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A Day in the Jungle
Scott had been dead for nearly a year when I found out about it. It had been twenty-two years since I had last seen my best friend from childhood, and one night it dawned on me to search around the Internet for any trace of him in my old hometown in Kansas. What I came across made my heart sink � an obituary for a -year old, dead after a fight in a Scottsdale, Arizona bar that left him with hemorrhaging of the brain. The perpetrator was being prosecuted for manslaughter, but that didn’t matter much to me � my first best friend was gone.
My thoughts wandered aimlessly, as if I was suspended in a non-rhythmic trance. What was Scott like in the end? Was he still so small? Scott was a year younger than me, and about half my size, but very athletic and always on the go. I was tall, clumsy, and more into thinking than acting. It was always Scott who led the adventures, and the biggest adventure we went on was into the dreaded Hobo Jungle.
In my fading memories of Kansas, it is always summer. The scorching sun was interrupted only by frequent thunderstorms, which nourished the crops and kept the prairies just above the level of being vast deserts. Our own little subdivision, in the sleepy town of Newton, was like an oasis in the midst of shimmering wheat fields. Its quaint ranch-style homes were clad in only the brightest hues of paint. Each house had at least one tree in front, but the oldest tree in the neighborhood was probably five years old. My only knowledge of woodlands was from my family’s yearly trips to Colorado.
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Hobo Jungle threaded along Slate Creek, along the edge of our subdivision and off across the flat land as far as my young eyes could see. It wasn’t a jungle; it wasn’t even a forest, really. The creek itself was dry most of the year, but cottonwoods and wild walnut trees grew up along its banks, in a depression in the prairie that had probably been carved over hundreds of years. It wasn’t a dense woods by any means � one could probably walk down the banks, cross the creek, and come out on the other side in a matter of seconds. But to the eyes of a nine-year old, it was a vast land of mystery.
Scott had fed me with his stories of Hobo Jungle as long as I could remember. A hobo was another name for a bum. Shabbily clothed and hiding by day in the jungle, these hobos were always waiting for a young victim to pounce upon, steal all their possessions, and leave behind for dead. Hobos weren’t made up, Scott would tell me. Everyone in town knew of at least one luckless soul who had stumbled into the jungle, never to return. Even my own mother forbid me to go there, and I assumed it was because of the lurking hobos that might snatch me away.
But Scott had been there; he knew all about it. He had seen the dreaded hobos, and had outran them or outbiked them many times. To my young mind, overfed by his well-intended warnings of the horrid beasts, the jungle must be chock-full of hobos. Whenever I passed the wooded creek, I would glimpse excitedly toward the darkened banks, over the field of cattails that separated it from the road. I was terrified of actually seeing one of the monsters, but helpless to resist looking. I never saw one, but my overworked imagination knew they were there.
One endless, hot afternoon, Scott and I were bored and restless. Under the open door of my garage we were sprawled, cooling off out of reach of the ruthless sun.
“What do you wanna do?”
“I dunno. What do you wanna do?”
This was our typical conversation on such a day, repeated ad nauseum. Our usual summer vacation activities had become tiresome; school was growing closer by the day, and we were probably driving our parents to the brink of madness. Scott, always the ringmaster, came up with the idea.
“We should go into the jungle,” he blurted out, as if the idea had just popped into his head.
A shiver ran through my body. “Um, my parents won’t let me,” I replied, although I knew it was a pathetic answer.
Scott shrugged. “Aw, if you won’t go, then I’ll just go by myself, then. Or I’ll go get Toby. He’ll go with me.” Toby was the big kid on the block. I was scared of Toby.
“Well, we probably will get in trouble! I don’t think….“
“Suit yourself. I’m going,” Scott said nonchalantly, walking away as if he didn’t have a nerve in his body. He was always telling me to “suit myself,” and it always worked. I clambered after him.
“WAIT!”
