I Am Not A Number.
Allow me to share with you a very brief, but very true, story…
The other night there, I went for a social drink with some people I met via supporting the local hockey team. It was grand. Drinking games were played, plans were hatched and chat was had.
Something happened to me though. It’s not something I talk about that openly, but I need to now. Otherwise, the story wouldn’t have a point.
I don’t suffer from the crippling social anxieties that plague a few of my friends. I’m actually fairly comfortable in small to medium groups. I enjoy sharing anecdotes, making bad jokes and all that good stuff… For a few hours.
After a while I start to listen to myself, and a wee shitty little demon whispers to me.
“Really? That joke was embarrassing… You think they’ve been laughing with you?”
I ignore it, and carry on. However, I keep saying stupid, pointless things and it irritates me.
“You should probably shut up,” it says.
So I check my phone.
My downer usually passes pretty quickly when I get to that point. On this occasion, I didn’t have time to pick myself up, as the last train beckoned. I left the pub, and made it to the train station. The whole time I kept replaying the evening in my head, trying to figure out how much of a dork I came off. Things I said, that went down well, were scrutinized until I could prove they made me look stupid.
So there I was, standing on the platform. The smell of dusty concrete and steel that accompanies the take-me-home machine filling my nostrils, making me sober. The chatter of people around me, overlapping and unintelligible. One voice rose above the others. It wasn’t louder, but it was clearer.
“Who are you?” I looked to place the faux-English accent, but the source was nowhere to be found.
“The new Number Two,” It continued, albeit trying to disguise itself as another person.
“Who is Number One?” I recognised the words and I new what the next two lines were to be.
“You are Number Six.” Oh, man. This is it. The best part.
“I am not a number,” and I felt compelled to join in, social etiquette be damned, “I AM A FREE MAN!”
Everyone went silent for a thousand years. All eyes were on me. I looked around nervously.
A thick Glaswegian accent from behind a wall accompanied the following words, “aww man, who said that?” A head peeked out from the corner, huge smile on its face. A body followed suit and approached me. “Prisoner, man.”
A high five was had with a complete stranger, and when his palm made contact with mine, I heard the smack of camaraderie. It sounded good, and made me smile.
It’s unlikely you’ll read this, dude. Seriously, though… Thanks.
