by Lana Citron
A (WO)MAN WALKED INTO A BAR …
There was once a woman who longed for a parrot or panda or monkey or some exotic animal to accompany her, and also for a bartender straight out of Cheers, with rapier wit, good looks and charm. Where, indeed, were all the people who knew her name? After three gin and tonics downed with some urgency, she decided they were trapped inside a small black rectangular box-like object under numerical codes. She checked the hour, but it was beyond calling time for ninety-nine per cent of contacts. Happy with that one per cent and by then on her fourth gin and tonic, she texted Scarface.
‘Are you awake? I need to talk to you.’
Receiving no reply, and having consumed her fifth gin and tonic she called him.
‘Scarface, I need to talk to you. Where are you?’ She started sobbing then, ‘Scarface, you … Damn, why are you with her and not me? Why am I here and not there? Scarface … I’m sorry, okay? Sometimes I wish it could be different and that we could love each other, be in love with each other and then I realise, I don’t really love you at all. I’m just projecting who I think I would love to be in love with on to you. Maybe if you were someone else I could love you. But you are you and you’re a big shit, to be honest.’
Just at that moment her number-one choice brushed by her. He mouthed the words, ‘You okay?’
She nodded, embarrassed to be caught at such a vulnerable moment, and he hesitated before continuing on his way.
DAMN, THAT WASN’T MEANT TO HAPPEN
Downing a sixth gin and tonic, I dried my eyes and called again. ‘Hi, Scarface, it’s me. Listen, ignore the previous message. I’m out of sorts, not feeling myself. This whole festival, this comedy thing, work stuff, it’s much harder than anticipated. Guess I’m a little homesick and took it out on you. Cheers.’
Dear Max,
It’s very, very early in the morning and I really should be tucked up in bed asleep, but instead I am thinking of you and how much I love you, which is close on infinity times infinity, or about as much as anyone can quantify anything. Max, I miss your smell, smile, voice and all the silly jokes we share – like the time we were pretending to be opera singers and ended up performing a Gilbert and Sullivan light operetta in our kitchen. I was claiming you had my bum7 and you, singing soprano, denied it.8 Do you remember?
The apartment I am staying in is totally disgusting, my room is even worse than Harry Potter’s room under the stairs. Imagine that. It doesn’t even have a window. I call it the flea sanctuary or, since I cleaned it, flea cemetery. The only decent room in the place is the kitchen. It has a good view of the city. I can see two church steeples from the kitchen window and if I poke my head out, and stand at a strange angle, I can just about see Edinburgh Castle. It is super-wicked. Supersonic wicked. I’ll take some photos and send them to you. Every day I have to try to sell tickets to the show. It’s such a pain, all day trudging up and down the Royal Mile trying to be nice to everyone. We’re done with the previews, the practice shows and tonight is the official opening show. All of us are on tenterhooks. Lisa, one of the other performers, has it on good faith that there will be lots of newspaper reporters there. Yikes, I am so nervous, Max, as nervous as you felt on your first day of school when I had to peel you off me. You were terrifically brave and I now know exactly how you felt …
KEEPING FOCUS
‘Issy, think about the performance; nothing else, the performance. Got it?’
‘Adrian I’m freaking.’
‘Focus, keep your focus.’
Honestly, how was I expected to keep my focus, considering Nadia’s little update. Believing in the haunting presence of Arthur had been so much easier to swallow than the psychotic reality but, as they say in this business, the show must go on. I had to shake off all the extraneous stuff I was drenched in and concentrate on this opportunity, my future, my long-held dream. Adrian seemed to have taken a shine to me and put me under his wing. He was my acting protector, not to mention comedic coach. We’d been rehearsing my set for nigh on three hours, my nerves all a-jangle.
‘Take a deep breath, concentrate on what you are saying … talk to the audience.’
‘Yeah okay, talk, make like it’s a conversation. What if I freeze, Adrian?’
