The Scavanger Hunt

I was 23 years old when I got the best news of my life. My company was going to have a scavenger hunt around Boston, and I was put on the most fun team. We weren’t necessarily the go-getters of the office, and our chances winning were about the same as an all midget team winning the final four. But we were the most fun/heaviest drinkers and knew it would be an event to remember. Among my teammates was my friend Megan Waring, whom I happened to sit next to at work. Megan is one of my best friends for two reasons. First of all, she plans to make a name for herself now and then have later-in –life babies. I respect and admire a woman who has such aspirations, and although I would absolutely never marry one for fear of my babies developing in a rusty, cobweb ridden womb, I think it’s the best choice for some people. The second reason Megan and I are friends is because she taught me about non-compliments. One day following a particularly negative styling experience at the Lords and Ladies hair salon in the mall, I walked to my desk and sat down next to Megan. She looked at me for a moment at a loss for words before saying, “Well someone got a hair cut!”. Without even thinking I thanked her, and then realized that she’d never actually passed a judgment on the haircut, just acknowledged that it happened. “What do you think?” I asked. “I think I’ve made it pretty clear” she said, “It’s awful.” “How was that making it clear?”
“I made a comment about you getting a haircut, but never vocalized an actual opinion. This is known as a non compliment. It keeps you from being a blatant liar, while at the same time allowing you to laugh at people behind their backs and leave them unaware.” I was still mildly confused so she decided to demonstrate. Our friend and fellow scavenger hunt teammate Kathryn happened to be walking by right at that moment wearing pants that were so bright yellow I almost had an epileptic seizure just from looking at them. “Ooo, those are some yellow pants!” Megan said, “Thanks!” Kathryn replied, and kept on walking. It was one of the most amazing things I’d ever witnessed (although donkey shows and midget porn also rank high on my list.) Megan had basically just called her pants fucking ugly and she walked away smiling. I spent the rest of my day testing this new skill. “you’ve got a baby!” I said to one woman whose child’s face looked particularly similar to a baboon’s ass. This simple act of enlightenment from Megan solidified our friendship indefinitely.
Megan was just excited as I was for the scavenger hunt. It was a week before the big night and we were already neglecting our work responsibilities (more than usual) and plotting both strategy and wardrobe. Although wearing pieces of flair was not encouraged by management, we took it upon ourselves to go above and beyond. Bandanas seemed like the logical choice of attire, and although I was driven to secretly buy everyone gang colored bandanas and see what sort of shenanigans might ensue, I used my better judgment and went with black. Megan and I decided that team spirit was more important than sales and numbers, so we left work to go to the mall and buy the bandanas. Apon arrival at the mall, it occurred to us that not having grown up in trailer parks, we had no idea where one might buy bandanas. We went from store to store asking where they kept their bandanas, but found nothing. 2 hours later we were just about to give up, when we walked by a scarf cart. It was run by an Asian woman whose nametag said Shin Yee. Shin Yee was about 4’11 and all but accused us of theft for even looking at her stand, she followed us around in a circle as we looked at her silken neckwear and barrets. “Where are the bandanas?” Megan demanded (she has no patience for arrogant shop keeps, and even less patience for Asians.) “They there!” the woman screeched pointing to a pile of black bandanas. They were exactly what we were looking for. “Cuanto cuesta por favor?” Megan asked the woman in Spanish. She knew full out the woman was Asian and not Spanish. She did this to be funny and it worked. I almost died laughing right in front of Shin Yee, and I’m pretty sure I farted a little. “They $5 each.” She said. Megan almost lost it. “That’s bullshit! $5 for a piece of cloth? I’ll give you 25 cents each.” “THEY $5!” the woman shouted back. Bad move. “Listen bitch, I’ll give you 50 cents each and that’s that. I’m buying 8 black bandanas from you right now and last time I checked they aren’t exactly in high demand. How many have you sold this week anyway? Ok, here’s the money.” “NO. NO SALE. $25 for 8 final offer or you go!” “Megan jumped back frightened. “We’ll take our money elsewhere” She said, and stormed off. I followed behind laughing hysterically. Megan walked into a CVS near the news stand and looked at me with concern. “How are we going to do this?” She asked. “Do what? I’m not paying $5 for bandanas, that’s rape. We’ll wear something else”, “No you dumb shit, I mean how are we going to steal them?”. I had never stolen a thing in my life and I had to admit that the idea of taking money from bitchy Asian woman gave me a rush that can only be paralleled by watching a midget try to reach the yogurt shelf in a grocery store: pure poetry. But I am also a self described chicken shit and immediately told her it was a bad idea. “Well then we need to suck it up and pay because I’m not going back without those bandanas” We agreed and Megan spitefully paid Shin Yee $25, then muttered “bitch” under her breath while walking away so we’d have the last laugh.

