Stage Fright

“Just think of it as a three-minute bit,” Toni tells me. “Two if you already know what you’re going to say. Do you have anything prepared?”

I hear her question, but I don’t respond. I’m too distracted, too nervous. Too taken aback by the urgency with which time moves – I was just here a week ago, at the back of this old, packed church, shrinking in the shadows as the courageous took to the pulpit and enthralled the audience like Sunday service. Barely enough time in the week to eat, blink, and twiddle my thumbs, and here I am again. I can already feel myself shrinking . . .

“Mouse?” She snaps me away from my thoughts. “Did you hear me?”

“I’m not really feeling like ‘Mouse’ tonight. I think I’ll stick with Morris.”

“Well, you won’t be happy with me then. I told the host that ‘Mouse’ is how you want to be introduced.”

“Great,” I groan.

“It’ll be fine, trust me. Just be yourself when you get up there.”

A wave of laughter fills the church. I look to the pulpit and listen in as Dave – a handsome fellow who has been here many times before – is midway through his usual routine of great humor and great timing. My stomach feels empty as I take in Dave's words, though he could have said nothing, and I’d feel the same. Dave’s very presence at the pulpit causes a disturbance within me; I’ll be asked to speak once he’s finished.

“I’ll never get them laughing like that.”

“You don’t have to make them laugh,” Toni says. “It’s what some folks go for, but you don’t have to.”

“But this is a comedy show, right? What good am I up there if I can’t do comedy?”

“Comedy is just a theme, to calm nerves and whatnot. It’s not an expectation.”

“So, I should go up there and do what exactly? Just start talking about nothing?”

“Just share what you’d like to share and that will be more than enough. Remember: your time is for you. No one else. Do you know what you want to say?”

“Sure, I want to ask about closing the door. It’s cold outside, and I think I saw a bird fly in earlier.”

“You know what I meant. Do you have anything prepared?”

“Oh, I have so much prepared.” My tone is short and contemptuous, inadvertently but with enough snap to draw to her mind what we both know all too well: I hate public speaking.

With all due respect to those properly diagnosed and working it through, I won’t call it an anxiety disorder; but what I feel at the mere thought of taking that pulpit sure seems anxious and disorderly. The thought hearkens me back twenty years, when I froze up in the fourth-grade play, silent and unmoving on stage as my classmates danced and sang around me. Since that day, every decision I’ve made has been in deliberate effort to avoid speaking to crowds, saving what little mettle I have left for those few occasions on which speaking publicly is absolutely necessary. Perhaps tonight is one of those few occasions.

Perhaps not.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Toni. “I’m just . . . I don’t think I’m ready to do this.”

“Are you saying . . .?” She asks furtively. “You’re not . . . you know . . . that, right?”

“No, I’m not. Haven’t been since you started dragging me here.”

“Dragging you? We’re here for you, Mouse—I’m here for you.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I’m just not ready for this.”

She sighs. “You weren’t ready last week either. Or the week before that.” And I won’t be ready next week, I think to myself, or the next one . . .. “You can do this,” she continues. “You’ve been here before. You’ve seen how it works.” She pats me on the shoulder with her heavy hand, almost knocking me off-balance. I always wonder how she managed to be so strong, so tall, so fully sprouted in blunt spite of the short-and-slight gene that seems to pervade every branch of our family tree and certainly had its way with me. To think that we’re borne of the same womb . . .

“I just don’t know, Toni—”

“Can I tell you what I know?” She interrupts. “I know that you have what it takes.” She extends her long arms to invite me in for a hug. “You have what it takes,” she says again as I embrace her. Her warmth comforts me, comfort that only a big sister can provide. I hold her close, and I hope for my own sake that I do have what it takes. I take in her warmth, hoping that it impresses within me that thing that it takes . . .

“Let’s all give Dave a round of applause!” I can hear the host over the loudspeaker. I release myself from Toni’s embrace and look about the clapping audience, my gaze finally landing on the pulpit. It is empty.

I take a deep gulp.

“And coming up next,” says the host, “is a relative newcomer in our midst. Let us all give the warmest of welcomes to mister Mouse Waters!”

The audience claps, and a few heads turn my way. I do not move.

“Go on,” Toni whispers to me.

I take slow, dragging steps down the aisle, dread steadily creeping in as the pulpit comes nearer. As I move past pews full of watchful eyes, some whisper encouragements. “way to go, man.” “You can do it, dude.” “Take your time, brother.”

I drag my feet up the steps of the chancel and take a stand behind the pulpit, looking out at the audience and knowing what they all expect.

“I—” I begin, “I . . . umm . . . I . . . well—”

I hear a loud gasp as a blur of white swarms in through the door and flies about the audience. More gasps fill the air as the blur makes its way above the pews, ultimately perching itself on a beam. I inspect the thing as it nestles its wings at its side, its ruffled feathers a pallid white. I can make out a short beak and dark, staring eyes. It is a beautiful creature, and one I’ve seen before – a barn owl. It continues its stare, directly into my eyes, still, pensive as though waiting for me to address it.

“Did, uhm . . . did someone lose their owl?” I say, trying to ease the tension that has overtaken the room. “Naturally, an owl would find its way in as a mouse takes the stage.” Somewhere among the pews, a laugh. “Thank you,” I say under my breath, and continue.

“I guess I owe you all a show, since at least one of you flew in to hear me tonight.” More laughs. “My name is Mouse, and you all just watched me walk up here so I’m sure you understand where that nickname comes from. I’m here tonight with the company of my twin sister, Toni. She’s the freakishly tall one in the back, and yes we are in fact the same species.” The laughter of the audience is a gift – a blessing even – and the pit in my stomach is a little less empty.

“I’m Mouse,” I continue, “but my real name is Morris Waters. And I . . . I have an addiction. Though, I’m sure you’ve heard that line a few times already tonight.” I pause to let the audience get their laughs in, and on I go. “You know, it isn’t easy for me to acknowledge that I have a problem. It was even harder for me to realize I have a problem. I guess when you’re treating it like something normal, it isn’t much of a problem in your mind. I can think back on a time, though, before this all started . . .”

I lose track of time. My three minutes must be up, but the host doesn’t care, nor does the audience. They engage me fully, listening on as I bare my soul, laughing with me, frowning with me. When I finish, I am met with cheers and encouragement.

“Alright!” The host chimes in over the loudspeaker. “Let’s all give Mouse a round of applause!”

I make my way to the back of the church, and Toni greets me with another warm hug. “You sure took your time,” she says.

“Just had a lot to get off my chest, I guess.”

“I guess so.” She pats me on my head. “Well, it looks like I was right. You do have what it takes to get up there and speak your truth.”

“I’m not so sure,” I say.

“Really? After what you just did, you’re still not sure?”

“Still not sure,” I say. “I guess I need to try it again, figure this whole thing out.”

She smiles. “That sounds like a good idea. Same time next week?”

Perhaps.