THE TIME I WAS ALMOST MUGGED

My grandfather (Dad’s side) passed away in the summer of 2010.  His wake was held in Union City, New Jersey,  an area that is not known for its sprawling vistas and blazing orchards.  I was wearing my best suit, a mismatched set that I pieced together at T.J. Maxx and a pair of combat boots.  I needed the boots because they covered the fact that my pants were about 8 inches too short.  I did however shine them so they looked dressy enough. 

It sucked.  I mean wakes are never fun.  (Unless you’re locking your little brother in the basement bathroom of a funeral home by barricading him in with a potted plant and he screams “VERY FUNNY ASSHOLES,” sending it echoing through the vents for all parties to hear).  Otherwise, they’re sad and frankly, they can’t end soon enough.  I like to grieve on my own time.  Rooms, ripe with emotion generally make me uncomfortable.   I’ve never understood how wakes are perceived as cathartic.  I always feel like people watch you at these events and judge you based on how many tears leave your eye sockets.  I know from members of my outside family that this is true.  They’ve called after a wake and ask if you’re alright because you weren’t crying much (obviously the numbers of tears are tantamount to your inner, personal struggles).  For someone who is paranoid this is like a nightmare sequence, a dead body and all eyes on you.

I had been asked to be a pallbearer at my Grandfather’s (Mom’s side) funeral several years before this one.  It’s a sign of honor and respect, or so I was told.  For me, it was a Hellish ride.  My mother and aunts jumped this on my brothers and myself days before the actual service.  It sent me into an anxiety induced frenzy.  The day of the funeral I was so jumpy that no amount of prescription Xanax could take me down.  I was sure if I took enough to put a small elephant to sleep I wouldn’t be so nervous.  It ultimately didn’t work in my favor.  I lost all color in my face and other various parts of my body.  My balls were so frightened that they rose up and took shelter in the pit of my stomach. 

The funeral director explained that it was a short walk from the funeral parlor to the hearse.  This was no reassurance.  So, I white knuckled it on the corner of the casket.  My palms were sweating oceans.  I was so afraid I would do something stupid, like I don’t know, drop the casket.  However, as we walked out I had to keep telling myself to stop waving with my free hand.  I wasn’t at a fucking parade.  I wasn’t the fucking Queen.  This wasn’t an event that involved waving at people.  Everyone was huddled with their black shawls and hats with black veils (this took place in the late 1800’s).  No one else carrying the casket noticed as I’m sure they all had worries of their own.

So, at Funeral 2010, my friend, Mary, met me at the funeral home in hopes to keep me calm.  She had taken the light rail from Hoboken to Union City.  Her presence worked like a charm.  I managed to get through both showings of the wake without having an episode.  After the last showing at 9 pm I walked her through the streets of Union City to make sure she got back to the light rail alright.  On my way back, I was distracted by a display set up by a lovely Spanish woman.  Shoes of all shapes and sizes were on sale for 2 for $9.  It was quite a bargain and one I wasn’t used to living in Bergen County.

As I perused the selection she told me a wonderful story in Spanish.  I listened, albeit my Spanish a little rusty, but I think it had something to do with trying to make money for a clown with a head injury who was currently eating a cheeseburger in the library.  I didn’t particularly care for clowns and figured I would look trashy if I showed up with shopping bags. 

So I did not purchase the lime green Crocs and plastic white rain boots and headed back.  As I turned the corner of 45^th street towards the Morgado Funeral home a man grabbed my suit jacket from behind.  He put his head close to the back of mine and whispered, “Just give me what I want and you won’t get hurt.”  He was Spanish so all I heard was, “Joss gee mee wha I wan and ewe won get hurr.”  Ok, so it sounded like he was wearing Crest White Strips instead of speaking with Spanish accent.  I was scared and everything was so cloudy.

I decided to give him what he wanted and I slowly faced him and started to get down on my knees.  Unmistakably he thought I was a freak and told me he was mugging (moggin) me.  I wasn’t sure if he had a weapon, but I have a fear of being pistol whipped one day so I figured I would comply with Speedy’s demands.  “I want your wallet and phone (Eyes wan yo walleet an fun),” he barked. 

