The Fun of Fear

Ah, fear- the never ending presence holding us back from the things we want to accomplish in life. I even utilize fear as a distraction, keeping me safe from facing my fear of success. A good example of this would be the fear of the unknown with regards to my present employment. Things seem to be changing at work, and the rumors have been flying about, more strongly than I have ever seen them fly in my five year career. I’ve never been one to partake in the rumor mill as I don’t regularly subscribe to conspiracy theories. I do have one exception to the rule with conspiracy theories, as I do believe the Russians are still watching me ever since I wrote that story about getting lost on the Submarine base in New Groton, Connecticut many moons ago. I even have proof: a regular visitor to my blog, my statistics tell me, hails from a country of origin clearly labeled as the “Russian Federation.” I said it before, and I’ll write it again, I didn’t see anything on the base that fateful day, so please leave me alone. Enough with the Russians, to them, I should be considered nothing more than an admirer of their airplanes.

My workplace grievances of change are of the logistical sort. It has been decided –again- that our road drivers won’t be going to certain areas that I really enjoyed. West Virginia, one of my favorite areas to run through with a big truck, was long ago removed from our itinerary, and I miss it terribly. Upstate New York, one of my remaining favorites, (next to of course, Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont) is rumored to be next. Personally, I haven’t been to New York State in weeks. However, I am aware of some guys from our headquarters in Wisconsin that have, furthering my belief that our days traveling up there are coming to a close.

So, what could be the problem with being robbed of my favorites? It increases my travels to areas I find less favorable. Philadelphia and the neighboring state of New Jersey are being dispatched to me with increasing frequency. Whenever I call in for a trip, and I hear the Words “Philly,” or “New Disturby”, a horrific chain of chemical reactions is set in motion within my body. It starts as a slight whine at the very core of my soul and then becomes louder as the negativity takes over my mind. I try not to let it ruin my day and in most cases, I am successful. The only problem left is how to increase my fun ratio to where it once was.

The solution I arrived at was to start looking around at some other companies. My train of thought was if I could find a company that could broaden my traveling horizons by giving me a ticket to the Midwest and Deep South, my happiness level may rise again. I always wondered what lies west of the Pennsylvania border or south of Virginia. The lands and adventures that are out there are enticing to me by thought alone. So I set out to have a look-see, and began by perusing a few websites about trucking jobs, and within a few clicks of the mouse, the frustration set back in anew.

My main problem is my present company, if I may put it bluntly, has got me by the testicles. The jobs are plenty out there, but few exist that can pay me the enormous amount of money I take home and immediately hand over to the Wife. The trucks are not equipped to such luxurious standards that I enjoy with my current residency, and getting home as often as I am with my present-day employers is definitely off the table, heck, it’s not even in the kitchen. I’d be gone for weeks. Besides, outside of venturing to places I don’t enjoy, I still enjoy the company and the people I work with. Even I begin to question how, why, and when, I became such a whiney little bastard. It took a few days of thought, and then, as usual, the answer hit me.

The answer of course, is fear. My original plan called me for me to keep on driving (where I am), and continue writing in the background. With proper care and feeding, one day this writing hobby of mine could muster up the courage to replace the driving, and then I live happily ever after. If not, I continue on down the road because I do quite enjoy it. I knew this all along but I choose instead to allow my fear of writing, and its sister, fear of success, take my eye off the keyboard. Oops.

So it’s back to “keep my eye on the ball”. I’ll put my faith in our corporate folk that they know what they are doing. That is hard to do sometimes when I (and every other driver at our company) surely know a better way to run the company. Instead of allowing myself to whine, I’ll do my best to make myself comfortable with New Jersey and Philadelphia. Like everything else in life, change isn’t always easy but with enough practice served with a side order of patience, things become easier. When I reach that level of expertise, the fun factor should reappear. In the end, it was my fear of writing, and even finding success that allowed me to find a false sense of unhappiness followed up by searching out other opportunities. I could have used that time to write things, instead of whining to myself (and a few select others) about the state of my union.

