Immediately after breakfast I donned a wedding gown and proceeded up to the Royal Mile in order to hand out flyers. Flyer-ing (which is an Edinburgh Fringe verb), is a fact of life. It's not always easy, but it's part of the adventure. Glenn packed our backpack with emergency rain gear and a bunch of extra flyers, and we set off. About a block before the Royal Mile I was joined by a large furry chicken, who had been hired to advertise a nearby restaurant. Alone, I garnered plenty of catcalls and people singing Billy Idol's White Wedding to me, but a bride plus a chicken? Well, lots of people wanted to see that show. Sadly, we had no flyer advertising The Bride and Chicken Show, to hand out.
It was sunny today, and not too windy. I took a spot near the Fringe Box Office, but didn't realize right away that a fellow advertising a children's show was flyer-ing nearby, and I think he felt I was encroaching on his turf.
Three days ago, the Royal Mile would have been all mine. Now that the Festival is in full swing, every scrap of real estate is protected and defended. I was probably 10 feet away, but I was wearing a bridal gown, and it's hard to compete with a costume. He was wearing street clothes. He was very fit, and proceeded to stretch and move his arms in such a way, to remind me of birds in the wild, when they protect their nest. We never came to blows, because he eventually realized we were in the same boat. But for several minutes, there was flyer-ing tension.
This one thing happened, and it's been kind of haunting me. Two men approached. One older and one much younger. I thought they might be father and son. The older man was between 50 and 60, I think, although it's hard to tell. Time had not been kind to his body or his mind, and he was drunk. He wore a black jacket, with several rows of badges/pins advertising bands, pinned up and down the front of his jacket, alongside the jacket zipper. Four rows total, of badges. He looked like a frozen-in-time punk rocker.
He had red hair, cut into a short mohawk. He weaved, he drooled, he swore. His thick Scottish accent was made unintelligible by drink, but every third word was a swear, and I heard the phrase "beautiful bride", and "photo with my boy".
His boy moved towards me, in a shy way. He was 17 or so, and very thin. The boy and I waited patiently for several minutes while his dad fumbled in his jacket for a camera. The dad swore, and swayed, and drooled. People walked between us, and he'd get angry and swear at them. He was worried these passersby would make him drop and break his camera phone. Eventually he found the phone/camera and held it up to take a photo of his boy and a bride. His hand shook. The boy looked at me and gave me a shy smile. I don't think the boy had ever seen the inside of a dentists office. His teeth looked like the kind you buy at the Halloween costume shop. . . it felt like we three were part of an awkward and unrehearsed street performance. Then I heard the dad say "Kiss". I thought of running, but a floor length wedding gown would have hindered my speed. Glenn was not in sight. I'm sure there was fear in my eyes. Then in a slow motion kind of way, the dad took a photo and the boy pretended to kiss my cheek. He never made contact. Then the boy looked at me, smiled again, and thanked me, and we all shook hands and he and his father both said nice things about my dress. The whole thing took about 5 minutes. But it felt like 25. I just hope I smiled in the photo, and looked happy, not afraid.
When we got back to the apartment I knew I was tired, because flyer-ing is exhausting. But I fell asleep, and that almost never happens in the daytime.
My show opens tomorrow at 11:35 A.M. According to theSpace box office we've sold 2 tickets for the opening show. We look forward to entertaining them both.