It’s a bit hypocritical of me to write tonight about the recklessness of others. Should I pretend that I did not just return from participating in a bit of stupidity myself?
Yes.
The person to blame is the sun. The mother of all life on Earth was in a big hurry to set today. I was racing home and the brightest star was racing down. After he left me with nothing but a solemn darkness, I figured I was somewhere North of Antigua, since I assumed I had gone South. Who knows though, I was running every which-way, along roads made from mud. How can one think about remembering how to get back when The Freelance Whales have something to say in your earphones?
I knew that I was on an abandoned dirt road. Which, we must admit, was better than being lost in the jungle. I put The Freelance Wales away though, because, hey, all hands on deck. I reminded myself that running on dirt roads outside of Antigua through the villages after dark as a gringo is just not a sound decision. You wouldn’t send your mother out on the trail, but you might be open to sending Clint, the guy in the 8th grade who made fun of your McDonald-arches haircut.
There’s a huge backstory, and I stand by those arches. My reasoning was sound. The pros far outweighed the cons.
The cut was prone bouts of messiness, but in those days I never left the house without a black comb in my pocket. It was likely how James Bond rolled, I reminded myself.
I knew it was time to begin construction on the arches after I saw the movie Titanic. As the unsinkable ship was sinking, I felt the top of my head and wondered how long it would take for my summer buzz cut to yield golden arches.
Do you really need the courage to speak to girls when you’re a good listener? I listened to them, mostly in the McDonalds of the Kirkwood Mal,l and I knew about their little love affair with Leonardo DiCaprio. Any guy with any sort of plan back then was either trying to look like Leonardo DiCaprio or Matt Damon. And they both looked the same.
But I ADHD all over the place. So there I was, maybe south of the city, pitch black, possibly headed the right way. Robbing was a remote risk. A more likely scenario was trip over a rock, or a branch, or a hole and fall on your face.
Most of the run home I thought about the recent raping of two male, in the Central Park. There are a couple versions of the story making their rounds in Antigua’s chinwag mill. In one a broom was used on one and he ended up in the hospital—a woman’s worst fear has made its way to male preoccupation this week. Not much good happens after midnight in the streets around here . . . you don’t have to go home, but I wouldn’t stay out there longer than you have to.
For those of you placing bets against me—SURPRISE BITCHES—I survived and found my way home.
I ran south of the city when and though I was running and I hit Antigua’s West side, I’m probably lucky that I’m writing this post instead of wandering the dark trails. I’ve known since long before the arches that my sense of direction is one under par against an inebriated orangutan’s ability to pilot a plane.
The Most Dangerous Game Of All Time
Let’s get to the heart of this post though—the most dangerous game that children have ever played. It ranks with requiring scouts to do a “design your own hang glider and test it” merit badge.
The Scene:
Yesterday started as a lazy Sunday. The rest of the house rose hungover. I was glad that for once I opted to stay in to write and finally research this Miley Cyrus situation. ¿Por qué, Hanna Montaña? I had so many puzzles finally solved that Saturday night home in bed with a tub of chocolate cookie dough and the Internet and Yahoo Answers.
Loche looked outside and saw the same sunshine that was pricking at all of us.
Four of the housemates jumped in Loche’s jeep and Frenchie followed on his bike. We grabbed some cervezas for the ride and headed up the mountain to Earth Lodge atop the mountain.
Along the way we encountered, THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME EVER!!!, being played by kids a nudge over seven.
All caps ARE necessary—because here’s how the game works:
Mothers, please sit down for this.
You and your little friends in the tipica Mayan woven color dresses wait by the side of the road. You wait until cars come and then you start running in front of them. Presumably, the one who flirts most intensely with death and still has a date with life later is the winner. Why did Miley do it? Peer pressure, because during these little kamikaze runs there was a gaggle of kids lined up by the curb, laughing their asses off.
As we drove up, admiring the view, a child darted a few seconds in front of the jeep. Then another kid burst from the bushes and dashed in front of the jeep. By the time the third kid ran, inches from, well, death, it was clear that we did not need to ask why the child crossed the road. They weren’t crossing.
They were playing:
Get as Closer to the Car Without Dying.
Coming to a village near you. . .
Parents, today I’m on your side. Don’t let your kids play in the road; too much time there and they will inevitably begin play, THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME EVER! We can only hope these kids grow up in a country that has legalized joints, because that might be the only thing that will keep them on the couch, away from the road.
If you’re worried, we are too.
Ada and I have a plan that involves candy and promises in store for those kid to maybe persuade them from their wild ways.
