Knob Creek

I'm just back from a night alone in Brooklyn. Almost entirely alone. Too alone for the sort of thing I just did.

Tonight was storytelling night at People's Republic of Brooklyn, just over the road from where I'm staying. I hadn't heard of storytelling as a thing until earlier this week, when my good friend Sally told me how popular it is in Melbourne. 'People stand up and share personal stories. Loads of people go,' she said.

So I imagined it like a poetry slam - a night of spoken word and poetry that's so popular with New Yorkers (it can attract thousands).

Storytelling at People's Republic of Brooklyn isn't quite like that.

The bar is dark and run by people who don't seem convinced they can do the job they're doing. I turned up at the end of quiz night. Quiz night is supposed to flow smoothly into storytelling, Stan told me. 'Stan's the king of storytelling,' the smiley girl behind the bar said, unconvincingly. Stan smiled coyly and brushed her away with his limp hand.

Stan and I chatted. He told me about some of the 19 times he's performed at the bar. About some of the stories: about his headmaster who hated him, growing up in the deep south, moving to New York 23 years ago, America's approach to sex.

'So what story are you telling tonight?' I asked.

'Ooh, just a little something I've been working on. An old story,' he said in a gruff accent, New York with a Louisiana chaser. 'It's um-' he smiled. 'Quite... Well, you'll see.'

He asked me to film him, because his housemates hadn't turned up. Looking around, I noticed nobody in New York had turned up. Lots of quiz people had left. But no-one had replaced them. I would've felt gutted if I'd had to speak. I felt glad I didn't.

'You telling us a story?' asked the big man with all the muscles and full shirt behind the bar.

'Yes,' I said, instantly, not wanting to upset him. 'Yes. Please.'

Stan sat a few stools down and began to tell his story, while I set up his camera and filmed.

'Dogs have sex.'

It had started quite um...

'Y'know, dogs and sex. Doggy sex. Sex. Dogs. Dog sex.'

Stan kept his recital at this level for quite a while, allowing us (me) to come to terms with his theme. Which I was starting to think was dogs and sex.

His story did move on. It was all about the first time he watched two dogs having sex. He ran to his dad to tell his dad that one dog was hurting another. His dad and his dad's friends laughed at him. They were having dog sex (the dogs, not his dad and his dad's friends).

I clapped Stan for what he told. Because it wasn't easy for him. The chef was chatting to the bar lady (at New York levels), drinkers in the garden were wandering by, and there were only three people in the audience. And three of those were finishing drinks after the quiz rather than watching Stan tell his dog-sex story.

So Stan had paved the way for me.

I'd decided to tell the audience (Stan) about Moonwalking - my year of travelling around Britain by the full moon. I asked the audience (Stan) if they'd ever been to England or Scotland or Wales. They said No.

I launched in. Stories of fell walking, hiking, investigators of the paranormal, moonrise, Luandon, nearly falling into big holes in the Lake District spilled from me. There were a couple of titters in the audience (from Stan) and smiles (Stan's). And I got a round of applause at the end.

But it wasn't quite as I'd expected.

After shaking Stan's hand and wishing him luck in future (he was devastated that he'd forgotten a line - something about dogs and sex, I guessed), I walked home. I heard a giggle. It was from me. Then I remembered something. Something very special about the evening. Something about storytelling at People's Republic of Brooklyn that'll stick in my mind for a long long time.

Knob Creek. A nasty condition that you can clear up with a little oil.

I love stories.