Public Reading

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Subject: septuagenerian barman at the local tapas bar, purveyor of beers, bocadillos and banter.

***

Thanks to my complete inability to accurately calculate walking distances I arrived early at the Madrid Writers' Club open mic reading session.

A few souls were dotted around in quiet conversation and a group of people in the middle of the bar were rehearsing their lines. I sat at the bar with my beer and, not wanting to spoil the show, I dipped my head down to make some adjustments to the excerpts I'd brought along to share with everyone.

I had combed through my blogposts that same evening (slightly alarmed at how frequently I complained about sweat) and picked out three. The first, about my blue rucksack, the second about an interaction I once had with a plumber and the third told the tale of my moist sideburns at the hairdressers (it had to be a representative selection, after all).

As more people arrived I pitter pattered around, making polite conversation:

"Yeah, it's the first time I've spoken in public since primary school, haha, yeah..."

"Hi, I'm Jake, are you reading too? Yeah I am," (and then making sure the previous group of people were out of earshot) "it's the first time I've spoken in public since primary school, hahaha".

I wasn't nervous because I didn't know what to expect- I'd never been to a literary open mic.

The first few people took to the stage. Good, I thought, really good. Funny, emotional, very well written, smart narrative. These writers were able to focus on the minutiae of a situation, or a movement, and somehow render it important. And what was I talking about? The minutiae of a dripping sideburn? A bloody plumber? One of my stories was called "My Blue Rucksack" for Christ's sake, by Jake, aged 6.

And so I started to get nervous. I retreated back into my head and focused solely on timing my entrance onto the wooden soapbox at the bar- right, go for it. No. Wait, after this person, oh God I think my feet are on back to front, what if I faint?

When I did finally step up to the oche I pardoned my nerves saying that I hadn't spoken in public since primary school for the tenth time that night. "Is that all he says?", they no doubt wondered.

I don't remember my recital that much, the occasional ripple of laughter penetrated my anxious bubble, which was encouraging, but I was as if I thought of anything but the words on the page in front of me I might fall over, or burp involuntarily.

Supposedly I didn't look that nervous and yet for minutes after, whenever I cocked my knee or adjusted my hip, I trembled slightly.

If only I had my lucky Blue Rucksack to calm my nerves...

...the friendly faces and pats on the back did that for me.