Her eyes lit up in excitement as she scribbled on a piece of paper. Instinctively, I knew she was more excited about the scribbling than perhaps the many conversations I had with her during the evening. It was only sometime far, far, far into the future when I found out how much I had bored her – she got attached to a bloke after she broke up with her girlfriend. I might have been way too boring for her – someone who is part of the creative heartbeat that is the advertising industry. While I, the tramp, was the boring old tramp whose knowledge of the indie music scene stopped at the time when The Farm was a banging up the UK Charts.
Within less than a minute, the scribbling – amidst the din in the pub – stopped. Carefully, she folded the piece of paper. I volunteered to be the carrier of this message to the band, which was now playing some rendition of a recent indie or rock song I had no idea what it was. The whole place rocked, while I, the tramp, squeezed my way through the clutter of tables in front of the band, complete with lads who were dressed to kill and lasses who were dressed to… “be killed”.
As I got to the front, I smiled, perhaps a little too boyishly, at the singer of the band. She was this very well known rocker-esque lead singer of this band who had a bit of a raspy voice – very much like a rock chick. Maybe I was too deadpan in my best attempts at a smile. She didn’t smile back at me. Instead, with her head glistening with perspiration, she was addressing the crowd and screaming out the lyrics of some indie / rock song.
Gingerly and slightly embarrassed at myself for not getting her to acknowledge my best attempts to smile, I dropped the paper into a tin, placed within the reach of the rock chick with the raspy voice. I squeezed my way back to the seat and muttered to her, “It’s done. It’s in there!”
“I don’t think they’ll play it,” she assessed.
“I’m sure they will. It’s a fantastic song that will surely rock the house!” I comforted.
“Well, the last two times I requested for the song, she didn’t sing it,” she responded with a small pout.
“Let’s hope they will, this time,” I mustered an uneasy smile. It wasn’t the first time in my life that I wasn’t so sure but had to fake it. Just that, I have major problems with faking things sometimes.
So the night wore on. I slowly nursed my drink of Diet Coke while she downed her second mug of Hoegaarden. Meanwhile, the band played more of those songs I had never heard of. Only once the music got me excited. That was when the band decided to go back in time and played one popular U2 song.
“I’m sure they’ll play it,” I reassured her for the umpteenth time.
“Hope so,” she muttered for the nth time.
Then, it happened: the familiar strains of the guitar introduction, the tune, the beat of the drums, and the rock chick’s best attempts (which wasn’t so bad) to sound like Thom Yorke.
The next thing I knew, she was bobbing her head, flashing that cute, goofy smile of hers. I followed.
Then, she turned to look at me before breaking into the widest of smiles I saw on her face for that entire evening. Awkwardly, I smiled back.
Well, it would have been a happy ending if there ever was an offer of a hug. It didn’t materialise. Still, in my book, it was a memorable evening.