12 Things That Still Scare Me

As a 61-year-old grownup I'm not too easily scared these days. I've been through way too many big-ass disappointments and real-life horrors to be "scared stiff" anymore. Oh, don't get me wrong, I still get a shock and butterflies in my stomach and even a slight urge to evacuate my bladder at times, but not enough to make me turn and run. I've seen too much in six decades on Earth to turn tail and run from anything, even if it's the smart thing to do. By the same token, I'm old enough not to confuse complacency with bravery. Not giving a shit and not being scared are two different things entirely.

I'm not afraid of being shot or killed in an automobile accident or being struck by lightning. The prospect of having a fatal heart attack doesn't make me want to do daily exercises and eat bean curd and drink soy milk on a regular basis. I'm not giving up candy and ice cream and chocolate, even if I may die of blocked arteries in my recliner with chocolate drool on my chin and a Dirty Harry movie in the VCR. I'm not afraid of what the paramedics might find or what people will say. I'm not afraid of bullets whizzing past me and hitting rocks in front of me because of careless target shooters who think they own the woods because they have camps there. I'm not afraid of accidentally running into bears in the woods. I don't fret and fuss anymore about the possibility of nuclear warheads raining down on me. Been there and done that countless times, especially in October 1962. And I'm not afraid of being broke, destitute and homeless. Not anymore. Been there and done that, too.

But there are things that would either scare me or make me jittery enough to be slightly embarrassed by it. You bet there are. Things most people would simply take in stride. So, I might not flinch if my car suddenly ramped and went airborne one day on the Interstate and I probably would tell somebody what they can do with that revolver if they pointed it at my nose, but I'm not so old that I'm confusing bravery with stupidity. In my case, what appears to be bravery or stupidity is actually just being too damn "sick and tired" of everything (I love that worn-out phrase) to give a shit. But I probably would get all shook up if any of the following things happened to me:

1. The hair that's left on my head would stand straight up if I opened my refrigerator door one day and saw that I was completely out of dill pickles.

2. I'd get big-ass butterflies in the pit of my stomach if I heard on TV that there was a chocolate shortage anywhere in the world.

3. I'd immediately break into a sweat if I was headed for the bread rack at the local store and spotted someone ahead of me dropping the last loaf of white bread into their cart.

4. I'd probably turn white as a sheet if ever heard my name mentioned on TV, even if it was a news story about how I'd won the State Lottery. Especially if I'd won the lottery, because that would surely mean that I was about to die, before the first lottery check ever arrived from Harrisburg.

5. I'd get goose pimples all over my hairy arms if someone said behind my back, "Stop right there!"

6. My mouth would go dry as dust if somebody pointed at me in a crowded mall and everybody turned to look. Then, I'd get butterflies in my stomach and break out in a sweat.

7. I'd want to turn tail and run if I ever ran into an old girlfriend again, especially if she was using a cane.

8. My heart would leap into my throat if I was on my way back home from shopping and I got behind a fire truck or an ambulance that was going my way, turn by turn.

9. I'd just shit if I ran across somebody in a store who'd read one of my books.

10. I'd damn near shit if I heard that somebody actually read one of my books and actually liked it. Actually, I've been there and done that. Twice now.

11. My hand would shake like a leaf if I ever opened the ice cream cooler at the local supermarket and saw that they were completely out of Dutch Chocolate.

12. I'd probably faint if I woke up one morning and found out that I wasn't in Appalachia anymore but on a chaise lounge in Beaulieu-sur-Mer, France. But I'd soon get over it and I'd never want to go back. Not until I realized that it's not the wonderful, pretend Beaumont-sur-Mer in the movie Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, it's the real France. The country that turned its back on the people who helped liberate them from ruthless, German oppression, twice in the same century. Then I'd wish I was just about anywhere in Monterey County, California, where I'd rather face the big earthquake than people who hate good people for no other reason than the pure sadistic pleasure of being bad and mean. Just like the Nazis treated them.