The silence was going to end on its own.
The noise just made sure I was the one who ended it, in a panic.
At my wedding to my children’s mother, years ago, I gave the groom’s speech. Near the end I thanked everyone for choosing to spend the day and the night with us. Some people couldn’t make it, I said, and some were no longer with us, like my dad, but they were in our hearts.
At that exact moment, a tugboat out on the bay sounded its horn.
Afterwards, several people told me it was my dad, letting me know he was there in spirit. I hadn’t heard it but liked the idea and it stuck with me as a beautiful thing.
My dad has been gone since I was sixteen. He wasn’t at the wedding, and he hasn’t been at any of the big days or the ordinary ones in between. People reached for the horn because they wanted him there, and so did I. In the middle of a speech I didn’t know what to do with it.
Years later, I worked out what to do with it. I made it a bit.
I’ve been telling stories on stages for about ten years now, in stand-up sets, in corporate keynotes, and in the shows I write and perform. The shows are where the real stories go. They’re true, some of them are heavy, and I tell them with humour. The humour sets the tone, and the truth stays in plain view underneath it. A laugh gives a room somewhere to breathe, and it lets people come with me into the harder parts.
Standing up in front of a room and talking about the real, tricky, and sometimes ridiculous business of being alive, makes me feel more alive.
I tried the tugboat story as a joke, at an open mic night to a small crowd. I said my reaction to hearing the noise was one of embarrassment, because if that was my dad, he’d come back as a tugboat. Not a frigate or a cargo ship. But a small boat whose whole job is pushing bigger boats around.
The joke got nothing. No laugh, no murmur, nothing. It hurt.
So I panicked and filled the silence with my best impression of a sad little tugboat horn. It got a couple of laughs. I took them and moved on as fast as I could.
I could have dropped the bit. Plenty half-polished gems die at an open mic and deserve to. I didn’t believe this one did, as I felt there was something in it, and I was determined to find it, however many more times it flopped.
So I kept telling the tugboat story, and each time I’d deliver it a little differently to see what worked. A word here, a pause there, a different lead-in.
There’s no rehearsal room that can tell whether a joke works. The only way to find out is to say it on stage, to strangers in an audience, and see what happens. And every audience is different. A line that gets a big laugh one night gets polite smiles the next, and neither night is wrong. That’s ok.
The craft of the stage and the craft of being a person turn out to be close. Both get worked out in front of other people, a bit at a time, with plenty of nights that don’t go to plan. Both improve the same way: try it, notice what happened, adjust, and try again.
The bit still lives in my stand-up sets, and now and then in a corporate talk. Some nights it still gets nothing at the tugboat.
When that happens these days, I let the silence run. Five seconds, which is a long time on a stage. I look at whatever faces I can see, shrug, and smile like I’ve got all night. And sometimes I let out a little horn noise, and shrug again.
Then I tell the audience that Simba got a visit from his father in the clouds, and heard his voice. I got the short-man-pseudo-tough noise of a tugboat mouthing off, and no visuals.
That close always works. It turns a possibly sad moment into one of joy. And that’s what I love about being on stage. The joy built from challenge, and the connection it brings between a performer and an audience.
Three things to try.
1. Let a silence run for five
Next time a conversation or meeting goes quiet, count to five before filling it. Often someone else steps in, or it turns out nothing needed saying.
2. Try it again, slightly differently
When something we’ve tried doesn’t come off the first time, change one small thing and have another go before deciding it’s no good.
3. Shrug on purpose
When something we’ve said gets nothing back, try a small shrug and a smile before the next move. It buys enough time to choose what comes after.
See the show this post is about
If you’ve read this far, come and be a stranger for an hour. Or come as someone who already knows a bit of the story.
Joely Poley, Puddin’ & Pie | 5 to 11 October, 7.45pm | The Motley WhereHaus
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