Plumber / Painter

I met him in London at a theatre bar. And because the waiter had just run out of the drink we both wanted to order, we started to talk. 

About how long it takes to change a keg. About why not to order something else to drink. About the fact that we both came to the theatre alone. About how much we both like this play after the first half. Not much. It will be very difficult to stay here until the end, we agreed. To stay awake, we laughed. And suddenly, I felt like we could get on very well together. We kept talking. We have the same sense of humor, I realized. We have the same interests, it seemed. 

Then he asked me what I do for a living. I usually answer this question with a bigger or smaller lie. However, as I sensed that this conversation had the potential to be a bit more than just a random encounter that I will soon forget, and therefore I should build its foundation on honesty, I didn't lie this time.

"I'm a cleaner." This will discourage him, I thought, so I quickly added that I write a little as well.

He smiled and told me that it is super cool and so normal, and that here in London everyone has "a slash" behind their profession. Which apparently means that most people here don't like what they do, but they just have to make a living here. Which means that they basically are or want to be someone else.

"After all, we're in a bar," he said, "and I bet this bartender who is so slow in changing a beer keg is a bartender who is also an aspiring actor. Or a singer. Or a dancer. Actually, I do know quite a few slash artists," he added.

"In that case, I'm a janitor / writer." 

"And what do you write?" 

"Nothing now. I'm blocked." 

"Well, in that case I can maybe help you to unblock it. I'm a plumber."

I laughed at how he played with the word blocked. Then I said:

"You are a plumber slash…" 

"Slash nothing. Just a plumber. Although I actually do like to paint. And occasionally I send my creations to different galleries." 

"I'd say you're definitely good!" 

"In unblocking, definitely. As a painter, not so good. Why are you laughing?" 

"Because in my mother tongue the words you are good in unblocking, it sounds rather... sexual." 

"In English, too."

Then two half-a-pints finally landed in front of us at the bar. A few more quick words, a few more jokes, and then a loud announcement that the second half of this boring play–probably written by some playwright / accountant–will begin in a moment. Speedy emptying of our glasses and our bladders. After that, a quick saying goodbye and awkward handshake in front of the toilets. Then he went downstairs to the stalls and I rushed to the balcony.

The second half of the show was even worse than the first. It dragged terribly and I had a bad view of the stalls from my seat on the balcony.

When it was finally over, I ran down to the rapidly emptying stalls on the ground floor. The prepared excuse was I wanted to see if a different angle would change my mind about this three-hour dumb show. 

But there was no one to tell it to. I guess he really couldn't stand it to the end and left.

An usher walked between the already empty rows as she was cleaning up garbage. "Dialogs were shallow and the stage set up was inappropriate and over the top. And most importantly, they should have focused more on the inner lives of the characters," the usher / theatre critic said as she picked up empty chocolate and jellies wrappers from the floor.