It was too darned cold outside for a Monday morning in April in Arizona. The mercury in the thermostat hovered around fifty-one degrees. The sun barely shone through the thick haze and the winds topped out at over forty miles per hour. It was definitely a blustery day, and Horace was glad he was indoors, drinking hot coffee.

Horace and Grant enjoyed their early morning breakfast at Frenchie’s Diner as best they could. They would rather be outside playing Pickleball or badminton, but at least they weren’t out with Henrietta and Gloria shopping. The two men found no enjoyment in walking around and waiting in stores while their wives tried on clothes, compared prices of new curtains, or talked about the many drugs they see on late-night television, knowing that they shouldn’t get any, but the commercials mention how the drugs can make life better, except for the many side-effects, like uncontrollable sneezing and flatulence, and how they should ask their doctors if the drugs are right for them. Shopping was too much of a chore for Horace and Grant, so they whiled the morning away in Frenchie’s, enjoying breakfast and coffee and talking about more pressing news of the day.

Horace glanced out the window just as a large cardboard box blew by at a rate of speed that made him think of Chuck Yeager’s first supersonic flight. He commented on the strong winds and the latest haboob that knocked over a few golf carts in the park while adding several shakes of Tabasco Sauce to his Denver omelet. Grant couldn’t help but notice all of the hot sauce Horace doused upon his eggs.

“You know, that could kill you.” Grant said.

“What?”

Grant continued. “The hot sauce. That’s what. You know it’s full of all kinds of unhealthy things, like salt and vinegar, and that’s not to mention all the preservatives and additives.”

Horace took a big bite of his omelet and agreed. “You’re right. It could kill me.”

Grant smiled and said he was just looking out for his best friend. Horace added. “If someone threw a bottle of Tabasco Sauce out of a passing plane that was flying at thirty-two thousand feet, and the bottle hit me on the noggin at nine-point-eight meters per second squared, yes, I guess it could kill me. But since we’re sitting indoors under a roof and not under any known flight paths, I’m not too scared about death by condiment.”

“So you don’t worry about dying?” Grant asked.

“Not usually, and not when I’m eating breakfast. So let me eat in peace.”

Grant pondered the situation for a minute and then added, “Me neither. I’m not scared of dying and I don’t really care. Just like the song by Blood, Sweat, and Fears.”

“Tears.” Horace commented.

“Only when I get Tabasco Sauce in my eyes.”

Horace corrected Grant. “It’s Blood, Sweat, and Tears.”

“That’s what I said. Anyway, don’t you ever fear death?” Grant inquired.

Now Horace thought for a minute or two. He replied, “I don’t really fear much. Too old for that. I mean, we’re all going to die, and I’ve lived a good, long life, so no, I don’t fear death.”

“You don’t have any fear of dying”? Grant asked again.

Now Horace became philosophical. “Fear of dying and fear of death are two different things. I’ll give you an example. If I’m pedaling down a bike path and some numbskull in a souped up, louder than a B-17 bomber, 1979 Firebird, otherwise known as a disco-sled, drives down the bike path toward me, doing eighty-nine miles per hour, of course I’ll be scared of the physical act of dying. I’d try to swerve out of the way, maybe pee my pants, and probably cuss, and yes, I’d be scared of becoming a two-hundred pound sailing soufflé as I fly over the hood of the car, but I’m not going to spend my life fearing the inevitable.”

Grant tried to contemplate what Horace said as he took a few sips of coffee. He then asked, “What about afterwards? You know; Heaven and Hell.”

“I’ve experienced both already. Heaven was the day I saw Henrietta working the lunch counter at the local Woolworths, and Hell was the day I shipped out to war. That’s good enough for me.” Horace said.

Grant agreed with Horace. He too had spent time in Vietnam, and he too had met Gloria, the love of his life.

As they worked on their breakfasts, Horace asked Grant, “What about you? What do you fear the most?”

Grant took a bite of his French toast, washed it down with a swig of coffee, and replied, “That depends on where I happen to be. When I lived in Detroit, my three biggest fears were running out of gas south of Eight Mile, driving into a pothole on I-94 and never getting out, and accidentally drinking water from Flint. When I moved to Colorado, my biggest fears were getting stuck in ski traffic of 1-70 without enough food or water to survive on for a couple of days, and getting run into by a kid in a brewery and spilling my beer.”

“What are you scared of here in Arizona?” Horace asked.

“When we moved here, I thought I’d be afraid of Gila monsters,rattlesnakes, and scorpions the size of Cuban cigars that crawl into my shoes when I’m dumb enough to leave them outside overnight. But I’ve never seen any of those. There’s only one thing here that really puts the fear of Jesus in me.”

“And what would that be?”

“Walking in a supermarket parking lot on Senior Day.”

“Amen to that.” Horace added.

They sat in silence for another couple of minutes. Just as they were finishing their meals, Alma, the waitress walked up to their table.

“Would you like anything else?” she asked.

Horace replied, “I think I left a little room for one of your hot, gooey cinnamon rolls.”

Alma shook her head and said, “Sorry. We just ran out.”

Horace looked up and grumbled, “I was afraid of that.”