Pug Hill, page 9
Then finally, right next to me, “I’m Alec.”
I turn in my chair to look at him. Hot guy, I think, and really well dressed. Instinctively, I look to the floor: excellent taste in shoes. It occurs to me that this is very much not what I need: to have another crush on someone else, to spend my time in Overcoming Presentation Anxiety class lusting after yet another guy. That’ll make it real easy to concentrate, regardless of how much poorly executed practice I have at concentrating on things in the presence of a hot guy. I turn back to face forward and cross my arms in front of me. As I do so, I knock my pen off my desk. It hits the floor and starts rolling, I can feel everyone watching its progress across the floor.
Beth Anne walks over and stops the rolling of my pen with her foot. She picks it up and hands it to me.
“And your name is?” Right, it’s my turn.
“Hope,” I say quickly, and look away from her.
“Well, welcome everyone,” Beth Anne says warmly. “Does anyone have any questions?” I think I have a question or two, but none so pressing that they override my desire not to raise my hand and draw any more attention to myself. Clearly, I’m not off to a brilliant start.
“What’s your background?” one of the pantsuit girls asks, I no longer have any idea which one is which.
“Yes,” Beth Anne says, standing straight, and looking around at each of us. “I’m an actress slash cranial-sacral therapist slash anthropologist slash social worker slash movement trainer slash public speaking coach.” I notice Amy, the punky-looking blond woman, rolling her eyes. I don’t think that’s altogether called for, but as against eye rolling as I am, it’s not that I don’t entirely see her point. It really is quite a lot of slashes. I mean, yes, even though Beth Anne is dressed very earth mama chic in her long flowy skirt and a tunic-style shirt, a look I usually find quite comforting, she makes me very uncomfortable. But I think, just by the very nature of my fear, I may be predisposed to dislike her. I endeavor to give her the benefit of the doubt.
“Alright then,” Beth Anne says authoritatively, once it’s clear there won’t be any more questions. “Let’s all get up in front of the room and introduce ourselves, and say what we do, when we’re not here overcoming our presentation anxiety.” She pauses to smile. “Then, if you’d like, why don’t you share with the class what brought you here.” She smiles again, in a way that I think she means to be soothing.
“Now, concentrate on pausing before you begin speaking.
Try looking around the room, making eye contact with each person before you speak. This is what I like to call ‘Taking the Room.’ It’s an excellent exercise to begin with. Hope, let’s start with you.”
I take back anything I said about giving her the benefit of the doubt. I don’t like her.
I get up slowly and walk the few steps to the front of the room. Beth Anne slips off to the side as I take my place in front of the desk. Instantly, my stomach is in knots. I can feel the sweat beginning to break out, behind my knees, under my arms. My turtleneck, it strangles me. I take a breath. Did she say to do that? Eye contact, I think, eye contact. I look first to Lawrence, his arm still stretched diva-like across his desk, his lips pursed, his eyes bright. That’s enough. I can’t stand up here and make eye contact with everyone. It’ll take forever. Forever, I think, is way too long.
“My name,” I begin, and I can hear my voice betraying me as it cracks, “is Hope McNeill, and I’m a paintings restorer at the Met.” And how do I summarize, how do I say, really what brought me here, when all I’m sure of is that it has been so much? Do I tell them about Mr. Brogrann’s tenth grade English class and The Grapes of Wrath? Do I tell them I think it might have something to do with the fact that I am Jan Brady, that I’ve never been slim of thigh, have always been better with dogs than with people and that a long string of bad boyfriends ending with Evan, has only served to cement the fact in my mind that dogs really are so much the better bet? My God, I think, in between all the shaking in my mind.
