The Moment (open mic)

The Moment was first drafted during a writing marathon hosted by the National Writing Project at Rutgers University. The basic idea of a writing marathon is that a small group of writers travel around a city or town by foot, choosing locations where the environment will inspire writing. These groups commit themselves to write small 10-minute bursts, share their writing without judgment, and then move onto the next location. This is an excellent exercise in moving beyond writers block and creating seeds that may later grown into stories, essays, and poems of their own.

Among many stops in New Brunswick, we visited Court Tavern for a writing session. Passing through the doorway, I noticed an announcement for a Monday Night open mic stapled to the wall. The inside was nothing less than pure inspiration- a college dive, through and through. The environment itself found its way into my writing. Court Tavern is there in all its detail, right down to the sign hanging behind the waitress. Although this locations is real, we all been to some place like the Court Tavern, which makes it seem real for the readers.

I also took prompt from the advertisement to write about an open mic experience. Just the night before I performed at an open mic at John and Peter's in New Hope, PA. I was a fish out of water, as most of those singer songwriters were polishing performance where I was testing out new material. The pre-performance jitters took the best of me that night, especially when I compared myself to the guitarists that came before and after me.

Interesting how these two experiences blended together. Although this account is fictional, it summarizes several real life experiences. What I enjoy most about their piece is that it summarizes up the situation better than retelling any one of my factual accounts. The Moment captures what it’s like for me to climb up on that stage, time and time again.

This story was later polished during Columbia University’s Writing Workshop on the teaching of writing. I opted to share the story with an auditorium full of language arts teachers, late on a Friday afternoon in mid-July. If I could take that audience, then anything is possible . . .

The Moment (open mic)

Court Tavern was a refuge for the local yokels and spillover from the college bars. Who else would take in the poor huddles masses, rejected by the upscale microbrew restaurants? Plaids, fishnet stockings, safety pin earrings, vintage clothing via thrift shops. Clove cigarettes and bad poetry. Tattoos and body piercings. It had all the appeal of the New York City subway at midnight. I stood curbside with my Martin guitar in hand, wondering whether Court was an end of the road dive, or a brave new beginning. Mustering my last bit of courage, I opened the door and made a beeline for the bar.

A path in the floor was worn smooth, eroded by the shuffling footsteps of bar patrons. Ceramic tiles, lacquered with the accumulation of beer spills, sweated out barley and hops. On the walls hung eclectic and eccentric art- a blending of New Hope boutique and Gotham City graffiti. Cigarette smoke lifted in sinewy curls, bathed in a white lights above what they called a stage. Rather, it was a dank corner, once covered by a broken pinball machine now pushed aside to make space for tonight’s performances. It was that so-called stage that brought me out to Court Tavern on this evening.

Nervously, I climbed atop the barstool, and propped my guitar against the bar. At a quick glance, I didn’t recognize anyone in the tavern, at least no one that would remember my name. There would be no one to cheer me onto the stage- just the customary crowd applause when you finished your set. I wondered, did they cheer because, if only for a moment, you were entertaining; or because you finished playing that god-awful music and were finally leaving the stage? I could never tell. This was a game of mental sabotage: no matter how many times I came out to late night open mic, stage fright took its mental toll. Tonight was no different.

A clipboard for open mic reservation was left atop the bar counter. I signed my name to slot number nine, dead center. Halfway meant I could gage the talent before my slot. Hopefully there were enough poets and musicians at, or below, my level. Otherwise I might loose my nerve and leave. Going on stage after some phenomenal talent was a curse. Inevitably the audience would draw comparisons, especially to the performer immediately before you. Also the halfway tactic would give me enough time to down a few beers, hopefully numbing my anxiety.

“So, you play guitar?” said a voice over my shoulder.

I turned around, toward the bartender, a woman in her early thirties with the brightest blue eyes. Fearing that I had stared into her eyes for a time longer than what might be considered a friendly gesture, I glanced aside. Over her shoulder I noticed the sign “THIS CLUB IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR DRINKS THAT VIBRATE OFF THE BAR – MGMT.”

Caught off guard, I struggled for words. “Uh, yeah, well, kinda. Well I mean to say I play about this much,” I said, pinching my finger and thumb together. This was invented sign language for ‘yeah, just a little’. If this was to be the only conversation of tonight, I had completely blown it. Saving face, I changed direction of conversation. “Pint please.”

Having poured my ale from the tap, the bartender slid the pint glass towards me, stopping only an inch from my outreached hand. This was the perfection of practice, like pitching marbles, or throwing horseshoes. She knew the bar, calculating for slant, humidity, bumps, nicks, and scratches. It was this level of familiarity and practice that I envied. I gripped the neck of my guitar, wishing that I could play this instrument with the same level of precision.

A call came for number eight. Sweat poured out as I waited in anticipation. I chugged my pint. Nervously I began to retune my instrument before I realized it might be considered ignorant to the person on stage. Putting down my guitar, I instead picked up my pint and thumbed condensation away from the empty glass. My turn was next, and there was no avoiding the near future, after all, this is why I came out tonight.
A moment of silence.

“Number nine,” announced the M.C.

I waited in hesitation, maybe even in reconsideration.

“Number nine, where the hell are you!” Demanded the M.C., impatiently flailing his arms.
I inched my way toward the spotlight, Martin guitar in hand.

“You only get three songs, four if you are any good,” he barked.

Taking my place under the white stage lights, I inhaled deeply; the taste of dead air and stale cigarette smoke surged into my lungs. I adjusted my guitar to comfort level, fretting the strings, and strummed my first chord of the night. This was my moment.