At exactly 5:30 on the evening of the scavenger hunt our team got together to prepare. Everyone now had a black bandana, and thanks to the efforts of an equally enthusiastic teammate named Rachel, we also each had a yellow kazoo. Being the go getter that I am, I thought it would be an amazing idea to get everyone eye black to officially label us the most bad ass scavenger hunt team in the history of reasonably priced tour operators. Having never played football myself, I had no idea what substance was actually used for eye black, but imagined that is must be black shoe polish. This was an assumption I would come to regret in about 5 minutes when my eyes began to burn in a manner I can only assume is very similar to the effects of mustard gas. Nevertheless, we carried on with our journey. The majority of the search took place in Boston’s North End, the largest Little Italy in America. As such, most of our tasks were horrendously stereotypical and ranged from thing like spinning a pizza on your fingertip, to filling a cannolu, to sharing a “Lady and the Tramp” moment with an “Italian stallion”. A tear of joy streamed down my face as I thought of how fortunate I was to work for a company that thought political correctness was as silly as I did.
One of the tasks read “Do a human pyramid in a daring place”. My killer instincts and burning desire for police confrontation lead me to suggest doing the pyramid in the middle of the highway, an idea which was not well received by the rest of the group, and I vividly recall hearing the word “retard” get thrown around pretty liberally. We continued to walk through the back alleys of this rough and tumble neighborhood trying to figure out where in the world we would be doing our pyramid, when we came across a “Pea Pod” Truck. Pea Pod is grocery delivery service, and one which Megan was more than familiar with. “I can’t come out tonight” she’d say at least twice a week, “Pea Pod is coming, I’m so excited!” Aside from the scavenger hunt, I’ve only ever seen Megan get really enthusiastic about 2 things in her life. One is pulled pork, and the other is Pea Pod, and she’d turn down a satchel filled with orgasms to have either of those, so you can imagine how excited she was when she saw the truck up close. “Oh my God, this is it. We’re doing the pyramid inside the peapod truck!” I’ve never had much of a head for figures and so I forgoed taking physics in high school to pursue woodworking, but my special senses were fairly well honed and after looking inside the back of the truck it seemed as though the only way 8 people would fit into it is if we were to get an Italian butcher involved. The truck was packed with boxes of groceries and dry ice and a pyramid just didn’t seem likely, but a collective decision to attempt it was made. It took a little convincing and cleavage from our female teammates, but the truck driver eventually caved and actually agreed to take the picture for us. As one of two men on the team, I had the joy of being on the bottom, which in this case entailed kneeling on a tray of dry ice and a 20 lb frozen turkey with multiple women on top of me. While this scenario had played out in my fantasies many times before, the actual act was nowhere near as sexually gratifying as I’d anticipated, and the orgasm that ensued was underwhelming to say the least.

Our next order of business was to find a foreign tourist with a passport and take a picture with him. In no time at all we spotted a man in his mid twenties, sitting on a bench with a camping backpack, reading a map and wearing capris. While there was a slim chance that this was just your run of the mill gay camper, we were fairly certain that he was European, and rushed up to him before we even had time to consider our options. As we arrived at his feet and huddled around him, it suddenly occurred to us that 8 Americans in black bandanas, yellow kazoos, and eye black might not have been the welcome wagon he’d anticipated when he got off the plane, and he was clearly looking for an escape route. But again, the cleavage of my female teammates managed to get us out of another sticky situation unscathed, and made a mental note to look into the feasibility of getting breast implants when this was done.
It seemed as though most of the items on the list required the persuasive curves of a woman to get the job done, and I was beginning to feel unimportant. I needed to get the credit and respect I rightfully deserved, and the opportunity appeared to have presented itself. Our next task had something to do with getting chop sticks from a Chinese restaurant. As we approached the restaurant I noticed that the person working the checkout desk was a woman. This was my opportunity to shine and use my legendary mediocre charms to earn our team some points. Everyone was behind me and agreed that I was the man for the job. I saw a few girls from a competing team walking out of the restaurant laughing and I knew they’d failed. As I’d proved earlier in the week at the bandana shop, Asian cougars are my bread and butter, and I had the cockiness to back that theory up. I sauntered oh so slowly to the counter. She was wearing a white stained smock and a white stewardess looking cap. She was busy stapling receipts to brown paper bags sopping with grease. Just one look into my baby blue, European American eyes and she’d be magically transported our of her greasy, ho hum existence, into the world of her fantasies. “Look out Madame” I thought “your prince has arrived”. I leaned in with my hands spread wide on the counter and just smiled. “Can I help you?” she asked, “Yes actually, you see my company is having a scavenger hunt and….” I stopped mid sentence. The second the word “scavenger” left my lips her friendly demeanor changed and I knew I’d made a terrible mistake coming here. Her eyes filled with fire and Damian’s theme song from the movie The Omen began to play in my head. I was horrified, I turned to run and in the time it took me to lift one hand off the counter I’d already been hit by 2 fortune cookies. “This business, no fweebie!” was all she said. For the first time in my life I knew what it felt like to be in an action scene from “The Matrix”. As I ran down the steps my group just looked at me with disappointment, but not surprise. We moved on to our next task without saying a word.

