair.’ He holds up his hands in an apparent admission of guilt, as I try and fail to go around him. ‘But, in my defence, I’ve had a shitter of a day. I’m normally much more pleasant to be around. Think… guinea pigs and fluffy bunnies.’
‘Guinea pigs and fluffy bunnies may be friendly, but they obviously don’t know how to apologise.’
I try to go around him again, but he darts in front of me with a pathetic grin.
‘Seriously?’ I let out a cry of frustration. ‘Will you get out of my way.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He puts his hands together in a prayer-like gesture. ‘I’m truly sorry. You did not deserve to be spoken to like that.’
‘Well, at least we agree on something.’ I stop trying to escape and fold my arms across my chest, prepared to hear him out, but most certainly not showing any sign of forgiveness. ‘You’re not the only person in the world who has bad days, you know. But people like me try to get on with things without making someone else’s already bad day ten times worse.’
He ups the ante on his plea to me. ‘I know. Will you please let me buy you a drink as an apology and I’ll explain myself properly. Wait… did you mean you’re having a bad day too? Maybe we can compare notes? Start up a support group or something?’
I snort with amusement. ‘You’re full of shit, aren’t you?’
‘I really am.’ He nods earnestly. ‘I make a living out of it. Or at least I try to. So, are we on?’
‘Only if we go back to that bar and you buy me the most expensive gin cocktail on the drinks menu.’
‘Done.’ He slaps a triumphant hand on his thigh, then holds the other one out in the direction of Bristo Square. ‘Lead the way, fine lady.’
Shaking my head at his gall, I march back in the direction of the outdoor bar, leaving him attempting to make conversation from behind.
‘I’m Shep, by the way. And you are…?’
‘Lea. I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but I think the jury’s still out on that one.’
‘Ha, you’re funny! I like a girl with a sense of humour. The drier the better.’
‘Watch it.’ I aim a warning shot over my shoulder. ‘We’re barely on speaking terms, so I’d hold off flirting for now if I were you. Plus, you’re not really my type.’
‘Ouch.’ Shep makes no secret of being stung by my burn. ‘That was acidic. Scars for life, that stuff, you know.’
‘Oh, I know. I received my own dose of it earlier.’
‘Shit, yeah, I’m sorry about that. I was out of order. You’re not a “weird loner chick”. You were really kind, trying to help me like that.’
‘Yeah, well, you can’t take all the credit, I’m afraid. You weren’t the first arsehole to ruin my day.’
‘Ah, I’m sorry. I really am.’ Shep finally catches up with me, rubbing his forehead exhaustedly. ‘I’m not proud of myself, but unfortunately your comment was a bit close to the bone, so I lashed out.’
‘My comment?’ I give him a confused side-glance.
‘Let’s get the drinks in and I’ll explain all.’
Chapter 4
‘So, what’s your war story?’ Shep hands me my gin cocktail and we commandeer the same standing table where he was moping before, in the outdoor bar.
As it is now Saturday evening, the place is becoming packed out, with a livelier atmosphere, so we have to share the table with a couple who are talking in frustrated-sounding hushed tones and appear to be having a minor tiff.
‘Uh-uh.’ I shake my head. ‘You first.’
‘Thought you might say that.’ He takes a slug from his pint, his floppy hair nearly taking a bath as he does. ‘All right, here goes. But do me a favour and don’t take the piss.’
‘OK.’ I’m slightly bemused by this request.
‘I’m not from here. I’m a stand-up comedian. Came to the festival to try and make it big.’
‘Oh, that’s cool. Say something funny.’
‘Really?’ Shep gives me a withering look. ‘Literally every person I meet does that. I’m a comic, not a performing monkey.’
‘Sorry.’ I chuckle, not sorry at all. ‘Why did you think I would mock you for being a comedian? I think that’s well brave, and you’re in the right place for it. There are some well-known names who got their big breaks from doing the Fringe. Billy Connolly and Stephen Fry spring to mind. And didn’t Graham Norton as well? I’m sure I read that somewhere.’
‘You seem to know your stand-up trivia. There are some greats who have made it, all right, but also many who haven’t.’
‘I’m sure. Trying to make people laugh for a living must be a tough gig, if you excuse the pun.’ I take a deep, satisfying mouthful of my drink, eyeing his grimace, though it’s unclear whether it was a reaction to the pun or to the truth of my words. ‘One miscalculated joke to an unforgiving audience and it’s death by social media. No way I could make myself the sacrificial lamb in that way. I’m a lab rat through and through – more than happy to spend every day with my nose in my research.’
‘You’re a researcher? Like at a university – this one, perchance?’ He jabs his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the University of Edinburgh’s Informatics Forum building.
‘Research assistant,’ I clarify. ‘And no, I work at Edinburgh Simpson University, which is less prestigious than Edinburgh Uni, but our research has a solid reputation. Anyway, back to you. I’m not letting you off the hook with this one, so don’t try to divert my attention.’
‘A researcher and a hard taskmaster by the sounds of it. What have I let myself in for?’ Shep theatrically raises his eyes to the sky, making me smile.
‘So?’ I prompt him.
‘All right, all right. The reason I asked you not to take the piss is because I’m doing free shows.’
‘Oh? Oh.’ Realisation bites as my earlier comment flits through my mind. ‘I called them “hit and miss”… “mostly miss”.’
‘You did. Which is why I had a go at you.’
‘I’m sorry. That was a throwaway comment. I was talking nonsense. I’d also sunk two drinks in about half an hour and I’m a lightweight.’
‘Good to know I won’t have to shell out for another.’ He gives me a cheeky wink.
‘I was only trying to get you to speak to me,’ I continue my apology, cringing with guilt. ‘There was no real substance to what I said. I really am sorry.’
‘Forget it. Anyway, you don’t owe me any apology. I was the one who was out of order. So, cheers, it’s nice to meet you and thank you for caring.’ He raises his plastic pint glass and I tap it with my own.