I was powerless to resist. In the world of Kid-dom, being older usually meant being wiser. And I was a smart kid, book wise. But for some reason, Scott always had the ruling hand. He had the street smarts that I craved for, and he jumped on every opportunity that faced him. I looked up to him, and followed his lead.
It was decided to plan it all out in an adult manner. We would ride our bikes down to the creek, so that we could make a fast escape should we be attacked. Still reluctant, I made Scott promise that we would go in quickly and leave quickly. Scott casually agreed. After all, it was just a brief adventure � a dangerous test that we must pass quickly!
Off we went on our course, down the winding road towards the looming jungle. Scott road swiftly ahead of me on his bright red banana-seated bike. his sun-bleached hair streaming in the wind . I peddled less willingly behind, dreading this task. I wished I were more like him � athletic and daring. But I had always been sort of meek and shy, and challenges weren’t my thing.
Eventually we arrived at the top of the banks. Ahead of us, a trail of hardened earth fell steeply down into the pointy cattails, winding its way into the darkness of the trees. Bugs and flies hissed and swarmed in the wallows, and snake trails in the sandy soil were a fresh reminder of the lurking evil.
“You go first,” Scott almost whispered to me.
I was shocked. “No way! You’ve been down there before. YOU go first.”
“Well…..I’ve never gone down this way before,” Scott replied. I should have figured out right then that he hadn’t actually been down there at all before. But I didn’t.
After a brief argument, we decided to go down together. We counted down from ten, took deep breaths, and our front tires simultaneously tipped over the edge of the bank. We were off. Down the hill we soared, swift as the wind. My mind went into a blur as we weaved through the cattails, the leaves of which slapped painfully against my bare legs.
Soon the trees were towering over our heads, and my eyes went blind from the sudden switch to darkness. I skidded to a stop behind Scott, who had halted at the edge of the creek’s bank. My heart pounded from excitement. Slowly the vision returned to my sore eyes.
A crisp, clean spring of water, little more than a trickle, snaked through the sand. Among its scattering of polished rocks, little minnows and water bugs slurped around. The air was cool and refreshing, scented with an earthy smell that was a joy to breathe in. Over us, the trees soared and shimmered, their leaves clattering and filling our ears with a musical tinkle. Scott was taking off his shoes.
We waded and splashed in the cool spring, laughing and screaming for joy. No backyard wading pool could compare to this! We collected shiny pebbles in all sorts of colors and shapes, and built little dams out of sticks and mud. An hour passed, and then another. Scott caught beet-red crawdads with his bare hands, as I looked on in terror at their snapping claws. It was joyous.
Never did the thought of a menacing hobo enter our young minds. There was nothing scary about this place; it was a playground fit for a king, and we were the first to discover it.
We spent all afternoon in the jungle. It was a whole new land, set in the midst of the flat, arid world we had been restricted to for so long. Eventually, we made our way home, dirty and sleepy from all the excitement but refreshed nonetheless. Our heads were full of new ideas, and our pockets were full of slimy souvenirs.
We ended up coming back almost every day that summer, spending endless hours playing amongst the glorious new things we had discovered. One time we even found some bones buried in the creek banks; we were sure they were from some prehistoric creature, and we took them home and cleaned them and showed them to all our amazed friends. Soon they wanted in on the fun, and hobo jungle became their playground, too.
Barely a year later, my family moved to far-off Michigan, and I never saw Scott again. We talked a few times on the phone over a period of months, but gradually the calls became fewer, and we grew apart. I had new adventures, new friends, and new enchanted places to discover. So did Scott. He went on to college, had a successful career and a family. Life was going good for him � an adventure, just like he always lived. And now he was dead at the age of . His life had been a brief adventure � a test that he had to pass quickly.
As I sat at my computer, browsing through the articles and obituaries, I found myself smiling. I was reading about the death of someone I didn’t even really know. Scott wasn’t dead � not the Scott I knew. To me, he would always be eight years old, taking off his shoes to go wading in the creek………….
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