Valley of Kats

I kept running into versions of myself tonight.

The gig went surprising well for a night with more comedians than punters. Highlights included the audient who, when asked what his favourite curse word was, replied ‘Germany’, the lovely British lad who took an audible and long piss in the bathroom by the stage and received a standing ovation upon his return and the comic who told me WHILE I WAS ON STAGE that he had a heckle for me but didn’t want to interrupt. He later quietly told me that he thought I should have failed to object to a hand crushing handshake because I’m clearly a lumberjack. Which is an observation everyone knows is much nicer to say in close physical proximity. Hilarious.

It was on the walk to my car that myselves kept popping up. The me who worked at the cafe in the mall who actually had a Sicilian man approach the counter with a violin case, pat the case and say he had a ‘kilo Columbian’ for my boss looked up from cleaning tables and smiled. I walked past myself sitting supremely bored behind the counter of a shoe shop where I glanced up briefly and went back to painting my nails yellow. Skittering versions of me danced past the windows of the Empire, ¬†grinned and went back to dancing. One of me dashed out of The Beat, too fucked up to cope with the breathing walls and mad Welshman intent on sitting on my knee and stealing my hat. A calmer me walked next to a younger Stav on our way to dinner and smiled absently as she listened to his day. From the hungover me propped up over a truckers brekky at the Californian Cafe to the hopeful me picking up her new boyfriend at Blockbuster, we were all there tonight.

The current me arrived at the car at about 9pm to find a parking ticket on the window. Which was strange given that I had paid up until 10pm. Blessedly, I had kept the receipt and saw that either high vis was in this year, or the parking guy was still lurking about. I strolled up to him with righteous calm and wondered whether a version of him, younger and in less of a soul crushing job, was skipping down the street in jester boots and tie dyed pants, giggling at the way the light reflected off the rainy pavement. As we solved the mystery of car 426 FNF having a valid ticket while 246FNF was clearly a rule breaking hoodlum, I know at least one me was laughing.