There are very few things that I’ll admit to being scared of. While most people accept my fears of nipple piercings, cold-blooded animals and Ann Coulter’s Adam’s apple, many sneer when I admit the thing that keeps me up at night sweating is the country.
I’m a city boy. I grew up running wild and looking pretty on the streets of New Orleans, dodging police cars and tourists’ vomit. Although the city constantly ranks at the top of the homicide count, I’ve never been scared living among the crackheads and belligerent tourists.
But in the country, God knows what exists. There are accents that are just way too slow, cows and no one within miles except for that Blair Witch living in the woods.
Perhaps that’s the problem. As my shrink (not that I have a shrink) says: “Justin, I believe that your fear of the rural United States stems from an innate fear of being alone. You surround yourself with this – what do you call it? Oh yes, ‘running wild and looking pretty,’ to distract yourself from the fact that you’re scared.”
My fictitious shrink can be such an ass sometimes.
So you can only imagine my jubilation when our editor in chief announced we would be going on our annual staff retreat to Enon (AKA Nowhere), La., for a weekend of “Deliverance”-esque fun.
I noticed a change as soon as the radio stations became static. I rolled down my car window, hoping to sample some of that great country air that everyone is always raving about. As soon as the air hit my lungs, I began to sweat and itch like I had crabs.
I was breaking out in hives.
As a firm believer in signs, I took being allergic to an entire region as a big one and concluded I was going to die out in Enon.
We arrived at the canoe rental place- where an elderly couple whose names, like most people’s, I forgot – greeted us and brought us to the drop-off point two miles away.
After arriving, we paired off, and my partner, Cat, and I got into our canoe. I took off my shirt and proceeded to rub Australian Gold tanning oil over my emaciated yet wildly alluring figure. I figured that if I was going to die in the country, I might as well get a tan and melanoma while I’m there.
As soon as our canoe hit the water, I was liberated. I felt as if this was where I belonged. I felt like a Native American, paddling my canoe down river, painting with the colors of the wind and peeing in the woods. The air was fresh and my body was free from nicotine, alcohol and those pills I found on the floor.
I think I’m going to pick up and move to that river, leave behind my reputation and memories, get a pickup truck to drive around with my coon hound and listen to the sound of silence. I take that back. There’s something about New Orleans that’s hard to shake, and unlike the country, New Orleans doesn’t harbor that Blair Witch.
