I’m Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf
When I was a boy, I was afraid of the Big Bad Wolf. It started when my dad brought home a Three Little Pigs record album, a Disney promotion he’d received for filling his tank at a Union 76 station. He left the album on my bed and as soon as I saw those sharp teeth and menacing eyes, I was terrified.
My brother Mark picked up on my fears and sang, “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf,” happy he’d finally found a way to get back at me for all the times I called him “fatso. Mark wasn’t scared of cartoon wolves. His phobia was clowns. He was still pissed at me for the time I ran around the house with a Bozo mask yelling, “Give me a kiss, lard ass.”
On my sixth birthday, my parents took me to Disneyland. I met Mickey, Donald and Goofy and as the day wore on, I remember thinking “This is the best day of my life.” That all changed somewhere between Main Street and Sleeping Beauty’s Castle. I was sucking on a jawbreaker when I saw him striding over a small bridge. His teeth were sharp as daggers and his lips appeared to be smeared with blood. It was the Big Bad Wolf. I spat out my candy and hid behind my mother’s legs.
The beast continued towards me, passing one of the little pigs without a glance. I tried screaming but I couldn’t get air into my lungs. Mark stepped forward and grabbed the Wolf’s gloved hand.
