A Mammoth Disaster

Let me set the scene before you judge me.

It was Christmas weekend. I had gotten a tip that my old work friend from a past life and his fabulous wife Cindy were gonna be “semi” in town, and we wanted to arrange a minute to meet up, catch up, and chill. Yet somehow, I ended up three stories in the air trusting my life to a cable, a helmet that smelled like other people’s fear, and a 13-year-old named Colton, who the last time I saw him was an adorable quiet kid probably still in diapers, not a half-grown man I ignorantly allowed to pull me into some irresponsible bullshit, along with his daredevil little sister whom we had not met until now. More on that below. Take a seat.

They were in town because they got their kids some Dallas Cowboys training slash cheerleader camp experience. I don’t know. Something involving pom-poms, sluts, retired ex-players, and the kind of enthusiasm only children and people with unresolved family trauma can muster. I guess I’ll never truly understand the joys of parenthood, and I’m okay with that. Conveniently, they were in Dallas, 3 hours away, which is about as convenient as they’re gonna get. We couldn’t really say no.

So after Justin got off work, we drove to Dallas practically in the middle of the night, like we were young and spontaneous again.

It had pathetically been over ten years since we had seen them, which is exactly the amount of time it takes for people to forget who you used to be and assume you’d say yes to things you absolutely should not be saying yes to. I’m getting there. Hold on.

The next morning, we met Dallas and Cindy for brunch while their kids were off being supervised by professional perky whores in cowboy boots and coaches who still need to feel relevant.  We crammed ten years of catching up into about an hour, either because our lives are that boring or because we actually wanted to hurry and go check on the kids at camp. I did want to see what this “camp” was all about and check on the kiddos. I know, I know. I can’t be a proper “guncle” if I avoid my duties outright.

That’s when Cindy casually dropped,

“Oh, Colton wants to go to Fritz’s Adventure Park down the road.”

Adventure Park.

That should’ve been my cue to fake a migraine, a family emergency, or a sudden spiritual awakening. But no. I said,

“Sure! Sounds fun!”

Like a fucking liar.

She explained it had obstacle courses, tunnels, wall climbing, and zip lines. I immediately knew two things.

1. I would not be climbing a single motherfucking wall.

2. This was going to end badly.

Fast forward through watching the fake Super Bowl camp for kids or whatever the fuck. It was cute(ish). We change clothes and are now on our way to this “adventure park.” We arrive. We get wristbands. And somehow, through poor planning, divine intervention, or sheer convenience, the parents did not buy the wristband that included zip lining. So now it’s me and Justin. The gays. The adults in the room.

Let me pause here and remind you.

I. Do. Not. Do. Kids.

However.

Colton is 13 and capable of actual conversation without making me want to commit a felony just to lock myself away from anyone under 21.

And Calli, listen, if I ever released spawn into the world, I’d want it to be exactly like her. She’s 10, fabulous, and deeply aware of it. Honestly iconic.

We collectively decide we’re zip lining.

The line, though.

The line was against the law.

An hour to move five inches.

At some point I thought regular James would’ve bailed already, but look at me trying to be emotionally stable for the children. Growth. Allegedly.

After nearly two hours, we’re finally suited up and given “training.”

This is where the instructor casually drops this gem.

“If you get scared or feel like you can’t continue, too bad. You’re on it. You have to finish. No one is coming to save you.”

NO ONE IS COMING TO SAVE YOU.

Sir.

This is a children’s park.

Colton chooses the course called “The Mammoth,” which I assumed was branding bullshit because how intense can a kids’ park be?

Friends.

Hold that fucking thought.

We do the little test course. Everything seems fine. Calli is basically Spider-Man. Justin, who is TERRIFIED of heights, is somehow calm and ready. I don’t trust it.

We climb a spiral staircase to the first platform. An attendant hooks me to the cable, and I climb a tiny metal ladder that feels like it was sourced from a Soviet prison camp.

Five minutes in.

That’s it.

Five minutes.

And suddenly I realize there is NOTHING between me and death except a prayer and a cable rated for teenagers. I'm. Fucked.

My grip and my asshole are working in sync to see who can clench the tightest.

I’m last in line.

Justin is already way ahead, which makes me furious because HOW is he doing this?

I’m sweating.

My legs are shaking.

I’m moving slower than the first shit after Imodium.

Calli yells,

“You got it, James!”

SHE IS TEN.

WHY IS A CHILD EMOTIONALLY SUPPORTING ME AT ELEVATION?

And then, of course, Colton gets stuck.

Panicking.

Frozen.

Tangled cable.

And guess who has to save him?

ME.

The man two breaths away from fainting, puking, and shitting on himself all at the same time.

I claw my way to him, hands gripping the ladder so hard I’m pretty sure I fractured an ancestor. Yes, this grip is supernaturally traveling through my entire bloodline. I untangle his cable, send him off, and continue forward, gaunt and mentally unstable.

Then we step outside.

OUTSIDE.

Onto a platform the size of a paper towel.

Three stories up. At this point, I’d rather shove a meat mallet up my urethra tube than be doing this shit.

We latch on.

A stranger behind me radiates impatience like she hopes gravity finishes me off so she can go next.

I tell her I’m scared.

She gives me nothing.

So I latch.

I breathe.

I push off.

Honestly.

Zip lining itself is fine. That part is easy.

It’s everything else.

The jumping.

The landing.

The getting higher.

Over and over again.

By the time we’re back inside, I’m convinced I have a fever because my body literally invented an illness during this debacle.

And then, SURPRISE,

one last fuck-you obstacle.

A beam.

As wide as a saltine cracker.

Thirty feet in the air.

I walk across it fueled by spite, adrenaline, and the knowledge that I will never forgive myself for this.

But I did it.

And I will never,

EVER,

do that shit again.

Not once.

Not for charity.

Not for love.

Not even if Dolly Parton herself asked me personally.

You’d think I’d feel proud.

I don’t.

I feel regret.

Deep.

Heavy.

Spiritual regret.

And that is the last time I let a 13-year-old make life-or-death decisions for me.

Ever.

Tootles,

James