‘You won’t.’
‘Go blank?’
‘You won’t.’
‘Forget the script?’
‘That’s the same as blanking.’
‘Trip?’
‘Get up.’
‘Dry mouth?’
‘Bring a glass of water.’
‘An attack of flatulence?’
‘Stand further back stage.’
‘What if I’m running up on to the stage with my water and I trip. The glass smashes, sending splinters throughout the entire auditorium and suddenly I look up and the audience is covered in blood, and are so angry with me that I crap myself there and then and because of the costume they think I really am a nurse and …’
‘Get a plastic glass.’
‘Nice one, didn’t think of that.’
‘Enjoy it, Issy. You are in control.’
‘What if they don’t laugh?’
‘They will. Your act is funny.’
FIRST NIGHT
I was running on fear, running late, splashing in piss puddles down dark Edinburgh closes, running my lines through different scenarios in my head, to the Caves, to the downstairs dressing room, to a standstill and there were the Mingers and Lisa. All of us in our pre-performance warped mental zone, otherwise known as Adrenalin Central, Anxiety Capital, State of Distress.
Then …
And I guess this was it for me, the opportunity I’d so longed for, the doorway to the future.
‘Ladies and gentlemen …’
Some have rabbit’s feet, others holy relics. Lisa had a double vodka and tonic and gushed over the huge bouquet of flowers she’d received from a mysterious admirer, while the Mingers chugged on fags. I had a quick prayer and Adrian had the audience in the palm of his hand. He was on stage warming up the punters. The house was fairly packed, my heart bouncing from my stomach to my throat. I was gearing up for my mad dash down the gangway.
‘The one, the only.’ The MC crossed himself.
Here goes everything, girl …
‘A close, personal, showbiz friend of mine.’
Nothing was going stop me. The journalists would pick me out.
‘All the way from north London.’
Well, you’ve got to start somewhere.
‘Little …’
Hollywood, here I come.
‘… Issy Brodsky …’
Go girl. Go girl.
Dressed in my ridiculous nurse’s outfit, singing ‘You Sexy Thing’ by Hot Chocolate, I was off, running along the cobbled floor, jumped on to the stage, faced the back wall for a nano-second, twirled round to the audience, smiling. And there, sitting in the front row was the ACTOR and, beside him …
FOCUS, BRODSKY …
A performer must focus, empty the mind of all other thoughts, concentrate only on the words of the set. Surrender to the moment, be in the moment, it’ll only take a moment and I promise it won’t hurt too much.
Good evening, Edinboro, and how are you? Well?
A few encouraging murmurings from the audience.
Phew, ’cause I’m not really a nurse.
A ripple of a response.
No honestly. I bought it for my boyfriend. To help in the bedroom department (wink, wink). He’s a hypochondriac. Ah, no he isn’t. Actually, he is. My boyfriend, Derek, he’s always on at me (shit, art does imitate life!!) with his double entendres: I hate your fucking guts; his subtle innuendos: get out of my fucking life; and his total and absolute denial of my existence.
A nice group ‘Arghhhh.’
But that’s men for you. You can’t live with them, you just can’t live with them. Give them an inch they’ll claim it’s nine. One in the hand is worth two in the bush (but I wouldn’t recommended it. A little bit cr
amped!).
And I couldn’t be 100 per cent certain.
I, I, I …
I began stumbling over my lines.
I know what you’re thinking …
My Oirish accent faltering.
You’re thinking I really am a nurse. I’m not. Though I am a very caring person.
There was something about his eyes.
I’m also a woman of a certain age.
The way they slanted. The shape of his lips.
Mmm … an … an age many men are very prejudiced against, they’re forever …
Losing the rhythm …
… assuming I’m out to get them.
Losing focus …
And, well, I am. That is my precise agenda.
Losing the crowd …
But, see, it wasn’t always like that.
