I was in an unusually good mood one day while knocking a few things off my Target shopping list. My wife and I were preparing for a vacation, so I had a little extra bounce
in my step and a little bigger-than-normal smile on my face. In the middle of my shopping
trip I realized I needed a bathroom. This happened to be a Super Target, so I had to hike nearly a quarter-mile walk to reach the restrooms at the front of the store.

As I approached the men's room, I noticed a nervous mother hovering near the door. I didn't think much about it since the women's restroom was right next door, and I stepped inside to take care of business with the door closing behind me. There was another man standing at the urinal next to me (closer than I prefer, but that's another story). While we were standing there, the door to the men's room opened, but no one entered. I was thinking perhaps someone changed their mind, when all of sudden we both jumped as an impatient woman's voice bellowed, "Danny, hurry up, we've GOT to get going!"

I was hoping for the sake of the man next to me, that his name was not Danny. And just then a young, squeaky voice replied from inside one of the stalls, "Okay, I'm almost done." After the door closed I heard an exasperated "Geez" under the youngster's breath—the reaction to his mother's sudden outburst. It was as if he was thinking, "Why are adults always in such a hurry? Can't I just go to the bathroom in peace?" Indeed these are good questions for a child to ponder.

The man next to me finished and left, and it was now just Danny and me left inside. A moment after the door closed, I was once again startled when I heard an anxious but timid "Hello?" emerge from Danny's stall. I froze for a moment thinking, "Uh oh, not being a parent, I'm not sure how to respond." Perhaps I should go and alert his impatient mother outside? What if he needs help wiping? I certainly didn't have that on my Target list this morning.

Finally I relaxed, cleared my head, and answered back, "Hello, do you need some help in there?" "No" was the reply. It was a short answer, but in it I could hear some relief that the boy knew he wasn't alone. Then, as I was about to wash my hands, I heard him stir and then finally blurt out, "Are there any vampires?"

After stifling my initial response of laughter at his question, I instantly felt compassion for this little guy. When I was young, I, too, had been left alone in a men's room as a boy when shopping with my mom. And I recalled the anxiety of experiencing a public restroom by myself at such a young age. Although I don't ever recall striking up a conversation—apparently this boy had a little more courage than I did when I was young.

After once again collecting myself, I said to the boy, "No, I don't see any vampires. I think we're the only ones in here."

After a short delay, a little more mature but still humble voice said, "No, I mean do they exist?"

I then realized I was involved in a conversation between peers. When discussing vampires, discriminating factors such as age were irrelevant. We humans are all in it together. I surprised myself by pondering his question for a moment. What do I really believe about vampires? Or what about werewolves and other assorted monsters? No one had ever asked me this kind of question before. I realized that somewhere along the way, as I grew old enough to no longer fear these creatures of the night, I never really resolved my beliefs. So now, as an adult, what do I really believe?

This question led to the consideration of many other things in that short moment. Growing up was such a fluid and busy experience; there simply weren't a lot of opportunities for me to stop and realize that transitions had been made and not much of chance to acknowledge that any of my beliefs had ever changed. I think the only real transitions I experienced were in education—from elementary school to middle school, middle school to high school, high school to college, and then on to official 'adulthood.' It would have been nice to have a ceremonial break or two in there somewhere to assist in my development. Perhaps even an official ritual acknowledging my transformation from child to adult, like many other cultures and tribal societies have. This might have helped me confront the 'monsters' of my past and move on.

It seemed like an eternity passed while I stood there next to the sink, contemplating how I would reply to this boy's question. I had to focus. Back to the vampires…did I really believe they exist? Of course not! However, in a childlike sort of way, I realized that I really wished they did exist. Wouldn't officially denying their existence mean the death of a wonderful fantasy world that I so enjoyed? Just a few weeks earlier I had seen a movie where a beautiful young vampire narrated the story of an epic battle between her vampire clan and a clan of werewolves, spanning centuries and dozens of human generations. This was fun stuff! I didn't really want to give this up, but yet felt compelled to give an honest answer to this youngster who totally trusted me—a stranger—to help him on this particular morning while he struggled with the same issue himself.

Finally, I replied to my unseen friend, "No, I don't really think they exist." I went a little further explaining, "I think that people just like to make up stories about vampires because they're so much fun. But they're scary too, and sometimes people like to be scared."

"Yea, that's what I think, too," was the boy's response. Although he sounded as if he still had to convince himself a little more before he really believed it. I could tell that he did indeed feel better about the pending possibility of being alone in the restroom after I left. However, I'm not so sure that he was ever scared that morning in the bathroom. I had a hunch that he was dealing with the situation now, in the daylight, so that he might feel better later on, after the sun went down.

I finished washing my hands and was just about to continue our enlightening conversation, when all of a sudden the men's room door swung open once again and the impatient mother yelled, "Danny, we have to go NOOWW!!" Just like that the two of us were jolted back to reality as our introspective moment together was so crudely shattered. The boy said to me, "I guess I better go now." And I answered with a "Yep, me too." I was probably more nervous to face the mother than Danny was—he was probably used to it.

As I said goodbye to my new friend, whose face I never actually saw, I couldn't help but think that I needed to spend more time with the child inside of me—the little boy that still ponders the existence of vampires and werewolves. I needed to once again enjoy that fascinating and boundless imagination. Even if it meant I would have to spend a night with my head under the covers, falling asleep with a flashlight in my hand.

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Bill Stimpson is a coach, consultant, and writer who encourages others to think independently. Learn more about Bill.

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