I am backstage, about to tell stories onstage. A man with a name tag and a clipboard announces, “Ten minutes to showtime.”
I am tuning my guitar, hoping I won’t stink tonight.
This is what all performers think about before they go onstage. They say silent prayers that all go, more or less, the same way.
“Dear God, don’t let me suck.”
It’s easy to stink at storytelling because there is no school for such things, so you don’t know if you’re getting it right.
I am still unclear on how I started telling stories for a living. The only education I have in storytelling came from elderly men who wore Velcro shoes and wore their slacks up to their armpits.
I have always had a soft spot for old men. From childhood, I believed that I was an old man trapped inside a kid’s body. I never fit in with peers, and I never wanted to. This was only made worse by the fact that I was raised as a tee-totalling fundamentalist who was forbidden from
touching NyQuil.
As a young man, I would find myself in a crowd of teenagers who were smoking cigarettes, sipping longnecks, far from parental eyes, and for some reason, nobody ever offered me any real chances at sinning.
I would have appreciated the opportunity, but they viewed me as different.
I was blacklisted from social situations because I was the old man of the group. During social scenarios, I would generally hang in the corner, drinking prune juice, adjusting my Velcro footwear, holding everyone’s car keys.
People called me “D.B.,” which was short for “Designated Baptist.”
Ah, but my truest friends were elderly men. What I liked about them most was that they had already gotten their petty teenageness out of the way. They were more interested in major sins. For example, Biloxi.
After my father died, I looked for anyone with white…