Yesterday this middle aged white man walks up to my register and says that there's some creepy person outside knocking on people's car windows.

"What is he asking for?"  I inquire, trying to figure out if it's just one of the school kids selling chocolate.

"I don't know, but I was held up at gunpoint a number of years ago and I don't feel comfortable with someone like that in your parking lot."

"What exactly did he say to you sir?"  I asked, trying to figure out what had this man so spooked.

"He didn't say anything, he just came up to my window and then left.  And I want an escort out of here."

Mind you, it's broad day light in a suburban shopping center.  This guy was obviously scared enough of the 'creepy person' that he was willing to show his lack of testicles to a group of judgmental women, but not scared enough to FORGO THE BOOZE AND STAY IN HIS WUSS INFESTED CAR!

I take in this man visually because I need a mental picture in the Webster's dictionary of my head to go next to the word 'pussy'.  He's tall, somewhat handsome, clean cut, and physically fit for his age.  

He also has no testicles.

I didn't do a cup and feel check, but the evidence all points to a lack of balls.

As I take in his physical features I'm also giving him an out.  One last chance to at least give some hint that he might have a scrotum by cancelling his order for an escort.  A five foot tall, female escort over the age of fifty.

He  does not waver, so I call over my manager and make arrangements.  I am later told that the suspicious character was most likely the elderly homeless lady that sometimes asks for change in our parking lot.

I was flabbergasted for  at least an hour after this episode.  How could a grown ass man be so fucking scared of being shot that he needed a woman who was shorter and older to escort him to his car during the day in a nice part of town?

I used to sleep over with my girlfriend in a rental home that used to be a crack house.  The police came banging on the door of this place at three in the morning with a warrant for a previous tenant.  Drug dealers came to the back door to score some product.  Homeless people were always hustling at the store on the corner.  It was a bad fucking part of town.

I even thought I was gonna die once.  Seriously, I have one instance in my life where I actually swallowed my fear and dashed into the fray to save my damsel in distress.

I was inside the house and Katie was outside smoking a ciggarette.  She'd been livid pissed about the rent check being stolen from the mailbox and had decided it was one of the punks in the neighborhood.  I had just finished showering when I heard two guys yelling  "Bitch!  Ima kill you, bitch!"

In that instance I ran into the bedroom, threw on a bathrobe and took two seconds to decide whether I was ready to die for the chance to save her life.  In my mind she had confronted them about the check and they were beating the shit out of her...possibly even with knives.  I figured I would probably die in the process, but I also knew I couldn't not go out there.

So I dash out the front door in a Krameresque fashion, ready for death.

What I found was Katie still smoking on the porch watching two guys argue about whether or not one of them lost the other's cd.  Katie looked at me like I'd just gone completely insane and ordered my bathrobe clad ass back in the house.

As funny as this story is, in retrospect, it is my one claim to actual bravery in the face of death; imagined or otherwise.  Thinking about all of this got me on a train of thought about the human fear of death and how it runs our life.

I am, and have been for quite some time, of the mindset that living happy is more important than living long.  I don't actually aspire to living long enough to make the Smucker's segment of The Today Show if I have to sacrifice all of the things that make me happy.  And since I don't look at death as a trip to a burning inferno or a Angel ridden paradise it doesn't hold any wonder or fear for me.  It's simply an end.  And hell, I've even wished for that a few times in my life.

I certainly don't wish to die tomorrow, but if I did my last moments wouldn't be filled with fear.  They'd be filled with bittersweet acceptance. I honestly think the only regret I'd even harbor is the fact that I never got to travel the world.  Past that my life has been astonishingly filled with both love, anger, happiness and sadness.  I've lived my life to the best of my ability and I haven't sacrificed happiness for longevity.

And I understand that everyone is allowed their own feelings about death. But when you let it run your life as much as the dickless wonder that I had to deal with yesterday, it just seems like you're missing the fucking point. 

Live happy, live brave, and live well.  

Don't live in a constant state of fear.

Because, at the very least, I'm going to make fun of you.