underground and underfoot
In February, on one of those cold, grey Saturdays that is best spent curled up under blankets, we decided to attend the Subway Scavenger Hunt. We knew nothing about the organizers save for a brief internet flyer I saw on facebook one dull, working Monday. And so here it was, the weekend, and we were fighting the urge to go back to sleep, lacing up our running shoes.
“I’m packing a book,” I said, shoving my book, a New Yorker, and the front section of the New York Times into my bag next to my water and enough food to keep me from getting grumpy. “And if gets too boring, I’m just going to go home”
“But it was your idea to do this!” Zosia said, laughing.
“I know,” I said. “But I’m just saying. If it sucks, I’m not sticking around.”
“If we don’t leave now, we’re going to be late,” Katerina said.
So then there was the rush out the door and the race to catch the bus.
“Look, I’m already running!” Zosia said, chasing after the bus in her big winter coat, excited for the warmup.
We arrived at Grand Central half an hour later, slightly less skeptical and slightly more caffeinated. Laura and Mike joined our team, and in about two seconds and several silly faces later, we realized that we had accidentally cultivated the perfect group dynamic.
“This is how it works,” some skinny kid with a beard said to the crowd assembled. He passed out instructions and a list of things to find and do before four-thirty. We got points for finding certain things, and extra points for a list of funny things we could do in each station.
“Ok,” I said, scanning the list, “this is really good.”
“You approve?” said Kat.
And like that we were off- running through the subway terminal, making puppet shows, pole-dancing off the handrails, climbing things, searching for tigers in Penn Station, getting our shoes shined, and generally causing a ruckus. For five extra points, Mike excused himself to a hapless elevator passenger in the direct way that he learned in law school, “Excuse me sir. I’m just on this scavenger hunt, and I need to drop my pants. Just for a second, for a picture.” We begged a train operator to let us announce the next station stop, we enlisted MTA employees to help answer trivia questions, and we tried to convince strangers to join us: “Mike should ask the girls, and we’ll ask the boys,” Zosia said.
The point of the scavenger hunt was to have fun. And we took this advice fervently. We played as if it was the last fun we’d ever have. It’s the way we’ve been doing everything lately. Watching our peers settle into sleepy relationships as they begin the process of having babies and the words that have to do with depth and settling: “down”. We didn’t want down, not yet. So we ran and laughed and played with something akin to desperation, drinking the last sweet drops from the cup before we began our own descent.
It was a fine scavenger hunt. A perfectly-organized scavenger hunt. We had entrusted ourselves to strangers, and succeeded. “Ok, you guys,” I said hours later, energized, my three choices of things to read just a dead weight in my bag, the winter grey forgotten, my belly hurting from too much laughter, and my head aching from when I banged it on the pole in an overzealous attempt to run on the train, take a photo, and run off before the doors closed, “We get ten extra points if we’re one of the first three teams to finish. So get ready to run.” The doors to the car opened and the five of us shot out, bolting up the stairs, excusing our way through the crowds, weaving down the street at a furious clip. I avoided the girl who called out to us "Wait a second, did you go to Vassar?" but Zosia paused just long enough to say "I'm sorry! We can't talk! We're on a-"
"scavenger hunt?" the Vassar grad stranger said. "Good luck!"
In the end, we weren’t one of the first three teams to finish, but that didn’t keep us from winning. We won! By something like a hundred points. No other team even came close. We killed it. The organizers of the event made us cardboard crowns that we wore with the same vim all the way home. The crowns had the word “winner” cut out of paper and glued to the front.
Now when I sit at home in my apartment, struggling through drafts of my screenplay and waves of self-doubt, I wear my crown. My winner crown.
“I’m packing a book,” I said, shoving my book, a New Yorker, and the front section of the New York Times into my bag next to my water and enough food to keep me from getting grumpy. “And if gets too boring, I’m just going to go home”
“But it was your idea to do this!” Zosia said, laughing.
“I know,” I said. “But I’m just saying. If it sucks, I’m not sticking around.”
“If we don’t leave now, we’re going to be late,” Katerina said.
So then there was the rush out the door and the race to catch the bus.
“Look, I’m already running!” Zosia said, chasing after the bus in her big winter coat, excited for the warmup.
We arrived at Grand Central half an hour later, slightly less skeptical and slightly more caffeinated. Laura and Mike joined our team, and in about two seconds and several silly faces later, we realized that we had accidentally cultivated the perfect group dynamic.
“This is how it works,” some skinny kid with a beard said to the crowd assembled. He passed out instructions and a list of things to find and do before four-thirty. We got points for finding certain things, and extra points for a list of funny things we could do in each station.
“Ok,” I said, scanning the list, “this is really good.”
“You approve?” said Kat.
And like that we were off- running through the subway terminal, making puppet shows, pole-dancing off the handrails, climbing things, searching for tigers in Penn Station, getting our shoes shined, and generally causing a ruckus. For five extra points, Mike excused himself to a hapless elevator passenger in the direct way that he learned in law school, “Excuse me sir. I’m just on this scavenger hunt, and I need to drop my pants. Just for a second, for a picture.” We begged a train operator to let us announce the next station stop, we enlisted MTA employees to help answer trivia questions, and we tried to convince strangers to join us: “Mike should ask the girls, and we’ll ask the boys,” Zosia said.
The point of the scavenger hunt was to have fun. And we took this advice fervently. We played as if it was the last fun we’d ever have. It’s the way we’ve been doing everything lately. Watching our peers settle into sleepy relationships as they begin the process of having babies and the words that have to do with depth and settling: “down”. We didn’t want down, not yet. So we ran and laughed and played with something akin to desperation, drinking the last sweet drops from the cup before we began our own descent.
It was a fine scavenger hunt. A perfectly-organized scavenger hunt. We had entrusted ourselves to strangers, and succeeded. “Ok, you guys,” I said hours later, energized, my three choices of things to read just a dead weight in my bag, the winter grey forgotten, my belly hurting from too much laughter, and my head aching from when I banged it on the pole in an overzealous attempt to run on the train, take a photo, and run off before the doors closed, “We get ten extra points if we’re one of the first three teams to finish. So get ready to run.” The doors to the car opened and the five of us shot out, bolting up the stairs, excusing our way through the crowds, weaving down the street at a furious clip. I avoided the girl who called out to us "Wait a second, did you go to Vassar?" but Zosia paused just long enough to say "I'm sorry! We can't talk! We're on a-"
"scavenger hunt?" the Vassar grad stranger said. "Good luck!"
In the end, we weren’t one of the first three teams to finish, but that didn’t keep us from winning. We won! By something like a hundred points. No other team even came close. We killed it. The organizers of the event made us cardboard crowns that we wore with the same vim all the way home. The crowns had the word “winner” cut out of paper and glued to the front.
Now when I sit at home in my apartment, struggling through drafts of my screenplay and waves of self-doubt, I wear my crown. My winner crown.
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