colette wilkinson 
 

I grip the ice-cold bottle of Corona and look around the dingy bar.

 

Three middle-aged men sit at the bar, looking dismally into their beers and occasionally glancing up at one of four TV screens to check the baseball scores. A barman in a plaid shirt and baseball cap leans back on the bar.

                                    

I catch his attention.

 

"You do karaoke, right?" I ask him

 

"We sure do," he says. "You're early. It doesn't start till 9." 

 

I check the time and roll my eyes. It's only 7.45. 

 

Still holding the bottle tight, I gulp a mouthful of beer. Traces of the lime I'd wedged into the bottle moments earlier linger on my lips. I remember the last time I'd tasted that zing. Last Thursday. Take it easy, I tell myself. We don't want a repeat of that.

 

Last Thursday evening, I had recruited two friends to join me in an attempt to conquor a crippling fear: singing in public. Karaoke? Hell yeah, they said. Need to drink first though, they said.

 

On Friday morning, I awoke fully clothed, squinting at the ceiling light that was still blazing. I groaned.

 

“We pre-gamed way too hard,” I said out loud, raising a hand to my forehead.

 

If my rough notes are to be believed, we had a blast. At one point, we tried to smuggle into a Jewish frat party. But we never made it to karaoke. Was I really that scared of singing in a bar?

 

Memories of my last attempt to sing solo in public flooded back to me. I was 11 and had been given a solo in the church choir. And I messed it up. I had stopped dead, feeling a thousand eyes on me. After a few seconds of silence I heard someone laugh. I had tried to sing on but all that emerged from my throat were a few puppy-like yelps, as if I were pleading for the stone slabs beneath me to swallow me whole.

 

The biting shame of more than twenty years bore into my soupy, hungover brain and I rolled over to hide my face beneath my arms.

 

It’s now two days later and my second attempt. I’m at Courtside, a sports-bar on the outskirts of Cambridge. A quick Google search will tell you that Courtside is widely regarded as one of the best karaoke nights in Boston. But looking around the empty bar, I’m convinced I’m in the wrong place.

 

“It’s held through there,” the barman tells me, nodding towards a door to the left of the bar. As I peer through, I almost drop my beer. The back room is about three times the size of the bar and has the feel of an old jazz club with several round tables lining the edges, each seating 8 or 10 people, and long tables down the middle.

 

“We have someone’s going away party in tonight.” says Dawn Duncan, who manages the karaoke.  “We often have some semi-professional singers in here too.”

 

I open my mouth to speak but no words come.

 

Duncan laughs as she sets each table with jars of paper slips and small pencils. “Don’t look so scared, honey. It’s gonna be fun.”

 

I smile weakly and attempt to settle the butterflies in my stomach with another large mouthful of beer. Rejoining my friends, I declare that I need something a little stronger. Abandoning any lessons learnt from Thursday, I order a gin and tonic. Double.

 

After two of the same, the karaoke starts and we venture through to the back room while a singer belts out some Taylor Swift. Fuck, she’s good. I feel a rise of nausea.

 

Taking my seat at one of the circular tables, I glance around. The room is really filling up. Shit. Taking another gulp, I pull a hefty songbook towards me and scan the pages. To my relief, I find an old favorite—one I could sing in my sleep. If I know all the words it won’t matter if I close my eyes.

 

Four G&Ts later, and the past hour has been a heady rollercoaster. My instinct to clap and sing along to tunes like Bohemian Rhapsody turns to blood-curdling panic every time a song ends and I realize I might be next. 

 

“Alright, and now we have Colette from London.” Duncan’s announcement echoes through the back room.

 

I gulped my fifth G&T down in one go.

 

Cheering erupts and I make my way to the stage, feeling as though the ground might give way. As I lift the microphone, the opening guitar licks of Start Me Up by the Rolling Stones drowns out the sound of my friends rapping their palms on the table. I daren't look up from the floor.

 

“If you start me up. If you start me up I’ll never stop.”

 

I can barely hear myself, let alone check if I sound in tune. I close my eyes.

 

“You make a grown man cryyyy.”

 

C’mon, you know this.

 

"Spread out the oiiiiil."

 

Yep, bit louder. Come on.

 

“The gasoliiiiine.”

 

Was that a little growl there? Nice.

 

“I walk smooth, ride in a mean, mean machiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine.”

 

Woo!

 

It's over. I allow myself a cheeky air punch as I hear my friends belting out the cheers we had promised one another—cheers fitting for a rock star.  I laugh and bow my head as I make my way back to the table, barely able to feel the floor under my feet.

 

Probably the gin, I tell myself.