but that's only why this story begins.
The wreck happened about two weeks ago, and today Adam took it to a shop in New Braunfels to get it fixed.
Since he framed the blank check I wrote him instead of cashing it, I'm repaying Adam with a series of lunches. New Braunfels is about half an hour away from San Antonio, so it's not much of a distance to travel, one easily traversed by my guilt.
We decided to meet at Gristmill, a Gruene favorite. That would have been all if not for the fact that Allen Rogers realized he had a court date for a traffic ticket in San Marcos today, giving him the ability to join us for lunch.
Allen Rogers, who's become a bit of a quitter - I think Alicia Rainwater's quitacity is contagious to other WDEers -- decided midway through the drive that he wasn't going to be able to make it to both Gristmill and San Marcos. Quitting on Gristmill, we audibled to a BBQ joint in San Marcos.
Turns out Allen Rogers isn't a true quitter. While the kid's thing is his apathetic swagger, it veils his gumption.
Upon arrival, Rogers said, "let's still go to gristmill. for dinner. after we go to schlitterbahn."
Now Adam and I have full-time jobs, although nobody really considers mine to be a real job. Adam's thing is that he does a really goode job at stuff, and going to Schlitterbahn meant standing up a prominent but short-lived former member of the WDE. It took Adam Beaugh a moment to decide he was standing up said member, although he can get periodic updates. I let my boss know I wasn't coming back to the office after lunch in a 32 second conversation.
After Allen paid a fine and I served as his character witness, we went to Target and Old Navy outlet to get some board shorts and flip flops. While I unsuccesfully tried to play catch with a 3-year old at Target (my thing is childlike joy sometimes misconstrued as alcoholism), it led to this exchange.
Adam: "He doesn't want to play catch with a communist"
me: "Yeah, I would cut the ball up into a bunch of pieces."
Adam: "And it wouldn't work anymore."
Allen: "A big red ball was just the perfect analogy for communism."
***
Walking up to buy a ticket for Schlitterbahn is the second biggest racket in New Braunfels. There's always a way to get a discount, often on the side of a Dr. Pepper can. Walking up was going to cost us 43 dollars a person.
On the drive in, we noticed that everybody had the same idea to go to Schlitterbahn today. Apparently, it's hard to find a job this summer after three and a half semesters at Texas State. So you go to Schlitterbahn.
We decided on a much cheaper and just as enjoyable alternative of floating the Comal, although it meant encountering a few people with these. Ridiculously underprepared with our tallboys in plastic bags, whatever, we weren't going to turn back after coming this far. We weren't going to Alicia Rainwater it. Besides, it was 3:15 and Adam and I had already quit work for the day.
"Feeeeeeeeeeck," Allen said. "I forgot I have a conference call at four." Conference calls, like uncoordinated asians, are not waterproof.
Rogers got in the water anyway, hopping out after 20 minutes while Adam and I waited in the water and our beer quickly warmed. Not that our been was making it alive out of the first tube shoot anyway.
Luckily, since he was grossly unprepared and substantially unprofessional - he makes up for it with an apathetic swagger - Allen's conference call only lasted two minutes.
***
We lost four of 12 beers waiting for Allen and left behind five beers going through the first shoot. On the second shoot, I left behind a portion of my scalp.
On the second shoot of the Comal, there's a fun little course on the left where you go through a mini waterslide. Us oblivious professionals went to the right, where there's a waterfall that collects lost flip flops and souls.
Adam went first and flipped, Allen went second and flipped.
I will now place a disclaimer that while I have met most of you and hang out with Josh Rives, like, every day, for those of you who have not met me, I am a cartoon character.
I am an wispy, 5-foot-nothing 100-and nothing Canasian who attempts to overcompensate for his lack of any physical ability (except in the bedroom! hiyo! not really, i'm a virgin! but because I love Jesus and am waiting for marriage! or so he says! no seriously, that's why!) with witty writing that lacks subtlety.
As I went over this ridge, the current tossed me over like I was less human being and more a piece of debris. This also meant that the current sucked me back in.
I tumbled backward, my head nailing the rock while I did the slowest, least graceful underwater somesault possible. I'm no merman.
Emerging five seconds later, the first thing I heard was a stranger saying to me "dude, your head's bleeding."
I touched my head with my hand but couldn't see a thing other than a red hand. It was all blurry.
Oh right, my glasses were now somewhere by Atlantis at this point.
***
"What'd you lose?" asked a precocious 11-year old in snorkeling gear.
"My glasses. Prescription."
Immediately, he and three others dressed like him dove for the waterfall. These were no normal children. These were the princes of the ruthless lazy river.
The one who asked me what I lost turned out to be a modern-day Jules Verne. But he was still coming up empty. Each time he did, he returned above sea level with a deeper resolve.
His incredible ambition was only outmatched by ridiculous failure of buoyancy.
He came up for air and asked me a more specific question.
"What color?" "What brand?" "What shape?" this child was no Rainwater.
The breakthrough came when another kid came up with a pair of sunglasses. "show me where you found those," he questioned the kid, as if somewhere in the Comal river is a Lens Lagoon.
"explain how you fell," he said to me. "
As I went into elaborate detail, weaving a story that likely would have bored the WDE by now, I could feel his mind at work, eliminating possible quadrants. For Cody, this was no tube shoot. This was a high-pressure sudoku puzzle.
"I know where it is," he said.
45 seconds later, he had them in his left hand.
I gave him a hug and pulled out a wet five-dollar bill I had on me.
In my fit of nervousness and blunt force trauma, I offered the kid a much larger reward than five dollars.
"I'm an honest man," I said. "Give me some information and I'll get you more money."
"Don't worry about it," said a man standing behind me. You don't need to do that.
"I run these boys."
***
We happened to stumble upon the biggest racket in New Braunfels, a pimp named Andrew.
He and his cousin Jose send out these four boys to retrieve lost items while they collect the cash.
Child trafficking is a very serious thing. In no way do I endorse it.
But you have to admit, Andrew is a visionary in watersocks. He called his star child and the finder of my glasses Cody Banks because he "makes 100 bucks a day."
My sending more money, while he appreciated the gesture, was unnecessary.
a) it would be frowned upon for a grown man to mail money to an 11-year old boy as gratitude for his profession. his parents would ask a few questions.
b) pimps hate it when you cut out the middle man.
c) not tax-deductible.
I talked to them for another minute. Turns out he runs that spot and the boys are there every day. In the 10-15 minutes we were there, they collected a bunch of hats, sunglasses and flip flops. They did not find our beers or my dignity though.
***
We went back on our merry way, finishing up our river float.
We ate at Gristmill six hours later than scheduled, where Adam ate the two best entrees they had to offer and two waiters said to him in the same stunned tone,
"that's a lot of food." One of them also dropped an f-bomb and refused to racially profile me.
I'm going to go wash the blood out of my hair.
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