My friends and I were all sitting together, on the floor, with empty hands and sunken heads, observing nothing more than the carpet and an occasional glance in the direction of a faceless throat's growl. My fingers, intertwined within each other, implied a sense of anxiety, though I assure you I was just deep in thought.
I was thinking, why are we literally just siting here, doing nothing? The minutes are strolling by, dragging us through the night, and we are just letting ourselves succumb. I mean, it's not something new, to be perfectly honest. I'm used to being in a group of people and muttering nothing. There are jokes, there are scuffs, there may be confined conversation limited to never longer than a couple minutes-- but, this night, it just didn't feel right that we weren't taking advantage of the obligation-free time.
But then everything changed. The whole dynamic of the group was somehow enhanced, as if we were just infused with adrenaline. We were all aware that something exciting was going to happen, though we weren't entirely sure what, but, regardless, the mood jumped from bland to overly-seasoned.
I heard word of a stand up comedy show at this bar that was having open mic night. It was at that moment I realized this was my chance to get the butts off the floor, in a car, and downtown. So I stood up, indicating I was ready to go, but the others didn't budge. Their eyes spilled interest; a simple whiff of excitement that was limited in duration. But they noticed, they definitely noticed.
Let's do something. I hushed, waiting for a response. I couldn't wait too long though, my feet were already nervously tapping the floor, as if I feared that their interest was just an illusion. But their faces went soft, their eyes brighter, and the tips or their mouths wider.
And then we were in a car. I was sitting on someone I just met-- Matt? John? Not that he was boring or anything, my face was pushed to the floor, with shadowy objects only in sight. There were muffled laughs and other said things, but the conversation wasn't the least memorable (trust me, while your staring at the ground in a super complex, uncomfortable position, on someone whose name you barely know, you just don't remember much).
Climbing out of the car was like freeing a thousand fish from a fish bowl into the sea; it was a miracle. We all jumped, stretching our limbs and getting our blood pumping again. Though it was a sweet relief, the good didn't last for too long-- did I mention it was absolutely and utterly freezing? The cold bit our skin, as if it were a malicious whip, slicing us open with bitter claws. Our groans hushed our feet as we headed in the (what we would figure out in due time) wrong direction.
Finally, we made it. The bar was small, cozy, cute, welcoming- the vibes were incomparable and the people were distinct. Distinct in attire, distinct in shade, and distinct in conversation. We were late, of course, and so we had to walk all the way in the back so that we could cramp in a space probably no larger than the car. Luckily I found a spot next to the bar with an open view of the minuscule stage; the mic was decorated in a flashy veneer, and an array of lights were splattered on the wood.
And so the first act began: a woman got on stage, said her lines, paused as the entire bar erupted with laughter, and departed awkwardly, weaving herself through the clapping. We were off to a good start. Another woman appeared on the stage, but remained silent. Suddenly, her body moved violently, as if she had gone sick. There was a nervous laughter in the crowd- we all thought she was joking. But she kept going, and going, and going. The laughter died down and all waited patiently for her to say something. My friends and I shared ambiguous glances and raised eyebrows-- then, silence. Her lips, inches from the mic and quivering, moved.
A couple mumbles.
Silence.
Something half-coherent.
Silence again.
And that was the act- she ran off stage laughing with extreme joy-- I think she said it was super fun. We were all confused as to whether or not it was an act-- my friends and I still argue both sides; I really thought she was going to throw up on stage.
It was a memorable night with really great comedy, some of which made me laugh so hard I had to grab my stomach. We were their guinea pigs and they were the scientists, seeing what worked and what failed. It was raw, pure, spontaneous- something I'm beyond happy for experiencing.
I was thinking, why are we literally just siting here, doing nothing? The minutes are strolling by, dragging us through the night, and we are just letting ourselves succumb. I mean, it's not something new, to be perfectly honest. I'm used to being in a group of people and muttering nothing. There are jokes, there are scuffs, there may be confined conversation limited to never longer than a couple minutes-- but, this night, it just didn't feel right that we weren't taking advantage of the obligation-free time.
But then everything changed. The whole dynamic of the group was somehow enhanced, as if we were just infused with adrenaline. We were all aware that something exciting was going to happen, though we weren't entirely sure what, but, regardless, the mood jumped from bland to overly-seasoned.
I heard word of a stand up comedy show at this bar that was having open mic night. It was at that moment I realized this was my chance to get the butts off the floor, in a car, and downtown. So I stood up, indicating I was ready to go, but the others didn't budge. Their eyes spilled interest; a simple whiff of excitement that was limited in duration. But they noticed, they definitely noticed.
Let's do something. I hushed, waiting for a response. I couldn't wait too long though, my feet were already nervously tapping the floor, as if I feared that their interest was just an illusion. But their faces went soft, their eyes brighter, and the tips or their mouths wider.
And then we were in a car. I was sitting on someone I just met-- Matt? John? Not that he was boring or anything, my face was pushed to the floor, with shadowy objects only in sight. There were muffled laughs and other said things, but the conversation wasn't the least memorable (trust me, while your staring at the ground in a super complex, uncomfortable position, on someone whose name you barely know, you just don't remember much).
Climbing out of the car was like freeing a thousand fish from a fish bowl into the sea; it was a miracle. We all jumped, stretching our limbs and getting our blood pumping again. Though it was a sweet relief, the good didn't last for too long-- did I mention it was absolutely and utterly freezing? The cold bit our skin, as if it were a malicious whip, slicing us open with bitter claws. Our groans hushed our feet as we headed in the (what we would figure out in due time) wrong direction.
Finally, we made it. The bar was small, cozy, cute, welcoming- the vibes were incomparable and the people were distinct. Distinct in attire, distinct in shade, and distinct in conversation. We were late, of course, and so we had to walk all the way in the back so that we could cramp in a space probably no larger than the car. Luckily I found a spot next to the bar with an open view of the minuscule stage; the mic was decorated in a flashy veneer, and an array of lights were splattered on the wood.
And so the first act began: a woman got on stage, said her lines, paused as the entire bar erupted with laughter, and departed awkwardly, weaving herself through the clapping. We were off to a good start. Another woman appeared on the stage, but remained silent. Suddenly, her body moved violently, as if she had gone sick. There was a nervous laughter in the crowd- we all thought she was joking. But she kept going, and going, and going. The laughter died down and all waited patiently for her to say something. My friends and I shared ambiguous glances and raised eyebrows-- then, silence. Her lips, inches from the mic and quivering, moved.
A couple mumbles.
Silence.
Something half-coherent.
Silence again.
And that was the act- she ran off stage laughing with extreme joy-- I think she said it was super fun. We were all confused as to whether or not it was an act-- my friends and I still argue both sides; I really thought she was going to throw up on stage.
It was a memorable night with really great comedy, some of which made me laugh so hard I had to grab my stomach. We were their guinea pigs and they were the scientists, seeing what worked and what failed. It was raw, pure, spontaneous- something I'm beyond happy for experiencing.
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