Worms — that’s essentially all I remember from the last time I had to speak in public: writhing, squirming mealworms on top of whipped cream and a hint of liqueur.
I watched as the bartender filled each shot glass, complete with three worms each, and topped it off with whipped cream. For the coup de gras a worm was carefully draped across the top of the cream, sort of like a cherry only disgusting.
As the shot glasses were transferred from bar to contest arena, I fought to hold my hands steady as I reached for the microphone. Not only was there a sizeable gathering in front of me waiting to see this Alaskan Fear Factor take place, but I knew my voice was about to be catapulted out across the heads of everyone on the street below. Clearing my throat and nodding to the DJ that I was ready, I opened my mouth and kept my fingers crossed that I wasn’t about to emit a squeak.
With confidence I wasn’t sure I had, I did my best attempt to rile up the crowd and entice those not already inside to belly up to the bar and watch this nauseating competition.
The fastest person to completely swallow all five shots, without having to use the prominently displayed bucket, would win $200.
As the first contestant — and then the second, third, and so on — downed their squirming cocktails, I felt myself slip into a routine. My encouragements and tauntings all sounded the same in my head, but I was relieved that so far no one had thrown a cabbage at my head.
Down the drinks went until the second to last contender paused in front of their first glass, ready for the countdown to begin. I looked down at my phone and felt a jolt of surprise. The event, which was scheduled for a full half-hour, was nearly over — and only 15 minutes had passed. Had I just marshalled eight people through one of the most gruesome events I had ever witnessed with my own two eyes?
I stood watching as the final shots of the contest were consumed, occasionally shouting something into the microphone. I could feel my body shaking slightly from head to toe.
The winner was handed their prize amidst cheering and catcalls as I announced their name. Finally, I let out an inward sigh of relief that it was all over. I had to admit that if my pacing was the worst of my emcee abilities, I was okay with that.
If there’s one fear I am fairly certain people across the globe could come to agreement on, it’s the fear of public speaking.
Storytelling is something I’ve always enjoyed, although I certainly prefer writing to talking in front of a large group of ears with all their attention pointed in my direction. Cue the body shaking.
Needless to say, written stories are a little easier to organize my thoughts into. Tangents are far easier to control when there’s a backspace button. As luck would also have it, Alaskans have great stories. I don’t think it would be an exaggeration to say that the raw material for this very column is endless.
That being said, next month I’m going to take a stab at telling a story — without a keyboard.
Mudrooms is surely one of my favorite community events here in Juneau. There are so many great Alaskan stories just waiting to be told — it’s only a matter of getting up on that stage. On Tuesday, Nov. 10, is the next Mudrooms. The theme is, get this, shenanigans. The stories that come out of this event are sure to be good.
So, with any luck, the worms and body shaking will be at a minimum as I tell my shenanigan-filled story. I have my fingers crossed anyway.
But maybe, just in case, someone could bring that bucket?
• Sarah Cannard is a transplant from the Lower 48 who enjoys long walks on Sandy Beach, Carolans with her coffee and days when her socks match. Follow her on Twitter @becomingalaskan.
