FOPS

Well of course I said ‘Yes’.

               When I read the message from the owner of Flat Stanley’s Barn Grille asking if I would introduce the comedian she had booked for this Friday night, I was thrilled. I do love to chat, and according to anyone sitting within earshot, I have quite a sense of humor. So certainly, she explained, I was the first person she thought of when the headliner (a local comic who zipping up the region’s entertainment ladder) told her she would need to find someone to introduce him. I would be compensated with a martini – in one of the big stem glasses, not those dainty thimble sized ones.  She also hinted that this might be the start of my own standup career. Something I had never aspired to.

               I was still basking in the glow of her flattering words when I got to work and mentioned to my boss that Laddy Heston would be appearing at Flat Stanley’s on Friday, and I would be paid one large martini to introduce him. After he (out loud) questioned the wisdom of giving me access to a microphone and a martini, he said he and his wife would be there, because it might be fun to watch. That’s when I remembered I can’t talk in front of a group. 

               Hi, I’m Debbie and I have a debilitating Fear Of Public Speaking.

               I can talk, a lot. Friends, strangers, cashiers, police officers just doing their job – I can engage in very comfortable chit chat with anyone. But ask me to ‘say a few words’ to a group and I cramp right up like the anesthesiologist called in sick the day of my colonoscopy.

               Public speaking, in the formal sense has been my Achilles’ heel since Achilles was wrapped in a toga onesie.  I am almost certain that as a baby when Mother would gather the family around my crib and coax  me to ‘Say Mama. Say Mama. Please say Mama. Really, she’s been saying it all frigging day’  I looked at those doubtful faces  and clenched my little mouth. I d probably also filled my diaper to clear the room.

               Any time I have been required to speak in front of a group, my panic starts the moment the event is on my schedule.   My high school years were particularly difficult. I was a good student, worked hard, studied hard, honor roll, met all the dork criteria.   Some things, like algebra or negotiating a slide rule (now there is a handy skill I use only slightly more than diagramming sentences) were a bit of a struggle, requiring research and perseverance.  English and History came easier for me.  I delighted in any assignment involving reading and loved writing reports (my social life allowed plenty of time for me to write well-crafted book reports and essays on a wide array of subjects) but there was one assignment that would send me into the fetal position - a flop-sweaty, ticker gripping fetal position. The oral book report. Even typing the words makes my vision blur. From the moment the teacher dropped that O Bomb, my life would be complete hell. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I spent the entire eternity of the two weeks til due date trying to develop laryngitis or willing the school to spontaneously combust. Hey, there were enough forgotten lunches, putrid gym clothes and even a couple failed science fair entries (have you smelled a 3-week-old potato clock?)  stuffed in lockers that it wasn’t an unreasonable scenario.

               It was too many years later, when I figured out that if I had just flailed my arm wildly when the teacher asked who’d like to go first, the process would have been much easier. Very few of my classmates were fans of oral book reports – some because they also did not care for speaking before a group, but most were more averse to the post-report Q&A session from the teacher. They were a half-assed bunch who hoped they could skate by on the information gleaned from the Cliff Notes version of the book. It did not often work to their advantage.  

               Frank had a slightly different, but foolproof approach. He was a simple guy, usually wore a neatly ironed flannel shirt tucked into green work pants, and always carried a dome-shaped lunch box.  The thick glasses and slight overbite gave him the outward appearance of a village simpleton, but he was a genius. He delivered eloquently detailed reports on books with obscure esoteric titles the teacher was not familiar with, (excuse me - with which the teacher was not familiar at) and therefore could not ask any questions except ‘Where did you find that book, Frank?’ He always conjured up a very believable answer that involved the book no longer being accessible. My favorite was the book elderly Uncle Harold loaned him with the caveat that when he died, the book (the uncle’s favorite) was to be buried with him. Well damned if the uncle did not pass the weekend before the book report was due. His funeral was yesterday, Frank said with a straight face and a tear rolling out from under the thick glasses. Years later, at a class reunion, Frank confessed that he had never read a book for a report. He made up all the titles and story lines on due date eve. Oh, he also never had an Uncle Harold.

               But I digress. I know now that had I gone first, no one would be listening or paying attention. I read the books (once again social life gave me plenty of time to do so), wrote excellent talking points on the note cards we were to use and knew I could sail through the Q&A. But Noooo. I kept putting it off, praying for a fire drill, cholera outbreak, teacher quitting- or even forgetting I was in the room. Anything, really, to rid me of this ugly albatross pouncing on my chest. Well of course, none of those things ever happened. So much for the power of prayer. And soon enough I was the last one. All the other stellar students were relaxed and in a playful mood, not caring they scored a solid C Minus and would be holding up hilarious signs, making faces – anything to toss me off my feeble, shaky, stammering game. 