And the thing is, I knew this could have been a question, I knew it was coming. I should have prepared. I realize that I’m standing frozen in front of everyone, so much like a deer in headlights, and right then, before I’m able to do anything about it, I think of the Rothko. I think how the problems of the present can be just as hard, if not harder, than the problems of the past. I take a deep breath. I turn and head right back to my seat, hoping with every part of my being that Beth Anne doesn’t say, “You should try again because you hardly came close to taking the room.” Thankfully, she doesn’t say anything and I am allowed back to my seat. The firestorm has spread from my brain to my chest and stomach. I wish I were alone, not only because then I’d be alone, but also because then, I could lay my head on the desk part of my chair-desk, just until this feeling goes away. I’m sure that once everyone has gotten up and said what they do—that is when they’re not smack dab in the middle of a nervous breakdown over the fact that they can’t speak in public—I will get a special mention as the worst one. I’m sure that Beth Anne will pull me aside and ask if perhaps I’d like to work with her privately.
As I focus on the floor, out of the corner of my eye, I see Alec get up from his seat next to me. He takes his position at the front of the room, in front of the large metal desk that I wish I could crawl underneath, just really stealthily so that no one would notice. I look up at Alec and notice again how strikingly tall, dark, and handsome he is. The tall, dark, handsomeness distracts my heart from its mission of beating right out of my chest. In a reversal of the usual effect of seeing someone so very good-looking, the pace of my pulse begins to slow.
He doesn’t look at anyone and begins to speak right away. “Uh, uh, I’m Alec, and I’m an attorney. Uh, I’m here because public speaking gets me very hot under the collar.” He smiles wanly and looks to Beth Anne, who nods a stoic approval. He heads back to his seat, and I think he did so much better than me, and I have to remind myself that this is not a contest. And, even if this is in fact a contest, it isn’t a fair one, because Alec isn’t as hindered as I am by frizzing hair.
Rachel, with the very frizzing hair, walks quickly to the front, stares out at us with her freaky eyes. Really, so blank and so glazed. She opens her mouth to speak, and a long, slow gurgle comes out. I think a little bit of validity has just been added to my frizzing-hair/poor-public-speaking-ability theory. Perhaps all either of us needs is a good blow-out. The gurgle ends, and she returns to her seat. Beth Anne, to her credit, does not ask her if she’d like to try again. The thin French woman glides gracefully to the front.
“I am Martine. I am director of New York City Board of Le Lait. We work very hard to get le message out about the importance of, how do you say, how do you say, breast-feeding. I must work on speaking public.” Martine, out of everyone, I feel has done very well.
Amy, blond and punky, stands up with an exaggerated exhale, and clomps to the front of the room. “I’m Amy. I’m a novelist,” she says and pauses, and exhales again. She seems to me so much less nervous than just really put out. I wonder what her last name is, what she wrote. “I’m here to practice for readings,” she tells us with a huff and trudges back to her seat.
“I’m Lindsay,” the first pantsuit girl says softly, her hands clasped together. “I’m an accountant, I work at a big accounting firm. This thing happened a few years back, this e-mail thing, and I’d rather not talk about it, but ever since then, I’ve had a really hard time, um, um”—she reaches up and tucks her hair behind her ears, one side and then the other—“I’ve had a really hard time with presentations.” I wonder what happened. I am amazed by her endurance because rather than returning to her seat, she continues. “Jessica, here”—she gestures to her pantsuited twin—“is doing this with me because she knows how hard this is for me, and she’s a really great friend.” She smiles over sweetly at Jessica, who in turn gives her a sorority girl thumbs-up as she heads back to her seat.
Jessica walks up to the desk and as she does so I’m sure she’ll be the best speaker, the best at introducing herself, as she’s not here because of any deep-seated distress, but more in a friendship/ moral support type of way.
Jessica turns bright red and runs from the room.
“Uh, I should go see,” Lindsay says softly, a few moments later, and walks out the door with her head down.
“I’m Diana, I work in insurance,” the wrap-dress woman says quickly, not nearly as serenely as she seemed initially. I wonder if it’s cheating that she got up there so quickly, before everyone’s attention was back from the door.
Lawrence, the guy who said his name first in the last round, gets up and all but skips to the front of the room.
