Author Archive: Christopher Waldrop

For some reason the phrase “Do one thing every day that scares you” came into my mind this morning as I was leaving the house. It’s not a phrase I remember hearing recently and it’s not one I’ve ever given much thought, although now that I have it seems pretty ridiculous. Do I really want to go looking for things that scare me? Do I want to take unnecessary risks? I could easily say just driving to work scares me but, in spite of all the risks, that’s setting the bar pretty low. Since Daylight Savings Time ended a week ago and I thought it would still be dark when I started out but, for now, the change and the shortening days hasn’t caught up to my usual departure time. It was bright enough that only about half the cars I passed still had their lights on.

Then I got to work and parked in my usual spot on the roof of the parking garage, something that’s also very low-level scary. It’s exposed and, as far as I know, I’m the only person who parks up there, although there’s a garbage can which is always overflowing with what appears to be new garbage every week which suggests a lot of people are passing through, or, possibly, a few people with a completely disproportionate amount of trash.

Also there was an elevator out of service. There are two elevators—one that I guessed was working since it wasn’t closed off—and I also could have taken the stairs. The stairwell is completely windowless, though, and narrow, and cold. It’s not a great way to start the morning.

I realize that just writing this is a spoiler that the alternate elevator was fine and, aside from a slight tremor on the way down, didn’t give me any trouble. Besides I still wasn’t fully awake. At least I’d been fully conscious on the drive in but once I’d parked I was so focused on other things, including just getting in to work, that I really didn’t even consider the possibility of anything going wrong with the elevator until I was in it.

That’s the other ridiculous aspect of “Do one thing every day that scares you”. The scariest thing I’ll probably do all day was not something I was even aware of.

I used to know someone who worked in an accounting department. Their department head allowed everyone to call in an occasional “mental health day”. Vacation time had to be approved well in advance, and it was usually assumed that anyone taking vacation would take several days. Anyone could call in sick if they woke up under the weather, of course, but if you were sick you were expected to stay home. Someone taking a mental health day could go to the gym, go to the park, go to a coffee shop. If the boss found out—and sometimes they did find out—it was copacetic. Someone who’d had a bad day, or a cluster of bad days, could call in and say, “I need a mental health day,” and do whatever they needed to decompress.

There were a few restrictions on this. The April tax season and the end of the fiscal year, which was the last day of June, were really busy times, and everyone was asked—though not required—to not take mental health days during those times unless it was really, really necessary. Important meetings couldn’t be skipped, and no more than one or two people at a time could take a mental health day. And obviously no one could take one every single week; three to four times a year was preferred.

It was a great idea, and it placed a lot of trust in the employees, which may be why no one abused the privilege. Whoever came up with the idea obviously knew the old saying about an ounce of prevention. And also that people will frequently do the right thing. I don’t think it’s just because they were all accountants either, though accountants are known for being sticklers when it comes to rules. A few of them might also have been actuaries, and you know what they say: actuaries are accountants who can’t take the excitement.

The one thing I never thought to ask was, how many people called in mental health days around the time the clocks had to be set forward or back for Daylight Savings Time? Because it doesn’t matter whether it’s losing or gaining an hour. The time change always throws me off mentally.

Three-hundred and sixty-four days a year, sixty-five if it’s a leap year, I have no clue who most of my neighbors are. Sometimes when I go out to get the mail I see people out walking their dogs or pushing strollers down the street, or walking dogs and pushing strollers, which is an impressive feat for a single person, especially if their dog happens to be a Great Pyrenees. Or I might pass by people out walking as I’m driving somewhere—always very slowly through my neighborhood because it seems to be a place where a lot of people like to walk which irritates me because I think I should be out walking too. It would be good for my health and also might give me some idea who some of my neighbors are.

At least I do know the people who live on one side of us. I saw the guy wearing a Doctor Who t-shirt one day and commented on it and we started talking and half an hour later my wife came out to make sure I hadn’t collapsed and died in the driveway.

The one time of year I at least see most of the neighbors is Halloween. For several years now a couple of people have organized a two-hour shutdown of the street so everyone can walk up and down without worrying someone’s going to drive through, even very slowly, which I always think is great. I’ve never taken the opportunity to walk much up and down the street myself, though, since I always put out a big bowl of candy and I stay by it to watch all the people who come by. And by the end of the evening I’ve given out handfuls of it because if they don’t take it I’ll eat it.

This year, though, I’m planning to take advantage of the opportunity to walk up the street and say hello to some people who have a really interesting yard. I plan to do it early, though I might risk missing them, but I don’t want to get there late when they’re giving out their candy in handfuls because if I take it I’ll eat it. If nothing else a stroll down the street will give me a chance to meet some of my neighbors.

And as always the last word on Halloween goes to Lou Reed.

I’d just picked up the mail and was walking back to the house when I heard the yelling. I looked and could see an oversized SUV—that may be redundant—with someone leaning out of one of the passenger side windows yelling. I thought maybe they were picking up someone but then they drove down a few more doors and the same person leaned out the window and yelled again. I couldn’t see who they were or make out what they were saying but they drove past my house and up over the hill, then I heard yelling again. Maybe they were looking for someone they knew but it seems like a weird way to do it.

Since it’s that time of year it reminded me that there’s a handful of horror films about possessed vehicles—only a handful because the idea is just goofy. Stephen King is responsible for two: Christine and Maximum Overdrive, neither of which are frightening. There’s The Car, and I Bought a Vampire Motorcycle. I’ve never understood how the idea of a demonically possessed vehicle is supposed to be scary. Once you get inside a building or even behind a solid wall you’re safe. Maybe the force that’s possessed the car can teleport it through solid matter, but if it’s that powerful why does it even need to be attached to the vehicle? And once the vehicle runs out of gas what’s the worst it could do? Play AM radio at you? Blind you with high-beams? Vehicles by themselves just aren’t scary. It’s who, or what, might be behind the wheel that is.

That reminded me of another incident from when I was a Boy Scout. At the time I was a patrol leader and I was walking a group of younger kids back to our campsite from a big gathering. It was always important to me that the new Scouts especially had fun. I’d seen so many drop out, some after just one or two meetings, or after their first camping trip, and I hated to see them go. I also felt more than a little responsible for them. I was, in most cases, three or four years older, but there’s a vast gulf between the years of eleven or twelve and sixteen, and at times I was the closest thing to an adult around. Not that I was always the best role model. Other patrol leaders would say, “Let’s learn how to tie a clove hitch,” but I’d say, “Let’s see who can stuff the most marshmallows in their mouth!” But the important thing was to have fun.

Anyway we were walking between the woods and an old country road when a car, an old, rusted Oldsmobile, drove by. Someone on the passenger side leaned out the window and yelled indistinguishable at us. We all stopped. The car was moving slowly and probably would have kept going if I hadn’t yelled, “Assholes!”

Like I said I wasn’t always the best role model.

The car screeched to a stop. And we all started running straight for the woods. There was a path through the woods but we weren’t close to it yet. We were taking our chances going straight into the trees. I should have stayed back to make sure the younger kids made it safely, since I was responsible for them and the trouble we were now in, but I only remember all of us running together. And a voice behind us: “Yeah, you’d better run!”

The people in the car must have decided we weren’t worth pursuing. When we finally stopped and looked back, the road still visible through the trees, the car was gone. We clambered through the trees to the path and back to our campsite where we sat down around the fire.

I was still pretty rattled, my heart thumping heavily, my lungs burning, but one of the kids just looked over me and grinned.

“That was fun!” he said.

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