What amazes me most is I should have known better than to act (and think) like I have been. My Grandfather has been in a protracted battle with pancreatic cancer. He has been a courageous man his whole life, and successful at everything he did. From becoming a Hall Of Fame wrestler at Penn State University, to a master of law in his chosen profession as an Attorney, and also an accomplished aerobatic pilot in both airplanes and gliders, he has always excelled. On top of all that, and perhaps most importantly of all, he is a well-loved Father, Grandfather, and Great Grandfather. I doubt he found such successes by moping around, letting himself fall victim to less than savory thoughts rambling in his head. Instead, he went after what he wanted, did what he wanted, and enjoyed every minute of it.

I had a defining moment, which I let pass by, a few weeks ago. I was heading home on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, en route back to our Leesport headquarters. It was a Thursday night, and I had Friday’s workday, as well as my Grandfather, on my mind. Suddenly, my concerns about myself, and my Friday disappeared, and I was left to mull over my Grandfather’s precarious situation. He was 88 years old at that time; he just had his 89th birthday last month. I thought about what he must be thinking, knowing for certain, the end of his life cannot be long off. I thought of my Dad, and what he is thinking as he sits with his Dad, knowing the same thing. After that, I pondered my Dad, and wondered what both of us will be thinking when my Father reaches that point in his life. Finally, even though I am not a fan of math by any means, I began to do some calculations in my head. “I am 38. My Grandfather is 88. If I am lucky enough to live as long as him, and by no means do I feel I will enjoy such longevity after the wild life I have lived, I would have 50 years left in my life. 50 years at best, is all I got. 50 years, that’s it?” As I looked out the windshield at the road ahead, the simple thought of 50 years, or less, filled me with panic. I began to worry that 50 years is not enough, and that I was wasting it away by seeing nothing but the road through a windshield. The panic and fear became so strong that I had totally freaked myself out and was within an inch of calling my dispatch office and telling them I needed Friday off for a mental health day. However, after such a moment, I still allow myself to do and think anything other than to keep my eye on the ball. A shame really, and I am disappointed in myself. That’s the last of that kind of behavior. Even though my Grandfather will soon be gone, I don’t want to disappoint him, so I’ll correct my ways and focus on making the most out of what is left in my life.

Now that I have beaten myself up sufficiently, and taken up several hours of your life, allow me to define my “Fear of success.” If I do it right, I can take up a few more hours of your life in the process, but I give you my word it will be fun.

My fear of success encompasses a few different things: One of them is becoming successful as a writer and making too much money. I’ve witnessed marriages fall apart, followed by families, simply because the couples in question could afford to go down separate roads. I'm happy with the woman I have and don’t want that to happen to me. A silly thought perhaps, but my Wife and I are bonded more than anything (besides our love for each other) by poverty. It would be difficult, if not impossible, for us to live a comfortable existence apart due to the absence of a well-padded bank account. We are quite happy in our life. However, there have been a few moments across our years together where I am convinced we could have parted ways during the tough times if money was not an object. It’s a stay poor, stay married kind of story. It may be a farfetched fairytale spun by my imagination, but it works for me. I’ll have to take that risk and if my plan brings me prosperity and things get hairy with our relationship, well, I can always come back here and read what I just wrote, or have faith one of my friends will point me to it.

Another fear I have is becoming well known. It doesn’t bother me if ten million people read what I have to say, but I don’t want to run into them in the street and have them feel like they know me, even if they probably would if they read anything I have ever written. It’s nothing against people, I simply enjoy being by myself, another reason I enjoy the solitude of truck driving. The only thing worse than being known by a ton of people, is being asked to speak to them. I’m fairly confident I’ll never have to speak to ten million people, or even a few hundred, but the thought of even speaking to 7 fills with me panic. I know this because I recently did. It was the most horrific time I’ve ever had, including my many recent trips to New Jersey and Philadelphia. Allow me to share the story.