               Well, there was that one time I taught them a lesson. About 90 seconds into what was supposed to be a five interminable minute delivery, my ears started pounding, the room started spinning, Ronnie’s “MR. REMICKS’S FLY IS WAYYY OPEN’ sign was all wavy and I sprouted a massive nosebleed.  30 seconds later my knees gave out, blood-splattered index cards skittered about, the class got quiet, and I garnered a special dispensation from the school nurse to be excused from oral presentations for the rest of my high school career due to high blood pressure. Way better than using menstrual cramps to get out of gym class.

               One would think that as an adult I would be on easy street and would never ever have to do anything oral again (get your heads out of the gutter). One would be wrong.  There are many times when public speaking is required during the adulting years. Weddings, funerals, divorces, court appearances, the list goes on.  I’ve tried, unsuccessfully, to avoid any possibility of scheduling times when my voice is expected to share coherent thoughts, vows, toasts, or pleas. Because it never goes smoothly.

               Let’s take my wedding (or as my former in-laws call it ‘Jake’s Mistake’), for example. The big day arrived, I was at the church (guess who still refers to that church as ‘the scene of the accident’) with my stepfather standing ready and almost eager to give me away. Two of the church elders flung open the doors of the vestibule and while my attendants walked toward the altar, I looked at the backs of the heads  of 100 plus guests on either side of the aisle. It then occurred to me that I would have to say words in front of all these people. I started to perspire a bit, and the room was a little spinny. Stepdaddy patted me on the arm, and said lovingly ‘If you pass out, I will drag you down the aisle. I’m over this bullshit. “  It had been a stressful planning process.

               After a generous sip of the Jack Daniel’s from dear stepdad’s formal tux flask and a few deep breaths, I assured him I was good, and off we went.  As we neared the altar, I took attendance. Jake was there, that’s a good sign, Mother is sitting where she was supposed to, rather than the big ornate pastor’s chair where she felt people would get a better view of the dress she spent more on that I spent on mine.  Neither Mother nor stepdad’s new wife were sporting any signs of a struggle, grandmothers were in attendance and smiling, although the wedding schedule screwed up their BINGO Saturday. I took my place beside Jake, looked at the minister who was speaking words – if he can do it so can I. It’s only a few words; I just have to repeat what he tells me. Apparently, he could do his part, I could not do mine. The last words I recall hearing from him were to Liddy, my matron of honor ‘You might want to sit her down, her face is whiter than her dress. ‘ We restaged the actual vows part of the ceremony after the guests beelined for the reception and open bar at the Masonic Hall.

               I wasn’t much better during the divorce proceedings. After the ‘to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth’ part to which I replied a terse Yup and flopped onto the folding metal witness stand chair (probably on loan from the Senior Center next door), I said whatever would move the festivities along quickly and before the drenching sweat caused me to slide off the Senior Center chair. Did not matter that the other people in the court room were all nervously awaiting their own moment before the judge and really did not give a rat’s furry behind about Jake’s and my drama.  All I knew what there was sea of faces – blurry, fuzzy faces - in front of me and I was talking at them from inside a slot machine, and why was the judge’s bowtie spinning? Short story long, the property settlement I agreed to is still a topic of disgusted discussion among my divorced female friends and has netted me several proposals from men who would ‘for once’ like to marry a woman who ain’t gonna walk off with everything when the marriage hits the shitter. Stay tuned.

               Back to Flat Stanley’s. I spent most of the workday alternating between creating a plausible excuse to back out and chastising me for allowing this ridiculous affliction to have such control. By the end of the official work day, I had summoned enough courage to introduce a man I have never met to an audience of people who have probably consumed several adult beverages. I’d be fine. And if not, so what. I mean really, it’s Laddy Heston, not Jim Gaffigan. How many people I know have even heard of him?

               About a half hour before showtime, I bellied up to the Flat Stanley’s bar, demanded my pay and sipped it nervously while Bibby chattered about the great turnout for tonight, how happy she was I could help and a lot of other words that I could not hear because of the pounding in my ears. I finished my martini in the bigass glass and Bibby led me backstage (her office) to meet the star of the show. He told me what he’d like me to say – a very simple, to the point, easy to remember bio. I was feeling more confident – probably martini confidence, but I’d take it. As I opened the door and headed for the microphone he added “I hear you’re a funny lady. I you want to do a quick bit, go for it. I’ll signal you when it’s time to wrap it up. Keep it to about fifteen minutes.”

               I quickly returned to the bar, renegotiated my contract to double my pay and walked on shaky legs out to the waiting audience. Apparently, many people I know are Laddy fans. Oh crap.  Deep breath, fake smile.  Mic in one hand, martini in the other, I opened with ‘Who the hell thought it would be a good idea to give me access to a microphone and a martini? It got laughs, made me feel a tad more comfortable, and was a much better opener than my plan B which was to sprout a nosebleed.

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