“Ok here’s the thing, no lie, I just had my identity stolen (a true story) so I don’t have a wallet.  I have a rubber band with my license and a picture of Xena Warrior Princess.  See (showing him) it’s my ‘Warriors Skills Card’ and that’s me, it’s a bad picture.  You are welcome to the $12 dollars and 3 Werther’s Originals in my front pocket.  As for my phone it’s an Env2 being held together by duct tape.”  He then broke out into uproarious laughter grabbed the $12 and ran away. 

I was kind of sad.  I couldn’t even get mugged properly.  I just stood there for a moment with my pant leg tucked into the shaft of my boot, white hiking socks scrunched up, visible for all to see.  It started to rain and I walked the rest of the way back to the funeral home.  Everyone assumed I was just sad to see Mary leave.  I never told anyone what had happened that evening.  It was a mixture of embarrassment and fear of getting in trouble for sort of getting robbed, so I kept my mouth shut to everyone.  I bet my attacker bought the last lime green crocs and white rain boots in size 10.5 too. 

WORRY (ALWAYS)

I worry about everything to extremely ludicrous levels.  It’s sad because it keeps me from doing many things that I think I would otherwise enjoy.  Since my list of fears could go on for volumes, I’ve compiled a list of the top 10.

10.  Purchasing a new phone.  I know, this is a stupid one, but I panic at the thought of it. I don’t enjoy spending years with a device that has seen me at my most vulnerable just to throw it away and start new with something because it’s fancier.  The thought of transferring media and whether or not I’ll be able to adjust to new technology haunts me.  I can’t stand technology as it.  I started writing this book on my cave wall long before it found its way to a computer.  I also hate the status that’s associated with phones.  Everyone just stares at your device and pretends not to judge you.  It’s ok, you tell yourself you don’t care but secretly you’re trying to figure out what’s wrong with your super cool EnV2.  (I’m aware they stopped making them 5 years ago!)  It’s an honest fear that I have and that’s why I’ll wait 10 years or until the phone dies before making the transfer.

9.  Being mistaken for a woman when I make a call.  Up until I hit puberty I sounded like Lisa Simpson.  There, I said it.  As a child I was so self conscious about it.  The other children would always laugh at me.  I didn’t know what the hell my problem was.  Why on earth did God bless me with such irritating vocals?  I knew from my own Grandmother amongst others that smoking would give you a raspier and deeper voice.  What I didn’t know was that it would take years of smoking.  In the sixth grade I would pilfer cigarettes from my Dad and grandma in hopes that I too could have a deeper voice.  So there I was smoking these long Virginia Slims aiming to sound like Jimmy Durante.  That would’ve been really neat.  However, I had to wait for puberty for my voice to settle.  Had I not been made fun of so greatly I probably wouldn’t have this fear.  Whenever I make a call or I’m waiting to order from a drive-thru I always wait to hear “Yes ma’am.”

8.   Man Boobs and puffy nipples.  This one’s a pretty self explanatory worry.  I think most men have it.  I’ve always had a pretty chubby stomach.  It’s a feature that I’ve grown used to.  I’m not willing to give up cookies and cake for toned abs.  I don’t give a shit.  Everything else on my body is toned so I don’t worry much.  However (I have no idea why) whenever I panic about something, or I’m scared, I grab hold of my chest.  It’s just a reaction I have.  Last time I reacted this way I walked past a dumpster and there was a man inside.  He wasn’t dead, just sleeping I told myself.  He’d be awake by morning.  Well, I grabbed hold of my breast (is it alright to call it a breast? Or is that not manly?) and noticed there was something to really grab hold of.  The whole walk home I wouldn’t let it go.  I was grabbing at myself and shaking to fill the jiggle.   I was forming man boobs, or ‘moobs.’   I have nightmares about large breasts growing complete with Christmas tree nipples.   For weeks after I worked on nothing but my chest to tame the beasts. 

7.  Farting in public.   While I find bodily noises to be pretty entertaining, I don’t find them funny if they’re coming out of me.  I will go to any lengths or measures to cover up anything that comes out of me, so to speak.  I used to work in a pet supply store that sold a lot of gross things.  One shipment day I wasn’t feeling terrific unloading a palette.  So I waited for my two employees to grab stuff to put out and when they were gone I let a little one sneak out.  Evidently these are the worst.  The smell that came out was indescribable.  I waved my arms and an empty cardboard box to dissipate the smell, to no avail.  At this point, my co-worker turns the corner and lets out this horrible ‘blech’ sound while scrunching up his face.  “What is that smell?” So I did what anyone else in that situation would do.  I told him it was rancid fish food, and it all needed to be thrown away.  So I dumped about $20 worth of fish food claiming it had gone rancid.  I will NEVER be found out.

