Repercussions
Joshua Coulter
Stuck on the corner, waiting for the lights to change, you peruse the shopfronts down the lane to your left. Two doorways catch your eye, alike only in the fact that both are distinct from the others along the street but with vastly different approaches to enticing clientele. A garish, lurid yellow sign proclaims the left door houses an adult boutique downstairs. The door closest to you sports a simple white sign, a single blue note at the centre with an arrow pointing up. You focus on the blue note, vision starting to blur slightly as your mind begins to wander, attempting to shed the weight of the day.
You almost miss the crossing signal.
As you near the opposite side of the road, you feel yourself turn down the side street, angling towards the door under the white sign and the stairs beyond.
As you cross the threshold, the faint strains of a sultry and enchanting melody begin to envelope you, becoming clearer as you ascend the stairs. From the landing you can view the club, the dim lights combined with the warm smoky air creating a cosy atmosphere. The exposed brick walls adorned by vintage posters of legends, the enigmatic eyes of Cab Calloway, Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong, and James Morrison among many others seemingly watching over the proceedings.
To the left of the arched entrance is the stage. A small, elevated platform bathed in a gentle spotlight, currently occupied by a local six piece playing subdued jazz classics. You enter the club proper, signalling for a waitress as you head to a secluded booth in the back.
From your seat you watch the waitress bustling between tables, moving with an easy grace, her burgundy dress swishing this way and that as she glides with a rhythm all her own towards your booth. She produces a pad and pen from the black apron tied at her waist, ‘First time at the Blue Note sugar?’ she asks, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. You nod an affirmative, suddenly struggling to talk, stuttering you ask for an Old Fashioned. The waitress smiles and heads to the bar noting the order.
Moments later, drink in hand, you find yourself getting lost in the music. You recognise the tune as a jazz interpretation of ‘There is a quiet place’, a modern gospel song. The notes from the tenor saxophone swim languidly through the dim light and tobacco smoke. The final dusky notes, low and slow, appear to be a direct contrast to the syncopated rhythm of your heartbeat. You realise as the band steps down for a break that you’re beginning to feel anxious and worried.
You question why you are worried. Is it the meeting tomorrow? You’ve prepared for that as best you can. Your date tomorrow night? It’s your third and so far, you are enjoying each other’s company without any red flags appearing. Before you can pinpoint the source of your worries a wave of intense dread washes over you, engulfing your entire being. Your heart begins to race uncontrollably, as if it's attempting to break free from your chest. Each beat reverberates in your ears, a relentless drumming at odds with the rhythm and atmosphere of the club. You sip your old fashioned as you feel your leg begin to tremble against the deep brown leather of the booth.
Your eyes dart around the club, searching for something to focus on, to distract yourself with as you notice your breathing is becoming a struggle, as if the air has turned thick and suffocating. You gasp for breath, but it's as if your lungs refuse to expand fully. The very act of breathing becomes a conscious effort, a battle against an invisible force that threatens to rob you of your most basic need.
As you try to steady your breath, a thought appears unbidden, what if you fail?
What am I worried about failing? you wonder.
Is success really that important?
Has the thought of failing caused you to panic because society has painted success as the ultimate goal, the only true measure of your worth and significance?
Or will failure take away the security you have used as a shield against life’s uncertainties?
Will failure really lead you to misery?
As these thoughts race through your head, you start to experience hot and cold flashes. Sweat beads begin to form rapidly on your forehead, your palms, your entire body creating a clammy sheen that seems to confirm your body's betrayal. You try to steady your trembling leg, but it seems to have a mind of its own, shaking uncontrollably, as if mirroring the turmoil within.
A tightening sensation grips your chest, a vice-like pressure that threatens to crush you. Rational thoughts are drowned out by a chorus of catastrophic what ifs? Your mind conjures vivid scenarios of impending doom, feeding the spiralling cycle of panic. It's as though your thoughts have turned against you, becoming instruments of torture.
