Recently, I had the pleasure of failed expectations.

Something like expecting a warm coffee but getting it served cold.

It’s Friday night, and my girlfriend and I are at this self-titled “artistic festival” with a bunch of friends. What is an artistic festival? A place where pretentiousness is paired with pinot grigios.

This is the kind of place where Maude Lebowski would fit in. The kind of place where modern art is more in demand than a DaVinci. The kind of place where even egos get a waiting room. And the big ticket that night was a bonfire fire show. Yes, this artistic festival took the simple pleasure of drinking and eating while watching the world burn and slapped a nice fat 20-dollar cover fee on the experience. Bastards.

Right about then, I was eyeing my watch, trying to subtly communicate with my girlfriend, “Let’s go home.” At this time in the night, we had been there for three hours, saw all that had to be seen, and the conversation was embers away from burning out. If only it were that easy. We were with a group of people who did what groups of people do: spread ideas. The faint enthusiasm of “let’s see the fire show” had started to burn, and soon, we were trapped in a commitment one person made, and nine people blindly followed. But I suppose we’re Americans after all; it’s our patriotic duty to watch something burn.

The fire show had this giant roped-off area with large metallic statues as if Hamilton was recreated in a steampunk meets Water World era with a giant sign that on-the-nosely read: Fire Show… burning at 10:15.

So naturally, instead of showing up at 10:15, someone decided we go at 10 and get good seats so we at least have a fighting chance of getting our eyebrows sizzled off.

Me and the gang creep closer, until our arms are draped over the roped barrier, like kids at a circus. A few mushroom clouds of fire leap from the statue, kissing the sky, and we can quite literally feel the excitement starting to burn. Even I, who was cynically excited at best, was starting to feel the pangs of genuine joy.

But then… it all happens.

That is, well, nothing happens.

Notta. Zero. Zilch.

Here’s what I mean:

10:15 hits, and we all lean in closer, excited to enjoy mankind’s oldest form of entertainment: fire. The clock keeps ticking, and I keep looking around at the other idiots who got roped in here with me. After all, misery loves company. Everyone in the crowd is looking from side to side, with our nervous energy desperately searching to be comforted. I overhear a father: “It’s going to start soon, sweetie,” as he comforts his daughter, who’s expecting a show that was promised. I mean, come on… they had a sign… people who have signs mean business.  I glance down at my watch. 10:17. I scowl.

Ok… they’re probably just running a few minutes late, I naively think. I mean, what’s two minutes to a lifetime? I ignore the sinking feeling, threatening to capsize my mood, that people aren’t punctual, and hold on.

Another fire mushroom cloud erupts from a statue and calms the crowd down as the pyros satiate the appetite for the big show. We all lean in a little closer, and I feel the heat tickle my face. And then… ten minutes pass of absolute nothing. At this time, I could hear groups of people counseling each other like we were at a guidance counselor convention. “It’ll start soon.” “Yeah, it’s going to happen.” “It’s gonna be worth it.” I grind my teeth and feel the twinge in my bladder that I try to ignore. I’m in the front row against my will, and I damn well plan on keeping it that way.

What feels like five minutes pass, and I look down at my watch and see a nice round 10:30. I naively think that number’s important; maybe they’ll start now. 10:30 means more than 10:29, right? It’s important.

Nope.

At 10:36, I start to feel like a black sheep stuck in a white sheep world. Dark thoughts enter my mind. Maybe we should leave. Maybe this isn’t happening. Maybe we should just go home.

Black sheep, meet white world.

I look at my watch and do the arm-stretch routine. I even throw in a yawn for good measure. Seemed to work for the cartoons, why can’t it work for me? Someone in our group takes notice. “You can’t be tired? The show’s gonna start.” “You know… worked all week, woke up at 5. That old chestnut.” “Come on, it’s going to be FUN.” They assure. “It has to start soon.” They add for good measure. I hold back an eye roll and nod, pretending I understand. I look down.  It’s 10:43 and I grind my teeth.

“So… uhh.. some show right?” “Oh, be patient! It’s gonna start.” Desperation looks a lot like optimism. More time passes. Physically, I’m here, but mentally, I’m thinking about all the ways I can start a fire. I’ve got a fireplace at home. A lighter and one hell of an imagination. I should have been a Boy Scout.

More time passes, as do people’s excitement. Reality is starting to hit the group. They’re swaying from side to side like they’re on a boat, hoping the movement will steady their nerves. One guy’s head is eyeing down the porter potty. Another girl is drifting towards the food stands. And one hero grabs his car keys and berates his family, “Let’s go home, they aren’t burning shit!” We all stand and watch.

The eager one of the group senses morale is down and makes a plea. “Come on, everyone, it’s gonna be fun.” I see a rope tied to a tent and briefly think about killing myself but remain steely for my cat and nod my head absently.

Around us, the crowd is thinning out like a 44-year-old’s hairline, and the first people at the show are quickly becoming the last people at the show. I feel my bladder twinge once more. Morale in the group is in the shitter. We sway side to side when, over the intercom, we get the announcement we could have gotten 47 minutes before. “Due to technical difficulties, the show won’t go on.” I turn to the group. “Who would have thought?”

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