Swamp Olympics the Second

The second part of Swamp Olympics

“Dude, I read somewhere that you got like two minutes to live.” As I stared at my friend in utter disbelief I came to a few conclusions. I will try and lay it out as best as possible as I’m sure you know that when something big like this happens to you�"many things go crashing through your head�"none of which you can entirely control since the mind tends to find its own paths and connections.

It went something like this�"dumbass…long way home…oh s**t…long way to Doctor…oh s**t…I wonder if anyone is home…we are both hurt…we are screwed…long way home…you dumbass-idiot-bucktoothed-moron-of-a-booger-eating-donkey-humper.

Now. Let’s work this out a bit.

The first thing I thought was simply this…One of my best friends is a dumbass. I did not mean to have this thought and given my youth, the words fell before I could stop them. He, of course, followed quickly with something about me and my mother coupled with being stupid enough to get bitten by a snake in the first place. I gave him the win and a middle finger for that particular round as I did get bit AND I had to consider his overall creativity about my mother. He was quite vivid.

Just as I had mentally given him the match and was about to address the next problem that went through my head, namely the two-mile hike out of the swamp followed by another mile or so to our neighborhood along a dirt road, he popped off again. “I have my Swiss Army Knife in my pocket. I can carve an “x” over the wound and suck out the poison.”

I feel the need to mention here that his “Swiss Army Knife” had seen better days. The actual knife portion was as rusted as his dad’s truck and did not have a tip as it had been snapped off in some other fiasco or another leaving only a can-opener, corkscrew, and an empty toothpick slot.

“If you even reach for your retarded-knife I will beat your a*s.” He got strangely stiff and stopped moving for a minute before clutching his foot and starting to moan.

It all came rushing back. He was hurt and I was hurt. Getting out of here was going to be a heck of a task and my ankle was swelling up quite nicely. Not to mention that the blue bandanna I had tied on his foot was turning black on one end where the shirt did not cover the soaked up blood.

I took a moment to think. You see, I was my father’s son and had been raised in these early years with all the knowledge a boy my age could learn about woods-craft, hunting and such. Before moving to Mississippi my family had lived in Misery�"I mean Missouri�"and the area in which we lived was so far out in the country that we literally hunted for our meat and rarely took trips to the store. In fact, I remember times that we could not even escape our little valley up the road if it snowed too much.

We had an outhouse.

We even hiked to a stream and filled jugs for our water. Long story short, it was a very earthly way to live and my father made sure I knew my snakes, animal tracks, guns as well as what to do in most situations that could arise out in the middle of fricking nowhere.

“Do not panic. It increases your heart rate making poison travel faster. Walking somewhere may take longer but running increases your blood flow. Walk quickly but breathe evenly. Do not cut your wound or try to suck out poison because any venom you may get will get in your mouth and if you have any open cuts you will make it worse. You remember when you had cuts on your arms from the dogs and you got rabies? Open wounds are bad.” (Yeah, I had rabies once. A story for another time.)

So. After all of this went running through my head I looked at my friend and told him to shut the hell up. I needed to remain calm and he was NOT helping by giving me my final countdown.

Everyone has their weaknesses or the things they suck at. My friend and I had very different ones. He mocked me endlessly about my abhorrence of closet doors being partially open at night�"you stare at one long enough it moves I swear�"and I gave him no mercy when it came to his lack of pain tolerance. Usually.

My ankle was swollen and throbbing already but the pain did not bother me. Then again it had only been about five minutes since I’d been bitten. My friend was beginning to lose his mind as tears had already welled in his eyes threatening to run tracks down his grubby face. I knew that I would have to help him walk because the pain would slow him almost as much as his now club-foot from the wrapped up shirt.

I stood and tested my balance while taking a couple of deep breaths. He followed suit and we took off toward civilization arguing for the first one hundred yards or so about who’s fault all this crap was. After much finger pointing and another round of name calling, we made a decision. Somehow we came up with his sister being at fault and decided that it was for the best. She would be dealt with later. If we lived.

The trek home was maddening. An infinite hell of our own making. In later years I’ve compared it to Dante’s Inferno if you have ever chanced upon it. So many levels of hell all the while listening to the moans of the dying.

The trip itself was a chore. Our injuries got progressively worse as distance and time played havoc with our bodies. Ahh, but the Swamp Olympics did not stall. There were many a feat of strength and endurance that day. It was a race with death to be sure. Me from venom coursing through my veins and him because I had considered murdering him a few times just to halt his nonstop belly-aching. I wasn’t even sure he needed to breathe the sounds were so continuous.

So many events in those three or so miles that I still to this day wonder why nature herself did not step clear of the woods to present us with lavish crowns of oak and cypress.

All of the things that a young man takes for granted when the youthful perceptions of immortality become tainted struck us. It felt like the absolute end of all of life and creation at the time.

Ninety-five degrees is hotter than hell when eighty percent humidity turns the air into a sodden wool blanket of fetid air weighing the body down. The stink of sweat and swamp literally stung my nose.

As sweat burned my eyes making it hard to see, mosquitoes and great undulating CLOUDS of gnats swarmed as I stumbled onward. I struggled to not drop my friend because there was so much sweat between us that getting a good grip was an impossible task. Traversing a trail that was meant for single file travel while an arm was draped over my shoulder was yet another test added to the growing list of trials.

All the things that never fazed us on a normal day came back to haunt us on our eternal voyage across hell.

We made it out of the woods and started down the dirt road toward my house. We both took turns cussing with each step we took. We covered all the curse words we knew and developed many new ones. I told myself it was probably okay. We were in hell after all.

My foot was swollen�"now trying to match my ankle in girth leaving a very gross looking convex curve to the arch. We were quite the pair with our now semi-matching club feet and upper body gnat freckled skin. It was practically a back-water freak show if only a banjo and a jaw harp had been playing some theme music.

I do not remember much over the next mile. But I do remember finally seeing the back of my house and finally feeling the sharp pain of hope in my chest. I admit. I was a boy and only human so as Roland would say, “I forgot the face of my father” and I ran. That is until I saw the second thing I dreaded most about reaching my destination.

Someone was actually home so my first fear was squashed mercilessly by the second worst case scenario. There before me, as I rounded the corner, was my grandfather’s Cadillac sitting in the driveway mocking all of my previous efforts to live. The last person I needed to be home. Oh, I loved the man but if there was ever a man slower or more methodical in all of Mississippi I did not know him.

My shoulders slumped in defeat as the only thing I could think crossed my young, fever-addled mind.

I was going to die.

….to be continued

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