The managers at the restaurant where I wait tables play music the loudest in the morning during set-up. The songs which play across the PA system dictate my mood for the day. Buna insists on playing techno. His music has no words, just harsh electric beats, thumping bass. The bass weaves around the eaves of the building up through the floor, up through my legs and the table where I am cutting lemons to put on the edges of glasses of iced tea. My bones rattle and I start to slice through citrus in time to the music. Bones tend to rattle easily at eight in the morning, and usually by ten o’clock I am inexplicably irritated.
The general manager plays old swing jazz, the kind that invokes classy smoky clubs and tall sapphire gin martinis. I trip down the aisles with the smoke clouding my vision until he turns the music down when the guests come in. But it is the music that Paul plays that I can feel all day, soft soulful vocals, although I could never tell you the words. His music filters through the speakers, down the walls, and up the back of my neck.
I used to be afraid of a lot of things. I am a very shy person, and it has taken me awhile to become as confident as I have. Working at the restaurant has a helped a great deal— talking to tables and needing to come across as an authority, and working with other waiters, hosts, and managers has more or less forced me to become more outgoing in order to function. The music that plays across the PA system in the morning is what I use to pattern my behavior for the day; I take inspiration from the music— enough inspiration to pull myself out of my fear which stems from my shyness. If Buna opens the restaurant with his thumping bass beats, I bounce through the aisles all day, aggressively serving my tables. If Paul opens, the soft tuneful vocals that he plays allow me to feel so comfortable that it is the demure, but grinning- widely-me, who comes through.

Fear has not only been demonstrated in the shyness I feel around new people; my fear has crossed many lines in my life. One of the places it has materialized is on the subject of airplanes. I used to be so utterly terrified to fly. I would become anxious up to a week before a flight, waking up sweating at night, dark dreams of twisted metal poisoning my sleep. I once took a flight from Logan Airport in Boston to National Airport at night. There was a thunderstorm brewing. I could feel my hair standing on end from the electricity in the air as I looked out of the tiny porthole window at the forked lightening jumping from one cloud to another. My terror was immeasurable— all I could see was my impending doom as my hands shook and sweat. I did then the only thing that made sense to me. I did what I have learned to do in order to cope with my fear and discomfort— I grabbed the earphones and put them on, turning up the volume loud enough to drown out the roar of the engine.
The music playing was Beethoven. The classical music was loud, passionate and heavy. I could feel the music streaming into my ears like the rainwater on the window. I could pick out the individual string sections as they pounded away- cello, bass, violin. There was great power in the music; my fear slowly began to dissipate with each resounding note. Before I knew it, our plane had touched down in Washington. Today, while the thought of flying does start my stomach churning a little bit, the fear of traveling by jet does not consume my life.
At the restaurant in the morning, I hum under my breath while flipping the glasses on my tables back over. My ponytail swishes from side to side as I walk down the aisles, saying good morning to everyone cheerfully. I can hear Paul’s music playing faintly in the background. Later on in the morning, I tell a joke to a table and they respond with resounding laughter. Beaming proudly, I can see Paul smiling at me from across the dining room, and I smile back. Paul, who knew me before when I was scared of everything; Paul, the player of music.