Sliding Doors

I've been thinking about Sliding Doors style scenarios a bit lately. A little bit Butterfly Effect with added cute new haircuts.

I'm trying to cut down on my consumption of Coca Cola, upon the advice of my dentist. Nice guy; sadistic as fuck and with a love for shoving metal hooks into gums and letting 'em rip. Still, now that I've gotten a root canal and fillings out of the way in the last 10 days, I feel I should give it a crack. Hard not to wonder, however, what effect this could have on my life in the short, medium or long term.

Seeing as I have the day off tomorrow, I figure there's two ways that this can go.

Someone calls in sick so I'm asked if I can cover and do the put-in for the night's show. No biggie, I could use the money. To be honest, if I have the day off I'll likely just sit about on my couch playing FIFA, and fall into old habits with a sneaky can of blackish brown, liquid goodness. Might be for the best to keep myself occupied. Nigella Lawson is giving a talk in the theatre, so while it will be busy, it's not going to be a riotous crowd. Still, I've been thinking about that drink now. If I wasn't working, I'd be there right this minute.

"I could really do with some Coke right now, lads."

Nigella strolls serenely through the foyer, past the box office. She's practically gliding. We make eye contact. Be cool, Deebs. Be cool. I'm not being cool. She aims a saucy wink my way, and whispers something to her PA or whoever. The day carries on as normal, until someone slips a note under the glass screen at my counter.

"Come to my dressing room after the show. N."

Lads, help. What do I do? Well, I go to her dressing room after the show, obviously. There's a few lines cut and waiting for me on the table. I think there's been an essential misunderstanding.

Three weeks later I find myself the subject of lurid Daily Mail headlines dubbing me Nigella's toyboy lover, The press attention is quite upsetting, but it's my day off so I try to forget about it by sitting back on the couch and playing FIFA with some coke.

Of course, the couch is so much bigger in Nigella's than my one in Edinburgh, and this coke is less liquid than it is white and powdery, but otherwise nothing much has changed in the last three weeks.

I should probably let Miriam know where I am.

"Nigella, I'll have to get that recipe from you."

OR

I could just have the day off tomorrow and drink some Coke. I suppose it all comes down to whether that's really so bad? If anything, it seems like it would be wrong of me NOT to have some now.

Fuck the dentist's caution.

The Belgians

And they only invented the chocolates to get to the kids.

I was working a theatre festival five years back, a mere volunteer covering in the stead of people ruled out through broken ankles and dance-dislocated kneecaps. This festival was more fringe than Fringe. And the most bizarre of the events were saved for the intimate Dublin theatre I was haunting on my shifts.

This is how I was introduced to The Belgians.

They had three shows on during this festival, each lasting no more than a matter of days and with scant "audience" permitted. Not sure I can justify terming those who attended as audiences, when they were as central to the performances as the company itself. They allowed very little information to be put out indicating what they were going to be doing, so people were essentially coming in blind. First show went for literal (temporary) blindness, had us corral attendees in a waiting area before they were led in to a pitch black corridor, one at a time, restrained to a wheelchair by wrists and ankles and blindfolded for good measure. This was not your granny's tea party. Or, if it was, then....hey, your granny definitely owned a gimp suit and a ball gag. Moving on from your saucy granny, the subject would then be wheeled into different sections and exposed to different stimuli (having scents wafted at you, being laid out on a bed where someone stroked your hair and whispered encouraging words in your ear etc) before finally having the blindfold removed as they were being wheeled out backwards....facing a Jesus-like dude in a loin cloth standing before them....weeping.

The Belgians were into some weird shit, but fuck me it was interesting.

They needed numbers to fill the 10 minute slots for each day of this, so if there were no-shows or if the quantity of the unknown scared people off, the volunteers on shift were asked to step in and have some wafty, whispery, weepy, wheely fun.

