A week of improv

Monday

The waiter of my local pub, who has been absent from work for the past 3 months, suddenly reappears. 

‘Oh! I thought you had left?’

‘No no, I was shooting a series actually.’, he says. 

‘Oh…a student series thing, was it?’ I ask. 

‘No, it’s a detective series actually, I’m playing one of the two main detectives and…yeah, it’ll air on BBC in the new year.’

Like any other creative person, the sense that other people are getting ahead and accomplishing things sends me over the edge. 

What a dreadful start to my week. 

I spend the remainder of my quality pub time staring at an empty page in my cheap notebook, thinking about how I haven’t done a gig for months and how my Substack number hasn’t changed since June. 643. 643. 643. 

‘Well, you must be very excited about that series coming up!’ I say whilst picking up the bill. 

‘Oh yes it’ll be good.’, he says whilst getting the bill ready.

‘6.43?’ I ask. 

‘No, you just had the decaf latte so it’ll be £3.20 as usual.’

‘Ah yes, of course.’ 

Tuesday 

I go to the book launch of an improv comedy acquaintance, not so much out of support but out of a sense of disbelief that someone I know has published a book. 

All my other friends have bought the book ie a comic book but I have not as I’m on a tight budget due to a lack of work. 

The writer Flo messages me the next day to ask if I ended up buying a book, and that I can have one of the books left behind by a random stranger with the dedication page ripped out. 

I tell him that I’d like a new book that isn’t missing a page thinking this will make a great birthday present for my ex who likes comic books and who I’m still in love with. 

Flo says that I’ll need to pay for a new book that isn’t missing a page if I want a new book that isn’t missing a page.

I don’t respond. 

Wednesday 

I do an improv jam run by a woman named Connie who is clearly an actress with a misplaced fondness for comedy. 

The workshop is held in a huge abandoned conference room, and even though it’s just a jam ie a practice space, she’s set up two incredibly bright, over the top stage lights which gives off the rather morose amatuer vibe of a student film.

Connie interrupts each scene with a loud, overly melodramatic suggestion, leaving the scene worse off every single time.

A character in an office scene gets shouted at by a manager and says, ‘I should really speak to HR’, and Connie interrupts the scene with the line, ‘I’m HR and we can’t do anything.’ 

Then she repeats it, adding a resigned hand gesture, ‘we can’t do anything.’ 

I watch her as she goes off stage, and she looks pleased with herself. Actually pleased with herself. 

Something about this sends me spinning into that classic vortex of despair.

The ignorance of it is terrifying.

I almost don’t even dare to think the thought. 

Does she…Does she actually think she’s good?’ 

Thursday 

My friend Art calls to offer me a stand up gig. I have not done stand up for 3 months, and have decided not to get back in the ring until I am indifferent to the audience’s disapproval of my niche brand of alternative comedy, or at least that is what I tell myself. 

Friday 

Due to a lack of plans, I am back at Connie’s improv jam, and surprisingly, Connie still hasn’t got any better at improv in the last 2 days. 

She takes the lead in a 10 minute scene where she is on a date and keeps spiraling into a meltdown every time the waitress brings her a new drink order. 

‘Oh my God, I didn’t really want Green tea. Can I have hot chocolate instead?’ 

Then - ‘Oh my god, I didn’t really want hot chocolate.’ 

I keep thinking Connie has a clever plan with this narrative but the scene never goes anywhere, and the entire room is dead silent, and then suddenly, it all ends with no payoff or joke or narrative escalation. 

She never had a plan?! 

Later on, I can’t sleep. 

I toss and turn and kick and pull on various sheets, pillows and blankets. 

I can’t solve it. I can’t solve the inconceivable conundrum. 

Why does Connie not quit improv? 

Why for the love of God? Why? 

Saturday 

I’m back at my local pub. Same waiter, same smug smile. TV big shot. 

I notice for the first time that there’s something pandering about his gaze and his demeanor. He never used to smile this much. 

‘Excited about that BBC show airing soon?’ I say in a tone that is clearly sarcastic. 

‘Oh actually, I’ve got a film that’s out now with -’

He says the name of a famous actress that I’m supposed to know. 

I put on my engaged listening face whilst thinking how incredibly rude it is of this man to brag twice in one week considering he knows my job situation, my eye situation and the fact that I’ve been buying rip off Moleskines for a year. 

£7.99 instead of £19.99, and not worth the pennies saved. Less padding for the pencil. 

‘So we had this sex scene together -’

‘A sex scene?’ I say and make a grimace with the good old face. 

This guy is unbelievable. 

For a moment, I forget all about his more bearable sides. How he always asks me about my day, how he’s been very supportive about the unemployment situ and how he lets me sit here for 3 hours in exchange for a £3 coffee and never pulls a face. 

‘Yeah…and it was really hard you know…Spent weeks trying to prepare for it, like getting myself pumped up for it…’

I nod with the most serene of empathies. 

Is he still talking about this? What is the point? What is the point? 

The point must surely be to have me visualise him having sex, and now I am, and my larynx pinches in revulsion and I know this is going to ruin my coffee order. 

The best part of my day. The decaf latte with a dash of cocoa powder atop. 

‘And then they cut it.’, he finishes. 

What?

‘They cut it?’ 

‘Yeah, yeah they cut the scene. It’s not in the film.’ 

I can’t believe this. 

‘The sex scene? The scene you spent weeks preparing for…the one you were trying to pump yourself up for? The sex scene? They cut it?’ 

‘Yeah, crazy right. It’s how it goes sometimes.’ 

After he takes my coffee order, I close my eyes in blissful recognition. 

The hot shot BBC TV-actor and part-time waiter doesn’t have it all.

I consider the scenario. 

Two editors and a director watch your sex scene and decide that it can’t possibly be aired to the public. 

Oh dear. 

I chuckle gleefully like a baby at the first pull of a mother’s breast. 

Oh the humiliation. 

They actually cut his sex scene. 

What can I say? 

It’s the best news I’ve had all week.