Glossophobia
He looked up - and everything changed.
His body became a marble statue - muscles from brow to toe tensed tight, a cascade of cool sweat washing down and over his thin skin leaving behind a clammy residue. Eyes, unable to close, remained locked in place and staring, corneas transformed from oasis to desert. With each beat his stampeding heart picked up in rhythm, a runaway metronome jerking wildly back and forth, each twitch placing it precipitously closer to the edge of a tall shelf. Oxygen rushed out of his lungs and quick-hardening cement slugged down his bronchiole tubes, penetrating inward and leaving him gasping for air that just wouldn’t be coming - not right now, not today.
He opened his mouth, maybe to scream (who can say?), but only sawdust and flecks of a guttural barks emerged, none of which was useful to anyone or anybody but had the immediate effect of making all present feel pity for the unfortunate speaker, because they knew what was in front of them - a man facing his kryptonite, a thorn in the flesh, an unscratchable itch, a tormentor that would likely plague its victim until the end of time. They watched as the unmistakable symptoms took over and raided him like a passenger ship with a broken sail - intelligent thought nudged off the plank into a hostile ocean of illogical babble, glittering wit pilfered and replaced with a humorless, soot covered coal. The stench of death wafted into the nostrils of their imagination, rising high and being carried along by the same melancholy wind unfurling the edges of a black flag barely hidden behind the mist.
He felt their thoughts like exploding mortar shells - red-hot, metallic shrapnel whizzing by, some landing harmlessly on the stage while others found their mark, penetrating in deep, corkscrew patterns that melted skin, organs, and everything in between. Feeling frantic, he searched the mob for a pair of friendly eyes, scanning quickly but erratically with the nystagmic jerks of a man at the end of a bender. His hunt for rescue came to an abrupt halt when he collided with a pair of big hazel ones among the sea of brown and blue. Soft and almond in shape, they distracted him for just a fraction of a moment - long enough for a pointed artillery shell to cut through the air and obliterate all that once was below the right knee. Fragments of shattered bone fell and severed tendons dangled as his equilibrium faltered, yet somehow his reflexes were just present enough to force him to reach out and grab the lectern with both arms, cradling it to his chest like a life preserver. It was all ultimately in vain, however. He knew he was doomed.
He looked down. Dislodged and concussed, his brain slipped inside his skull, pushing nerve fibers together that had rarely connected before. A spark. A tingle. A vision. He closed his eyes and remembered something someone had told him long ago. A bit of advice. It seemed stupid then and still seemed to be, even now. He labored over it for a moment, drifting, until the patter of dripping arterial blood brought him back to reality. No choice, really. His grip on the lectern was failing. His face, turning paler by the moment with each beat of a traumatized heart, raised slowly. He opened his eyes.
Jockey. Fruit of the Loom. Victoria’s Secret. Calvin Klein. BVD.
Everywhere the eye could see. He blinked, thinking the mirage would be swept away by a sea of gun toting eyeballs. Nothing changed. This was the ceasefire. Before him sat hundreds of pale bodies clothed only in undergarments of various brands, sizes, and colors. Some flattered, others offended, too many muffin tops to count. He noticed a chill go through the scantily clad audience. They hugged their bodies, shivering, and he felt deja vu. The winds of this drama were changing. This would no longer be a tragedy.
The man rose up and straightened the notes laid before him. Standing firmly on two feet, he found his place in the outline he had carefully prepared days before. His mind, brimming with ideas and a desire to articulate them, routed the necessary pathways in his brain to enable oral communication. Head level, features confident, he opened his mouth…and spoke.
His body became a marble statue - muscles from brow to toe tensed tight, a cascade of cool sweat washing down and over his thin skin leaving behind a clammy residue. Eyes, unable to close, remained locked in place and staring, corneas transformed from oasis to desert. With each beat his stampeding heart picked up in rhythm, a runaway metronome jerking wildly back and forth, each twitch placing it precipitously closer to the edge of a tall shelf. Oxygen rushed out of his lungs and quick-hardening cement slugged down his bronchiole tubes, penetrating inward and leaving him gasping for air that just wouldn’t be coming - not right now, not today.
He opened his mouth, maybe to scream (who can say?), but only sawdust and flecks of a guttural barks emerged, none of which was useful to anyone or anybody but had the immediate effect of making all present feel pity for the unfortunate speaker, because they knew what was in front of them - a man facing his kryptonite, a thorn in the flesh, an unscratchable itch, a tormentor that would likely plague its victim until the end of time. They watched as the unmistakable symptoms took over and raided him like a passenger ship with a broken sail - intelligent thought nudged off the plank into a hostile ocean of illogical babble, glittering wit pilfered and replaced with a humorless, soot covered coal. The stench of death wafted into the nostrils of their imagination, rising high and being carried along by the same melancholy wind unfurling the edges of a black flag barely hidden behind the mist.
He felt their thoughts like exploding mortar shells - red-hot, metallic shrapnel whizzing by, some landing harmlessly on the stage while others found their mark, penetrating in deep, corkscrew patterns that melted skin, organs, and everything in between. Feeling frantic, he searched the mob for a pair of friendly eyes, scanning quickly but erratically with the nystagmic jerks of a man at the end of a bender. His hunt for rescue came to an abrupt halt when he collided with a pair of big hazel ones among the sea of brown and blue. Soft and almond in shape, they distracted him for just a fraction of a moment - long enough for a pointed artillery shell to cut through the air and obliterate all that once was below the right knee. Fragments of shattered bone fell and severed tendons dangled as his equilibrium faltered, yet somehow his reflexes were just present enough to force him to reach out and grab the lectern with both arms, cradling it to his chest like a life preserver. It was all ultimately in vain, however. He knew he was doomed.
He looked down. Dislodged and concussed, his brain slipped inside his skull, pushing nerve fibers together that had rarely connected before. A spark. A tingle. A vision. He closed his eyes and remembered something someone had told him long ago. A bit of advice. It seemed stupid then and still seemed to be, even now. He labored over it for a moment, drifting, until the patter of dripping arterial blood brought him back to reality. No choice, really. His grip on the lectern was failing. His face, turning paler by the moment with each beat of a traumatized heart, raised slowly. He opened his eyes.
Jockey. Fruit of the Loom. Victoria’s Secret. Calvin Klein. BVD.
Everywhere the eye could see. He blinked, thinking the mirage would be swept away by a sea of gun toting eyeballs. Nothing changed. This was the ceasefire. Before him sat hundreds of pale bodies clothed only in undergarments of various brands, sizes, and colors. Some flattered, others offended, too many muffin tops to count. He noticed a chill go through the scantily clad audience. They hugged their bodies, shivering, and he felt deja vu. The winds of this drama were changing. This would no longer be a tragedy.
The man rose up and straightened the notes laid before him. Standing firmly on two feet, he found his place in the outline he had carefully prepared days before. His mind, brimming with ideas and a desire to articulate them, routed the necessary pathways in his brain to enable oral communication. Head level, features confident, he opened his mouth…and spoke.