"Deebs?"
"Nah, can't do it. I've got a bad knee."
"You'd be sitting in a wheelchair."
"Er....I'm allergic to wheelchairs."

The third of their three limited run productions saw people escorted into a small room, ostensibly waiting for something to happen. It already had. They were alone, save for a large mirror, and alone they would stay for several minutes. Then they were led behind the mirror, to watch the next person in to be marooned in the emptiness of that room. There they examined and extrapolated..What's this person's story? Who are they? What does their body language and behaviour say about them, as they stand in this room with only their reflection for company? When done with giving their thoughts on who this person was, they were led out and presented with a CD containing the commentary that had been provided on them by the previous attendee to them. Again, quite fascinating, and again I opted against participating.

The second show though, that I went for. Let me tell you about "Internal" (shout out to the magnificent Miss Elphinstone for recalling the title I could not).

Again, I knew what it entailed before I was summoned to take part, but, fuck it- let's test some personal friggin' boundaries! I knew what was lying in wait, but the other ringer, a jovial, cheeky techie from Northern Ireland did not. Wee fucker had no idea what he was in for.

Five strangers were led to their marks, an inch from a heavy dark curtain, which raised to leave them nose to nose with five new strangers; The Belgians. They cocked and rocked their heads as they examined we who stood before them. We giggled nervously as a collective, as the performers switched between themselves to choose their preferred opposite. They took our hands and led us each off to our own individual encounter, one on one with whomever had chosen us.

I was directed wordlessly to a small, curtained-off cubicle amidst the darkness of the space. Here began my speed dating experience.

Yep.

All practiced anxiety, and cautious flirtation, the actress sequestered with me played the pro. Maria and I traded names, and settled in for 10 of the most gosh darn romantic moments that Belgian theatre could seek to provide. She set about making me at ease.

"So, Deebs, that's an interesting name."
"My parents were hippies."
"And where do you work?"
"I'm a volunteer here. I'm wearing the t-shirt."

Alright, so maybe I was a difficult bastard to start, knowing as I did what I was participating in ahead of time. I caught myself, and embraced the experience with as much honesty as I could muster. She suggested a shot to relax us, and poured one from the bottle of vodka to her right. We toasted to us, and knocked back a midday eye-opener. In adjacent cubicles, whiskey, cointreau, a drink I cannot recall, and....er....milk were similarly enjoyed.

From there, I obliged Maria's request to hold my hand and delve further into our date. Asking after any story behind the two rings I wore then (and wear now), led into asking if I had loved the girl who had given one of them to me, or if I had a girlfriend now, and tick followed tock from there. Alright, so this is reading like the beginning of some dull as fuck erotic fiction. I was open and honest, but prior knowledge held back enough with reason.

"Will you do something for me? Will you close your eyes? Picture us on our dream date, anywhere in the world. Where are we?"
"I don't know."
"Come on. Where are we? What time is it?"
"OK, Edinburgh. It's late, and we're sitting on a bench in the gardens underneath the castle and a full moon."

So, technically this was just me substituting her in to the memory of my most recent date at the time. Still....

"What are we doing? Are we kissing?"
"Nope. We're talking, laughing together on this bench."
"Have we maybe been kissing?"
"I don't know. No."
"Why not?"
"Maybe I'm not that kinda girl, Maria. Nah, we might be heading that way. Just feeling each other out."
"Do you think we will be kissing?"
"Yeah, sure."

She pried further.

"What is your deepest secret?"

Not a chance, Maria! I know your game. Yet, I can see why people opened up more than I did at this point. She was very good at making me feel at ease, and like this really was romance at work.

She stood, still tenderly clutching my hand, and guided me out into a now lit up circle of chairs. We were joined by the other four couples, as the actors took it in turns to introduce their partners to the group. Upon introducing us, they would open up to the circle about their date had gone. It was as though a speed dating night had been crossed with an AA meeting. Well, there was drinking, and we'd only just lost that anonymity. Describing their dates led into the performers' respective special moves, or party pieces.

