A Kind of Panic
Fiction & Visual art by
Anthony Verdi & adam shaw
The buzzer sounds at this bar I’m in and the bartender kicks something in between the ice machine and a rack of glassware that opens the front door. I know this is how it works because I saw the girl with a guy wrapped around her walk past me and press the button that sounds the buzzer, and before that I stood outside smoking a cigarette because my chest tightened and my palms sweat whenever I thought to knock or peer through the window. And because it’s a Saturday and because this is a bar after all, ever since I walked in behind the girl with the guy wrapped around her, the buzzer has sounded on and off and on and off and the bartender has kicked at whatever she’s kicking and the door has opened and people and people and people have come in.
I’m waiting for a buddy who is supposed to introduce me to some friends of his, help me make friends with his friends because fuck if I know how to do anything else. I order a drink and when the bartender brings it, I ask about the jukebox on the bar and she tells me it works, one play for a dime, three for a quarter, and the guy behind me offers me a dime to get out of his way, so I put it in the jukebox and select “Sweet Caroline” because why the hell not, but nothing happens and the guy tells me to get out of his way like I said I would, and I do because I can’t hear the song anyway because some other guy in the back is telling a story about finding a tunnel in a Spencer Gifts and crawling through it, and everybody’s laughing, and I’m hit with the swell of wanting to tell a story that makes people laugh and also the swell of feeling so alone in a crowded room. I meander back to where the Spencer Gifts story is being told, only it’s ending and people are laughing and the buzzer sounds and I assume the bartender kicks at whatever it is she’s kicking but I can’t see it.
As I look around I realize that none of this is real because I have that feeling in my chest again, the one that tightens my shoulders and ribs so that my breaths quicken and my pits sweat. Mostly it can’t be real because on my left is the moon with the a clueless look on its face, a sort of slack-jawed stupidity, and next to that is a Christmas tree even though it’s March, red tinsel, red lights, a streak of ribbon that dangles like an arm on a dislocated shoulder. I turn to the guy next to me and ask him is this real? and it’s the guy with the story, the Spencer Gifts guy, and he says well no and I say of course it isn’t because there’s a red sheen to everyone’s faces, a sort of glittery glow like a blood moon shining on them, and that’s too rare a thing, too wonderful, too wonderful-er, even, to be real.
There’s a pay phone in the back that’s covered in graffiti and a picture of a cat named Jasper. The buzzer sounds and I assume the bartender kicks at whatever it is she kicks, only it buzzes again so I wonder if she forgot, if she’s in a shift change, if she’s fixing the jukebox. It buzzes again and I pick up the pay phone and say what am I doing here? The voice back says SWEEEET CAR-O-LINE, and I say BAH BAH BAH, and a group talking about shooting fireworks out of a golf cart turns around to look at me, and I say who is this? and one of them says Neil Diamond and the voice on the phone says the moon and the buzzer sounds and nobody kicks anything because it buzzes again, buzzes again, and I think about what a fun onomatopoeia that is, buzzzzzzzzzzz, and I’m reminded of my buddy who never showed, but it doesn’t matter because the part of the song’s coming back up where you sing HAAAAANDS and pause, sing or shout TOUCHING HAAANDS, and pause, sing and shout REACHING OUUUUUT—
Only the buzzer sounds again and again, louder and louder, over and over, and even though everyone in the bar lifts their hands and flicks their wrists like they’re conducting their own kind of symphony, and even though I can see them shouting TOUCHING ME and turning toward the person on one side, then another—their skin aglow, almost misty in that red sheen, so natural it almost looks like the mildew you saw on the backyard grass when you were a kid and you went out for that first morning play of the year—everything spins and the buzzer sounds and someone slaps the bar, says dude!, and I look up at the bartender, whisper touching you. She says what? and shakes her head, says I guess it’s broken, holds up a dime between her thumb and forefinger like she’s pulled it out from behind my ear. I take it and say thanks, look down at my drink, and my buddy shouts my name from the back of the bar. I turn in the direction of his voice and he waves me over, mouths I’ve got some people I’d like you to meet, and as I near him he opens his arms for a hug. I step into it and notice that red shimmer, a sort of glitter to his skin, and I pause, look down at my hands, notice that I have it, too. We hug and pat one another on the back, and he keeps one arm around my shoulder, pulls me into the crowd, and I let him.
Anthony Verdi: Writer, photographer, loud. Also runs Splat Mag.
Adam Shaw’s work has previously appeared in Pithead Chapel, Autofocus, Rejection Letters, and elsewhere. He lives with his wife and daughter in Louisville, Kentucky, and can be found online at theshawspot.com.
