Stupid Shy? Bye Bye

  Most people who get invited into the lap of luxury for a day would be ecstatic. Not me. This whole building is so, so “extra,” it kinda sucks! Blue velvet sofas, Corinthian columns, and ankle-deep carpeting make me feel like my whole town of Miami Shores is downright ghetto. Fidgeting with a frayed edge on my polo shirt, I cower outside the Conference Center Ballroom of the Miami Biltmore Hotel, nearly pissing my pants. With palms sweating and a stomach lurching like it’s dancing Gangnam style, my only thought is to hightail it out of this marbled prison and into a deep, dank cave.

My agent, Goldie Anderson, is a baddie with a ton of clout. She’s the force behind ninety-nine percent of my book sales. But how she’d managed to talk me into giving an actual speech, I just don’t get. Flattery? Money? Hypnosis? Or maybe a spell!

About eight minutes have passed since I’ve been bug-eyeing the carved, teakwood door to the ballroom. Eventually, I’ll have to either fling it open and flounder inside or flee for my life. What if I post on social media that I got deathly ill at the last minute and had to cancel? Deathly ill isn’t far from the truth. My level of social anxiety is so high it can likely be felt by amoeba on the moon.

I sweep the hair out of my eyes and heave a sigh. On the other side of the door sit 998 kids my age, eager for words of wisdom to pour from my mouth and transform their sad little lives. Stupid Shy? Bye Bye is the name of the conference, just like the dumb book I wrote. Little do the conference-goers know I could never change anyone’s life, not even my own.

To add to my distress, the muggy heat of Miami makes my armpits drip, like the air conditioners have gone to the Caribbean on vacation. Sweat pours down my back and into my underwear. A swiveling fan blows a breeze my way, ruffling my hair like my grandmother would and reminding me I should have gotten a haircut, too.

Why oh why had I told Goldie that I’d do this event? Some unconscious desire for total self-destruction? Oh, yeah!

Goldie’s pacing on the other side of the massive door. Ready to introduce me at the podium, I know. We practiced how she’d do the introductions. At rehearsal last night, the choking arm of anxiety had tightened around my neck like a noose. But today, as I face the thought of real, live bodies inside a previously empty room, my breath comes in quick, short pants. Feels like someone has shoved the chair I was standing on out from under my feet and the noose is already compressing my Adam’s apple into apple mush.

My greatest fear? They’ll know. They’ll see -- I’m a phony. A hopeless misfit. They’ll find out the whole book is full of shit. Not only will they ask for a refund on the copies they’ve bought, they’ll roast me afterward.

Then the door swings outward, bopping me square on the nose. “There you are,” she says. “What’s taking so long?”

Full of mierda. That’s what I am. Well, so? So what if they find out? Have to face the bare-assed truth sometime -- once a failure, always a failure.

“Paying customers are waiting for you!” She tugs me by the wrist.

No, they’re waiting for redemption, which sure as hell isn’t to be found in me. I grab hold of the edge of the door when she yanks me forward. Oof! Now I’m a toddler hanging onto his momma’s legs when she aims to haul his little ass into the dentist’s office!

“You’re not nervous, are you?”

Oh, no! Now, why would you think that? I give an awkward giggle that comes out like a gurgle. I hold onto the door, hide behind it, poke my head around it to get a glimpse at the audience. So many tables! So many faces! And a huge digital image of me pulsating on eight or ten monitors! I clutch my stomach with my left hand. Will that keep me from throwing up? Or will that simply catch what my queasiness propels?

“Come on, Harvey. What’s up with you?” she pries my fingers off the wood. Then to the conference-goers, she belts out, “Gals and dudes, ladies and gents! It’s the inspiration you’ve been waiting for . . . . Allow me to present . . . ”

Every nerve inside me is keyed up, like a zillion race cars revving it up on the start line at the Indie 500. I vaguely hear Goldie holler my name into the microphone. It’s like my body is here but my inner self has deserted me. That gutless traitor! Then she adds some fool line sounding like, “Genius in the flesh!”

I’ve practiced my speech in the mirror each day for the last three weeks, but oh, no! Suddenly, words have vanished like cards up a magician’s sleeve. If only I could make myself invisible. Walk on water. Over the monster pool. Onto the Dixie Highway. Over the clouds, up to the moon.

