Life in My Years

Dan Kennedy didn’t look at all like what I’d assumed he would. If I had to guess, the voice I listened to in my iPod belonged to man in his early thirties—tall, brown hair, chiseled face, dapperly dressed, and quietly handsome in an intellectual manner. He donned a sophisticated pair of spectacles that rested high on his classically elegant nose.

In reality, he was rather short. I couldn’t tell how old he was because he had one of those faces that could’ve been 25 or 40 years old. His hair was the color of wet clay and much of it was force-swept over the right side of his face in long, greasy slicks. His chin was long, his cheeks a little pudgy, and he wore one of those hipster flannel shirts with tight cargo pants. His voice, reserved and distinguished-sounding in my iPod, drawled with dry sarcasm on the stage. Almost every sentence was irreverent, laden with witty or ironic commentary.

I sat on the floor, impatient. I wasn’t there for him; I was here for the stories. And after the one and a half block long line, the 45 minute wait, and the packed, standing-room-only bookstore, I was eager to begin. I perked up from my cross-legged seated position at the sight of the first storyteller and clapped wildly to welcome the first of, what I expected to be, some truly fantastic stories.

So, after standing in the one and a half block long line, waiting for 45 minutes in the autumn cold, and feeling the close, hot breaths of neighbors on the back of my neck, were they really, truly fantastic? No, not really. With the exception of one story, none were “fantastic”; but they were good. But even if someone wasn’t good, the novelty of watching an average person step out of the audience and into the spotlight on stage to tell a personal story made it well worth watching. To see them stand up there alone, exposing their inner-most thoughts and memories to complete strangers, it strikes you how vulnerable they are in front of that audience—and how brave. Details of a person’s body and mannerisms that our minds and ears miss or gloss over are suddenly magnified in a way that television or movies could never make feel that immediate and raw: his right hand imperceptibly shaking; the sound and cadence of her voice quickly adapting after being surprised by her first sounds through the microphone; jittery, long fingers dancing around the edges of his tie, curling and uncurling the silky fabric.

An invisible, almost primal, connection forms between the speaker and the audience. They share themselves with us and we listen and look at them with a focus and attention that the lonely seek from therapists. We’re invested, we feel their nerves, we experience their thoughts and share their excitement. One by one, breadcrumbs are dropped and we eagerly follow them down an unknown path and when the storyteller’s good, there’s nothing else like it.

The night was nearing its end and Haley and I decided the next story was to be our last story, since Haley needed to go back to Jimmy’s apartment. The storyteller was a woman who looked to be in her late 30′s, early 40′s. She wore dark pants and a long-sleeved milky white silk top that shone in the light when she moved. She stood tall and thin, possessed a mane of poofy dark brown hair–a physical trait that instantly endeared her to me–and she seemed very composed and calm.  Her voice reflected her appearance. It was a gentle, light, and soothing voice that sounded a little like music and each of her sentences ended with an upward lilt in tone that made everything she said sound like an uncertain question. Her body would move alongside her soft voice with little dips and gestures, and I was reminded of a willow tree as I watched her.

I was unimpressed after the first few sentences, however, when she started listing all the generic insecurities she had as a college freshmen. Coupled with that voice of hers, her long, self-deprecating confession list of adolescent aimlessness and low self-esteem made me feel like I was actually a therapist, listening to a middle-aged woman beating herself up sentence after sentence. It was slightly depressing and not terribly interesting. As she launched further into her story about a party she went to her freshmen year, I sat there listening dutifully but without much enthusiasm or curiosity.

I don’t know when exactly it happened, but at some point, I realized that I was sitting in that audience rigid with tension and completely transfixed in her tale. She had story-ninja’d all of us and we didn’t know what or when it’d hit us until everyone in the audience was dead silent and completely glued (and I say this only in hindsight) to this woman on the stage. All else was gone except for that woman and her story and the air was absolutely electric with attention. There were sparks of tension; I could almost feel it. With her tone never raising, never quickening, never quavering, she uncovered the terrifying details of that night of the party piece by piece as patiently and as gently as her voice sounded and I realized at one point that I was holding my breath and I felt so frightened for her that even though I knew she was okay and was still alive (obviously), I almost couldn’t bear listening anymore. I turned around to Haley who was staring at her with a look of concentration, shot him a look of panic, and squeezed his hand tightly. He smiled at me and I felt a little better, and returned into her world. The climax of her story was so strange and bizarre, but as I sat there listening to her, I never thought for a moment that she might’ve made it up. It just felt real. And then the story was over.

She walked off the stage and the spell was broken. Thunderous claps and cheers rang out in the room to her retreating back.