The Scavenger Hunt from Hell 2: The “Fun” that Wouldn’t Die

Just when I thought things were looking up for our scavenger hunt, I discovered, much like Dante, that the circles of hell go deeper than I could have ever imagined. At this point, I think I should mention that I’ve neglected to tell you a surprising and fascinating detail about my job down here: my new co-worker, whom I've been referring to here as "Z" to protect her anonymity,  is a world-famous celebrity. I know what you’re thinking—why would anyone famous join AmeriCorps and go on a hellish scavenger hunt with me, a simple, freckle-faced Tulsa girl? But I’m very serious—for the past few days I have been in the constant presence of none other than…The World’s Slowest Walker.
 
That’s right, folks. Z can walk slower than any other human being on the planet. While it’s an honor to actually spend time with this Guinness World Record holder, the extra three hours it takes to walk each block is starting to have an adverse effect on me. For one, the extra time I spend in the sun is burning off the top layer of my skin. A few more days and I’ll be in the burn victims’ wing of the local hospital, where they’ll have to graft skin from my ass onto my face. Then people will call me Ass-Face, and I’ll cry. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Another problem is that there are voices in my head talking to me while we’re walking. They tell me to grab Z and throw her over my shoulder as I run down the street, or they tell me just to run away from her screaming “He’s got a gun!” to see if she can actually move any faster.
 
This is becoming a problem for our scavenger hunt, which requires us to do a lot of walking. We left the office today at noon to work on the hunt, and I arrived home at 8pm. Guess how many tasks on the list we accomplished. Go on, guess. 10? 7? 5? No! TWO. TWO THINGS. So let’s keep up with Saturday’s post and list the TWO items I accomplished today.
 
1. Find the grave of the man who was in the car when JFK was shot. We found the grave, but we had to walk miles in the midday sun across downtown and across a highway. Then we had to hop the fence to the cemetery because we couldn’t find any open gates. Lady Luck smiled upon us as soon as we leapt over the fence, however, for there the dead bastard was, right in front of us. Do I know who he is? Can I tell you his name? Do I even know how he died? No, because heat exhaustion isn’t good for your memory. I remember taking a picture by the grave, and then walking the skin-searing, soul-crushing miles back to our second location:
 
2. Find St. David’s hospital. We went to the address I found on the internet, but it wasn’t there. A passing pedestrian told us that we were ridiculously far away from anything that might be called a hospital. He was a friendly Austinite, so he offered us a ride over the hospital, which was on his way home from work. We gladly accepted, but I felt terrible when the odor from our sweat-covered bodies filled his SUV with deadly fumes. He graciously dropped us off at the hospital, where we took a picture, and then realized we had no idea how to get anywhere else. The UT campus was nearby, so we crawled over there to find another bus to downtown. I looked at Z and told her I couldn’t take anymore of this, that I had to get home and get in the shower. But when I looked for the bus that would take me back to my car (I’m trying not to drive it unless absolutely necessary), we realized the last bus had already departed. So Z left me on the TU campus with a bus schedule to fend for myself, and it took me almost two hours on the buses to get less than ten miles.   
 

This scavenger hunt has brought me to the end of my already short rope. Yes, I am suicidal. Yes, this is a cry for help. Yes, two days from now is my birthday and I’m utterly alone. As I turn 23 on Wednesday, will I be laughing and drinking with my closest friends? Will I be basking in the warm glow of my family’s love? Or will I be waiting at the statue of Stephen F. Austin for three hours because I can’t leave until I get a picture of Stephen and a humpbacked French albino jogger with three nipples? Here’s my prediction: pull up your shirt, Jacques.
 
The only thing that made this day worthwhile is that Todd Murray left a comment on Saturday’s entry that a) makes fun of Ethan Boos, and b) makes fun of someone’s spelling errors. It reminded me that there are still people out there who understand me.