Goldie’s dragging me over the threshold into the ballroom now. Under the piercing lights of a dozen chandeliers, my cheeks grow hotter than a pit of lava. I hate myself when I blush. A guy isn’t supposed to do that. Only chicks. But me? I get red splotches like someone has painted a clown face on me with paint that won’t wash off. I tug the visor of my Batman cap down over my eyes.

As she jerks me up the three steps to the stage, my feet feel like I’m wearing concrete boots. Refusing to face forward, I train my eyes on the side wall of the conference room. And, then . . . Oops! Holy hell! I do the “dumb klutz” thing and stumble over something. My body tilts forward so I circle my arms backward, struggling to regain my balance like a clunky pelican flapping wings. Looking down, I spot an exposed electrical wire fastened to the floor with gray duct tape. What kind of fancy-chancy hotel runs a wire across a stage and tapes it there, for star's sake!

The audience laughs it up while a girl at the front table screams, “Brilliant. Brilliant!”

Oh, sure! The guy on the monitor cringes. Me. Once a dork, always a dork.

Goldie’s hand extends me a microphone. I reach for it and miss, provoking a collective chortle from the onlookers. Crap! I reach into my shirt pocket and produce my Coke-bottle glasses. My throat closes up. I’m eight again, hearing the kids on the playground taunt, “Four eyes! Four eyes!” Never had bucks for contacts. Maybe I should get them now.

“Um, hi,” I whisper into the mic. “My, my name is Harvey DeWitt and I’m su-super shy.” Oh, like they couldn’t guess!

Two people stand and clap. I don’t know whether to smile or puke. I opt in favor of the former hoping desperately to avoid the latter.

The room is so quiet you can hear ice clink in the glasses servers are filling up. I reach for the copy of my speech I stored last night on the shelf at the back of the podium. You’re kidding me! My fingers find no papers there. Oh, catastrophe! No print-out on the floor. Nothing in my pockets. Now what? Peering over the heads but never looking anyone in the eye, I say, “Do you feel like a foul-up? Don’t!” How the hell did I come up with this junk?

Slowly, the table of contents from my latest book floats through my mind like toilet paper in a wind. I run down the chapter title list. “Do you worry about your awkward, evolving body? Do you worry about fitting in?”

A glance to my left reveals my reflection in floor-to-ceiling window glass. I shake my head. Wardrobe disaster again! Like jeans and a polo shirt could ever shout classy! Perfect, Harvey! That’s what I get for following my own idiotic advice: wear what you feel comfortable in. Just how screwed up can a guy’s dorky life really get!

Should have worn at least a suit and tie. But I don’t own that stuff. I would have had to shop in exorbitant stores I’ve never frequented. Would have had to ask, Stars help me, a sales clerk for advice. In a suit and tie, I’d now be sweating worse than a stinking skunk, sporting an outfit that would have turned my throat to sandpaper and my brain to jelly. Not that I don’t feel like that anyhow.

What a goof! I launch into the content of chapter four: “Any introverts in the house?”

A few people chuckle. Nervously, no doubt.

“So, are you an introvert or are you shy? There is a difference. Ask yourself, ‘Do you prefer to be alone or do people scare the shit out of you?’” My hand flies up to my forehead and slaps it. But not in a good way! That was about the most “aw-shucks” trash I’ve muttered in my life.

 I charge ahead to get this over with. “Do you converse and party but feel like an imposter wherever you go?” I know I am, for sure. “The imposter syndrome is common. Even Jeff Bezos or Bill Gates has suffered now and then. Just ignore the feeling. Put it on hold. You can always come back to it later.”

My mouth is spouting drivel. I can’t help myself. “Sure, new people and new activities can make your insides wobble. Think adults don’t feel social anxiety? Think again. They just hide it better.”

The hairs on my arm stand at attention, telling me Goldie is hovering close. She grabs the mic from my hands. “All right, friends.”

 Friends?

“Time for a ten-minute break.”

Frozen to the spot, I study my tennis shoes. What crap can I possibly make up next? Can I just plow out the front door, please, and never come back? Would my shaking knees carry me down those polished marble steps?

Speaking of steps, I notice there’s an easel set up like a sentinel at the bottom of the stage. On it rests a poster board with the titles of my other publications spelled out in calligraphy:

Develop Your Talents: You’re the Only One Who Can

Cuffed: All You Need to Know About Relationships

Dragging: How to Beat the Bully at his Own Game

Texting and Sexting: Know the Laws or Else

Great. Talk about imposters! As a writer, I can invent. As a person, I suck.

