My Redacted Life: Chapter Five (Cont._3)

Things were going well at my new job until I ran into a primal fear situation. I don’t why I hadn’t anticipated it, but it happened.

It started on Thursday afternoon when Tom Hodges called me into his office. “Got any plans for Saturday?”

I didn’t and told him so.

“The planning association is having a meeting in Russellville on Saturday. We thought you might want to ride over with us and meet folks.”

Of course. I had no apprehension. Maybe I’m ready for the big time. What should I wear? Casuals were fine, a relief cause that’s all I had.

They picked me up early Saturday and we headed west. Russellville was nearly two hours away in those days. I-40 was only completed in stretches. We were to meet on a point overlooking Lake Dardanelle, which is basically an expansion of the Arkansas River. Land had been leased on the point for construction of a Ramada Inn and the group met in a conference room there.

Back then, the professional organization was the American Institute of Planning. The professional designation was “AIP,” They changed it years later when a far right-wing bunch of characters named themselves “The American Independent Party,” i.e. “AIP.”

As for then, we were still AIP. On the way up, they told me that they had signed me up as an associate member and explained what it would take to achieve full membership. Since I didn’t have a master’s degree, it would take five years experience followed by an oral exam. I had over a month in already, so that didn’t seem so bad.

When we got there was when it all went to hell. It started out okay. Most of the ones attending knew one another. Some had even attended school together. Tom and Jim were gracious in introducing me to the group. They bragged a bit about how fast I was picking things up.

Then the president of the group started the meeting. We all sat around a large table and waited. After a few preliminaries, he said. “I see lots of old faces and some new ones. Why don’t we go around and introduce ourselves? Give a little information about your background, what your experience has been, and what the association could do for you?" He waived an arm to his left.

Oh hell! Speak to a group of strangers in a public gathering? Christ almighty. I hadn’t spoken to a group since they made me take public speaking in college. I only survived then because a roommate was having a fling with the instructor. He passed me with a “C” and a wink.

The last time before college had been in the fourth grade when I gave a presentation about the planet Mars. I said it was a planet that could be seen by the naked eye. Reading from cribbed notes, I pronounced the word “naked” to rhyme with “snaked.”

The entire class laughed at me, including Penny Perdue, Nell Phillips, and Rita Rowell, three of the prettiest and most popular girls ever to attend Lakeside Elementary. I had avoided speaking in public since. I never considered a career in law because I assumed one had to speak to juries. Not me, you betcha.

The thought of public speaking was a white-knuckled, heart-pounding, dry-mouthed, knee-trembling fear that I avoided at all costs. And now, the roundabout was closing in on me.

One thing about most urban planners is that they love to hear themselves talk, so it took a while for the conversation to get around to me. Instead of allowing time to prepare, it only increased the terror.

My time came at last. I felt sure I wouldn’t be heard over the pounding of my heart. “Hello,” I said and stated my name. There followed a silence during which the entire Gettysburg Address could have been recited, then, “I’m new in the business and I am proud to be here.”

Man, did that portend greatness or what? I sat red-faced while the next speaker expounded for ten minutes about the subject of his master’s thesis.

The meeting ended and we went home. Tom and Jim mostly gossiped about the others who had attended and left me to my shame. I stared out the window, thinking about a career in the Merchant Marines.

This urban planning business wasn’t going to be so easy after all, and the Sea has forever been a seductress for souls adrift in human misery. Call me Mushmouth.

But, I thought at last, maybe things would look better on Monday. Hopeful optimism is better than the Balm of Gilead.

You want me to do what?