Open Mic Night

Annie sipped idly on her scotch, heaving an overly dramatic sigh with such practiced effort that she almost stopped to congratulate herself on the intensity. She took her seat at the back of the bar, waving the drifting smoke from her face while focusing the last of her attention on the stage.

Open mic night is always the worst, she thought to herself. 

A drunken audience who couldn’t possibly distinguish talent, sober or not, were gazing in the same direction. Annie began to dare herself not to heave another one of her famous Scarlett O’Hara sighs. A man in a skin tight sequin leotard, finished a rigorous interpretive dance and bowed. 

“Hmphh,” Annie sighed, feeling slightly inebriated.

Then the spotlight hit him, a total case of the nerves. Annie found it hard not to look away. He pulled nervously on the collar of his white button down shirt, which looked very out of place in, and cleared his throat.

“You know what I hate?” he began, slurring slightly as he held up his glass to the spotlight, as if he was toasting the audience. “Eighties music. I just can’t fucking stand it! Any time I hear Peter Gabriel I just want to blow chunks. Alright, don’t get me wrong here, I don’t hate all eighties music, just the popular stuff. Give me a little Husker Du, I’m good. But none of that other shit.”

He paused for a moment, as if he had forgotten where he was or what he was doing in front of a microphone. People in the audience whispered comments, a few that Annie caught, such as “What’s this guy’s deal?” or “Where’s that dancer?” Annie glared at them, and sat on the edge of her seat waiting for the man’s next move. She loved a good train wreck.

He shook his floppy brown hair out of his eyes and let out a deep cry from within and jumped up and down and let out a very passionate cover of Where is My Mind.

At that very moment, perhaps guided by the scotch in her belly, Annie fell hard.

He finished the song, however nobody in the audience clapped for him except for her. Everyone turned to stare at her. With all her drunken might, she stood up and kept applauding him. The man on the stage glanced at her, then made a face that implied he was going to be sick.

He covered his mouth and ran off the stage. A few people laughed and sneered. Annie stood there dumbfounded, still clapping. Before anyone had the chance to turn and comment on her, she was grabbing her purse and running towards the restroom.

She stood meekly outside the door, bracing herself against the wall. Annie could hear violent puking sounds on the other side, and it didn’t sound pretty.

She knocked lightly, “You okay in there?” Her only response was another vigorous vomiting splash into the toilet bowl followed by a low groan and a flush.

“You okay?” she tried again.

“I’m a little too biased to answer that one right now,” he replied from the bathroom.

“Well,” Annie began, “if it’s any consolation, I really, really liked your performance. Well, compared to everything else out there. You always this charming when you're boozy?”

There was another rapid vomiting noise followed by a second flush of the toilet.

“Do you always follow strangers to the toilets?" he mumbled from the other side of the door. He began to groan. Annie knocked lightly.

“Can I get you something? Some water? A magazine? I think I saw an issue of Italian Maxim floating around by the bar. I mean, If you’re going to be in there awhile you should have some reading material or, you know.” She waited patiently for a response. The water came on in the bathroom.

“Are you still standing out there?” He called out.

“Uh, yeah,” Annie responded sheepishly.

The water turned off. “I’m coming out now.”

He opened the door, and stepped out towards Annie. She smiled at him expectantly. He let out a groan, bent over and threw up on her shoes.

“I didn’t think you had anything left in you,” she said, stunned.

Vomit dripped down the red vinyl on her flats. He froze, a look of utter shock and embarrassment plastered onto his face.

“I’m so sorry,” he started.

“No, really its okay. Really,” Annie insisted, “Here, let me help you.” She reached out to steady him as he swayed, dizzy and green faced. He stumbled and they fell backward together into the wall of the hallway, his face landing right into her neckline.

“I swear I did not aim for that,” he mumbled into her dress as he caught himself. Annie assisted him as he finally came to, standing upright.

“Did I crush you?” He asked politely.

“Are you sure there isn’t a flask of sangria hidden somewhere in your pants? You smell all fruity and alcoholic.” Annie asked.

“I didn’t want to come out smelling like vomit so I swiped the can of air freshener in the bathroom. Is it that obvious?” He said, looking down at himself, disgusted. Annie laughed, then sighed down at her vomit covered shoes. She dug in her purse.

"Here, your breath smells like shit," she said, handing him a stick of gum. He silently took it, looking sullen.

"Do you need me to call you a cab?" She motioned to her phone, "You look as shitty as your breath smells."

"Well," he said smirking, "You sure know how to sweet talk a guy." His face turned again and once again, vomit splashed onto Annie's already foul shoes.

While she pondered how there could possibly be anything left in his stomach, Annie wondered if perhaps this was all guided by the traction in her system due to the scotch from earlier, or if perhaps this was the start of a romance. 

However, the sound of dry heaving was not exactly reassuring of the latter.