ARC OF THE PARK
The hypnotic, rhythmic flash of blue light followed by a woman's voice. She sounds angry. And loud. Her husky voice, digitally heightened through an electronic megaphone, crackles as her command trails off. "Drop the horse and put your hands where I can see them! Slowly!" A flush of heat washes over my face and my heartbeat feels . . . serious. God, what's my father gonna think? Over time, my mom will let it go but Dad . . . " I put the horse down and start to pull up my pants when - "Sir, put your hands where I can see them! Lay face down on your stomach and spread your legs." Oh no. No, no, no. People are coming out of their houses to see what all the commotion is about. If news cameras show up I will just die.
10 hours earlier.
I'm riding my bicycle through the park as I do about 3 times a week. And as I'm making my way to the bike track near the river, I'm forced to take a different route than usual because of an enormous group of Mexicans playing soccer. So in taking this new path around the soccer players, I ride up on a spring-horse; one of those kind that are mounted to a huge underground spring that spirals up and attaches at the belly. Generally they come in pastel animal shapes or the occasional vehicle in which kids sit on top and sway back and forth. In this case, it was a horse, a yellow horse.
I had ridden through the park dozens of times and had never noticed the plastic critter. Though apparently no one else had either. The grass was at least a foot tall all around it. There were ant hills everywhere and besides some slight discoloration from the weather, it looked as if it had never been touched. It was sad really.
Then I had what I thought was a grand idea: "This would be so cool in my living room. I'll mount it to the floor for my guests to sit. What a fantastic conversation piece it will be. No one at the park will miss it, it's practically been abandoned anyway." Of course, in hindsight, maybe it wasn't the greatest idea.
So that night, I dug out a pair of combat boots that have been collecting dust in my closet since I left my goth-days behind after high school. I also had these black double stitched dickies, and a faded black hooded sweatshirt that worked in completing my vigilante look. The final touch was a bit of black Halloween grease that I spread under my eyes. I didn't know if it did any good but I was feeling more and more like Charlie sheen in navy seals and I was giddy with excitement. All I was missing was gloves. The theme from mission: impossible was bouncing around in my head.
I borrowed my mom's SUV for the night, telling her I had to pick up some lumber from Lowes for an art project. This was totally believable because I was always doing "art projects." I loaded up a shovel, a crowbar, a couple of screwdrivers, a flashlight and various other tools in the back of my mom's vehicle. And there behind her fold-down seats were a pair of green rubber garden gloves, "they'll do," I thought.
I went to bed early that night setting my alarm for 3:00 am. But I couldn't sleep. Thoughts of grandeur got in the way. Had I only been so brazen in my youth, the fun I could've had. But I was always scared. Scared I would get caught. Scared of my parents. Scared. But not this time.
And then the stupidest of ideas surfaced. I needed documentation of my newly found testicles. God, if I could only change one thing about that night . . . I would have never brought the video camera.
The clock goes off. I had dozed off 20 minutes prior. Already dressed, I wasted no time. It wasn't 5 minutes later, I was sitting in my mom's truck about 150 yards from the plastic wobbly horse. I set the camera up inside the vehicle with the zoom at it's most zoomable, shooting through the window. Nervous and excited, I looked around making sure I was alone. There wasn't a person or car in sight. A town this size shuts down by ten, I was in the clear.
Leaving the truck, tools under my arm, I quickly but quietly made my way to the scene of the crime. It was here where my days as a wobble horse terrorist started to unravel. My mother's truck has an electronic key ring thing that has a panic button on it. This key ring thing was in my pocket and this is just a guess, but I think the shovel under my arm must have hit the electronic key ring thing. The truck went off like a gay disco. The headlights strobe to the increasing tempo of the siren, neighborhood dogs started barking, birds flew from the trees. I hit the dirt as if bullets were flying overhead and scrambled to figure out the sequence of buttons to push to end the blaring chaos. Once the alarm stopped, I stayed in the dirt for what seemed like forever, waiting for the dogs to quiet down and any bedroom lights that were on from the disturbance to go back off. Finally, everything quieted back down but the moment now seemed more urgent. My hands were sweating profusely which awoke the dormant smell of the gardening gloves which began to make my eyes water. Now the Halloween makeup was running down my face into my mouth. It tasted like ass. I hopped up, careful that the tools wouldn't clang against each other or activate some other unknown horrifying shrill machine, made my way to the plastic pony and I began to dig.
The base of the thing was about 2 feet deep into the ground and bolted into a slab of concrete. I knew I would be there all night if I had to remove the entire thing, concrete slab and all. Luckily, the actual spring was screwed into a metal bracket that was welded to the base. So I figured the base was expendable and began unscrewing the spring. It came apart in no time. I was now holding the crown jewel in my arms. I looked back at the camera, still running in the truck and threw up the devil horns in victory. And that's about the time I felt the first bite. Then the second.
I had completely forgotten about the mounds of ant hills that I saw surrounding the site just hours earlier. Bite number three. I hadn't used my flashlight as of yet because I didn't want to call any unwanted attention to myself, besides that, it was a clear night and i just hadn't needed it. But now I had to see where these little red devils were coming from and how many there were to contend with. I shined the light near my feet only to see my combat boots covered by a herd of giant African battle ants that, up to this point, had avoided being discovered and classified due to the fact that they most surely ate any scientists that would do such classifying. Hurriedly, I kicked off my shoes and managed to remove my pants while never letting go of my plastic prize.
The ants were everywhere and my legs were already showing signs of swelling. I can't say for sure, but I can safely say I had nearly 50 bites on the front of my legs alone and while I'm not allergic, they itched like a mother. Especially on the delicate, baby-soft skin of my inner thigh, near my boy part. So, not wanting to put the horse down and already inching my way back to the truck, I begin to rub myself against the rough texture of the horses' plastic mouth. It immediately helped to sooth the itch. I moved the horse head to the other thigh and rubbed some more, with each thrust I found myself moaning softly as each ant bite was scraped vigorously. By now I had placed the spring end back on the ground to hold the weight of myself and the horse as I straddled it's head trying to relieve the increasing pain. And then . . .
"Drop the horse and put your hands where I can see them!"
By the time I was in the back of the squad car, there were five cop cars on the scene, a helicopter flying over and every yard was full of gawking middle-aged women, the type my mom hangs around. I could hear the cops talking about me from inside the car. The growing consensus was that I was a pantsless pervert with unresolved childhood issues that got my kicks off masturbating to playground equipment. Oh, and that I wore mascara. And then it got worse.
The cop that was searching my mom's SUV found the video camera. By that evening, the news was running a loop of me rubbing my crotch against what is essentially a child's toy.
My parents bailed me out of jail. My father wouldn't speak, he would only shake his head. My mother hugged me but said she was very disappointed. She has since put me on the prayer list at church and I'm not allowed to borrow her truck again, ever.
I'm doing community service at the park now. I have to plant trees and pick up trash until I become a responsible member of society again, which apparently takes 3 months. And although it's embarrassing having to work in an official felon-orange jumpsuit in broad daylight, it's worse now that someone has spray-painted "horse-fucker" on the back.the end.

- jason byron nelson ©2004