Since I first became a driver trainer, I have been suggesting to the gentleman in charge of our training program that I should go and talk to the guys who attend the school where we hire students. My school of thought has always been, “what better person to hear about our wonderful company than an actual driver.” All those years I was told, “Thanks for the offer.” Then something changed, and my phone rang.

A few months ago, I got a call from the gentleman in charge of the training program asking if I could go talk to a class; perhaps give a pitch about our company. He told me there would probably only be about 4 guys in the class so I figured, how hard could it be? I quickly agreed to give it a go even though it would be taking place during a week of my previously scheduled vacation. I had no plans other than spending time with my family and being flat out lazy. Besides, I know we need drivers and I was glad to do it during my vacation as a thank-you to all the people at my company who have done favors for me over the years.

During the week or two running up to my stint as a public speaker, I received an email with a general outline of what should be said. I also had time to give it my personal flair and I was fully confident this would be an easy gig. I thought it a splendid way to sharpen my skills, a beneficial experience when I would be speaking in front of hundreds, if not thousands of people at a time after I become rich and famous beyond most people’s wildest dreams.

Things started to fall apart the morning of the big day. I didn’t need to arrive in Leesport til 8 in the morning – a twenty-minute drive from my house- to pick up my truck, but I was awake at three thirty in the morning. The thoughts in my head were already at the task at hand, and even though the gig was still six hours away, my nerves were fully alert. I lounged around and enjoyed some breakfast and even had two cups of coffee, which in hindsight was a terrible idea. Coffee and nerves can each be considered a natural diuretic, and the two of them together - I would later find - would try to conspire to make my entire morning truly uncomfortable.

I gathered my thoughts, the outline of what was to be said (I had printed it out) and made my way over to work to retrieve my truck. I grabbed some job applications from inside our building, hopped in my disgustingly dirty Volvo, and made the short journey over to the school, a trip lasting an entire five or six miles. I found the school (Berks Technical School, Leesport Campus) and even managed to find the building where I was told to meet the instructor at. I parked outside, took a deep breath, and walked into the house.

The building was actually a house built by the school kids. It was nice, a standard issue two story of some type. There’s probably a name for the model of the house, but I am a writer bordering on insanity, not an architect, so I can’t say for sure what it was. I can say that, as soon as I opened the door, I fell into a state of pure blown panic.

As I opened the door, I saw a hallway that led into the kitchen directly in front of me, a stair case leading upstairs to my right, and to my left, a conference table in what would be the living room of a normal home. At the conference table sat way more than four people and all of them were looking at me. I instantly became overly aware of the fact these people were waiting on my arrival, waiting to hear what I had to say and that suddenly scared the heck out of me. I managed to somehow mutter, “Good Morning” before running up the stairs as fast as I could only because I heard someone talking up there and didn’t want to sit with all the people who thought I must be somebody because I was there to talk about something.

I ran up the steps and walked to the end of the hall where I peeked into an office (a bedroom in a normal home) and saw a gentleman talking on the phone, so I backed away out of respect for his privacy. Now I was trapped in the upstairs hallway, pacing back and forth uncomfortably and already wondering why I agreed to be talked into this mess. I didn’t see any open windows to throw myself out of so I quickly ran back down the steps and found a seat by a door, away from the terrifying people at the conference table who surely by now must be wondering why my company would send a lunatic to talk about our company.

Before I had a chance to sit, one of the instructors came over to greet me. He was a nice guy but I didn’t hear anything he was saying because my mind was already previewing my upcoming talk and everything that would probably go wrong with it. Before I knew it, the guy on the phone upstairs appeared at the top of the steps and called for me to come up. Back up I went, this time scanning the entire house for a restroom, as the darn nerves and the darn coffee were appearing to succeed in their conspiracy against me.