He stands upright, his lips in a tight, prim smile, his eyes traveling slowly around the room. With each person he sees, he stops and gives a small nod. He spreads his hands wide out to the side, such an open and welcoming gesture, for anyone, let alone the public speaking impaired.
“Hello, everyone. I’m in real estate by day, but my true calling is poetry. I’m a poet, yes,” he says and smiles widely, more like grinning, and nods his head. “I’m so looking forward to getting to know everyone, and working together, and sharing my poetry with you. I thought, if you’d like, I could read one right now.” He looks to Beth Anne who is still darting concerned glances in the direction of the door.
“Yes, Lawrence, that sounds like a lovely idea,” she tells him, “but we’ve got some more to cover tonight, so let’s look forward to your poem at presentation time.” Lawrence’s proud posture changes, becomes deflated as he returns to his desk very slowly, as if at any moment Beth Anne’s mind will be changed, and she will call on him to read.
“Thank you, Lawrence,” she says in the direction of his head, which is now laid down upon his desk. “And thank you, class. I’m sure we are all looking forward to working together and getting to know each other, and helping each other in the weeks to come.” Everyone present, except of course for Lawrence whose face is still hidden from view, darts their eyes around.
“Okay then, so before we continue, I’m wondering if we should wait for Lindsay and Jessica.” Beth Anne’s voice sounds the slightest bit flustered; for several reasons, I don’t think it should. First of all, the public speaking class teacher’s voice shouldn’t waiver, it’s more than a little unsettling. And also, you’d think Beth Anne, being a public speaking teacher, among other things, would be used to things like people running red-faced from rooms. You’d think it might be a little bit par for the course.
“Would anyone like to go look for them?” she asks. I, for one, wouldn’t know where to look, though in my experience the bathroom would be a good start. I stare at the floor, and no one else ventures a response.
“Okay then,” she continues, smoothing down her skirt in front of her, “it’s interesting that Lawrence has brought up his poetry. One of our assignments will be to select, and then read a favorite poem to the class.” Two roads, I think, diverged in a yellow wood.
Beth Anne continues speaking, “Public speaking can be very, very difficult. It is something many people fear. The human body’s response to fear is often an adrenaline rush, in preparation of flight. Since often the option of flight is not the best one,” she says as her eyes dart once again to the door, “the result is that we get sweaty, nauseated, our hearts and pulses race, among other symptoms.” I hear someone exhaling, and look up to see Amy rolling her eyes as she lets out an exasperated breath.
“Most people would rather be in a casket than delivering the eulogy,” Beth Anne says and smiles. I guess that’s pretty true, but I doubt this can be news to anyone here, even if it is a pretty good one-liner. And who doesn’t like a good one-liner? Well, me, for starters.
“In the weeks to come, we’ll learn many techniques for being an effective public speaker. We’re going to work on different relaxation techniques. We’re going to work, of course, on practicing, and we’re going to work on some different exercises that will help take you out of the moment, help you forget that what you’re doing is frightening and scary. We’ll do certain things that will hopefully make you forget you are public speaking.” Beth Anne smiles approvingly, individually at each of us, slowly making her way around the horseshoe.
“It’s important to remember though,” she adds on now in an extra soothing tone, “that what will help you will be very personal. Maybe it’s counting to ten, maybe it’s picturing the audience in their underwear. Think about what will work for you.”
Amy raises her hand.
“Yes?”
“I don’t think that’s really fair. Aren’t you supposed to tell us what works?” Amy asks, her tone a bit snappish, aggressive.
While there is a small part of me that agrees with her, I don’t want to subscribe to the hostility. I’m sure it’s wrong to feel so hostile to Beth Anne, so early in the process. So, instead, I picture Alec in his underwear.
“Practice works, getting out of the moment works,” Beth Anne says, not missing a soothing beat. “It will be an individual journey, but one we’ll all take together. Next time we’ll work on relaxation techniques, and then we’ll talk more about the assignments.
