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1:06 a.m. - Saturday, Dec. 21, 2002
Tawanda!
My range of enjoyment when it comes to movies and television programs is limited. More than limited, it�s positively stunted. For obvious reasons, I avoid war movies. I also avoid movies in which the violence is either excessive or very realistic. Bless her heart, my therapist even wrote me a letter to get me excused from jury duty forever and based it on her opinion that it would be detrimental for me to even listen to a court case in which violence plays any part.

Likewise, I avoid horror movies. Especially those that have roots in reality, or could conceivably happen in reality. I don�t understand why people like to be frightened by monsters and monstrous acts. I don�t know why people want to allow their thoughts and memories to be contaminated by the images and possibilities of extreme and unnecessary cruelty.

But that doesn�t mean I am not a terror junkie.

It took me some time to work up the courage to do it, but I finally went into a tiny neighborhood bar close to my home. It�s one of those boxy little low-ceilinged brick buildings sitting on the edge of a small gravel parking lot which seems never to contain more than a half-dozen cars. The whole building fits nicely under the brawny arms of a huge live-oak tree.

For most of December I�ve found reasons not to go there. I�ve driven by and tried without success to see in through the two darkened windows as I passed. I�ve tried to visualize myself going in and settling myself onto a stool at the bar close, but not too close to the �regulars� whoever they might be. I tried to imagine the inhabitants I might find there, but with so little experience going into places like this, my mind fell woefully short of the task. It fell back to old images of the drunken idiots of years ago, who had decided at one time of another that their world would be a better place if they took it upon themselves to chase me out of it. I thought of my most recent outing almost exactly a year ago, when I went to one of the very scarce Mississippi gay bars to watch Karen perform in the annual AIDS benefit Xmas party. I remembered that as a good experience, even though I was politely ignored by the festive crowd packed into the place. The people there were kind, at least.

Finally, yesterday, I ran out of excuses. The day was wonderfully bright and cool following the passing of a tornado-laden thunderstorm system the day before. My Christmas stuff is done. I�m not going to any stores. It was a choice between walking in the sunny day to the little bar or sticking to old patterns and staying holed-up in my dark apartment for no good reason, feeling bored and neurotic. In a moment of clarity, I realized that sticking to the old patterns was in it�s own way much more terrible and scary than going out into the world and doing something new. Even if I got my ass beat in the process. I put on a pair of pants and a sweatshirt, brushed my hair back and started walking the few blocks to the bar.

As I got closer, I was relieved to see that there were only three cars in the parking lot. If one of them was the bartender�s, it meant only a couple of patrons were there. That was a good thing. But then I was horrified to see a big black, chrome-shiny motorcycle parked not in the lot, but right in front of the single entrance door. It wasn�t a hundred; There was no gang of leather jacketed ruffians in nazi helmets standing around swinging chains and brandishing knives. It was just a single motorcycle, but parked in such a way that one would have to walk around it in order to go in or out of the bar. There�s something arrogant, to my way of thinking, about someone who would park their motorcycle that way.

I had a lot of second thoughts all of a sudden. I lost my nerve on the first pass and found myself walking past the bar on my way to nowhere. I walked on a little ways, struggling with myself. It took a half-mile or so before I could turn back and start in the other direction, leading both towards home and towards that bar. As I approached the bar, I saw that the motorcycle was still there and another car had appeared in the parking lot. How disappointing that I had walked right up to it and not found the nerve to go into that place. So disappointing, in fact, that it felt worse than that anticipated beating. Worse than confronting an unknown motorcyclist on his own turf, in front of his own friends, and dealing with whatever taunts or even violence that it entailed.

�Fuck it�, I said. It�s something I say when I can�t let fear win. Like the old paratrooper�s cry of �Geronimo�, I guess, or Evelyn�s cry of �Tawanda!� in �Fried Green Tomatoes�. I say �fuck it� and plunge into the fear. I stepped carefully around the motorcycle and walked into the dark unknown.

Motorcycle dude was sitting at the bar close to the door. He was a little old for a motorcycle guy I think. He was maybe in his early forties, with a handsome but rugged face and long luxuriant blonde hair. His companion was a little younger, very pretty and really quite sexy in a pair of cream colored leather pants with red emblazoning down the sides. They both smiled at me when I came in. They smiled and said �hi�!

The bar was much nicer inside than out, even if it was just as tiny. The walls were recently done in warm-toned wood. Very cozy. There was a single pool table and a dart board. And two TVs. All of the furniture matched.

I sat a little distance from motorcycle dude and his dudette. I ordered a Captain Morgan�s rum and diet Coke from the young lady (!) tending the bar, and then watched quietly as she smeared another young guy at darts. They asked me if I cared to play, but I declined. We exchanged a little friendly chit chat and that was it. All of my monsters turned into little yellow marshmallow chicks. I had two drinks and then resumed my walk, determined to return to this little bar every day for at least a week.

I�ll say it one more time. If I�m good at nothing else, I CAN beat fear. It does feel good when it�s over though.

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