FEAR

Strangely, I can’t remember the first time I was afraid. But I can tell you exactly when and where it was. 2:15 on the afternoon of October 17th, 1948. Methodist Memorial Hospital. Indianapolis.

Afraid? Hell, I was terrified!

One second, I was just hanging around minding my own business. “As snug as a bug in a rug” as I had heard my mom say on many occasions, and then all of a sudden someone is pushing me from behind and the next thing I know it’s real bright, real loud and some huge monster in a mask, grabs me, lifts me up like I weighed no more than a doll and proceeds to beat me on the butt. And up until then, I didn’t even know I had a butt.

Then there was the whole air breathing bit. Let’s just say I had not had a lot of practice in this regard, as I had been, up until this point, making like a fish, and I suddenly realized I’d better get the hang of this air breathing bit real quick or I could die. No pressure.

And it actually got worse! If you can imagine it, I find myself connected to, but not controlling, mind you, these things, with these squiggly little things on the ends, that are flapping around in the breeze and heading off in every conceivable direction.

And if all of this weren’t terrifying enough, the monster in the mask proceeds to pick up a knife to make sure that I can never go back to doing what I had been doing forever, just a few moments before.

And I can’t even bring myself to tell you what he did with the knife next.

So that was the first time I was afraid. And I don’t mind admitting to you that the whole experience left me crying like a baby.