Until this very moment, Mitch didn't know that the classic image of someone's knees knocking in fear existed outside the realm of Scooby-Doo. "Zoinks!" is right, Mitch thought bitterly. Alas, here he stood, legs shaking like a chihuahua in his skinny jeans. Mitch was sure his pounding heart was visible outside his chest.
His hands were clammy at the thought of grasping the knocker that hung on the door, but he stared at it until it came into crisp focus. It was shaped like a lion. Crickets chirped in the bushes to the left and right of the wooden steps. Mitch cast his gaze towards the plants, and was happy to realize he had recognized them correctly by their smell-- purple sage. He had them in his yard growing up, too. Mitch inhaled once more, feeling the early spring breeze on his cheek, and ran his fingers through his damaged hair. Here goes nothing.
---
Being a performer and having anxiety were not always a winning combination, but luckily, Mitch had a few tricks up his sleeve. Not only did Kirstie patiently allow him to practice every poem in front of her, for hours at a time in the privacy of his dorm room, but Mitch also began seeking professional help for his stress during the school year.
His counselor in college once told him to focus on his breathing before any intrusive thoughts could creep into his mind. In, one-two-three-four-five. Hold, one-two-three-four-five-six. Out, one-two-three-four-five-six-seven. And repeat. He never told Dr. Almeida that he used that one-- at minimum-- four times a day, but he did thank her silently for it every single time. I am breathing. I am here, I am alive, I am breathing. At least establish that fact before moving on to anything else, right?
Sometimes, Mitch would focus on his breathing, and no matter how many times he counted to five, six, and seven, his fear would not let go of him. It latched on tight, like a claw. When he felt like his anxiety could grasp him and whisk him away in a meltdown, Dr. Almeida taught him how to stay grounded. Mitch would ask himself, What is one thing I can see? What is one thing I can hear? What is one thing I can smell? What is one thing I can feel? With each answer, Mitch could sense himself floating closer and closer to the ground.
Mitch wasn't allowed to forget that he takes up a space on this planet. The spot under his feet was his to stand on. The air he breathed, his own air.
---
Designer clothes occupied a good chunk of Mitch's brainspace, but not even one percent of his closet space. His pay as a writer and performer was meager at best, and just about covered the cost of living on the bad side of town and renting nightly stage space. Instead, Mitch would pick up clothes from thrift stores in every city he visited. He made a game of it-- he never bought a garment over ten dollars. These days, a lot of designer clothes tended to look like something you'd find in a donation bin, anyhow.
In his suitcase, Mitch carefully placed a t-shirt from Georgia, a pair of jeans from Indiana, and a sweater from his brief detour through Montreal. He only assembled enough clothes for a night, a weekend at most. He nabbed a flight on a seedy airline and wrote down all the details in the back cover of his notebook.
Luggage in the hall and notebook in hand, Mitch finally shut the door on his apartment.
One-two-three-four-five. One-two-three-four-five-six. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven.
---
3:31pm Kit: where are u?
3:32pm Kit: i thought u wanted to come and meet the new puppy?
4:00pm Kit: i mean it's totally fine... i hope ur ok mitchy
4:12pm Kit: it isn't like u to ditch, especially when we only hang out like once a month...
5:18pm Kit: are u in trouble? i'll pick u up
7:03pm Mitchy: omg! i'm so sorry. i'm fine
7:03pm Mitchy: i just hopped off a plane. i'm in texas. i'll keep u posted :-*
7:04pm Kit: what?? why are u there?
7:09pm Kit: be safe mitch
---
The cab ride had his heart doing somersaults. Mitch lazily doodled in the margins of his notebook until his nerves got the best of him, then he decided to close his eyes and rest instead.
His mind drifted for what felt like years until he was awoken abruptly by the voice in the front seat.
"Young man. We've arrived. I accept cash and major credit cards." Mitch ran a hand through his hair, and fished through his jacket pocket until he found a few crumpled bills. He got out of the taxi and leaned in the open window, offering his payment.
"Thanks. Can you wait here?" Mitch asked.
"Sure thing, but I charge by the minute." The taxi driver replied. Mitch cursed silently. He stood up straight, and looked out into the night over the roof of the cab. There were so few lights that the street was only visible for a few hundred feet in either direction.
"Sir, I mean no disrespect, but if you leave, where will you even go? There's absolutely nothing here," Mitch started. He paused for a moment, then continued, "Depending on how this goes, I might be coming with you to the airport, anyway. So why double back?" He hoped the driver wouldn't notice his careful shift of topic away from money. Mitch had just spent his last few dollars. The cab driver pondered this for a moment, then sighed.
"I guess you are right. I'll wait here, but don't be long. Do you hear me?" Mitch nodded hastily.
He really wasn't sure if he should be happy that the man so obviously pitied him, with his faded hair and beat up luggage. Nonetheless, he left said suitcase in the back seat of the taxi and nodded again at the driver in thanks. Mitch made his way to a front porch he hadn't seen in years.
One-two-three-four-five.
The motion-sensor light came on.
One-two-three-four-five-six.
He climbed the steps.
One-two-three-four-five-six-seven.