6.  Having a fabric softener sheet roll out of my pant leg.  I know that this isn’t all that worrisome but sometimes fear isn’t rational.  I always check my clothes before I put them on because I’m afraid one will roll out while I’m doing something and people will assume I have ulterior motives.  “Hey that’s supposed to be covering my ass in case of fish farts!  What’s it doing on the floor?”  I cannot have that. 

5.  Interacting with people.  I used to be so good at interacting with people.  As I’m getting older it’s become increasingly difficult.  When I go hiking I’m afraid of people talking to me, even to say ‘hello.’  I avoid eye contact at all times.  I hate going to stores anymore.  Even walking through the door of an establishment upsets me.  If it’s not an automatic opener, I panic.  I worry because I can’t judge a reasonable amount of time to wait and hold the door for someone.  I naturally assume they’re calling me names under their breath if I don’t wait and they get angry if they have to hustle to get to me in time.  It’s far easier for me to just stay home and make friends with inanimate objects.  How you doin’ stapler?

4. Stepping in dog shit.  Everywhere I go, I cannot take my eyes off of the ground.  I always presume I’m going to step in a heaping pile of shit left either by a dog or some other wild animal (or a friend of mine who has no qualms about shitting anywhere…I do mean anywhere, I’m talking nature trails, lakes, bathtubs, kitchen floors).  This one time I had inadvertently stepped into dog shit on the way inside of my friend’s brand new home.  I had no idea that this had taken place.  So were walking through her new home and I giggled and said, “It’s a great place, smells kind of funny though.”  Next thing I know she’s letting out this terrible scream and pointing to her white carpets that are now have size 11 shit covered boot prints in her new home.  Needless to say, I didn’t sleep for a week after that.  I would lay in bed and FLASH I’d fly out in a panic thinking about it.

3.  Children.  Children are just gross and dirty to me.  Not much more to say than that.

2.  Skunks.  If a skunk were to be carrying a gun and gave it to me and said “Shoot yourself or I’ll spray,” I would cease to exist.  I have such a fear of skunks.  I’m not sure if it’s the clothing I’m worried about or the entire act of the spray.  I’ve gone miles out of my way on a walk if I saw one.

1.  Hobos.  I’m not sure people even call them ‘hobos’ anymore but this is my number one fear.  I know that it’s a cruel and terrible fear to have.  I’m not saying that I don’t feel bad for them, because I do.  I think it’s horrible what they endure.  Even with that said though, I still fear for my life every time I see one.  I’m a terrible germaphobe and I hate being touched…by anyone.  I’m always so nervous that one will grab me and not let go.  I’ll scream for help, but everyone will see a hobo and not come to my aide.  Their un-manicured hands and feet scare me.  Their fashion sense.  The shopping carts filled with empty shoe boxes.  It all scares me.  My friend Cate takes it a step further and her biggest fear is that one will jump out and stab her with a hypodermic needle.  The solace I take is that there are other people out there with this problem.  

GOING TO THE BATHROOM SCARES ME

               

                Alright, I’m going to set the record straight.  Going to a bathroom doesn’t actually scare me.  It’s the act itself.  I’m not sure why exactly.  It could be the embarrassment, the sounds, the other senses involved, the fact that when you flush, millions of germs cover you and your surroundings or it could be because of a story I read when I was 14.  A boy had gone to use the bathroom in a local mall and ultimately was molested.  My mother had caught wind of this story and put us all on high alert.  Which roughly translated to, “never use public facilities or you WILL be raped.”  A heavy burden to place on a child I am aware. 

                It really struck a chord with me though.  I was so scared to ever use a bathroom in a public place for fear of what would happen to me.  Hell, even walking past a man by a bathroom would put me on the defense.  “Fucking pervert, yeah I bet you wish I’d go in there.  I don’t think so buddy!”  I don’t think any of them would’ve done anything to me.  They all had the same reaction and appeared much more scared of me than I was of them.  (A lie my father often told me about spiders and small creatures that I’m still not sure I believe). 

