Storytelling is an art, really, but it is one of the most accessible. We all tell stories from the time we are young, recounting our day at school or our dreams to our parents or making up things for our dolls our action figures to do. As we get older, we learn to tell stories to cover our tracks and to plead our case. Most often, though, we tell stories to entertain others.
One of my favourite podcasts is The Tobolowsky Files, produced by /Film it is “a series of stories about life, love, and the entertainment industry, as told by legendary character actor Stephen Tobolowsky.” You may not know him by name but you should recognize him instantly (“Ned Ryerson? BING!” in Groundhog Day; more recently as Bob Bishop on Heroes and as the alarmingly inappropriate Sandy Ryerson on Glee along with one of the longest lists of credits in IMDB). Whether he is talking about his time on the set of a movie, working with a given director or recalling moments of his childhood, his stories are well-crafted, honest, and rich in detail. There’s almost a Prairie Home Companion feel to them and I find myself drawn completely in to the narrative.
But I digress.
Earlier this week, I saw a name leap off the screen while reading my Twitter feed and it reminded me of this story from my past. Hopefully you’ll find it entertaining. (Also, I’m going to use real names here because the story calls for it.)
In junior high school, I dated a guy named Rick May. He was older than me but I was very smitten. Alas, as junior high things go, it was not to be. We split up, not altogether amicably and after he graduated and moved on to high school, I lost track of him.
One day in my early 20s someone told me, “Hey, I heard that Rick May works down at the Old Town Cafe!” I knew the cafe and I wondered, did I care? I came to the conclusion that I was at least curious but a day or two later I had worked myself into a nervous wreck. I made my friend promise to come with me for support and, after drumming up the required courage, we ventured downtown to the cafe. I approached the staff behind the counter and asked if Rick May was working, silently hoping that he wasn’t, that this was all a misunderstanding.
“Oh sure, I’ll go grab him.”
My stomach was in knots and my heart was pounding. The staff member returned, followed by someone with his head bowed, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. As he raised his face to look at me, I realized that this was not an older version of the person I had dated; this was a very different Rick May.
“Yes? What can I do for you?”
I honestly have no idea what I said but I am certain it was not graceful, and possibly not even comprehensible. I turned tail and beat a hasty path out of there and didn’t look back. My friend could not stop laughing.
In case you are curious, “my” Rick May is in the states now (ah, the wonders of Facebook — I checked after I wrote a draft of this story); the other Rick May is a ridiculously successful musician who is a partner in another cafe in town. I wish them both well.