Stranger No. 2
Time: 9.30 pm
Date: 28 June 2010
Location: Biddy Mulligans, Edinburgh, Scotland
Maybe he isn’t quite a stranger. I know his name. It was scrawled carelessly in red across the blackboard hung behind him. The colour of the chalk was too bright for him. The name was too nondescript more like the name of a long-forgotten, one-hit wonder pop-star; than that of a melancholic crooner waiting to be discovered.
***
I was at this highly recommended pub that was tucked away in Grassmarket with my three fellow female travelers. You feel a sort of inexplicable bond with these independent female travelers. Night fell in awkward silence at first. Perhaps, we were all secretly disappointed. What happened to the wild night with acquaintances that you meet randomly we have conjured up in our minds? However, I think four of us hailing from all ends of the world are too strong and resilient to give up on a potentially good night. We went into the pub, I could tell, cheesy as that may sound, glad to have one another’s company for the night.
We were cocooned in our little world, lapping up the attention thrown upon us by this man who proclaimed that the girls in his tour think he is a little weird because of his beard (he is a little weird.) and at the same time, squinting at the singer whose voice seemed just a little too alluring and depressing.
“I think guys who can sing are very charming,” I said pensively, turning to this sweet Australian girl, whom we shall know as Liz* from now on.
“I absolutely agree!” she gushed, resting her chin in her palms, and then looking away dreamily.
I already like my new friend.
We moved closer to the stage during the break. Two of us watched him intently. Although my back was facing Liz*, I could feel her gaze past me and directed at the singer. He glanced in our direction from and then, and his eyebrows would twitch in uneasiness whenever he noticed our undivided attention. (Haha! I thought.) He continued crooning. Part of his job included entertaining tipsy patron who kept talking to him in between his songs. He couldn’t much deal with him; occasionally raising his thumbs-up to agree with the man uncommittedly; or he would smile politely — a smile that the intoxicated man took pride in it. But his eyes betrayed him. They speak a language of their own.
“Oh, leave me alone, old chap.”
The prospect of him singing a “happier song” diminished as the minutes ticked away. The half-Croatian and half-Italian girl’s shoulders started slumping. It looked like she was ready to join us and indulge in his music. No point fighting and hoping.
“I’m going to sing one more song and that’s the end of it for today,” he finally spoke’ his voice was deep and strong and a little hoarse.
“No! Come on! One more song!”
“No, two more!”
“Hey, how about three more! You can do three more please!”
He was more than pleasantly surprised by the attention and it was as if his spirits had been lifted slightly by the audience.
“Okay, I will do two more,” he strummed his guitar a little for inspiration, “I’m going… to try singing a more upbeat song. It is really quite difficult for me because I’m miserable like that.”
He broke into a grin. I chuckled. He was enjoying this self-deprecation and I could not help but let my admiration swell.
“Man in the Mirror” was his idea of an upbeat song. It must have taken him tremendous effort to sing something remotely optimistic or inspirational. Thereafter, he continued, even to the surprise of the patrons and belted out three more songs in total after the end of his set. I did not think he would succumb to it.
“This is 100 percent my last song!” he said firmly, suppressing his laughter.
He didn’t speak much at all during his entire set, but towards the end, he warmed up or he lightened up – whichever phrase that suited him better. Seemingly cold and distant at first, he felt like a chum that you want to get to know better because he is kind of cool and funny and he can sing.
He finished, we cheered and applauded.
“That was really good. Well-done,” remarked Liz as the singer was scuttling past us, towards the exit.
“Thanks, cheers!” he replied quickly and left. He is undeniably shy.
While we were leaving, we found him with one hand in his pocket, the other hand holding a cigarette, his back slightly hunched, standing on the pavement just right outside Biddy Mulligans. It was a sight to behold. He cast a sidelong glance at us – one of his last two legions of supporters as we stepped out of the pub. I wanted so much that night to ask him to sing some of my favourite songs but I did not. I walked on with my other two mates from the hostel on the unlit, chilly Grassmarket and then I turned back to get one last good look of him.
“Keep singing. Keep singing.”
P.S. Liz later revealed to me that after we left, she talked a bit to the singer and fell a little in love with him.
