I had a rather overactive imagination as a kid. At times, this served me well. At other times, not so much. The world, through my wide eyes, seemed vast, vivid, and wondrous.
But with these wonders came threats.
Like bees, for instance. I was terrified of getting stung, and the sight of one buzzing about the yard was enough to throw me into borderline panic. The incident that crossed the border took place inside my home. I was seated at the dining room table in my booster chair, drinking milk from my choo-choo train cup when I began to feel my skull vibrate and teeth tingle. Reflexively, I opened my mouth and out flew a bee, which buzzed its way into the kitchen and through a small gash in the window screen. I suppose I could have taken this as confirmation of the adage that a bee won’t bother you if you don’t bother it, but I didn’t. As far as I was concerned, that bee was a cunning infiltrator on a well-devised kamikaze run.
Days later at my friend Michael’s house, I was sitting at the pool with him, his brother Steven, and their mom Donna, when a bee popped out from a honeysuckle flower and flew toward us. Without saying a word, I ran inside the house and locked the sliding glass door. Steven was the first to try to get inside as he had to use the bathroom. Too bad for Steven. Seconds after he began loudly threatening me, Michael and Donna appeared. Donna quieted Steven, and spoke to me in a soft, measured tone – confident this would sooth my worries and get me to unlock the door. Donna was wrong. Before long, all three of them were banging on the glass and screaming at me through gritted teeth like in the wedding scene from The Graduate.
For a good time after that, I was persona non grata at the Rothman house, and something told me that if I wanted to live a life that included friends, I’d need to find a way to keep my bee hysteria in check. Which I did. But the truce was an uneasy one and was only successfully assuaged once I got stung by a bee and realized that the pain, though notable, was nothing near the searing dagger attack I’d been expecting.
Sand crabs were another perceived peril. Any time I neared ocean waters, I was sure the cocktail-olive-sized savages were readying to poke up from below ground to pinch and gnaw at the bottoms of my feet. Never mind that Mole crabs (their actual name) had no claws or teeth – try telling that four-year-old me. So I devised a compromise with my parents. I would walk with them on the shoreline as long as I could wear my bedroom slippers – the moccasin-type that were all the rage in the late ‘60s with the woven crochet tops and thin leather bottoms. My mom and dad both agreed (though I’m certain my mom was the true driver of the deal). As we walked, water and sand flowed freely through the gaps in the slippers’ wool. My feet began to drag, and my pace slowed. From the corner of his mouth, my dad whispered something to my mom I couldn’t quite make out. (“This is fucking ridiculous,” my mother would tell me years later.) Eventually, due to fatigue from the added weight, I could no longer move. Having had quite enough, my dad hoisted me skyward, pulled off my cement shoes, plopped me back down, and made me walk the remainder of the trip barefoot. At first, as the tide pushed in around my ankles, I treaded lightly. But with each passing step, I thought less about crabs, and more about what fun I was having. I began to walk normally. By the end of the journey, I was actively stomping the sand. (Fortunately, I had not yet heard of stingrays. But that’s a tale for another blog post.)
Then there were monsters. I was fascinated by them, but also frightened. What kept that fear in check was the fact they lived so far away. Dracula in Transylvania. Frankenstein in Europe. The Wolf Man lived near wolves, and there were no wolves in Sherman Oaks, so I was good there. The Creature from the Black Lagoon needed a lagoon. All we had around us were pools.
That is, until an eerie transformation began to take place in our neighbor’s pool, which I vigorously monitored through the ivy-covered chain link fence between our homes. The previously crystal-clear water was growing murkier by the minute. Soon, you couldn’t see through it – the water a mossy green. Today, I’d chalk this up to a busted pool motor, or a clogged filter. But back then, in my mind, there was only one reasonable explanation. Our neighbors had quite willfully converted their pool into a lagoon.
Shit.
I was old enough, at that point, to basically know monsters didn’t exist, but young enough to still think that maybe, under proper conditions, they just might.
Like having a lagoon next door, for instance.
In the open, I knew I was okay. The Creature from the Black Lagoon was slow and lumbering, and I was confident that with my speed and agility, I could elude it. The problem was the shower. The bathroom door had no lock on it. One simple twist of the knob by the gilled menace, and I was all but done for. It was imperative I remain vigilant. Consistently besting the hair-washing record for Boys 5 and Under wasn’t enough. I needed a clear sight line between me and the Creature, which meant keeping the shower curtain all the way open. An inch or two would have likely sufficed, but I was taking no chances.
This went on for a week or so and would have continued far longer if I’d had the good sense to wipe the water from the bathroom floor, but I didn’t. And it was driving my dad bonkers.
“Are you sure you’re closing the curtain all the way?” He asked.
“Yes,” I lied.
“Well do a better job of it,” he insisted.
“Okay,” I assured him.
But I didn’t do a better job of it. Or any job of it, for that matter. My dad was 6’7” and decently intimidating, but next to the Creature from the Black Lagoon, he was a pussycat.
One afternoon, I came into the kitchen to grab a Kool Pop from the freezer while my mom was at the sink doing dishes.
“Bruce?” my mom said, keeping her eyes on the dishes.
“Yes?”
“What’s the real reason the bathroom floor gets so wet when you take a shower?”
She asked this nicely, but also with a hint of suspicion. I knew she was on to me, so I told her the truth. “I’m afraid the Creature from the Black Lagoon is gonna get me.”
“I know monsters aren’t real,” I continued as I outlined my rationale, repeating the disclaimer so many times along the way that, by the end of my explanation, I had convinced myself that monsters were, indeed, a fabrication.
“So you’ll close the curtain from now on?” my mom asked, her voice relaxed.
“Yes.”
My mom nodded, her eyes still on the dishes. “Okay,” she said approvingly.
Despite my assurances, success was not overnight. But progress was steady, and before long, I was living up to my word and keeping the shower curtain completely closed. (Fortunately, I had not yet seen the movie Psycho. But again – a tale for another blog post.)
In the years since, I’ve endured many other bouts with fear – some, like bees and sand crabs, concrete in nature – others, like the Creature from the Black Lagoon, more nebulous in origin. In either case, as anxiety mounts and I fall prey to my thoughts, I remember back to that day in the kitchen and how safe and supported my mother made me feel in expressing my worry, and how relieved I felt afterward having unburdened myself of a deep dark secret that, once expressed, no longer felt particularly deep or dark.
Not that it’s ever easy to express any notion potent enough to hold toxic sway over one’s internal makeup – to risk ridicule, misunderstanding, scorn. Still, the greater risk, I’ve found, comes in saying nothing at all – allowing something once small and manageable to fester, proliferate, confuse, and contaminate.
I’m abundantly grateful for the patience and grace my mother displayed at such a crucial and formative moment in my life, and consequently always do my best to lend a compassionate ear to anyone in need of one.
Cause take it from me – there’s a lot of creatures out there.
Great and entertaining read…