Speech Anxiety

    “Dammit!” Jerome shouted to himself in the mirror. A crumbled stack of three typed pages sat in his hand, resting on the bathroom counter talk.

       Jerome had been standing at this position since nine o'clock in the morning and it seemed that he wasn’t going to be leaving the bathroom any time soon. Taking a deep breath and a swig straight from the bottle of bourbon he had taken into the room with him, Jerome lifted the pages to his chest. He read the words out loud, attempting to project his voice and sound the words he’d typed clearly.

       Eyes flipping back and forth between the paragraphs and the mirror. Words to brown eyes, words to brown eyes, words to, “Fuck!” he’d stumbled over his voice again. He balled up the pages and slammed them into the corner behind the toilet and fell to his ass on the ground. Tears welled from his eyes and down his cheeks. I’m never going to be able to do this Jerome’s mind spoke.

       Of all the goddamn people in the family, why did they choose me to speak? Jerome thinks to himself. A younger brother and four other cousins who could have been chosen to speak for his grandfather’s funeral. The man had four brothers and countless cousins and three children who’d all grown up, and still, Jerome was picked to deliver the parting words.

       Talking, in no way whatsoever, came naturally to Jerome. He was intelligent and a beautiful writer, but when trying to speak, the words seemingly got held up on the oath from his mind to his tongue and avalanched. It made conversation unbearable sometimes. Between the stuttering and long pauses for the right term to come out, even the most mundane sentences sounded like a little child attempted to develop an elaborate lie. Even when reading out loud, Jerome’s eyes would go too fast for his mouth, making him the equivalent of an Olympic track runner taking a tumble on the racetrack in front of the massive crowd.

       Jerome knew why he was chosen, though. While he would never admit it out loud to anyone or even allow himself to think it to himself, Jerome knew that his mother’s father and he shared a closer bond than anyone else in the family.

       Memories of being five years old and riding in the front seat of his grandad’s pickup while everyone else sat in the back flashed through his mind. Jermaine at ten, walking around downtown with Peter Paul Angelo telling him stories of being a kid in the 1950s and what he did for fun. Stories about the horrors of Vietnam as an Army sergeant- things Peter Paul had never told anyone else about- when Jerome enlisted at the age of eighteen. The final memory of Jerome and his grandfather together, sharing a final drink at the old man’s favorite bar upon returning home after Jerome’s enlistment. Then, waking up to a call from his mother informing that Peter Paul had passed away in his sleep two months later. Sure, the man had loved every single person in the family in their special way, but Jerome had been the unofficial favorite.

       The funeral was in two days. The young man had spent the week locked in the bathroom from morning till evening practicing the eulogy he was to speak. The writing came easily, Jerome had two books on the Bestseller list and three others that had done well enough to pay the bills. At just twenty-six years old, he’d been picked as one of America’s best writers under thirty, so to type the exact words to say about his grandfather was no struggle. The inability to speak well mixed with the devastating blow of losing his favorite person in the world was what made the whole thing difficult.

       “Honey, are you okay in there?” Jerome’s fiancée asked from the other side of the locked door, “Do you need anything?”

       “No,” Jerome answered in anger. He realized immediately that he’d snapped at her without meaning to. Another thing to feel sorry for added onto the mountain of worries already stacked up. “I’m fine, H- D- Cherie. Just trying to get this e-e-eulogy down right,” he hoped it sounded more pleasant, Jerome wanted to make sure the woman knew he was frustrated with himself and not her.

       “Don’t beat yourself up over it, Jerome,” Cherie told him in the voice of confidence that could usually pick him up from slush to a brick wall, “it’s going to be great no matter what and your grandfather will be proud from heaven to have you honor his memory.”

       “Thanks, dear,” Jerome wiped his tears and said to the woman in the other room, “it’s just so d-d-… fucking difficult.”

       “Look, everyone in the family has heard how you speak your entire life and they still chose you to do this,” Cherie said, “you and no one else, they know that you’ll do great no matter what and that no one else could honor him as perfectly. Just take a breath and take it slow and it will all be okay.” Jerome heard the tinny patter of her feet stepping away from the door now. He was left alone again.

       Getting to his feet and retrieving the crumbled speech from behind the toilet, Jerome stepped in front of the mirror once again. He took a deep breath and filled a cup with water from the sink and drank. He thought about Cherie’s words and felt confidence rise in his heart. He read.

       Jerome spoke the typed words of funny stories, insightful advice, and heartwarming words he’d carefully selected to get his point across. A few bumps and pauses along the way, but otherwise, lightyears ahead of any other attempt. He read again. Fewer mistakes this time, but still not perfect. A third time. All well.

       Jerome took a breath after the third reading. His throat was dry and his voice was getting coarse. A pressure sat on his chest. Remembering the good times with his grandfather was wonderful because of how incredible the time had been, but heartbreaking to realize that that drink at Ernie’s Bar and Grill was the end of the road of memories to be made with his grandfather. If only the man could visit one more time and give his quip of advice, Jerome would have the complete confidence to speak to the church full of people, but there were no visits. Sure, Peter Paul Angelo could have been watching from wherever he was, but the young man would not be getting his full-fledged conversation. It hurt deeply.

       Then it hit him, even if I can’t see or hear him, Nonno is with me! Of course, it had been there all along. Sure, the old man might be playing cards with Sinatra and his deceased cousins up there, but he was also here with Jerome. The thought burned like a fire inside, turning the anxiety and self-doubt into some that rose away into the aether. He walked out of the bathroom with the speech folded neatly in his pocket and hugged Cherie from behind. She kissed his cheek and hugged back as well as she could.

       The next day, Jerome was able to say the speech four times with only two mistakes the whole day, and the day after he was able to deliver his grandfather’s eulogy flawlessly, evoking the exact emotions he’d been going for. The funeral was full of tears and sorrow, Jerome himself had sobbed silently through most of, but knowing his Nonno was right there with him (only unseen) had allowed the young man to deliver his words to the crowd of two hundred people with perfection.