The Art of Excuses

Darren Hill had a PhD in excuses. Not a literal one of course, he barely made it through community college but if there was a degree for creative excuses, skillful dodging and Olympic-level procrastination, he would graduate sum-ma cum lade.

“Sorry I missed your birthday dinner.” He told his sister, Mia. “Flat tire. Had to wait for over an hour and a half for a tow truck. My spare was flat too.”

He wasn’t lying. Not completely. There had been a flat tire, three weeks prior to his sister’s birthday dinner. As far as the interview for the new job he skipped?

“Food poisoning.” He told the HR manager, trying to sound like he was in pain over the phone as he lounged on his bed eating the other half of an extra large pepperoni pizza with extra cheese and watching a six part documentary on Netflix about minimalism.

Everyone that Darren knew had quickly built a fortress of lowered expectations. His parents had long stopped asking him to come over and help them with the yard work, housework, or any other kind of work. They even stopped asking him to come over twice a week to water the houseplants when they went on their yearly vacation cruises. His friends had stopped inviting him to all guy weekend adventures, birthday parties, bachelor parties, weddings and all events they were attending or hosting. His boss after his sixth migraine in five weeks shifted his work schedule from full time in the office to part time remote which suited Darren just fine.

Excuses were like his defense shield, his cloak of invisibility. They kept him safe from failure and his heart safe from heartbreak. Or so he thought.

It was an overcast Wednesday morning. The fog was also rolling in from across the other side of the city and that is when he got the email.

Subject: Open Mic Night--Tonight!!

He almost deleted it but something about it being in bold type caught his eye and he decided to read the body of the email. He squinted at the computer screen. He knew that he really should get his eyes checked and even made an appointment but when the day came for the appointment Darren did not feel like driving the five miles to his eye doctor’s office so he told the receptionist he had to cancel because he was still in Hawaii on business and his plane was still on the tarmac. He would make another appointment when he finally got back in town. He never did.

“You signed up three months ago for a performance slot for our monthly open Mic Night. Tonight’s the night! It starts at 7PM. Be there 15 minutes early with a story, poem, song or comedy to share. See you there at the Oak Tree Cafe Home of the Original Pancakes and Pork chops.”

Darren blinked.

Three months ago after three beers and one tequila shot, someone at the bar dared him to drink, he had a wave of alcohol inspired courage and signed up to tell a story, his story. He thought it would be better than therapy. He had made an appointment for that too but came up with a bruised foot on the day of the appointment that hindered his ability to drive.

“I think this would be better than spending a few hundred dollars for therapy. Yeah, it would be good for me.” He told the barista who handed him the sign up sheet. “Facing my fears and all that mess.” He continued.

Now he stared at the email like it had personally betrayed him.

“Nope.” He mumbled. “Not happening.”

He needed an excuse. He needed something believable. Maybe the flu? A power outage? Aunt's funeral? No, he had used an aunt's funeral twice already. Two different aunts and the same lie.

Darren turned off the laptop and walked to the kitchen. He opened the fridge looking hard at the carton of milk as if it had a good excuse written on the side of it. If only he thought.

Later that afternoon his phone vibrated. A text from Mia.

“You still doing the open mic thing tonight?”

She remembered. He paused hovering his thumbs over the message reply box. He thought of saying that he couldn’t because he had some kind of stomach bug but he changed his mind. Maybe it was the guilt from not going to her birthday dinner or maybe it was the unbearable silence in his apartment. He had not had a real conversation in three days. He typed:

“Think about it.”

Seconds later:

“I’ll come if you go.”

Darren groaned. Now he was stuck. If he bailed now not only would he be bailing on himself but he would be also bailing on her too.

At 6:45 Darren stood outside of the cafe wearing a black jacket he had not worn since his senior year in high school and clutching a folded piece of paper with half-legible notes.

He didn’t write anything new, just some ramblings about excuses he used. Now the excuses felt like they were wrapping around his feet like wet cement. Inside the cafe he could hear soft music playing over loud conversations and laughter. He walked in and a small mic was standing on a small wooden stage. It looked lonely and innocent but little did it know that it would soon be the scene of a nervous breakdown.

Mia waved from her table in the corner of the room with a coffee in one hand and a big smile on her face.

“You made it.” She said.

“Barely.” He mumbled.

“You gonna read that?” She pointed at the paper in his hand.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Still deciding with less than five minutes to go?” She said, raising her eyebrows.

He shrugged. “I still have time to fake a seizure.”

“Don’t get any ideas. You’ll be great.”

A middle aged guy with a long white beard which reminded him of Santa Claus, wearing a plaid shirt, faded blue jeans, and suspenders holding a ukulele called his name.

“Next up. Darren sharing his personal story.”

Mia clapped loudly from her table. Darren’s feet betrayed him and started walking to the stage before his brain could stop them. He stared at the mic, the room full of strangers and his sister who covered for him many times when he skipped school to play video games.

“Hi.” He said. His voice cracked slightly. “I’m Darren. I’m…uh…really good at not doing things.”

A few people in the audience laughed.

“I was supposed to practice what I was going to say but I got a little distracted by laundry, pizza, Netflix and my own fear.”

More laughs.

“I tell people I’m busy or sick or that my dog is sick. Which is impressive if only I had a dog. But the truth is that I am scared. I’m scared to fail. I’m scared to try, and scared that I won’t be enough. Scared I won’t ever be good enough.”

He paused. His fingers were still clutching the folded paper in his hand. But, he didn’t look at it.

“And so I just don’t try. If I don’t try then I can’t fail. That works great until you realize how much you are missing out on in life because you are scared to try and after a while you build a wall and behind it is a world you live in where you stay scared. The wall is a failure after all.”

The room was silent. No more sounds of coffee being slurped. No more laughter, no more forks clunking on plates of food, no more talking.

“I almost didn’t come tonight. I told myself I had a headache. I don’t have a headache. I am just tired. I am tired of running away from new things and people who could make my life better.”

He exhaled.

“This isn’t the funniest of stories or the most poetic of poems but it’s my story and for once I am not making excuses.”

He stepped back. The silence in the room hung for a long minute and then applause filled the room. Polite at first and then louder. He returned to Mia’s table. She gave him a look he hadn’t seen in years. Pride.

“See?” She said, “I told you that you can do it.”

He smiled. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late. I’ve already booked your next gig.” She smiled.

The next day Darren sat at his desk staring at a job application online. He’d told himself that he was not qualified. His resume was not enough, too many gaps and it probably wasn’t enough for this job. He told himself he probably would not even do well at the interview with his sweaty palms when he got nervous. Maybe he was too old or even too young.

Then he remembered open mic night. He remembered the fear, the way his hands shook but he also remembered he did it anyway. Maybe he wouldn’t get the job. Maybe they would think he was a hot mess or maybe, just maybe it was time for him to stop making excuses and live his life to the fullest and close the book of The Art of Excuses.