Storytelling

   The art of storytelling has always been of interest to me. Whether it’s just you and a bunch of buddies bullshitting around a table slamming Sam Adams Summer Ale as the Sox play an irrelevant interleague game or you’re enduring the crazy ramblings from the Vietnam Vet father of the one-night-stand-turned-girlfriend (at least until ‘that time of the month’ FINALLY comes along and you know you’re in the clear to hit the old dusty trail), they’re an experience. Good or bad. The manner in which the story is delivered is often just as important as the story itself at times. 

    With my experience bar tending, I hear a lot, A LOT, of stories. Unfortunately with most I hear, I find myself putting on a facade with the shit-eating grin, all ears, giving the illusion I’m eating up every word. It always seems to play out that after 8 Dewar’s on the rocks, 11 mojitios, or a bucket of margaritas every twenty-two minute story ends with that uncomfortable anticlimactic conclusion of “Oh man, you just really needed to be there.”

    Earlier this week, I heard one though. I heard a friggin’ story. Absolutely basking in its awesomeness after the conclusion, punch line almost, I knew I’d be passing this one on to friends, family, acquaintances, and strangers alike, full well knowing it could be appreciated by really anyone. That to me, that unprejudiced, timeless nature is the foundation of a GOOD story.  Given that I’m passing along this gem third hand (maybe even forth for all I know), I can only hope I do it justice.

    A regular of mine, Billy, has a sister living up in New York City as she completes her Masters. His sister Kate is around twenty-seven, twenty-eight-ish, with her husband being a few years older. They’re coming home after a wedding and reception at some hoity-toity venue in Manhattan, jumping from bus to bus, subway to subway, ultimately navigating the way back to their house in Brooklyn. Needless to say, it’s extremely late (a little bit past 4 am) as they’re two of maybe six passengers in the last car of the D train. Thanks to the open bar and three too many Cosmos, Kate is nodding in and out of consciousness as her husband of four years, John, nudges her. Assuming he’s just elbowing her to wake her up, she doesn’t hear a word he says. He nudges her again, “Kate…Kate! Fucking look!” he whispers in a muffled, aggressive murmur. Disoriented, she looks around to see what the hell he is talking about because, as far as she’s concerned, Jesus himself better be juggling unicorns to justify John preventing her much needed nap.

“John, I’m fucking tired. PLEASE just wake me up at our stop!” she slurred out. To ensure that she’s fully conscious, he quickly double-taps her with his elbow.  Her entire body burns with fury as she grudgingly opens her bloodshot eyes. Before the first explicative can leave her mouth, John stares dead ahead, giving nothing more than the slightest upward nod like it’s the universal sign for ‘Dude, look!’  Very carefully, he whispers for her to look down the train to the one guy sitting alone, reading a book. She looks…and looks…and looks. It takes a second to register. She slowly turns back to John and asks if he really thinks it’s ‘him’. He mouths “I don’t know,” as not to be heard.

    The two immediately become infatuated with this one, sole man, sitting 20 feet down from them on the train because it looks *exactly* like Bill Murray. They’re sure of it, at least they think they MAY be sure of it, if that makes sense. They both know it goes without saying that neither one of them can actually go ask this complete stranger if he really IS Bill Murray for a number of reasons. For one, they’re aware they’re slightly intoxicated and exhausted, so their judgment isn’t par for the course to begin with. They also know this poor guy has most likely been plagued by this same question a dozen times a day since Ghostbusters came out 30 years. Most importantly, they both know if it actually is the legend that IS Bill Murray, the last thing in the world he wants to deal with is a couple of drunk 30-somethings asking him if he’s the dude from Caddyshack while he’s minding his own business, reading a book on the D train at four in the morning.

     Covertly, they sit and watch, and watch, and watch, trying to read him as best they can without giving themselves away. The wheels begin to squeal as the train pulls up to the next stop, and ‘he’ casually closes his book and makes his way to the doors, conveniently located right next to where Kate and John are sitting. The two meticulously watch his every step towards the exit. Just before he’s about to step off and make his way to a connecting train or coffee stand or where ever, he stops dead in his tracks… turns to the both of them… and with the slightest half smile, says “You know if you tell anybody tomorrow, they’re never going to believe you anyway,” and walks off.

Now that’s a fucking story.