We’d finished almost every task on the list and by now it was almost 8 PM, the deadline for meeting up at the bar to continue celebrating. Our group was the second to arrive and we were starving. None of us had had anything since lunch and most of us had eaten light under the assumption that there’d be copious amounts of food. There was none. “It’s coming” the company directors told us “Go grab some drinks for yourselves while they’re getting it.” I happily went to the bar to quench my thirst, and after a brief argument with my colleague over the appropriateness of ordering tequila on the rocks at a company function, I settled on two beers and started to mingle. Everyone was already a few drinks deep by the time the food finally came out, and the combination of empty stomachs and running around for 3 hours straight helped the alcohol kick in sooner than we’d anticipated. Spirits were high and everyone was having an amazing time. At 9:30 an announcement was made that the open bar would be closing in 30 minutes and they’d be opening up to the public. We all mad a mad dash for the bar and ordered multiple drinks to ensure we wouldn’t have to spend a dime all night. At one point I accidentally knocked over one of the manager’s beer with my elbow which should have been the first sign I needed to slow down, but alcohol was like a drug to me, and I needed my fix (I didn’t really understand the concept of “addiction” at this point). By 11 o’clock everyone was feeling good and the dance music came on. It should be noted that my dance skills are horrendous, and on more than one occasion doctors have approached me to make sure I wasn’t having a seizure. I hate to dance and swear up and down that I won’t dance every time I go out, but after a few Coronas I start to think I’m the greatest thing since Fred Astaire. Tonight was no exception and once I saw my coworkers dancing I couldn’t resist. I was a sight to behold. I was like Kevin Bacon in Footloose if they filmed the movie with the same shaky camera they used for The Blair Witch Project. At one point I noticed a senior team member doing a split in the corner and took it as a personal challenge. When I was in first and second grade I went to a gymnastic class every other week and now had it in my head that I was Jet Li. I challenged her to see who could go down further. The rest of the details were blurry but I can tell you that it did not end well for me, and served as a sobering reminder that I wasn’t at all sober. I decided I needed to get back to what I was good at, dancing. My problem was the DJ was horrible and seemed to have an affinity for horrible music. I knew it was my responsibility to crank this party up, which is when things went from bad to laughable.
I hopped up onto the DJ’s platform to request a song. I knew he’d barley hear me over the song “Dancing Queen” blasting from the speakers, so I yelled my request as loud as I could. “Will Smith! We need some Will Smith!” Keep in mind it was 2008 and to my knowledge it had been years since Will Smith last released an album, but I knew what the moment called for. “Sorry” he said, “I played “Switch” earlier, that’s enough for one night”. “What’s wrong with Will Smith?” I asked, “He’s wholesome and never swears in his music.” Sign number 86 that I’ve been drinking is when I hear new rap music and start singing Will Smith’s praises to anyone who will listen. “He’s so much more talented than them, and he’s a good guy! You know he got a scholarship to MIT?! He’s earned what he has!” I was a hot mess but even I could take a hint. DJ Eurobitch had no patience for my antics and I knew it was time to give up. It was at this exact moment that I turned to leave, tripped off of the platform, and face planted onto the dance floor. A coworker helped me up and suggested it might be a good idea if I were to leave. The next thing I remember was waking up at 7AM the next morning with no memory of how I got home. I was almost too horrified to go into work.
I was one of the first people in the office as usual, and looked pretty presentable. I kept thinking about last night and tried to remember if I had done anything mortifying. People finally started coming in around 9 and everyone looked like death. At least I was presentable, that’s a start. I knew it wouldn’t be more than an hour before the pictures of the night before were saved to the company server. Somewhere along the line, someone at work decided to be collectively masochistic, and ever since all drunken pictures have been put up for all to see the next day. And then they came, I looked through them and was stunned. I was wide eyed and bushy tailed in every photo. I looked so put together compared to everyone else. Still nervous, I kept looking and nothing. When I saw several pictures of another male coworker lifting several shocked female coworkers, I knew I was off the hook for getting the train wreck of the night award. I sat back and laughed at him in the picture, happy it wasn’t me. “What a fool” I thought, but as I looked closer I noticed something on the floor in the corner of one of the pictures and zoomed in. It was me, planted face first on the dance floor with several people watching. Once again, I proved to be a huge asset to my company.