I Thought I Was Going to Die in a Quagmire

Melina’s family from Raleigh was visiting us in Nashville, so I was on my best behavior, trying not to do anything stupid.

Around lunchtime, I was coming back from Calypso Cafe, heading towards Centennial Park where everyone was waiting by the Parthenon for a nice family picnic. As I power walked across the park, I made a split decision to shave a few minutes off the delivery. I could have walked around the lake like a normal person, but this particular summer, the universe had programmed a little Easter Egg into my “game,” a shortcut that would surely impress my soon-to-be in-laws.

A few months back, city renovators had drained the lake for a big beautification project. Afterwards, the summer sun had baked the basin floor dry.

“Aces!”

So I jumped down off the cement ledge surrounding the basin and cruised across the “lake.” I wasn’t walking on water, but by God, I was delivering that Jerk Chicken with God speed.

The normies walking the perimeter were all telling their children not to get any “bright” ideas. Then I fell into a quagmire and felt everyone’s collective condemnation.

“See Johny. That’s why you don’t cut corners. Fucking quagmires will getcha every time.”

Apparently, the basin floor wasn’t completely dry. Below the thin layer of baked mud was actual mud, and lots of it.

“A little help?!” I suggested to a family walking by.

They ignored my plea – probably afraid that I’d pull them in. I couldn’t use my hands to get out because they were carrying four giant bags of food that I was not about to set in the mud. The muck was similar to quicksand insomuch that when I lifted one foot, the other foot sank further down.

Any movement accelerated the sinking. “I’m going to die in a quagmire,” I said to myself.

Mel’s family was likely within earshot, so shouting for help was not an option. It was at that point that I had a moment of clarity. Instead of struggling, I stood still. A few seconds later, the sinking stopped. My ego was suffocating, but at least my lungs would be pumping oxygen for the foreseeable future and not fish poop.

It didn’t take long before a gentleman ran out to lend a hand. He was a beautiful man, undeterred by the danger of drowning in slow motion.

He didn’t look native to Nashville, towering over me, wearing a warm smile and a brightly colored tunic pulled over his shoulder. My angel had huge hands that engulfed mine. Pulling me out seemed effortless as he leaned his center of gravity back over solid ground, giving me just enough leverage to lift my feet out without the two of us breaking through the crust.

After much gratitude and a big bear hug, I said goodbye and then sludged around the “lake” to feed the fam. And by sludged, I mean strutted my stuff with scum up to my knees and four pristine white bags in my hands. My gait was off kilter since one of my shoes slipped off in the muck. Once again, I played it off like victory swagger and practiced my pimp walk all the way around the lake.

The drowning of my purple shoe was a tragic loss. He was a good shoe, faithful to the end.

I could have tossed his twin so as not to waddle like a penguin, but I wasn’t ready to part ways so soon after the fall of his fraternal brother. People would swear they looked identical, but one was left-footed while the other was wrong. We all knew Lefty would outlast his brother.

Poor Wrongfoot. He was doomed before his first step.

Which is why it was better for my soon-to-be in-laws to see the real me. The world’s already overflowing with fake – with quagmires that look solid on the surface but are full of muck underneath.

Better to get it all out early, set the bar low so that anything short of idiocracy would feel like a warm welcome. I’d rather be an occasional surprise than a perpetual fuck-up.

Bonus near-death story

The second time I thought I was going to die was even more embarrassing.

It could’ve happened to anyone, but I accidentally gave the wrong wife a massage. I almost died, but I’m pretty sure a joke kept my face symmetrical.