My panic spread like a red-wine stain on a crisp, white cotton tablecloth. A cloth that was, in fact, an heirloom of a (hypothetically speaking) new boyfriend whose parents I was meeting for the very first time.
Flooded by a deluge of thoughts, I struggled to keep the set going. My concentration fractured. I felt the audience inwardly groan, shared in their embarrassment, conscious of every punchline missing its target. Held in a ‘pre-car-crash’ state, where you saw the oncoming truck and realised the end was nigh, my life flashed before my eyes. I was forced to acknowledge all the shit bits, fuck-ups, humiliations, disappointments, disasters, tragedies and hurts, all in one go.
Jesus Christ, for a lone individual, I’d certainly racked up a disproportionate amount of life’s debris. Then again, the good stuff was so ultraviolet brilliant and bedazzling, I had to squint.
HEY! PSST, BIG G
Is there anyone home?
Oi, you up there, what’s that?
You’re not ready for me?
You’re having a laugh.
Let me in, God, damn you.
Do something man, Father of Man, holy moly. I need a miracle, like now.
Immediately.
A distraction.
A power cut.
Come on, G, don’t let me down.
G?
G?
‘I’m waiting
I’m …
You … you …
Judas!
How could you forsake me in my hour of need?
Answer me, God damn it. This I hadn’t expected. I mean, after all I’ve been through, you throw this into the mix. You’ve really pushed things to the limit.
BACK IN REAL TIME
There was nowhere to flee, too many to fight. The only option left was to freeze.
I froze.
‘Tell us a joke,’ someone yelled from the back.
One woman looked down, maybe out of respect.
‘Oh,’ I said in my mock Oirish accent. ‘Oh, I must check my pulse ’cause I seem to be dying.’ Lisa’s advice to me in a situation such as this was to acknowledge defeat. ‘It’ll dissipate the tension and you’ll get them back on side.’ A bit like honking at the oncoming articulated lorry?
Well, guess what? It didn’t work. Even the titters of embarrassment dried up. In other words, I gave the audience a noose with which to hang myself. I reeled off as much of my set as I could, while trying to skip as much as I could. The blood rushed to my head. I could smell my own fear, thinking ‘get me out of here’. The audience were in complete agreement. My fragile ego was like a pulverised garlic segment, crushed, and I hated myself for having even put myself up there in the first place. Words now had a whole new meaning. I could fully comprehend what it was to be ‘gutted’, ‘shamed’ and ‘mortified’. To have defecated in front of them would, in a way, have been less revealing.
There was no applause at the end of the set. I ran out of the Caves and banged into two audience members who had snuck out mid-death and were talking to Lisa.
‘Christ, that was awful, it was so awful,’ I wailed in whispers, totally distraught.
‘Yeah, that was woeful,’ they concurred.
‘I bombed, it was …’
‘Tragic,’ they kindly finished for me.
‘You don’t want to wait around to see the other acts?’ Lisa asked them.
‘Life’s too short,’ one pointed out.
‘It can’t have been that bad,’ Lisa joked.
Neither of the women laughed.
STAR-COSTER
‘Issy, you complete twat.’ There and then Lisa accused me of trying to sabotage the show. ‘How could you? We are going to look like … like amateurs. You are so selfish.’
‘I’m sorry. It wasn’t intentional.’
‘There are meant to be five reviewers in tonight. Guess we can wave goodbye to getting four stars.’ Her total lack of empathy added nicely to the emotional state I found myself in.
‘I’m sorry, Lisa.’
‘What the fuck were you thinking?’
READER
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it was Arthur Penn or Darren ‘whatever his name was’. Go on admit it, that’s exactly who you thought it was, but it wasn’t psycho-face, you couldn’t have been more wrong.