“So,” she says brightly, glancing toward the clock and then the door. “Until next time. Should anyone wish to address any matters privately, I’ll stay for a few minutes after class.”
Lawrence at last raises his head from the desk. Everyone begins to gather their things and put on their coats. There are a few murmured thank-yous as we all head out to the hall. As we wait for the elevator, no one speaks. Everyone stares straight ahead. Instinctively, I cross my arms in front of me. The elevator door opens and we all pile on. I think the same thing I always think when I’m on a crowded elevator. How awful really would it be if this thing stopped?
chapter thirteen
I Should Tell You About the Commune
“Hope, it’s your mother.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Are you still sleeping at this hour?” I look at the clock, nine-fifteen. I usually don’t sleep this late, even on Sundays. I’m usually more awake by now. I wonder if I am depressed and that is why, at nine-fifteen, even though that’s not that late, I am still asleep. I could be depressed.
“No,” I tell her.
“It sounds like you were.”
“I’m not,” I say getting out of bed and heading to the kitchen. I want to say I’ll call back, after I’ve run downstairs to the new intimidating Starbucks that now must be part of my life, to get a coffee. Yet there are possibilities: possibilities that such a statement could possibly result in an entire conversation devoted to why, at the age of thirty-two,1 I do not have an ounce of domesticity in me and do not even make coffee in my apartment. Rather than admit that I’ve just woken up, rather than explain that I did make coffee, just last week, I pour myself a glass of water and think of a latte, one from Columbus Bakery. I listen to my mother as she exhales heavily through the phone.
“How’s everything?” I venture, trying to infuse my voice with as much cheeriness, as little sleepiness, as possible.
“Well, you know the party is on May seventh,” she says, matter-of-factly. I can picture my mother looking at her desk calendar, various party-related tasks and organizational feats written out from March to May.
“Yes, I know.”
“What are you doing the week leading up to it?”
“Uh, I imagine working?”
“I’m hoping that for the week leading up to the party, you might be able to take some time off and come out to help Dad.”
“What’s wrong with Dad?” I ask, alarmed now. Mom sounds tense and angry, over something more than the color of my hair or my inability to match my foundation to my skin tone. Something is wrong. I reach out for the kitchen counter, hold on to it; I need support.
“No, your father’s fine, but I’ll be traveling.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, and take a moment to regroup, relax.
“Um.” I hesitate for another moment, think of my vacation time for this year. We get three weeks a year at the museum, and to date, I have taken none. I think of the romantic Caribbean vacation that Evan took with his girlfriend before me. He told me all about it once. The mentioning of how he and I should take a trip that I was sure would follow on the heels of such information never came. I shouldn’t think like this.
“Sure,” I say, “I don’t see why not. But you sound weird. Is everything okay? Are you sure Dad’s okay?” It’s important to double-check things.
“It’s nothing like that, Dad’s fine. It’s just a lot for him out here with the dogs and all, if I’m not here to help.” My parents currently have three dogs, less than they’ve had at other times, but granted, Mom does have a point. These particular three dogs, Betsy, a neurotic-to-the point-of-possibly-insane Jack Russell terrier; Captain, a half-blind, diabetic Pembroke Welsh corgi, who very sadly was just diagnosed with cancer; and Annabelle, the French bulldog of whom we have spoken, are a bit of a production.
“So you can come?”
“Um, yes, I’m sure I can come, let me just check at work tomorrow. I’m sure it’s fine. Where are you going?” I ask. “Just out of curiosity,” I add on, because even though she has said that everything is fine, to me she sounds pretty much on the verge.
“I’m going to Canyon Ranch for the week.”
“Oh,” I say, “that’ll be nice.”
“Well, yes,” she says, and exhales again.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“You sound a little bummed for someone who’s just planned a trip to Canyon Ranch.”
“Yes, well, I guess, everything isn’t okay,” she sighs. “It’s Darcy.” It is always Darcy.