• First one up asked her date to rate their time together out of 10, and reciprocated with a rating of her own. They each scored highly.
• Next victim was asked if she wouldn't mind giving the group some space. Once consigned to the darkness, out of earshot of the hushed gushing, we learned that he was unsure if she was right for him. Her darkest secret had been that she pissed in the shower. Daily. When she was welcomed back to the group, she was invited to spill, as the performer took his leave of the circle. She thought he was a ride, and had to be shushed a couple of times when she got overexcited in proclaiming this. She was not to know that he had told us her secret. Nor was she to know that he said this same thing about all of his dates that week. 
• Kwint (from Gent), finished his appraisal by asking his date for a hug. She ecstatically accepted.

My turn.

"This is Deebs. For our date, he brought me to Edinburgh. We talked, and I waited for him to kiss me. He seemed hesitant. I get the feeling he has been hurt before. He wants to love, but he is afraid to put himself out there. His deepest secret, or at least his deepest flaw, is that he is a perfectionist. He likes to write, but he worries he will never finish anything of consequence. His favourite thing to say is 'I don't know'."

Not bad, Maria.

"I like to think there was a spark between us. Did you feel it too, Deebs?"

I turned to the circle.

"I don't know. Ha."

Get a load of Mr. Comedian over here.

"Well, did you feel a spark, or did you not?"
"Yeah, sure. No, I mean it. I did."
"Prove it."

The other actors chanted this to echo her challenge. She leaned in and we kissed.

See, the thing is, I was well briefed in what was going to happen in this one. I knew that any secret I spoke of in private would be revealed to the group. I knew about the rating, the hugging, the pissing, and the kissing. More importantly, if mine was the kisser, then I knew what that meant for the northern techie across from me.

I sat back and imagined the popcorn in my hands. He had no idea.

His date was a brunette dressed in an elegant dress, who apparently spent almost the entirety of their 10 minutes together refusing to speak. She did not offer him a drink, instead pouring both shots for herself. His frequent attempts to make conversation were met with stony silence. Her only words offered were a solitary utterance of "I am beautiful".

"He thinks I'm beautiful. He speaks too much. He never shuts up. Well, let me ask you, what do you have to say about these?"

She dropped the dress. There were boobs everywhere. She was a breast octopus. I mean, there were only two, but at that moment, everything else in that room ceased to exist next to her chest. A few titters echoed through the space ("titters" ha), as Norn Iron's own forced his eyes from nipple to eyeball. He spoke.

"Could you not have picked a better time?"

The dress went back on, as soft music was piped in, gentle lights rose partly and we were each brought from our seats. Our dates held us each close and danced slowly with us.

"Do you think we will stay in touch? Will you write to me, if I do to you?"

With that, Maria turned (as did the others) to offer a pen, paper and her back upon which to put them together and write my address. We parted, promising to write each other soon.

We, this audience, were left alone in a corridor suddenly lit and revealing all the responses from past encounters that their own letters had inspired. They covered the entire wall. Each seemed to truly believe that what they'd shared had been real.

We five strangers left as one, joking at the experience we had just shared, and then went our separate ways. Yet, I saw other people through that week arrive alone and leave as part of a group. I overheard groups of five organising impromptu trips to the pub with people they knew nothing of beside the fact that they may or may not piss n the shower with frequency.

Each group, bar one, I guessed who had been on the receiving end of a mammary surprise. They were always the flustered one, and they were always more than willing to reveal themselves when asked, The one group I opted not to question featured a two mid-argument as they exited. Seems that when Maria had asked him if he was single, he'd said he was. His girlfriend apparently disagreed.

Seeing that The Belgians were putting on a show this August at a theatre around the corner from mine, I wondered if I should have given Maria my actual address in 2010. We could have had that date under the castle and the moon.

Miriam would have understood, right?