Posted by:
donbagley
(
)
Date: February 18, 2024 10:15PM
My Anxiety and Mitch Hedberg
The narrow hall was like a concrete coffin, packed with bodies all around me. My brother,Jeff, and his wife,Robyn, were with me, but so was everyone else. It was like all of northern California was in there, waiting for access to the club. I felt I could stand in the middle of the hall, had there been room, and reach out and touch both walls at once . Mitch Hedburg was headlining and nowhere in my thoughts anymore. I had to get out of that hall. I had a strong urge to ask Jeff for his car keys, so I could go hide and shudder in his vehicle for two hours in a parking lot at Howe About Arden, a commercial enclave in north Sacramento. I was sweating and had to watch my breathing. The fear of passing out in public is like a bear approaching.
I don’t know how long we waited there. I had my own secret war to fight. The club was called The Punchline, and I was standing in line punching myself. The imposter syndrome welled up in me. I wasn’t a regular fan, I was some kind of a pretender with bad nerves. The line would never move, and I would inevitably collapse and humiliate myself in public. My odds of seeing the inside of the club seemed remote. I would be dragged or carried out limp like a stereotypical fainting lady from a women’s lounge. An object of pity and derision is what I would be seen for. Found out as the drama queen of self-pity. Might as well just go out to Jeff’s car and throw myself into the backseat.
Of course I chastised myself for wanting to miss an important event. I’d been watching Mitch Hedberg on the Comedy Central Channel on television. We’d come all this way to see him. I knew Jeff and Robyn would be disappointed were I to bail out. And I knew I’d never forgive myself. I was on medication for anxiety and depression, but it didn’t always work. The stress of confronting a crowd was enough to exceed the limits of the little pill I’d ingested. This is how these panic attacks played out. Intense feelings of avoidance were interpolated with a sense of shame. The crowd was clamoring all around me, and I couldn’t understand what people were saying. My forehead was damp, and I kept pressing the palm of my hand at it.
Did the crowd shuffle forward a bit? I’m sure it did. Good, a distraction, we were in motion. In minutes we were at the door, which resembled the entrance to a saloon. Inside, I could see that there was a stage with a painting of Sacramento for a backdrop, and a microphone on a stand. The bar was crowded with drinkers. It was bright with all the lights up, and an usher found us seats at a table with three chairs. It was right up against the proscenium, and I balked. “I can’t handle getting spoofed by a comedian right now,” I told the usher. “Don’t worry,” he said, “these two don’t do that stuff.” Relieved, I sat down with Jeff and Robyn. I asked the guy to get me a beer. Jeff and Robyn ordered drinks as well. Our table was tiny, cafe style. I felt better when I took off my coat and draped it over my chairback. It was almost as if I had left my panic in the claustrophobic hall outside. Our drinks came around. I had a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale–nice and cold.
The house lights went down and a spot lit up the microphone stand. Maria Bamford, the opener, stepped onto the stage. Mostly I remember that she had a high voice, but she could modulate it. Her low voice was hysterical. She did a nice set and received warm applause for it. I was on my second beer, and my anxiety began to retreat. The prospect of having a good evening was getting pretty favorable.
Mitch came onstage to a vigorous applause and much cheering. I had seen him many times on television, and here he was, bigger than life. As I mentioned earlier, I was sitting right against the stage, nursing a craft ale. Hedberg’s jokes were one liners with an odd spin. For instance, he said, “I used to use drugs. I still do, but I used to, too.” It was great stuff, and I laughed and forgot all my personal troubles, which is the point, right? A little over halfway through his set, Mitch looked over at me, and he looked me right in the eye. He approached me, and my nerves went code red. He reached out to me with his glass of vodka. Confused, I thought he was trying to hand it to me. He recoiled, and I realized he was attempting to toast me. I recovered, leaned forward, and we clinked glasses. My brother later said he couldn’t tell which of us was more nervous, me or Mitch.
I felt good after the toast and finished my beer. Mitch finished his act, and everyone began to file out of the club. The hallway out front seemed larger than before. Cheery people were moving through to get to the parking lot. I had enough room to see if I could touch both walls at once, and I couldn’t. The hall was much wider than it had looked before. The loose crowd was harmless, and all was well with the world. Anxiety is a hard cross to bear. Mitch Hedberg died a few months later from a drug overdose.