I am not a fan of heights.

Roller coasters most often involve great heights.

Therefore…

When I was about twelve years old, I got to spend the day at Knott’s Berry Farmwith my best friend, Michael. My friend knew I was afraid of roller coasters, and he decided that this was the day for me to conquer my fear. The roller coaster of choice at the park in those days was called Corkscrew, and Michael was determined to get me on that ride. He spoke with all the eloquence his twelve-year-old self could muster about safety records and engineering and not being a wusmeister.

I didn’t want to be a wusmeister. So I rode the ride.

Thanks, peer pressure.

We chose the very last car, so that I could see Mr. Death when he came for me. Climbing into the seat, I knew I was in trouble. There was a keep-you-from-running-for-your-life device (Michael called it a safety bar, but I knew better) that came down over my head and locked into position across my torso. It made a clickey-clickey

sound as it ratcheted into place.

I hate clickey-clickey sounds.

I also hated the fact that this safety bar, while crossing my chest, did not fully encapsulate my pencil-like frame. With a wiggle, I

could free either or both shoulders, even with the bar locked down as tightly as it would go. I had a feeling that was not the way it was supposed to work, but I kind of liked having an escape hatch, should the need arise.

There was a cute roller coaster helper girl whose job, it seems, was to walk down the row of seats, checking safety bars and destroying confidence. She was very good at her job. As she reached me, she flashed a smile. Now, this was the first summer that I fully appreciated the magical difference between the smile of a

pretty girl and that of your Uncle Frank, so I basked in the momentary glow.

She began to speak. I was sure she would commend me for me for my great courage, and ask me to wear some token of her favor

as I went off to battle Mr. Death. Instead, she said something like, “You better hold on tight, kid. You’re so skinny you might just fly right out of your seat.”

Thus quintupling my terror, undermining my incipient manhood, and planting deep within my heart self-image issues that continue to this day.

Thanks, Toots.

Apparently this girl also had the authority to send us hurtling to our demise, and she did so without a flicker of hesitation.

It began, tauntingly, with a slow climb straight up to a height of about three miles.  The entire time, the car made a

clickey-clickey sound.

Did I mention that I hate that sound?

As we reached the apex of our death climb, I felt a compulsion to free myself from the safety bar and run to freedom. My friend Michael tried to distract me by telling me to look around and enjoy the view from several thousand feet in theair. “Look,” he said. “You can see everything!”

Yeah…everything I had for breakfast.

Bowing again to the wusmeister pressure, I looked off to my left. We were level with the roof of what must have been a world-class

skyscraper. I realized that if I could get out of my restraining device, I could leap to the building—it couldn’t have been more than fifty feet—and save myself.

That’s how my mind works under such conditions.

I had one shoulder free when I noticed a person on the roof of the building. I paused in my struggle for a moment to wonder what he was doing there…

You don’t want to miss a thing.