Standing Up for Himself

Contains: swearing and shelf stacking.

Sceptical drunks watched him trip his way up to the stage, sniggering long before he grabbed the microphone.

“Anyone else here done with being nice to people?” He cleared his throat, getting dead stares from the audience. “I worked in a bakery. A customer asked me if I could recommend anything. I recommend talking to someone else.” Somewhere in the gloom a noise of mild amusement declared itself the best encouragement he’d get for that snippet.

Feeling the perspiration in his armpits spilling outward he thanked all of the gods for black T-shirts and low lighting.

“A manager told me she didn’t like my attitude when I asked why my pay was late. I told her I wasn’t a big fan of her pulse but there are things we all have to put up with in life.” A tumbleweed blew through the collective consciousness of the audience.

“Get off,” said a man whose voice was laden with beer and the corresponding confidence.

“With you, no thanks. I’m married to a woman who can do much better and I’m not going to mess it up for you.” His hands shook on the microphone stand.

“You’re shit.” The voice, dripping inebriation came from a space near the last.

“Oh dear,” the wannabe comedian put a hand on his heart. “I’m a poopy head? Any more little boys got insults? See if you can do better than than Dastardly and Mutly.”

“Get off,” came the first voice in the darkness.

“Who’s shit now? You already used that one.” Turning from the crowd he paced the edge of the stage. “Anyone else have their receipt for the last time they had loud sex? Mine’s called Rachel. She’s coming up for two now.”

Someone in the crowd laughed. The stomachache that had been growing inside him decided to see if it would be needed.

“Parents in the house!” He pointed into the darkness. “Despite missing getting my leg over I still think having unprotected sex turned out to be my greatest achievement. Is that sad?”

“Yes,” said Willful Heckler One.

“Thanks for the feedback, buddy. Are mummy and daddy coming to pick you up after the show?” Every breath tasted of vomit.

“Fuck you,” said WHO.

“We’ve been over this, you’re not my type. Don’t make me get a restraining order. The attention is flattering though.” He burped, holding the mic away. “I’m way too sober for this. Who’s drunk?”

Some cheers rattled off the soundproof walls.

“Anyone else know one of the super rich kids at school? There was a kid in my class who got a Lamborghini for their birthday the moment they could drive. I have to presume their parents were sick of him being a spoiled brat and wanted him wrapped around a tree before his next birthday.”

Silence.

“I’m sure some of you might be offended that I’m being casual about the loss of human life.” He shrugged. “Never liked that boy. They say you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. No one cares about badmouthing Hitler. Stalin? Being false about someone just because they’re dead gets on my nerves.

There was an old guy I met in a pub, that’s a bar for any Americans, he told me he doesn’t trust banks so he keeps all of his money under his mattress. That must be safer than having it in a vault, especially since he keeps telling everyone.

In some states in America there’s no legal minimum age for a child to have a long gun, which includes assault rifles. But they have to wait until they’re eighteen to vote.” He put on his best ‘Merican accent, “you’re too young to express yourself in a democracy. Take this rifle, and go to your underfunded school.” Letting his abysmal accent die the death it deserved, he went on.

“Why do men who’ve never had a vagina get to set the tax rate on tampons? If there’s a problem they blame immigrants. That’s like throwing a house party and blaming the last guy to arrive, someone who’s never been there before, for the shit wallpaper.”

Sweat trickled down his forehead into his eye. Blinking away the discomfort. His mind scrambled to find anything labeled funny, but scattered every memory and insight across the floor. Every mental post it note flew away, leaving him with an outdated joke he’d thought of in high school.

“Guys don’t have dirty magazines now because of the internet. My friend told me he never liked dirty magazines. He said, ‘I hate the stains but if I was horny enough I’d flip through the pages anyway.’ Thank you. You’ve been an audience.” Did that make sense?

“Boo,” came Wilful Heckler One’s voice.

“Now he’s a ghost, Hallowe’en is months away.”

“Get off the stage,” said WHO.

“Come up then, you’re next.” The stage fright-sweat soaked stand up waved a hand out into the darkness, beckoning the jeering heckler to take his moment on stage.

Silence.

“No brilliant zingers at the bottom of your pint? Full of shit like the bin in a public park?” He trembled with fear. As much as embarrassed, he was terrified of the lid that had been thrown off. Every insult he’d taken without spitting back a quip boiled up. “Nothing to say?”

A shape in the darkness shuffled forwards, circling tables.

“You suck,” said WHO, wobbling into the light of the stage. His polo shirt had the sports sponsor logo across the heart, beer soaked the front where he’d spilled it throwing the alcohol at his face. The jeans, including the frayed knees, had cost more than everything the comedian wore.