There’s a tapping on my bare arm. I jump like a frightened frog. It’s a girl. Pretty. Long brown hair. Movie star eyes. Bare shoulders in a billowy yellow dress. Same girl who was on her feet at the beginning of my fiasco.

Girl says, “So wig to meet you! Before I read your book, I used to feel like every person was eyeing me. My actions, how I dress. Last year, I never would have come up to talk to you, Harve. Can I call you ‘Harve’?”

“Sure” is all I can cough up.

From a canvas tote bag, she pulls out a torn-up copy of Stupid Shy. I think I snigger because she jumps to explain, “Most of my friends read on Kindle. Me? I like the feel of a paperback. Can I have your autograph?”

“Sure,” I mumble. Then I remember I don’t have a pencil and haven’t practiced a signature.

She digs around in her purse then produces an engraved pen she must have snagged off the front lobby desk. “All the things you demonstrated -- holding onto the door, stumbling, looking down at the floor, fumbling for your glasses, slouching, forgetting your plan, acting like you wanted to bounce? Those were all behaviors we shouldn’t give in to, exactly like you say in your book. And you didn’t just say we shouldn’t do them. You demonstrated to us. It was brilliant.”

Did she genuinely think I had performed those gawky moves on purpose?

“Brillant!” she repeats as she flutters her eyelashes. “I could hug you for it!”

“Okay.”

And she does.

Whoa! Big yikes! I’ve never been hugged by a girl before. Way better than being hugged by a mom or grandma. Girl smells kind of lemony. I feel the smile (or is it a smirk?) spread over my mouth.

“I’m Candy,” she says.

You sure are. Oh, yeah.

Goldie calls me back to the podium.

Girl, Candy, I mean, grabs me by the hand. My pulse is pounding like a drum machine.

“Would it be too forward? Would I look dumb if I asked you to lunch when your next session ends? Here in the hotel, of course. Maybe at the tables by the fountain or in the café by the pool?”

“Not dumb,” I say. “Meet you . . . at the bottom of the steps?”

She laughs. Thinks I’m kinda lit. It’s pretty fly!

Back at the podium, I stare at dozens of faces. Had bold, beautiful candy-girl really truly once been shy? A weird thought passes through my mind -- the 998 kids attending these sessions have never met me. They aren’t mind readers. Most are probably basket cases like me. Why else would they sign up for a conference called “Stupid Shy, Bye Bye” anyway?

Feeling myself stand taller, I make a special effort to loosen my shoulders, stand up straight, thrust my chin in the air. I launch into the meat of chapter seven: “Remember, all those body triggers that tell you, you are anxious, things like your chest pain or nausea? None of those symptoms can be detected by others. People don’t know how you feel on the inside. Try to look poised on the outside. Pretty soon, you’ll be slaying it.”

A gaze around the room shows me that kids are nodding in agreement. Nobody’s throwing shade. Hmm! I move on to chapter nine. “Don’t forget to develop yourself -- music, art, sports. Try something new. Take a deep breath and do it. The same way you’d go for that bungee jump. Ask yourself, ‘What the hell am I afraid of?’”

My agent strolls to the podium and slides in front of me. “After lunch, we’ll tackle the daunting topic of conversation starters.”

I will, Goldie. Me. 

The standing ovation I receive lasts for a full six minutes. I actually count. People start drifting out of the room. When I catch a glimpse of someone standing at the bottom of the stage, I see it’s Candy. “Don’t try to talk to everyone in your midst,” I remember writing. “Just people you’ll enjoy talking to. Stay in the moment and let the conversation go where it goes.”

 She loops her arm through mine, skin against skin. “Shall we?”

“We shall.” My left eye’s twitching! This turn of events has me pretty shook.

Candy’s blushing. Poor girl. Maybe I can help. “What part of my book is your favorite?”.

“When you say, ‘Don’t forget to enjoy the moment.’”

Her smile is contagious. Every guest in the lobby will do a double-take.

Enjoy the moment? Oh, yeah!

Candy is someone I could focus on. I’m thinking I’m conquering my own timidity today. The clapping and cheering tell me that I am. That I did. Or at least, that I have a chance. 

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