                So I would suffer bladder infections and other various forms of pain because I wouldn’t use a bathroom.  However, as I got older the problem became worse.  I now can’t go comfortably anywhere unless I’m home and drowned out by a lot of noise.  I had to become the James Bond of the bathroom.  If I’m at a friend’s place its Mission Impossible.  I hear the theme song in my head and everything.  It’s too much of a process as far as I’m concerned. 

                When nature calls, sometimes you don’t have the option of sending it to voicemail.  It sends me straight into panic mode.  I will sit there for up to 30 minutes fidgeting and trying to concoct ways of saying that I need to use the bathroom.  It seems like a harmless enough task to just up and go.   I always try to do it in such a fashion that I’m in and out and they will be under the impression that I left to freshen up.  I’m not one hundred percent sure what I would be freshening up but I need to be ready to dazzle!

                As I watch the cogs on the clock turn (I like to think of old clocks for this story, it makes it much more dramatic than a digital) this is usually when the pain starts to set in.  I’ll be sitting there and that’s when my ass starts sweating.  The ass crack sweat then slowly climbs up the small of my back.  I worry about what color shirt I have on and if the sweat will show through.  It can be traumatic at times.  I’ll then excuse myself and head to the bathroom.  Exalted theme music plays in my head once inside, even though it’s only a small victory. 

If I can hear people talking it makes everything worse.  I figure if I can hear them, any noise that I make they can certainly hear me and I don’t want to be labeled a ‘butt-trumpet’ or something hurtful like that.  Then I stand there and debate whether to turn the water on to drown out any incriminating sounds.   I certainly don’t want them thinking that I’m not going green and that I like to waste gallons of water for the sake of saving me embarrassment (I also have no idea why I’d be so gassy).  So I decide to take a seat and leave the water off. 

                Once seated, my eyes never remove themselves from the bottom of the door.  I look for shadows creeping by or any other suspicious activity.  I doubt anyone would linger outside the door to hear the soundtrack of my exiting lunch, but I can never be too sure.  From the moment the first piece leaves my body, I know the race is on.  I need to finish, and FAST.  It’s usually pretty smooth sailing from there.  However, it always seems to be my luck that someone will knock on the door or walk by when I’m pretty close to being done.  I am so bowel shy that it is in that moment that any shit that has left my body will fly out of the bowl and right back up my ass.  I will then pull my pants back up, wash my hands and pretend like nothing ever happened. 

If however, by some grace of God that I did manage to be successful the agony of flushing settles in.  My biggest fear in life is that I will flush someone else’s toilet and all of my excrement will rise like a phoenix riding an ocean wave, curling before it crashes into shore (or at least find its way to the floor).  So I stand there and stare at the handle, a challenge at its very finest.  I then hold my breath (that usually reduces some of the anxiety…not sure why this works) and reach for it.  Still holding my breath, as it swirls its way down to oblivion, each and every time I nearly black out from lack of oxygen.   When I regain proper thought, I think, should I light a match?  Then I think that they will think I’m trying to start a fire so I usually don’t.

If all goes well I’m able to exhale all of my worries, wash my hands, rejoin some familiar faces, and pray they don’t ask where I’ve been for the past hour.

THINGS MY PARENTS NEVER NEED TO KNOW

               

Much of my worry and general discontent of life stems from my parents.  I’m under the impression that most people’s uncertainties are.  I blame my mother, mostly because that’s what psychology tells me to do and because she is afraid of anything past the front lawn of our house.  She has emblazoned in mine and my brother’s minds things to be fearful of.  This is a legitimate excuse why I am typically nervous to be awake during the day.  She has even gone as far as to train the dog to fear everything from thunder to passing cars to the garden hose.  I deeply believe it’s her way of protecting her children.

The thing about my parents isn’t necessarily the ‘fear factor’ that I derive much of my worry from.  It’s the guilt from the never ending stream of “I told you so’s.”   No matter what happens in life, they are always there to say it.  I could walk out my door, get shot, and in the hospital my mother would be there waiting with a speech on how I had no business being outside.  I have a general fear of failure in life because I never want to have to deal with hearing them say it.  I recognize this, yet I can’t break free of the confines of those words. 

To be safe, she covers all bases, “Oh your girlfriend broke up with you?  I told you she was too good for you.  You got pulled over by the cops?  I told you, you shouldn’t have gotten all those tattoos.  They profile you know.”  The list goes on and on.  Any failure, from the smallest to the most grand has always been my fault.  There is never an outside force working against me.  It always has to be me.  This is why I’ve decided to lay down some epic failures in my life that my parents can never find out about.  I love my parents immensely, there’s no question about that.  I’d rather just not have them see certain things because…well it’ll be pretty obvious.   

