Still in My Closet at Balliceaux

Would you be willing to talk about the _______ in your closet?

That was the starting point for tonight's Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story show at Balliceaux and you might be surprised at how much people are willing to drag out of their closets and tell perfect strangers.

I got there early enough to enjoy a falafel flat bread (roasted eggplant, edamame hummus and garlicky tahini in a three-part wrap). While waiting for my food, owner Laney came over to ask if I was planning to share a secret from my closet.

"Not me!" I assured her. "That's what blogs are for, right?" she asked with a smile. Maybe some, but not this one.

Once the storytelling got going, it became clear how widely the topic was being interpreted. There was a tale of a commonwealth's attorney sitting with a pistol in wait for a pedophile. 

A spoonerist ("Ham it all to dell!") came out of the closet with the story of Virginia's founding. One long-winded tale involved an impromptu rigged card game while on vacation in the Far East.

But there were also very personal stories that almost came across as cathartic. One was about growing up with a depressed mother who was a hoarder and feeling like acceptance to college was the only way to escape the squalor of her home life.

Another was even more intimate as she detailed careening from punk boys to drunken binges and stranger sex while admitting her inability to open herself up to a successful relationship. It was a lot to hear from a stranger.

A particularly interesting story was told by a former member of Cirque de Soleiel's traveling show and involved the performers in the troupe.

Apparently, the talented people who perform those amazing acts are hard-core partiers who drink, drug and detox every day in order to ensure that the show goes on.

The last storyteller of the first half was an older man (with props) who told of relatives long gone, including a great-grandfather who began his day by taping his droopy eyelids open. Yes, he demonstrated.

He said his grandmother always kept Russel Stover mints around  (no teeth and she couldn't gum any other kind) and as a tribute to her, he passed out several assorted boxes to the audience ("For the chocoholics," he explained, "like my grandmother") to share.

Then it was intermission and everybody mingled and had their drinks refreshed while others put their names in a hat for a chance to tell a post-intermission story. Not me; I went to the ladies' room and scored some more chocolate before returning to my bar stool.

There I found Trevor, the guy who had told the Cirque de Soleil story, He filled me in on the intricacies of setting up tent cities in each new town they played (8' metal stakes), the rampant adultery amongst the troupe and shared just how profitable the performances were (high-priced seats and drinks) despite how well the performers were compensated (some consolation to be sure).

The first name pulled from the hat after intermission was a woman who got on stage and immediately pointed at me. "That girl ate four pieces out of every box of candy," she announced.

Actually, I'd had four pieces total, but it was pretty funny even so. Like the man who had brought the candy, I can stand up and admit, "My name is Karen and I'm a chocoholic." It's reassuring to know that strangers are watching my chocolate consumption for me.

She told a story of her son setting the back yard on fire as a child and allowing his guilt to fester rather than punishing him. Twenty-five years later, he fessed up, unaware she'd known all along that he'd done it.

The evening ended with a semi-regular storyteller who, despite being a fairly tall man, described his family as "Pygmy Jews living in the Bronx."  His story was about shared privacy and an extended family where "the bathroom was a public performance space."

According to him, after a visit to the bathroom, reports were given on size, shape and configuration of all efforts and passed on to absent family members.

It was his misfortune to be in the loo when a dripping ceiling collapsed, causing his mother to break through the door and accuse him of having caused the mess.

Since then, he's held the family record for "atomic b.m." and concluded by saying he hoped that it was still part of the family lore. We all aspire to something.

Amazing the stuff that comes out of people's closets when given the opportunity. Good as some of the stuff in mine is, it's going to stay right where it is.

Besides, now that I know that I have the chocolate police in addition to the wine police on my trail, it'll probably all come out in my dossier eventually anyway.

It's like my friend told me at dinner the other night. "Go on to the bathroom so we can talk about you."

"I'm not that interesting," I assured him, leaving. "Oh yes you are," he shot back.

And he barely knows a fraction of what's in my closet.