Rafting on Rhetoric River

John D. Ramage, a close friend of mine, had asked me to join him on a road trip, or rather a raft trip. He begged me and I just kept telling him that I had a skating match that I absolutely could not miss. He finally threw in fifty bucks and I weighed my options. I could spend the twenty dollar registration fee for the skate match or gain the fifty bucks and travel with a friend. I accepted the money and the invite and on a Sunday we met up at a community park and then traveled about five miles through the woods on foot before arriving at a river that I had never even heard of before. I looked around and a shabby sign clung on to a wooden post. A fading map marked areas of danger. Knowing John, these were the places that we were going to be taking detours to because for hi, nothing can ever be simple. Jagged letters formed the words Rhetoric River, the place to lose yourself. Gag, I thought. I could be skating but instead I will probably be swimming with the fish by the end of this experience. If I made it out alive, my mental state would probably still be compromised. I reminded myself that I wasn’t acting like the person that I wanted to be so finally I succumbed to the force that is Ramage and the two of us hopped in the raft to partake in the dangers of the drug trafficking and notorious fighting areas marked on the map by peace signs and red x’s. The plan was to be gone for three days but I had a feeling that we might be on an extended tour.
The water was unkind for the first day of our trip. It was at times the kind of water that the type of people who can’t bring themselves to say that they are lost and just ask for directions, would rely solely on themselves to try and conquer. On the other hand, people like me and John, rhetorical people, compromise with each other to try and come to some sort of partnership way of making it through these treacherous waters. He takes the right paddle and I take the left. After finally working as a unit, we pulled up to the bank of the river to eat and get some rest for the evening. We were completely exhausted and we were both mentally and physically drained. We tied the boat down and grabbed our backpacks. I looked around and discovered that this place did not look too scary. Trees surrounded the area and chirping birds were music to my ears. Houses looked ones that you would find in a development. They all looked the same: beige with brown shutters and a big garage attached to the sides. I was surprised that there were so many trees because these houses looked relatively new. I finally noticed this tavern on a hill that stuck out like a sore thumb. It was drab and made of what looked like dirt. Mosses growing around the shack made parts of the disintegrating bricks turn green and moldy. Motorcycles lined the perimeter of the building with the neon sign reading “Flying Spades”. We figured it was as good of a place as any to take a few moments to gather our bearings. Really there were no other bars and we were looking for an adventure and a drink in a place that we had never been before.
We walked into the dimly lit shack and sat in the corner seats of the bar. A bearded man with a whisky and cigarettes voice took out order of beverages. While waiting for our beverages and sandwiches to arrive, the guy sitting next to us at the bar was having a conversation with a mustached man about stocks and bonds. I looked at John and we both cracked a smile for the first time on this trip. Who would have thought that these people were, dare I say, BANKERS! Yes, they looked intimidating and they drank beer and talked really loud but we thought there might be bar fights until we actually got to talking to them. They asked us if we each had a broker and it was all downhill from there. All of the conversations were the same: money, cars, homes, and vacations. They huddled in tattooed groups of brass knuckles and spurs. Bandannas, smoke, and leather-like faces, some with beards, filled the room. General consensus from these rough and tumble men is that no bar fights would be breaking out that evening, or any if they could help it, simply because they all had to get to their offices and attend to the dow in the morning. They went on and on about yearly salaries and bonuses and about how this is their way to escape their normal personas. Their motto was business by day, bikers by night. We ate some great cuisine and barely slept. The people there were a riot because they kept giving us simple how to lessons on becoming bikers. My favorite lesson came from the town lawyer, Tom, and was directed at Ramage.
He said, “If you just wear the tightest leather pants you can find, all the chickies will come a runnin’. I get the best of both worlds. When I wear a suit I get all of the biker chicks and when I wear these pants, I get all of the corporate “ladies” that normally won’t even pay attention to a guy like me, not during the day anyway.”
I thought that this was the best advice because John hadn’t had a date in what seemed like forever. Leather pants are probably the one thing left that he has never tried. Also, his expression looked as though he were taking notes on a notepad in his head. We went off to get sleep and did just that.
