More Fake Danger

Greg and I are in a maze. Running seems right. He's sweating whiskey and looks crazy, hay hooked into the fur of his sweater. I'm crashing into cornstalks, trying not to twist an ankle in my party shoes. We're running cuz there's no imminent danger; we have to invent it. My lungs sting. I'm puffing and want to give up. We've managed to weave ourselves into an unfamiliar place, twisted till we're dizzy.

I wanna lay in the mud laughing till the crows come pick the skin from my bones-- a dumb city kid. Leave me here.

This is why he was handed the map, I guess. I've got passivity written all over me. When my friends dunk me in the pool I just go limp. I imagine my last wet guffaws bubbling to the surface: You guys really got me this time! The corn maze just illuminates my greater flaws and our first wold woes. We make conflict where there is none, navigate insane mazes of social bureaucracy, flashing polite hand gestures to other bicyclists, alerting them to our next moves. In the vortex of my brain chemistry, manic depression is the only minotaur.

Meanwhile, back in the maze, my companion is illuminated from within. We work well together--until he gives me a shove that sends me flying far afield. Whatever, we all die alone. On my knees in the mud I make a call to my workplace, lucky to get service out here. I've got a feeling I'm going to be late.