- The late Hunter S. Thompson in “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas”
This book is on the short list of titles I try to read every year. I like Hunter’s wry voice as he details insane, this-can’t-be-real-can-it misadventures in the desert. Of course, after noting the whimsical, hilarious escapades, one shouldn’t forget the dark end, where the author relates the sharp downturns that accompany false heights. Too many forget to include both halves. Doing so is like waxing romantically about “Romeo and Juliet” and forgetting that the title starts with “The Tragedy of…” and ends with a noteworthy body count.
Getting caught up in the excess of fear can cause you to do foolish things. If lack of fear is marked by zero zeal, an overemphasis on fear is demonstrated by feverous feelings. Such sensations can freeze a person in their tracks, but I am more interested in those who are spurned on to eager blind action.
Fear can fuel passions and honest people will admit they don’t think the clearest when their hearts are racing. Let me tear into myself as an example:
I’ve long been fascinated by the concept of “fight or flight.” This is the premise that seeks to simplify the base reactions to fear: when you are backed into a corner, you have the choice to run or rage. Of course, those two ideas aren’t necessarily the best options; they simply appear to be the default of a frenzied operating system/brain.
I remember being initially driven by those defaults my sophomore year in college when the learning community I lived decided to play the game “assassins.” The basic idea is that everyone is given a paper airplane “bullet” and the name of a “target.” You “kill” someone by hitting them with an airplane. If hit, you can survive the ambush by hitting your assassin with the airplane you’d been struck with within 10 seconds, thus negating the attack. Once a person is killed, they turn over the name of the person they were assigned and the death cycle continues.
This exercise was intended to promote more interaction between residents, encourage more people to travel to other floors (since the community was on the fifth and sixth floors), and improve name recognition. Of course, since it took place in the "honors" community, it was destined to drive certain individuals temporarily insane, including myself.
I partially blame the person hunting me. I was at band practice when “hunting season” started. When I returned to my dorm, I entered an in-progress war zone. People were traveling in tight packs of trusted friends. Strangers to the floors were eyed suspiciously, and with good reason. The “body count” in the first few hours was high. Many good friends, with him I had discussed possible strategies, were “killed” before I’d even entered the fray. One of the casualties kindly told me who had my name and that my days were numbered.
The person who was hunting me was, as of my arrival, the most successful assassin of the game. Within the first 30 minutes he had killed four targets. Only my absence had slowed him down. I knew him very well. He not only lived in my wing, but his lodgings were located between my room and the bathroom. As I was learning this, and re-consulting the “obituary” list, his grinning face appeared in the midst of a crowd and he lunged at me.
Thus officially began my madness.
Somehow squeezing past a dozen people, I completed a 23-meter mad dash by running top speed into a wall, plant-kicking myself off it, turning 180 degrees, and landed in a crouching stance, huffing and puffing, as I looked to see where he would come from next.
I got a lot of kudos for avoiding that attempt. In the next few days, I scored more points by becoming the person who scored the most counter-hits. This was difficult due to the flimsy nature of the bullets. The paper airplanes were about palm-size and of a light paper stock. This means they were worthless for throwing. The best way to ensure you made contact with your target was to clutch the airplane in your fist as you tapped, socked, or clobbered your victim. This means if you were hit, you had to shake off the blow and scramble to pick up the discarded shot. Last, you had to catch up with the fast-disappearing killer and “touch” them in return before he or she disappeared around a corner or into the elevator.
In my case, returning bullets typically included short sprints and sudden, hard stops.
I once sandwiched my would-be killer between myself and the heater at the end of a hall (I had tucked down at the end to ensure we both didn’t fly through the fifth-story window). One time I had to tackle him on the steps (after leaping a couple flights of stairs to catch up) planting the airplane on the top of his skull. My most famous move was made before a rapt audience because it involved a decoy.
I had largely become a recluse in the community: shunning elevators and study rooms, taking different routes to classes, and going to other floors to use the restroom. I was wary around corners, especially after I nearly fell for an intricate mirror trap that was set for me the second day (which had netted a number of the victims before me).
I had also revoked the open-door policy my roommate and I had to ensure I wouldn’t get ambushed after an earlier incident. My roommate humored my madness and went along with this and was even kind enough to start answering the door when the slew of phantom knocks started occurring. Anyone can see where the blind spots on a door viewer are and I was knowingly paranoid of answering such raps.
One day, a friend knocked on the door. My roommate told me who it was and I cautiously approached. Looking through the viewer, I confirmed who it was. I asked what was going on, and the person remained verbally circumspect. Against my better judgment, I cracked the door.
Seeing my friend standing in the tight frame, I briefly relaxed until the head of my assassin suddenly appeared on the side. He bopped me in the head and turned. I snatched the airplane and pounded after him. Scores of people in addition to my friend lined the hall. Not only had I been set up, I realized, but a crowd had formed to see if this tact would finally work. About the same time, I recognized that my killer was heading toward his own room. If he could lock the door behind him, I’d really be “dead.” I was on his heals as the door closed. Using a trick I’ve long known, I turned the handle as I simultaneously smashed into the door. My assassin was knocked off his feet and onto his bed. I threw the paper airplane down on him and marched out of the room. I returned to the startled crowd around my door and began to dress down my friend.
Smack! When I was focused on choosing the right words to express my anger, my assassin had returned and hit me again. I was good for another quick dash and we both bounced off another wall for good measure. I didn’t take the time to chew out my friend a second time to return my room and let the adrenaline boil off.
Fight or flight, I had it covered.
Did any of this behavior make sense? No. Did I ever get assassinated? No, but there was a better approach waiting to be discovered.
My habits eventually returned to something that could be mistaken for “almost normal.” I began to show up in the lounge again and stopped avoiding the elevator. The room to 508 began to be left open for people to wander in. Only my bathroom habits remained random, but that was more based on the fact that I had discovered which bathrooms in the building were cleaner and/or used less often.
At the same time, I became the most successful assassin in the community. Instead of stalking opponents, I began to talk them into voluntarily giving up. I made many phone calls and made my case to more than one locked door. I made bargains, especially if the kill was a good friend. If I remember correctly, I even let one put glitter makeup on me to show how sorry I was that I was forced to “collect.” Only one refused to give up, and by that point I had the 23-yard dash down, so finishing him off and getting away clean was no problem.
My life got much easier (and shiny) once I started looking beyond the basic responses to fear. I sometimes wondered what could have happened if I thought of that approach earlier. Could I have completed the loop and finally turned the tables? Probably not… And I wouldn’t have explored the campus as extensively as I did, nor would I have found the most private bathroom.
The trick is considering more options. I’m not saying you should reset your defaults –
they are there for a reason and can save your life - but in some cases, you need to do more than blindly charging (full ahead or in retreat). You have a brain, too… in theory.
My challenge today is to prove that final supposition and to think of alternative ways to face your fears. You never know what trouble you may be saving yourself.
