It’s just me and my tentmate in a two-person Sundome tent, deep in the woods. It’s 3am. We’ve been stuck in here for three days due to high winds, brutal rain, and lightning. The tent feels like it’s getting smaller by the hour–it’s like we’re in a one-and-a-half person tent now. I’ve decided to call it the Thunderdome because it sounds cool and there’s trouble brewing between me and my tentmate–who I think is going insane.
I do know my tentmate’s name. It’s Dave. I know that because he’s been a friend for decades. Yesterday I started thinking of him as “my tentmate” because when things go south, I’m going to fight like hell to make sure he becomes the tent’s half-person, not me, and I don’t want to feel too bad about it.
It’s the same strategy farmers use–they don’t name the animals that they’ll have to take out someday–it’s too painful (especially for the animals). Interestingly, they DO name animals like milk cows and cheese goats from which they just harvest food products. But even then they use non-cuddly names like “Teets” and “Dipshit”.
I can’t believe this is happening. Dave is not Dave. He’s my going-insane tentmate.
He’s doing a pretty good job of hiding it. He’s been pretending to sleep since right after our beer and cookies. His eyes are closed, he’s breathing deeply through his nose, and his body is limp. But it’s all a clever trick. I should know, I’ve had my face two inches from his for the last five hours. I’ve been watching every little twitch, and trust me, if his face could talk–and I mean beyond the usual “mouth talking” method (because when his face talks like that it’s usually complaining), it would say, “I, your tentmate, formerly known as Dave, am going insane.”
How did I let myself get into this position? Naiveté? Street smarts? Perfectionism? Perhaps all three, mixed with a dash of dehydration-induced delirium. I don’t know.
But I do know that I’m in despair: at my predicament, at the loss of my friend, at the constant yodeling of the squirrels. I tried crying but all I got were sad little air puffs that made me thirsty. Why god?! Why me?!
I need a plan, fast. I hate the thought of abandoning the Thunderdome to a cookie-crumbed nose-breather, but it’s probably my best shot. I considered luring a grizzly cub into the tent, dressing it up as a weiner dog then telling the cub’s mother that my tentmate did it. But somehow that plan seems too smart. I’m dealing with an insane person, so I need an insane plan.
Working quickly, I stuff my tentmate’s coat pockets with peanut butter to ensure he encounters plenty of wildlife if he tries to pursue me. Next I scoop some of the peanut butter back out of his pockets, eat a little, and spread the rest on my face for later because I know I’ll need plenty of calories and sulfites for the escap and I don’t want to get my pockets all gross like my tentmate’s.
I tie his shoelaces together so he’ll trip as soon as he gets up. Then I carefully slip his shoes on his feet (in hindsight, I should have done that before the knot). Then I realize I accidentally tied MY shoes together and put them on his feet, so I take my shoes off his feet, put them on my feet, tie his shoes together, and slip them on his feet. I may have screwed that up again. So far, so good.
So now it’s a waiting game. My clever dupery should buy me somewhere between ten minutes to three hours of lead time, depending on the wildlife traffic. I open all our remaining canned foods and throw them out of the tent opening to attract my furry allies.
When dawn breaks, I exit the tent. And there’s a grizzly bear! Oh no, she knows about my weiner dog plan! “It was Dave’s idea!” I scream as I try to run, but I trip because my shoes are tied together. I’m at mother grizzly’s mercy…and she’s eyeing my peanut-buttery face.
Then my tentmate comes out of the tent holding his shoes and says, “What the hell dude? Why did you tie my shoes together, open all our food, and smear peanut butter everywhere? Oh crap, a grizzly!”
Despite his insanity, I don’t really want my tentmate to become a half-person, so I scream, “Mother grizzly knows about the grizzly-cub-as-weiner-dog plan!”
Luckily mother grizzly was full from eating all our food and wandered away. Dave made me drink a liter of water and relax in the shade of a tall pine for an hour. I was embarrassed and not talking, so that made Dave worry again. He told me to talk about something, anything, so he could judge my lucidity, so I started explaining how farmers like to name their goats Dipshit.
Dave mumbled something about, “altitude sickness too?” and gave me a can of bottled oxygen. I pretended to inhale it, but when he wasn’t looking, I just let the oxygen escape. I know it was just another clever trick.