PARK LIFE
A few years back when Max was laying the foundations to a more conscious idea of his reality, I, falling in love with him time after time, was enraptured by his open curiosity and intense efforts to communicate. I believe children have an innate emotional intelligence, and noticed on park excursions how he would look at the fathers pushing their children on the swings. See, he was conscious even before the end of his first year that he did not have a father. The fear of every lone mother arose: that one’s child will perceive every male as a potential daddy, run up to them, arms open and dribbling, with a two-syllable question begging to be answered, ‘Dada?’
And then one day he asked, ‘Max dada?’
‘No dada.’ I shook my head and said reassuringly, ‘Max has Grandpa and Freddie.’
Aware of how important it was to provide Max with male role models, I’d had to rely on my father and brother. Luckily, they both, in their own way, met the challenge. My father had, by default, ended up spending a lot of time with us in the previous year and had an exceptionally strong bond with Max. Freddie was more the doting, spoiling uncle, buying Max’s love with presents and trendy clothes. Although it was true that since he’d hooked up with his first proper boyfriend, he had begun taking Max out on mock happy-family outings, to musicals and films, I was very grateful for their strong presence in his young life and Max was happy enough. Then Scarface came along and Max was over the moon. He adored Scarface. He had asked me once if Scarface could be his dad, ‘Please Mum, please, just for a while?’ It was strange how his words rang true. As for Max’s real father, well, see, it kind of, sort of …
OVER THE HILLS AND FAR, FAR AWAY …
Glastonbury in a field, in a tent, in love – okay, lust. It was a weekend of bliss, an accident of fate, and the rest as they say, is history. My Dutchman, Jan, disappeared into a sea of people, blowing kisses at me, and I thought, ah, this is the height of romance. It began as a random collision, removed from our respective realities and we unleashed ourselves on each other with an intensity I had never experienced before or after. In my mind it was more Austenesque than Erica Jongian. A perfect moment, so perfect I wanted only to capture it, to lock it away. I didn’t want reality to intervene and redefine my hazy Super-8 impression into DVD clarity, besides which, at the time I was already in a steady relationship.
‘What do you mean you’d forgotten when your last period was?’ my mother asked. I was always crap with dates, and in my late twenties soon succumbed to the pull of biology. My role in life became clear – breeder – and my aforementioned relationship broke up.
There was something about the slant of his eyes and the shape of his lips …
IT COULD HAVE BEEN YOU!
A lottery, a swish of nylon and the dream comes true. In a single finger click, I spun round and immediately noticed the guy sitting to the left side of the A
CTOR. Like a smack across the face, my heart strings went twang. It couldn’t be, could it? How many faces had I scanned during the past five years and yet never had this feeling. All those escalators ridden and to no avail. The wishful thinking, the daddy daydreams:
1. I hear my name being called. ‘Issy, Issy, is it really you?’ I turn and see him. ‘For so long I have searched. Oh, my darling!’
2. As above, but with the added element of Max. Jan gazing at Max, then back into my eyes, bursting into floods of tears and then sobbing, ‘I dreamt of having a son, please tell me he is mine.’ So I do. He swoops Max and I into his arms and twirls us round. In my mind he was always very strong.
3. As above, but quite out of breath and slightly elated I say, ‘Jan, what are you doing in England? I thought you lived in Holland?’ And he replies, ‘I live here now. A great-aunt of mine has just left me her huge house in Notting Hill and ten million pounds cash.’
4. Continuing in the same vein, the three of us go to a café and over afternoon tea and cake fall in love, decide to get married and, arms linked, go home singing in harmony.
See, nothing too extravagant. All well within the realms of possibility. I like to think of myself as a very grounded person and not given to delusions. There was no alternative but to go back to the Caves to face him. My nerves were frayed, shaking from the emotional fallout. Yet in my heart I knew I had to go back. I had to, for my sake, for Max’s sake, for God’s sake, what if the man I saw sitting beside Crispin really, actually, beyond all reasonable doubt was Max’s father? I mean sperm provider. Let’s not blur the boundaries here. Good parenting has nothing to do with being able to breed, and vice versa. Morally though, did he have a right to know about the existence of his son?