“Says the guy who dressed himself tripping through a C-list footballer’s wardrobe. Did you come dressed as the accused in a drunken brawl case? You look like every high school bully on a non uniform day.”

Standing on the stage gave the speaker a sense of protection, as if the mere elevation meant the drunk couldn’t just come up and test his already bruised knuckles on the stand up’s forehead.

“My wife left me, alright?” said the man below.

If it’s any consolation, she’s probably better off without you, thought the comedian. “Sorry to hear that, bud.” He looked at the patch of blackness where the bar sat across the room, bottles backlit in places to highlight the many possibilities for liver failure. “Another pint for this man, I’m paying.” Please don’t hit me.

“Nice one, man,” said WHO, throwing an awkward thumbs up at the stage as he turned towards the bar.

“Next up,” said the host in a hurried voice, “Kelly is singing us her latest song. Come on up, Kelly.”

The comedian's legs almost failed him on the step down from the stage. Darkness and obscurity welcomed him home as a young woman with a guitar hopped up the steps in her rainbow platform boots.

“How do you feel?” asked the host, microphone turned off.

“Like I should have worn a nappy.”

The host smirked in his hundred times worn pearlescent shirt. “You got better as you settled in, come back next week. Keep trying. You need a drink?” A hand clapped the perspiring young man on the shoulder. “Deodorant wouldn’t hurt either.”

A ballad of love, betrayal and dragons drifted over the room as Kelly hit her swing. Both men watched her, lost in the music and her presence. She’d clearly been doing it for years.

“What do you do for a living?” asked the host. His gelled hair was melting in the humid furnace of the dingy basement.

“Stack shelves in a supermarket,” said the comedian watching Kelly make musical love to her guitar.

“There are worse jobs,” said the MC.

“Yeah, I’ve worked those too.” He wished with all of his will that he could lose himself on stage, to be the living embodiment of his performance as Kelly was with hers.

“Drink?” asked the host again.

“Since you're buying,” he smiled.

“Nice try, chancer.” The older man winked.

“Triple vodka and coke,” he said to the barman.

“I can only sell you a double,” said the man in a Beer in the Basement T-shirt.

“Then give me a pint of coke, a single, a double and don’t look when the shots go swimming.”

“Fair play,” nodded the barman. He poured the drinks, took the money and moved down the bar to serve the next customer.

Tipping all of the spirits into his pint glass, he drank the lot in one gulp. The cheap vodka burnt his throat and sparked a fire in his belly.

Fishing the number chit from his jeans for the coat cupboard he got his jacket back and stepped out into the cold night. His phone was a pool of blue in blackness barely bothered by the yellow street lamps.

How did it go? asked an hour old text from his wife.

It was a strong medium. I’m off to work. Expecting her to be asleep, he slipped his phone back into his pocket.

The phone vibrated. Jumping, he pulled the phone out again. I bet you were great, she’d typed. I love you. Have a great night shift. Kiss me when you get home.

He walked from one island of light to the next down the main road. Forty minutes later he was welcomed back by the sneering light of the giant sign that told customers: If you want it, we’ve got it.

His shoulders sank as the doors hissed open. His security card opened the door.

“You’re late,” said his manager with malicious intensity.

“I have two minutes before my shift starts,” he said. Ignoring the officious jobsworth, he strolled to the staff room, flung on his fluorescent jacket and slapped his sign in card against the machine which beeped to say ‘not you again.’

Imperious eyes followed him from the sign in to his stock list. “Are you going slowly on purpose?”

“No, Derick, it’s just a natural talent of mine.” He clipped on his name tag. My name is Jack. How can I help you?

“I should give you a disciplinary meeting for talking back to me, Jack,” said the man with a clipboard that made him feel important.

“Why not two, then you can pay to not work, twice.” Jack stacked the shelves from boxes sitting in the isles. Derick followed him with burning anger furrowing his brow.

“You can’t talk to me like that.”

“Why not,” Jack asked. “You’re a supermarket manager. Your two jobs are to make sure we do our jobs and to sign the supervisor sheets. You forgot your signature when we failed the last inspection. A phone reminder could do your job better than you do.”

“I’m going to see the store manager about you, Jack.”

“Don’t interrupt him while he’s fucking one of the other managers, he might fire you for that.”

“YOU ARE DONE HERE!” Derick yelled.

“Mercy. Yes please.” Jack pressed his hands together and looked at a pigeon sitting in the rafters above him.

As the manager stormed away to exercise the full extent of his meagre power, Jack prayed to the pigeon.

Shit on him now and I will worship you and your kind forevermore.