The One-Woman Audience

by Hannah Patient (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find United Kingdom

By now, my life as a volunteer reviewer at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe felt like second nature. In the days, a steady string of amusements reeled themselves out before me like a train of knotted scarves from a magician’s hat. In the evenings, I’d go back to the apartment I shared with my colleagues to drink and talk while the stag’s head mounted above the fireplace stared down at us benevolently. But tonight something was different. I had been assigned to review a late show, a stand-up comedy performance in the back room of a pub. I suppressed a nervous twinge as I wandered away from the bustling city centre and down a dimly-lit backstreet. The pub, when I reached it, was unlike the more gentrified, tourist-friendly places we’d frequented for the rest of the festival. This was clearly a local watering hole, with a faded slot machine in one corner and football blaring from the television. The barman raised a cynical eyebrow when I mispronounced the name of the beer I’d picked at random. Clutching a half-pint of murky bitter, I peered into the back room with some trepidation. The show was due to start in one minute and every single seat in the audience was empty. A middle-aged man was pacing up and down the stage nervously. I hesitated, then pulled off the scarlet sweatshirt which loudly advertised my status as a reviewer. When I took my seat, the man looked as if he could have wept with relief. I waited a few minutes more, but it was clear that no one else was coming. The comedian coughed, took a deep breath, and began. He started with a gag about prostate examinations – not exactly ideally suited to his audience of one twenty-year-old woman, but I laughed maniacally nevertheless. What else could I do? The pressure was immense. If I failed to respond to any one of his jokes, it meant that the entire thing had fallen flat. I did find him funny – at least, I thought I did. But how did I know for sure when I had no choice but to laugh at every single joke? With remarkable professionalism, the comedian turned the poor turnout into another gag: he’d only arrived in Edinburgh that morning, hadn’t had time to bother about publicity. But his hands trembled as he reached for his glass of water, and when I glanced back as I left the room, he was sitting alone, staring into space. I felt badly shaken. All week I’d gone around merrily dishing out two- and three-star reviews, but now I’d seen the human face behind my thoughtless words, the face of a man confronted with artistic defeat. If he hadn’t scheduled a review that night, no one would have turned up. How many other performers were sitting in nameless back rooms of pubs across Edinburgh, worrying that their gamble was never going to pay off, wondering whether to give up completely? I remembered a street performer I’d encountered on the Royal Mile. He’d given me his flyer several times. Please come to the show. I’m good, I promise. But behind his words lay the dark reality of the Festival Fringe; the shattered dreams of the performers who spent all their savings on getting here but somehow never managed to break even. I stepped outside into the cool night air. There was a blast of sound from a nearby pub, music and laughter as punters spilled out onto the streets. A guitarist was playing a soulful solo, his face contracted in concentration, every muscle moving in harmony with the rippling chords. Most people were talking over him, but a few listened – quiet, contemplative. Edinburgh Castle glowed on its lonely hill, and the air smelled of Cognac and car fumes. Fire-jugglers rubbed shoulders with neon-clad revellers while forgotten flyers fluttered down the street like confetti. It was the most vibrant and frightening and wonderful thing I’d ever seen. I didn’t know how these performers had the courage to come out here and expose their art to a cruel world night after night, but I was glad they did.