We went into his office and I took a seat in front of his desk. My new phone -which I still have yet to completely figure out- was in my pocket and made some kind of noise. I didn’t want to be “that guy with the annoying phone” so I took it out and turned it off. Meanwhile, the guy keeps talking and every so often I catch a glimpse of my truck out the window and have passing thoughts of “I should make a run for it.” He talked about a lot of stuff regarding the school and about the training program in general. I remember some of it but I also remember hearing a lot of slow motion sounding blah blah blahs- kind of like that teacher in the old Charlie Brown Movies. Somewhere in the middle of our talk I begin to hear some kind electronic noise in intermittent bursts and a new panic arises. I remember thinking, “I can’t even turn my phone off properly. What should I do?” I finally couldn’t take it anymore and blurt out, “Is that me or you?” He casually looks to his right and says, “It’s me” and waves it off, as if he neither heard it, nor cared about it. I’m slightly relieved until he says, “Well, are you ready? Let’s go downstairs and get the party started!” “Sure,” I managed to reply as I thought to myself, “I’m moments away from having a heart attack and falling over dead in front of everyone. I always wondered how this ride would end.”

I was taught that heat rises, but as we descended down the stairs towards certain doom, I swear I could feel the temperature rising by thousands of degrees. I could also feel the pressure from my now extremely overactive bladder and asked my guide for directions to the little boy’s room which he gave me. I excused myself and went inside to take care of business and say some final prayers of thanks for the wonderful life I have enjoyed up until this point. As I washed my hands in the sink, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the sink and noticed I was still wearing my knit cap, which was fine outside but obviously wasn’t conducive to cooling me down seconds before I planned to fall over dead in front of a live audience.

I have no idea why, but as I exited the restroom and made my way to the conference table, I remembered an article I once read about an NFL player, Ricky Williams. Ricky played for the Miami Dolphins football team, and the article was about his anxiety and panic issues. The article described how he would not take off his football helmet when talking to reporters and such because it helped him to feel secure. As I exited the bathroom and made my way to the table, I felt like my hat had become my helmet, and I knew I would have to take it off as soon as possible or everyone would think I was incredibly strange (if they didn’t already); as the reporters might have thought of Ricky leaving his helmet on all the time. It really was weird how much that damn hat felt like a full-face helmet as I slowly marched toward the table and the certain doom awaiting me.

There was some marginal relief felt when I arrived at the table and noticed that the only seat that made sense for me to sit in was also closest to the door. I knew it would be a bad choice, but if I really needed to, I had an unobstructed, straight shot to the safety of the outdoors. I looked around nervously and saw seven people, three more than I was told to expect, or roughly six more than I was comfortable talking to at once. The worst part of it all was that fourteen sets of eyes were all looking at ME. Fourteen sets of eyes connected to seven brains. Seven brains ready to judge me, ready to point and laugh at me for no reason at all.

Finally, it was go time. The instructor introduced me and yielded the floor in my direction. I began to speak and I swear I could feel my voice shaking as much as my body was. It didn’t sound like me, and I wanted to reach into the air and straighten out what I was hearing. Nevertheless, I did my best.

“Hello. I want to congratulate you on becoming truck-drivers,” I said as I finally reached up and slid off my football helmet, helping to cool me down almost instantly.

“I used to have hair before I became a truck driver.” I paused in anticipation for the laughter. I never heard any.

“Just kidding, I have a wife and five kids, the kids are responsible for my hair loss.” I paused again and waited for the laughter, which was absent again. I could literally hear the crickets echoing from summers past. Not satisfied with bombing twice, I went in for a third attempt.

“Kidding again. My Wife is extremely cranky, she caused all my hair to fall out and I became a truck driver just to get away from her!” There was a small smattering of giggles; probably out of sympathy for me, or perhaps out of pure embarrassment, possibly both. Either way, I figured it was time to move on from my feeble attempts at telling jokes and get down to business.

