104th Street and 82nd Ave. Edmonton. A clear wordless mind. I want to write, instead I watch the world go by. Amy arrives. We discover we are both Virgo. She has a friend and she doesn’t want to jinx it. I tell her, “Somethings are possible only if you open yourself to the possibility of it.”
George stops me in the washroom, after our third show, to tell me how much he enjoyed it. He had booked a ticket before our good press because he saw something unique in the poster. He thinks our show is the unexpected gem of the festival. Later, after Burlesque Unzipped, he tells Ray very much the same thing. He gives us beer tickets.
An older woman strikes up a conversation while we both wait for the bus. She complains about the loud music coming from the club behind us. “It’s not hip-hop. I like hip-hop and this isn’t hip-hop.” She is originally from P.E.I.. She moved west with her husband. I can’t recall now what tribe he belongs to. Ten years ago they were divorced. They are considering re-marrying. I’m still not sure what the music was. Maybe, bad dance hall.
The point of working a line-up is to make a connection, to start a relationship. The goal is not to hand a person a piece of paper. The piece of paper is the excuse for making a connection. The paper, if you are sincere and lucky, may later become a reminder of that connection.
Dave seems happy, almost light. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this. I assume he got laid. Rays says he had a good sleep. He has probably realized we are going to be a success.
Ray and I are on the way to catch a show. We are still in our suits. It’s Friday, 7:45PM. Some drunken guys are looking for a fight. They think we are Mormans and make some derogatory remarks about religion. I respond, “Actually, we are in the Fringe.” He answers, “French. You’re French. I hate the fucking French.” I clarify, “No. We are performers. In the Fringe Festival.” He replies, “Fuck the Fringe. I hate the Fringe.” The light turns green.
Walking out of Subway, with yet another sub in hand. A young guy says, “Hello, Marmaduke.” I’m not even wearing my suit. I ask, “Did you come to the show? Did you like it?” He answers, “Yes, and we are going to come again.” Later, Ray mentions some people called out to him from a car: “Hey, Gman!”
There is a point in the route where the bus comes over a crest into the sudden collapse of the river valley. Jayson mentions it is his favorite part of the trip. Later, a mother encourages her grandson to stand up for the view. It is a little like a roller coaster and a beautiful view. The driver is the boy’s father.
One of the Second Cup servers approaches us tentatively. He asks if he can ask a stupid question. I tell him there is no such thing. He wants to know how to get a show into the Fringe. He has an idea he wants to pursue. Ray explains the basics about the Fringe application process. I tell him he can contact me, but it might make more sense to contact a local company in the festival. He is grateful and offers us a free drink. He recommends and I accept a peach Italian soda.
After the show, the young girl I pulled on stage wants a picture with Ray and I. She and her friends wait for us and her mom takes the photo. Afterwards, I realize I probably should have been more zany in the picture.
A couple of teenagers ask me where to buy tickets for a show. I tell them and then pitch our show. They seem interested. I offer them two “No Commie” pins. Later, walking down Whyte Ave, I see them wearing the pins proudly.
An older woman strikes up a conversation while I wait for the bus home. We talk about bikes and the relevant rules of the road. She thanks me for the chat as I board my bus.
I am overtaken by a mood which I can’t properly describe because the most plausible descriptors have a tinge of the pejorative. I see the absurd everywhere and it is beautiful.
Harry can only have a couple of drinks tonight. He talks about work. He feels self-conscious about venting. I tell him I am happy to listen. The waitress joins in and vents about the situation at the bar. She says she feels better. She asks me if I want to vent. I answer, “I am fortunate enough that I really have nothing to vent about.” And it’s true.