Raising your hand, you signal the waitress. Through shallow, rapid breaths you order another Old Fashioned. Watching you struggle, a look of concern passes across her face, ‘you ok sugar?’ she asks quietly. Shaking your head, you ask where the toilets are and you are directed back out through the arched entrance and to the right, behind the corner of the club which houses the stage.
You make your way on shaky legs, the trembling not as bad when you’re walking but your legs still feel weak, and it takes concentration to get there. Opening the door, you are assaulted with bright cool-white, fluorescent lights, and stark white tiles. The combination creating a blinding contrast to the comfortable, cosy dim lights of the club. You make your way to stand before one of the sinks, one hand gripping the basin edge as the other grips the cold metal taps and turns. You cup your hands as water pours from the faucet, collecting the icy cold liquid before splashing it across your face attempting to both shock and refresh.
Sweat and water intermingle as the iron grip on your chest remains and your breathing refuses to return to normal. Your eyes focus on a large bead of water running from your forehead, down across the bridge of your nose tracing a seemingly erratic path. As your eyes focus your mind wanders, still trying to come to terms with what is happening and why, it drifts through the mental fog and back to your childhood.
*
You remember returning home from a soccer game on a wintery Saturday morning, your mum was proud, you had tried your hardest and the entire team had enjoyed their first game of the season.
As you entered your home your fathers’ eyes rose from his paper looking at you with an intense, unwavering gaze. That stare, filled with expectation, ‘Did you win the game?’ he asked. There was an unspoken demand in his tone, an insistence that winning was the only acceptable outcome. He measured his worth by victory alone, believing that anything less was a failure, a disappointment.
Standing before his imposing figure, you remember feeling the weight of those words like a leaden anchor in your chest immediately replacing the joy from a game well played and the words of praise from your mother. You know his idea of success left no room for effort, improvement, or the joy of simply participating. It was all-or-nothing, anything short of a win was met with disapproval. You hesitated, then began to tremble as in barely a whisper you admitted the bitter truth, ‘No, Dad, we didn't win.’
You remember the palpable disappointment. Your father's face tightening, his eyes briefly betraying a flicker of frustration. Your heart sank as you braced for the inevitable lecture about the importance of winning, the need to be better, to never settle for second place.
You are sure it’s not the first, but it is the earliest and clearest memory from a long and torturous childhood of trying to adhere to your father’s ideals and ultimately gain his praise.
*
Broken from your painful reverie by the sound of the band starting again, you dry your hands and make your way back to the booth. While passing over the parquet dance floor in front of the stage, legs still weak, you notice a seventh member has joined the band.
You reach your booth to find a glass of water in place of the expected Old Fashioned, the waitress approaches you and says, ‘I thought you could use that more than the whiskey, but when you’re ready let me know and I’ll bring it over for you.’ You thank her as she moves on, bustling between tables and patrons.
Sipping the water, you focus on the newest member of the band on stage. Victory roll hairstyle, pristine white blouse, and blue pencil skirt she captures your attention as she steps toward the microphone, cradling it in her left hand.
‘At last, my love has come along…’ she begins to sing. Her soft and sultry voice accentuating the low notes and slow tempo. Mesmerised by that voice, you take a sip of water and without you realising the storm of anxiety that has held you in its grip begins to wane. Your racing heart starts to slow, your breathing becomes gradually deeper. As the panic attack recedes, it leaves you feeling exhausted both physically and emotionally. You're left drained and slightly uneasy, as if you've just fought a battle and are not sure who came out the victor. With a rueful smile you realise you may never fully understand what just happened or why. You signal to the waitress that you are ready for that Old Fashioned and focus on that voice.
Joshua Coulter is not sleek enough to be a dolphin, not large enough to be a whale and musically inclined to favour the Beatles, His spirit animal will forever be the Walrus. Overworked, underpaid, and forever dreaming Joshua writes as a form of self-exploration and for his own entertainment.