My brilliant plan was to give a carefully thought out talk using the outline my superior gave me, along with everything I had planned, and practiced in my head to say. I’m amazed that when it came time to put my plan into action, I turned into Jell-O. My preplanned presentation that was a high definition broadcast a few days ago, was now nothing but static from a radio lacking an antenna. In the days leading up to this gig, I had repeatedly looked at the outline that I had printed, but as I looked at it then, it was a completely blank sheet of paper. I wondered how things could turn so badly so quickly, so I decided to wing it. The one thing I remembered to do correctly was to move my head around and look at everyone in the eye. From person to person I looked, pretending I actually had an ounce of self-confidence.

I think I did okay even though I still think my voice never sounded normal. I said a bunch of stuff that I can’t recall and answered a bunch of questions I can’t remember either. It also seemed to go extremely fast and I remember thinking, “There is no way I covered everything I was supposed to.”

I looked again at the outline in front of me and was surprised to see it was finally coming back into focus, and it did, in fact, contain words. I squinted at it hard and noticed the word “benefits” and remembered I didn’t mention them at all, so I decided to.

“Oh yeah, benefits! The benefits are…good. At least I think so- my Wife says they are. I really have no idea.” People actually laughed more at this than when I was trying to make a joke at the beginning of my ill-fated presentation.

As soon as I said that, I grimaced and thought, “Really Jason? The benefits are….good? Good? Who says things like that? Way to be well informed and come off looking like you know what you are talking about!”

It is really amazing no one asked me important things like how much I get paid. I literally would have been forced to say that I have no idea. For some odd reason, I wondered this myself during a since long past weekend and calculated my pay-per-miles by looking at my most recent pay stub. I was surprised to see that it was one full cent higher than I thought it was! My Wife was standing in the kitchen when I did this, and I said, “Wow, it’s at .365 a mile now! When did that happen? I really should check this stuff!” She looked at me, rolled her eyes and walked away, I think muttering about how normal people probably do. Truth is, in my five years here, I did check a pay stub once or twice and it was always spot on and I grew tired of it. Keeping track of money just seems so boring to me. A good thing I get paid well, a bad thing my Wife thinks it’s never enough.

Anyway, back to class. I was certain I was done and the instructor at the end of the table agreed. I asked him (I think two or three times) how I did, and he said that I did just fine. To this day, I don’t believe him and that’s okay. I'm not sure I could endure a trauma like that again.

I put my football helmet back on, and we went outside into the freezing cold to visit my truck for a few moments of show and tell. Everyone liked it and complimented me on how nice it was even though I thought it was disgustingly dirty. We chatted for a few minutes, agreed it was terribly freezing cold and said our goodbyes. Finally, it was over. I could not believe I never did fall over dead as I thought at the start of the presentation. I took my truck back to work, hopped in my car and headed home and back to my regularly scheduled vacation already in progress. It was over and I had survived.

This story of my first public speaking gig is a prime example, of how I allow myself to be afraid of success. I admit, as an amateur writer, it’s preposterous, perhaps slightly narcissistic, to think I have the potential to reach such a level of success where I would be asked to speak to a group of people. My fears have been formed by studying other writers that I admire- I have watched other successful writers speaking in front of large groups of people and couldn’t hear a word they said because I was too busy thinking, “How could they? How do they seem so comfortable talking to people?” After more thought, I also know of a lot of prosperous writers you never see, or hear much of in public forums. It was then I realized my situation is like every other situation in life. I have choices. I can take the chance that people will like what I have to say in words, and if I manage to find success, I have the choice to say no to anything that comes along with it. The list of no’s can include anything I want, including anything that would threaten my marriage, or any situation that I believe puts me a risk of falling over dead in front of a group of people. Simply put, I have given my last public talk, if I am to be a successful writer, I will choose to be a reclusive one. This formula allows me to find comfort, and push forward instead of sitting still.

