I attend a Singles Party, pt II

This is part II of a III part essay. To read part I click here.

Jakob’s eyes glow with contentment. He’s one of those men who will convince himself that you fancy him, no matter what you actually say or do that points to the very opposite.

‘If you think about it, we’re very similar. Funny singer and funny person.’, Jakob says.

‘Oh, well I don’t know if I’m -’

‘You know what? We should do a sketch group together!’

‘I don’t really like sketch groups to be honest.’

I am officially veering into impolite behaviour.

Jakob, as expected, ignores my objection and cackles to himself with his usual trance-like take on reality.

‘It’ll be great. Have you seen musical sketch groups? Look, we’re even wearing the same shirt.’

I look down at my white shirt with red dots and find to my horror that it really does look similar to his red checkered shirt.

‘Oh yes, look at that…’

Jakob is not a time waster and asks for my number, then proceeds to do nothing else but to call me straightaway whilst staring unflinchingly at my face.

‘Why are you calling me now?’ I ask.

‘I just want to check you gave me the right number’, he explains whilst staring at my face, not blinking.

My phone, as always, is on soundless so I now have to go through the procedure of taking my phone out of my bag and show him that it is ringing with a reassuring smile as if this is all a brilliant bit, and I’m enormously entertained.

As I say my goodbye to Jakob and establish with a glance that Riona is still engaged in conversation, I decide to make my own way to the bar which is when I run into Sam, an acquaintance from the comedy world.

Sam, a shorter man clad in black-rim glasses, an obscure print T-shirt and a beard as black as coal, is a comedian who I’ve never actually spoken to at length but who I have, as with most comedians, a nodding relationship with and who, like most comedians, makes a very strong point of avoiding eye contact.

‘Oh hey, how’s it going?’ I ask.

‘Oh shoot me now. Do shoot me now.’

Sam’s face is so factually miserable and resigned that I can’t help but break into a spasm of mirth-led shaking.

‘It’s like a circus but without the elephants. There are no redeeming features in this room. Where are all the redeeming features?’

‘How many women have you spoken to?’ I ask.

‘Oh, I don’t really need to speak to anyone…Everything is clear to me from the window shop position.’

I cackle again.

I notice for the first time that there is something brutal about Sam’s features as well as his words, and if there is one thing that makes me susceptible to look favourably upon a man, it is brutality delivered in word-sized components.

I start wondering why I never date comedians.

Maybe I should take a stab at Sam if for nothing else than the brutal commentary.

I put him under the cold eye of measurement. He really is quite a bit shorter than me. I think about all the bending down I’ll need to do. A bend-down at every hello and every goodbye, and God knows there’s a lot of greetings in the course of a lifetime.

Could he even put a coat on me after a visit to the restaurant? It would certainly not look good. The waiters would stare. Damn waiters.

‘What is it you’re objecting to specifically?’ I ask finally.

‘For one, I can’t see anyone. I can’t see actual faces. I can see masks though, lots of those.’

‘Too much make up, ey?’

‘Did you see the orange woman over there? She fades in with the wall at the back. Seriously, put her in front of the back wall. It’s a disappearing act.’

I find myself in a meditative flutter. There’s something about Sam’s absolute delivery that makes me think for the first time that I could be going home with a bit of a crush.

Oh, a crush. It’s been so long since I’ve had one. I deserve one. In fact, I am desperate for one.

A contactless simple crush, someone to admire from a distance.

Considering the lack of height and eye contact, Sam seems to me the perfect man to admire from a distance.

We discuss comedy next.

‘I did Viggo’s in June and then I did Barnfather in January. Both too expensive if you ask me. Which ones did you do?’ I ask.

‘Oh I didn’t do any workshops.’, Sam responds.

‘Really? But you’ve got all the physical bits and the props in your act…You didn’t do any workshops?’

‘Nope, I didn’t need to cash out on a £400 workshop to tell me what I could figure out on my own. People who pay for those workshops are suckers.’

A silence descends upon us. Badabum, badabum. Bada…bada…booom.

He has done it. Why did he have to go and do it?

He’s pulled the chord for warm and fuzzy crush feelings.

I could’ve had 2-3 days worth of hormones running through my crush-starved veins, and here he goes and pulls my damn life line.

Oh Sam, you big tree. You big blooming tree. It occurs to me, under the candid influence of Sam, that he could’ve possibly gotten away with this comment if only circumstances had been a little more in his favour.

There lies the nub of the brutality. I resent Sam, not because he would, clearly, spend the rest of his life hurting my feelings or because he has just come out and called me a sucker but because he is not just a tiny tad dollop bit taller.

I send him the eye of pity.

Oh Sam. You’re the only funny man in the room, and I’m the only woman not wearing orange foundation. We could've been good together. What a waste, what a waste it all was.

After Sam, I adopt a ‘to hell with it’ approach and decide to approach the next man instead of falling prey to approaches.

I give the room one last turnover

I paid £20 after all and need to make the best of the situation. That’s when I spot him.

A tall, sturdy man wearing stainless steel glasses. He is leaned against the bar and towering over the room like a council estate. There’s something stoic about him, and I decide this will be my last attempt of the night.

I open the conversation by saying that this has been a terrible night, and that I have lost my voice from all the shouting.

Brian says there is a quiet space behind the bar where people seem to go to chat and that we can head over there once he’s ordered himself a drink.

Brian is, however, incredibly bad at getting the busy bartenders’ attention in the very sense that he doesn’t even try to get their attention.

There are 15 people positioned around the L-shaped bar, trying to get the waiters’ attention and all Brian does is stare the staff down with his steely blue eyes and his stainless steel glasses.

We stand like this in silence for a while but it is a pleasant, comforting sort of silence.

Everything about Brian’s posture seems to suggest that here is a tempered, stoic man, not given to fits of impatience.

I recall Riona’s words earlier on in the night, ‘You need a patient man.’

Yes, I did. I did need a patient man. Was that man Brian?

After another moment, I lose it and interrupt the order of a short man standing next to me, ‘EXCUSE ME. We’ve been waiting for a while!’ I shout in the direction of the bartender.

‘What would you like?’ the bartender asks me, and I’m about to explain that the order is not for me when Brian waves his hand manically out in front of me to signify to the waiter that I am not having a drink.

How odd! I’m still holding my half pint of water and had no intention of ordering anything on Brian’s tab but his hand gesture surprises me.

Within the time frame of 5 minutes, Brian has turned from a graceful, stoic man to an infuriated, petty man, waving his hand erratically because he’s terrified I will order a 2.50 Cranberry juice on his tab.

What else has he got up his sleeve?