Morning came and the waters were calling. We left, leather jackets and brass knuckles in hand (figuratively speaking about the knuckles of course, for they are illegal and for good reason). The waters were more manageable that morning and we sailed on until we encountered people shouting from the banks. At first we couldn’t hear them, but when we did, we realized that they were using complex dialogues to describe themselves and what they were wearing. It was plain to see that they were wearing tie-dye shirts so we almost assumed that they were drug doing hippies; but, judging from the bikers that we encountered the night before, we decided that they were just trying to construct an identity. They were probably business men under there too. Apparently this is something everyone does, but few people actually stop to realize what they are seeing and the reasons why. These particular people were shouting and dancing around, smoke was everywhere and we decided that we should stop and partake in the festivities. What good reason could one possibly have for missing the pseudo hippy party upon the banks of Rhetoric River?
When we actually got to chatting with the locals, we realized that they were celebrating a local tradition called the Stereotype the Stereotypical Festival. They said that they have this festival in memory of the late feminist writing resident, Sylvia Plath. They said that those who attended the party could stereotype anything they wanted but this year their group chose to portray unshowered, hemp wearing, ganja smoking, free loving, cuddle bunnies. In other words, hippies be they name. We ate some brownies, probably the best I’ve ever tasted, and the best part was that they were free of charge. We must’ve eaten a whole pan before getting back in our boat wearing our tie- dye shirts and our leather jackets. We continued sailing through the purple haze that was our water. Little did we know that the special brownies were special because they were all organic vegan brownies. We put the bucket in our boat to good use and dumped the waste overboard both literally and figuratively.
After losing our notion of modesty when using the “bathroom” we continued sailing for about 3 hours and it began to rain. We kept going for about another hour but then it began to lightening. After talking to each other, we decided to pull over and see what was on the banks this time. We parked the raft, knocked on a door and a bunch of people peering with contrasting looks answered the door. They allowed us in and offered us some hot cocoa. We gladly accepted and then we all sat down to enjoy our beverage. Sam, one of the guys who lived at the house brought up the subject of religion and how he chose to believe in the Roman Catholic faith. Jenna, his sister started arguing with him over her extreme belief of science and evolution. They just kept bringing up how each disagreed with the other but eventually they had exhausted all of their knowledge of the subjects, on each other. Nobody got any further than the other but each tried their very hardest. After listening to the two argue for what seemed like forever, I began to take what they were saying and question my own particular identity. Jenna kept quoting passages from Good and Evil while Sam shouted verses from the Bible. Both sounded like complete morons because of their lack of factual knowledge.
Jenna shouted, “God is dead, and God is a lie!
Sam replied with, “What are you John Lennon now?”
Jenna replied, “No! I’m Friedrich Nietzsche but they probably didn’t teach you about him in church. They should have though because you might have some common sense tuck away in the corners of your mind. The very deepest and darkest corners that is”
I tuned in to tune out. Which do I believe? Who do I choose to side with? Both are using the art of persuasion but both are horrible at rendering it. Why do their persuasions have to affect me? The static of their bickering set the soundtrack of my thoughts. I wondered if there was a way that I could develop an independent thought schema and essentially develop my own version of religion that allows me to pursue what ever makes me happy. I wanted to be in the least restrictive environment but realized that this could never happen due to the fact that I acknowledge where both parties are coming from and must subject myself to these discussion for as long as I live.
John could tell that I was getting bogged down by all of these thoughts and that the rain that had caused us to stop here in the first place, had subdued. We politely made an exit but not before John used the bathroom for like the tenth time since we had gotten there. It was his muse and he just had to tour every facility on all of our stops. I wondered if he had been trying to construct the identity of the bathroom connoisseur or just portray the quality of a middle aged man partaking in the joys of a bladder problem. Eventually he came down as did the raft into the water. The day awaited and so did what lied ahead.
Apparently the whole concept of rhetoric lead John and I in one big circle back to where we started. Before I knew it we were back at the signpost in the forest. Lose myself? I certainly did, or is it that I found myself or the person that I want to find? Once again, my head was swirling with questions of identity. Did I have a ready constructed identity? And if I did was it the person that I wanted to be? The things on the outside define the criteria on which we are judged by society. I found myself wondering if I wanted to be the biker or the hippy, evolution or intelligent design? I came out of this journey far too soon to realize what makes an individual, individual. John and I decided we were going to pick up where we left off next Tuesday around 9:30am. It was as good a time as any. For now, I’m going to take it easy and go home. I can’t quite decide if I’m going to cook tonight’s meal with the pressure cooker or the slow cooker. Each has its benefits but right now I am too tired to think. Maybe I will just order some takeout for tonight.