My new-found formula shouldn’t be confused as a smoke screen for trying new things, because I will try things I want to try. I partake in lots of different activities in my life, and there are many. I can back a tractor-trailer across six lanes of traffic into a space that doesn’t seem near large enough. I can land an antique airplane on a grass field more smoothly than some thousands-of-hours airline Captains can. I consider myself a half-good photographer. I can be a good Dad to my kids, and a role model to husbands everywhere. (Quiet honey, this is my story.) I can only do, and be so many things, and I want to do them well. I'm all-pro, all the time, at everything I do. The exceptions of course, are when I am trying something new, or when I am experiencing a situation I have never faced before. It is during these moments when I depend on my intuition, and look for signs from the Universe, to help me on down the road in the right direction. This is the mantra of my life. It serves me well most of the time. When it does not and things get hairy, there is still a benefit: People rarely forget my name.

The thought that excites me most is I do not possess the fear that grips a lot of writers. I harbor no fears that I will not have something to write about. I have so many ideas of things to write about at any given moment that my problem is often where to begin. If I had the financing now, I would be completely comfortable going full in, and closing the door of my truck for the last time. The thing trucking taught me most is just how much I enjoy solitude and how enjoyable being alone with my thoughts can be. I plan to capitalize on that, and continue with “My Road Adventures.” I am trapped in the Northeast for now. However, I hold hope that one day I could pick where I want to go. I’d really enjoy picking a few random spots on a map, and depart by myself in a car –or even my airplane- and write the story of what I saw, and who I met along the way. What fun it would be.

I must admit, one of the stories I truly want to write does involve a small amount of fear. Okay, a large amount. Most people who know me are well acquainted with the fact that I am a totally helpless man whose survival depends upon the woman who stands beside me. My Wife’s favorite catch phrase is, “I don’t know how you wipe your own behind let alone drive a tractor-trailer all week.”

I’d like to go to London for two weeks, not only because it’s one city in the world I really want to see, but also just to see if I could venture to a foreign country, all by myself, and see if I could survive. I don’t know anyone over there, nor do I wish to (at least not until my project is finished). I could book a flight and a five star hotel, outside of those two things, the only plan I have is to go and record my experience. Knowing myself, I am sure this adventure would make a wonderful story. I could call it “The Adventures of a Helpless Man Lost in London.”

The story of my London adventure hasn’t happened yet. However, I can still envision what the beginning parts first two chapters might look like:

Chapter one: The Ride Across The Pond – Now I’ve done it. I’m occupying seat 3A of a British Airways Boeing 777 that is soon ready to set sail for London. I like this seat because it affords me a nice view of the outside world, but I’m halfway too scared to look. The flight attendants are pretty but their British accents (that I usually adore) are not bringing me the slightest sliver of comfort. All the doors on this airplane have been sealed, as has been my fate. I have no choice now but to be stuck inside this high tech tube with wings, as it carries me and hundreds of complete strangers, to a foreign land where I am sure I will meet a slow demise. Really, what was I thinking?

Chapter Two: My Arrival, The Beginning of a Fearful Journey- At last, I am within the safe confines of my five-star luxurious hotel suite. The first thing I want to do is take a warm shower. This should be done because the ride to the hotel seemed like a never ending series of near- collisions that have left me shaking and slightly sweaty. I considered calling this country ahead and asking them to switch their road procedures around while I was here, but it seemed too weighty a request for just one man. As I glance out the sweeping windows, I find the city as beautiful as I imagined it. I really want to go walk around and take pictures, but I cannot. I am hungry and consumed with fear about where to find food. I must get my thoughts in order, but I’m having trouble. I said I wanted a shower yet I feel myself pressing ahead with my desire to call the front desk and inquire what that contraption next to the toilet is for.

What a trip, and what a book it would be. The project would not be a selfish one: Once it becomes an international best-seller, I plan on using the profits to bring my family back for another visit where I could even act as their guide. I could show them where things from the book took place: “There’s that restaurant that taught me my body is not agreeable to that kind of food. It was terrifying as I ran around in the streets 30 minutes later yelling, ‘Where’s the loo, I have an emergency and need a loo!’ Stop laughing at me, it wasn’t funny at the time!”

After the London project is complete and published, I could write another book in a different setting. I’ll call that one “Two Weeks in Russia: The Adventures of a Helpless and Paranoid Man.”

Ah, fear- what fun it can be.