Fear factor

My friend incessantly touches her bangs when she talks to guys that she’s crushing on. Another friend scratches her elbow when she’s stressed about work. One male friend starts having an upward inflection when he talks while his girlfriend’s stomach muscles become so tense that she starts burping uncontrollably. I always hoped that they have kids just so I can rile them up and see if they sounded like little gay dyspeptic weasels.

I love noticing nervous ticks. For the longest time, I could laugh at people who had them. I’d point it out and jibe them, and sit back secure in the knowledge that I could laugh because I was free of any nervous behaviour. “When the shit goes down,” I’d say, “I’m cool as a cucumber. Nothing phases me.” Or so I thought. Apparently I do have a nervous behaviour pattern. It’s something I just learned last weekend, and it only manifests itself when I’m alone and pushed to the limits.

You see, I was driving to the border of Ontario and Quebec, where I was going to meet up for a lovely afternoon with friends. The route is peppered with beautiful vistas: rolling hills, quaint farms, pastures of moo-cows. Well, at least I think those things were there. You see, I was too busy being scared shitless, eyes peeled on the road ahead, convinced that I was going to die at any moment.

You see, I went by motorcycle and I had never really ridden my bike outside of Montreal. This was my longest trek: a whopping four and a half hours. At first, the sun was shining and I drove through the streets carefree. But soon the clouds were dark and menacing, the road unfamiliar. I had also never driven this far alone. It was me against the elements, plus zero sense of direction, plus crazy Quebec drivers.

Danger was around every corner. Maybe a family of deer would come leaping out in front of me. Knowing my luck, I’d kill the cutest fawn who would then send me flying off the bike, only to ricochet off its mom and then plummet ass-first on the head of the father, a massive 12-point, who would drag me off to die after I broke his neck with my ass. Hours later, the local sheriff would find me behind a barn anally impaled on the antlers of a prize buck and heartily conclude, “Looks like this city-slicker Chinaman tried to rape the wrong deer.”

Of course that didn’t happen. But it might as well have. I discovered a funny thing when you travel alone: you kind of go bat-shit insane. It started innocently enough—I began talking to myself. But when it really started pouring down on me, that’s when I learned about my nervous trait. When the rain was stinging my exposed neck, when it was difficult to see the cars in front of me, when my fingers were numb and wrists hurt from the hours of constant vibration, when I felt like I couldn’t reliably control the bike, when moment after agonizing moment stuck in the freezing downpour seemed to tick by in slow motion, that’s when it came out: the showtunes. That’s right. I started singing showtunes. I think my mind couldn’t handle the stress so it reverted to some happy childhood state when my family would go on long road trips to New Orleans or Louisville and we would listen to my sisters’ tapes non-stop. We’d all sing popular hits from Phantom of the Opera or Grease or Miss Saigon at the top of our lungs. It was a fun time. I think I wanted to be there. So my mind said, “Fuck it, go there.” And I did. And I sang. In my helmet. At the top of my lungs. But instead of singing the songs as they were originally recorded, I’d change the lyrics to incorporate things in my environment. When I began to see flashes of light in the clouds ahead, I ad-libbed a song I called “Sheet Lightning” sung to the tune of “Greased Lightning”: “No sheet lighting, you hit me and I’m gonna die… Sheet lightnin’ Noooo sheet lightning!”

We do all kinds of embarrassing things alone that we normally wouldn’t do in front of other people, but maybe this is the real us. I suppose that’s the allure of voyeurism. Watching someone read a book and pick their nose is like sharing an intimate moment when this person’s guard is down and perhaps you are seeing them for their true self. So while it is totally embarrassing, I am going to own it. Hello. My name is Raf Katigbak, and I sing showtunes.

RIFF-RAFF@SYMPATICO.CA