Kidnapped

And so it was that Sara kidnapped Joe and buried him deep in the jungle after dark, with nothing but an empty gas tank and a scooter attached to it. She thought it was fun. He thought it was "fun." Notice how differently you read the word "fun" from the way you read the word fun. The pause means everything.

"I love living on the edge," was followed by, "I thought the road would be turning away from the mountains by now," and, "Wow, would you look at that gas gauge!" and, "It doesn't really look like anyone lives out here, does it?" Everything being said was being said by Sara. And a good thing too. I go into survival mode when minutes are all I have before motor melt-down, and before my super sonic metabolizing tummy is stranded miles from food. And then if I let myself talk, I'm wasting precious energy.

The jungle doesn't offer too much by way of light either. Especially at night. In fact, it shrouds any that might have been, were the moon and stars visible. So pot holes and sharp bends in "the road less traveled" become unanticipated guests--the kind you don't invite on purpose, but who find out about the party anyway and come--the very characteristic that keeps them off the invitee list in the first place . We almost died 37 times that night. I counted. Not out loud, mind you. And who's idea was this anyway? Why did I go along with this? Once again, not out loud.

"Wow! What an adventure!" and then, "Gee, I've never seen the gas gauge so low!" Man Sara, could you just pick one? I have a hard time keeping track of what mood we're in when you go from excited to aghast so quickly. I'm focussed on the one: what our first move is when the engine stops and the head-lights go out. It's a good thing you're here telling me what an adventure we're having. Somehow I forget that part until I'm safely at the dinner table with a mound of edibles in front of me and a crowd of thrill seekers around me waiting on a good story. Yes, then it's an adventure. But now, it's survival.

And then the engine stopped. And the lights went out, and we had to use scooter parts as make-shift weapons to hunt food for the next three weeks. Not really, but unfortunately, there's nothing more exciting or dangerous about the story. The road eventually headed back out toward civilization like Sara predicted and within a few miles we saw a gas station. The only other thing remotely interesting about it was the three wrong turns I took within a five minutes span at the same intersection. I was still in survival mode, still thinking we were lost, so I couldn't recognize a thing and my internal compass kept changing it's mind every time I made a decision. Then Sara says she's known where we are for a half hour now and that she's "letting me figure it out" for fun. Oh wait, for "fun." Give me something strong. A beer with as much root in there as possible. How long have you known where we are, Sara? What kind of freakish double sided, slap job are you trying to pull here? Lure a trusting joe into the promised bliss of nighttime scooter riding, throw in the suggestion of a mountainous view point, and then pretend to get lost coming down the other side. It's your fault I had to change my drawers when I got home. See what I go through here? Oh, you think I'm your cute little brother? That I love getting tricked, poked, stuffed in laundry machines, and picked on by big lovable sister bear? Well, not this one. I'm letting you know right now, a storm's coming . . . a storm's coming.