I’M DYING (Dramatic Much?)

When I was younger, I used to diagnose myself with terminal illnesses…a lot.  My mother had these medical encyclopedias from my aunt when she was in nursing school back in the 70’s.  Needless to say, by the time I was growing up in the 90’s these books were slightly outdated.  I would go through the alphabet and find a different disease that I had for every letter.  I had cancer in every conceivable form, I had tumors (which turned out to be true later in life), I had syphilis (twice), and I had most every sexually transmitted disease by the time I would turn 7. 

                I would approach my mom with the books in hand, “Mom, I’m dying…it’s a tumor.  They say they size them by fruit and I’m afraid this one will grow to the size of a watermelon.  There are pictures of what to expect.  Would you like to see?”

                “No,” she would say, shaking her head and walking away from me.

                “I really am dying you know?”

                “Ok, go get your brothers and tell them that dinner is ready.”

                She labeled me a hypochondriac and that was just another title to add to my long list of illnesses.   I would get so angry with her.  I would accuse her of not caring and wanting me dead.  What scared me more than my swiftly approaching demise was the thought of going to see the doctor; the perfect conundrum.  I just wanted the attention, I wanted nothing to do with doctors.  They poke and prod and ask a lot of questions.  The waiting room always smelled funny and I’m pretty sure on several occasions there was fecal matter and vomit on the floors.  The toys always looked less than sanitary and the nurses were nothing like how they looked on T.V. 

It was a bad situation all around.  Besides, I always had a cure.  I would read in the encyclopedias the procedures necessary to eradicate such problems.  The books made everything seem so complicated.  They wanted to cut you open for every little thing.  I believed in alternative methods, my methods.  I would lay in bed then dramatically roll to the floor saying “this is it.” I would crawl to the kitchen, on all floors panting like a dog to find an ‘antidote,’ usually in the form of a cookie or candy of some nature.  Problem solved!  I would then happily get up and find something else to do, until I would come down with something else. 

By the time I was 12 I moved on to mental health issues.  I was a bi-polar, manic depressive, schizophrenic, split-personality, with just a touch of borderline personality disorder.  I would see the commercials that listed my symptoms and would try to convince my mom that I needed to be on every medication advertised.  Again she would tell me no and I would go on another angst ridden bender of ignoring my family and eating a lot of baked goods.  I did however, read a great deal about depression.  At that time I’m still not sure if it was the growing up process, or an actual bout with the disorder.  Either way, I did a great deal of reading up on it. 

I learned about the network of nerves in the brain and how chemical imbalances would lend themselves to feeling sad.  I would read about the drugs to take, the therapy to sit through and then I would realize I didn’t have a tremendous amount that I wanted to say to a therapist.  It was true that I was sad…a lot.  That was all I really cared about.  Yet again, I came up with my very own solution to a very real problem.  I figured that if I would shake my head hard enough it may loosen the nerves, or set them back to where they should be.  So, I went on my own little revolution of head banging.  Well, it wasn’t so much a head bang as it was a diagonally upward jerk.  It would make my neck crack and I was sure that I had solved the problem.  Whenever I would start feeling sad or couldn’t put up with the heavy tasks of childhood, I would whip my head around.  I just wanted to be ‘normal.’

By the time I was in high school I couldn’t stop with the head banging.  That within itself had become a very real problem and I did everything I could to stop it.  Friends and family would notice it and just give me blank stares.  Some would ask “what the Hell are you doing?” and I would just smile and carry on.   When the teachers would notice my random jerking motions is when it actually became an issue. 

“Dan, are you alright? What are you doing that for?”

“Just curing my depression, Teach!” (That’s what I would call any teacher, ‘teach,’ or ‘dick’ if they really pissed me off)

“Oh, well alright then.”

                I didn’t have a tremendous following, but I feel like I got the job done for the time.  That was mostly until the school counselors called my parents in and they started diagnosing me with various disorders.  It wasn’t until that moment that I realized my health related labels were coming true.  I couldn’t sleep for weeks after that.  I think that’s where the real worrying came into play.  It had all been fun and games up until that point.  It was never fact and thus started my lifetime of worry and panic.