The Last Adventurer

Everything was an irritant. The dissolved miniscule broken rocks of ancient mountains chafed my toes as I waded across their charcoal flecked surface. The stale, cheap warm beer digested uneasily in my stomach. All around me, inane chatter assaulted my ears like the incessant calls of early-rising birds. It was immaterial that five minutes before, the party had seemed the most pleasant place I had been in a long time. That obvious and cold fact didn’t matter one bit to my unruly mind. I was leaving the party in a huff.

It wasn’t an obvious huff. It was too dark for the displeasure that I felt to adequately be seen. Worse yet, to the disinterested observer, it probably looked like I was just uncomfortably constipated. It was a private pity-party. I was frustrated. I wanted everyone to listen to my version of events, not some bizarre repeated twisted version of my life. Worse yet, somehow, I felt that I couldn’t complain about how I had been treated. After all, I was responsible for issuing copious inadvertent press releases through e-mail. I gnashed my teeth. It was a damnable pickle I had placed myself in by allowing my life to be constantly viewed by strangers. I could do nothing at this point but drag myself with my gossip and rumor filled shadow over the sand and bitterly muse that the parking lot seemed impossibly far away.

I only had to pass Bismarck and his Frisbee before slipping quietly away into the darkness leading off to my car. Bismarck was happily holding forth about something regarding his Frisbee. I relaxed. If anyone could mesmerize an audience better than me, it was Bismarck. I was sure to slip by completely unnoticed.

“…I’m serious. A regulation ultimate Frisbee can hold four beers. Just watch.” He was said as he poured copious amounts of warm beer into his Frisbee.

I could only shake my head at this as I passed his circle. The next step I took would be from sand to pavement, and I would be gone like the disappearing pile of combustible wood.

“…we need someone to drink it! No, chug it! Who can drink four beers quick? The record is…we need someone that can beat that. Who can do it? --- Hey wait – How about the LA? He’s right there!”

I couldn’t place the voice. But it made me stop. And, at that point, stopping was a bad thing.

The spotlight of everyone’s eyes was suddenly upon me. Guiltily, I straightened up after giving the path a longing look. I didn’t say anything. I could hear whispers in the impromptu crowd about how I could drink an elephant under the table. I hesitated for a second, half wondering if I would next hear that on every Tuesday and Thursday, I also drank human blood. Hesitating was also an awful idea. More people from the surrounding firerings meandered over to see what minor spectacle was going on next to Bismarck.

It was odd. No one said anything. I, at least expected the common chant of “Chug! Chug! Chug!”, because if I had been watching, it would have been the first thing I said. There was no way I was going to drink that rusty-nail, sand encrusted plastic bowl of beer. It was actually a good time to express my displeasure. I was going to flip the whole concoction right out of Bismarck’s hands, neatly splattering the crowd with foam, and tell everyone my true identity in vehement, curse-filled terms. It was going to be great. All of my angst would disappear, and I would sleep pure, calm dreams.

There was no way I would do it. None at all. At least that was what I kept telling myself as I consumed the contents in front of cheers and raucous cries. Afterwards, I sat down and stared at the waves, while sobering up and blindly accepting the accolades that came my way, wondering what exactly was wrong with me. All my intoxicated mind could tell me was that I had a bad case of shadow poisoning, but that tomorrow, I was going to reclaim my life by straightening out every misconception about my identity.