Trading Favours

Is this, I wonder, what I dreamed of, what I read of, when I was wet-faced and fresh behind the ears (and all that twaddle)? I never had any inkling that being a VIP, a mover and shaker, might have been just a façade behind which the pale-faced whelp struggled against a tide of insecurity and incomprehension. In my imagination, they shmoozed at the bar drinking Long Island Iced Teas and waved celebrities (about whom they knew filthy secrets) across the room to say hello.

I met the man at the bar after I finished work, relaxing in a haze of alcohol and acquaintances. We shared mutual recognition (seen you around, yeah, I know your face), and struck up a conversation that lasted longer than I wanted it to. He was another struggling comedian; wrote for big television names. We shared a taxi, as we were going in the same direction.

It pulled up in the damp enclave of my street, and I turned to look at him in the over-warm, breathy eggshell of the cab. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing, if you can get me on the guestlist for the Late Show on Friday.”

“Done.” Handshake. I opened the door, and skipped away, with mixed feelings.