Maggie was underappreciated.
She stared at the shared Google Doc where her carefully crafted process improvements disappeared into an endless sea of comments and suggestions. Three months of research condensed into, “Looks good. Will review more next week.” Which would invariably lead to a shifting initiative. Just in time to make sure no project completed.
So it was, she found herself fidgeting with her phone as she left Chicago’s cold Belmonte street for Theater Wit’s warm lobby. So many people, it was time for her to saddle up to the bar and check work emails, like a good little introvert. She wondered how she could explain that locked dropdown menus would keep functionality while idiot-proofing her company’s spreadsheet system. Or even, just get management to believe, accomplishments were better than chasing a tail.
She’d come to the Story Luck show for a moment’s diversion and entertainment.
Now, without really looking up she wondered, “Some of these people seem weird, maybe I should just leave?” The lobby buzzed with conversation and the mingling aromas of home-cooked dishes. Someone had brought what looked like mac and cheese, its breadcrumb topping still golden brown and crackling. A silver fox of a man had brought homemade chocolate chip cookies. Maggie had bought a ticket, and now felt oddly embarrassed seeing how much work others had put into their shared dish meals. She crunched on the inside of her cheek and thought, “Maybe… these goofballs would’ve appreciated Gran’s recipe?”
“First time?”
Maggie’s head popped up to find a young woman with kind eyes holding out a playbill, with a card to take notes on the show bundled inside. Pri, she remembered from the event page.
“That obvious, huh?”
“Only because I’m a trained facilitator and fan of the Art of Gathering.” Pri stood tall, but her voice was relaxed. “First-timers have this particular way of trying to become one with walls. Come on,” she walked Maggie over to the two big doors, then called to the crowd of people, “We are a hair past 6:30, but we are officially opening the show!” Then to Maggie, “Come in. Let me introduce you to some people while everyone sets up the food table inside the theater.”
The theater itself was a revelation.
Behind where the storytellers would stand, an elaborately detailed 7-Eleven storefront served as the backdrop — remnants of the current play running that month. The familiar fluorescent harshness of the set’s lighting made the actual theater lights feel warmer, more inviting. The space filled quickly with people and home-cooked dishes. So many smells, garlic from the mac and cheese, chocolate and butter from the cookies, something spicy she couldn’t quite identify.
Ten minutes later, Maggie had been introduced to more names than she could hope to remember, including Pri’s co-host Dan, who charmingly failed to get her to sign up for an open mic slot. Then found herself with a full plate and seated between a teacher named Michelle who’d brought the mac and cheese, “Family recipe, but I’d never actually made it before. This show was an excuse to call people!”
And there was an accountant named James who’d been coming to shows for six months. They were all debating the merits of Pecuod’s vs. Chicago Pizza when the lights dimmed.
By the time the first open mic teller took the stage — Claudia Maru — Maggie had forgotten about work, her raw feeling of awkwardness, and everything except the story unfolding before her. It was about Claudia’s first Chicago winter, as a backdrop to her relationship with her mother, and learning to accept warmth in unexpected places and people.
Maggie found herself nodding along, when Claudia described the particular shade of gray November sky that every Chicagoan knows. She caught Michelle’s eye when Claudia described the slush and grime of trudging through winter sidewalks. Snow that’s been melted by traffic and kicked up only to be covered in a thick coat of salt.
“How was this an open mic story?”
Maggie had expected amateur hour, but each story felt like unwrapping a small gift. A college student talked about finding his friends had his back when his dog passed away. How more people truly loved Old Blue, than he understood. An older woman, who seemed like a regular, shared a series of vignettes. Thanksgiving dinners she’d had at a neighbor’s, back when she was a kid. One of the other guests had survived WW2, and everyone in the theater gasped when she, as a seven-year-old, asked, “What’s with the numbers on her wrist?”
Each story, through art and craft, gave the mundane purpose.
Erased the mundane. Highlighted how to be grateful and aware. Pulled attention to how small things mattered.
Between each teller, Dan or Pri would appear to reset the audience and remind them how the show worked. Dan called out, “Don’t forget, you have forty points to split up any way you see fit. Gift the most points to the open mic teller who you think has another story worth hearing. Think of yourself as an artistic director. We are a nonprofit, and you are our volunteers.”
Pri teased him from the stands, “What did you tell me your father used to call you?”
“A modern Tom Sawyer.”
Pri’s voice rang clear, “Because you always make friends do all your work?”
“Anything can be a fence to wash if you put your mind to it. No!” He turned his attention to the rest of the audience, “We’re teasing each other. The truth is, this show is designed carefully so you’ll listen with delight. You paying attention has weight because there’s gravitas to the decision you’re making. We want you all clued in, and participating with us.”
The show continued for a final speaker, and then everyone stayed to mingle.
Maggie, sat in the stands, as she divided her points between stories, she found herself thinking about Gran’s recipe book. About the time she tried to Google Translate the handwriting. About the one recipe she managed to decipher — for a cake that turned out tasty but nothing like she remembered.
“Maybe there was a story there?”
As people gathered their potluck dishes and exchanged phone numbers at the end of the night, Maggie overheard one of the tellers saying it was his third time trying to work up the courage to sign up for the open mic.
Pri caught her at the door. “Same time next month?”
Maggie hesitated only briefly. “Actually… how early should I get here if I wanted to maybe sign up for the open mic?”
Pri’s smile widened. “For storytellers? We always make room.”
Walking to the L, Maggie pulled out her phone, this time not to hide behind it but to make a note: “Story idea — Mom’s notebook, Google Translate fails, and the mystery of the impossible cake.”
She had a month to work it. And she knew just where she’d be practicing this skill.
Turn on email notifications and I’ll send you a personal thank you gift. And if you want to see if fiction is born from deep truths, come see Chicago’s next Story Luck Show.
