My Life, On The Oregon Trail

As a small child in elementary school, I would tune myself out from the rest of the world and invest everything I had into the teal Apple computer in the back left corner of the classroom. Nothing anyone said to me was of any importance because this was a special time. For an hour or so, I was God. After the computer actually got started up after about 10 minutes, I double-clicked it: The Oregon Trail. And even from early adolescence, my inability to let trivial disputes go and my speedy attachment issues prevailed--exclude me from playing Four Square? You're going in the wagon. You told me we were best friends while we were learning about multiplication tables? You're going in the wagon.

Yeah she does. And she probably deserved it.

A lot of different things could get you in the wagon, but the most important factor in a venture on the Oregon Trail was the mood I was in that day. If it was a rough day at school, you could be sure as shit that I was going to ford the river every time. Looking back, if anyone had found out that I was using The Oregon Trail as a virtual means of revenge, I probably wouldn't have been allowed to play it anymore... actually, I probably would have ended up on a list somewhere. But in the end, I never cared too much about finishing the journey--that took like... four more hours than I had, and I never cared enough to save it to my floppy disk (YEAH, that was a thing). The Oregon Trail was my fix, similar to what I imagine someone feels after doing cocaine.
But after my seven to eleven year old vengeance was completed, I realized that there was no Oregon Trail in middle school, and that's a shame because middle school is definitely the time that you need some revenge-Oregon-Trail. The game persisted in my mind though, and even through college, sometimes I imagined who I would put in my wagon. I would assign people roles, and I contemplated which weak friend would be the one to come down with typhoid of dysentery. But when I moved up to DC and started living in an apartment and doing more adult things, I realized that The Oregon Trail, much like life, is not something that you plan. The Oregon Trail is something that happens to you. Life is pretty much reflective of everything on The Oregon Trail: sickness, lost materials, negotiating with people you meet along the trail, gathering over 200 pounds of food and having to leave some behind. But most of all, I realized that the more alcohol you add to the situation, the more out of control the trail becomes.
So one night, all us pioneers (Jill, Andrew, Ben, Nicole, Catherine, Catherine's brother, Nicole's boyfriend--yeah, I know you can only include five people in your wagon. This is my Oregon Trail, I do what I want) decided that we were going to go out for a night in Arlington. Everything seemed to be going well:

Weather: Fair
Health: Excellent
Food: Enough, I guess
Miles Traveled: 0

We all met at Jill and Catherine's and started to drink before going out to a nice place called Clarendon Ballroom, an establishment that houses a good 85% of Arlington's frat boys and hipsters. They only play 45 second clips of songs, and epileptics are not encouraged to go there. But while waiting for Nicole and her boyfriend to show up at Independence, Missouri, or the apartment, everyone had imbibed enough that we decided no one was going to drive, and thus, our first game move: wait for a ferry (taxi) across the river.

Weather: Fair
Health: Silly
Food: Less than before, but still okay
Miles Traveled: 1.2

We had to take two ferries to get to the bar because apparently Arlington doesn't have ferries big enough for everyone. After we got to the establishment, I regretted choosing farmer instead of banker because I needed to stop at the ATM. (By the way, why was farmer ever a good option?) I walked with Nicole and her boyfriend to retrieve money, and then soon after we entered. With me at my resting annoyed-rate of 4, I decided not to drink but rather watch those around me. I made people come out to the dance floor, and eventually, everyone started consuming more and more alcohol. People began to get more and more intoxicated, but it didn't matter because that's how you play the game--at a grueling pace. Nicole told me that I didn't know how to dance, and then her and her boyfriend left. I can only assume they were eaten by a bison or perhaps contracted cholera and died. Either way, they were off the trail. RIP.

Weather: Whatever
Health: Fair
Food: This will be more applicable later.
Miles Traveled: 1.2

Because Arlington is comprised of mostly rich, old people, the bar was closing at 1 that night and by that time, it had become painfully obvious who was going to be hung over and who was not. As I was ushering people out of the bar with Catherine and her brother, it was apparent that some members of the wagon had lost some wheels, axles, and approximately 45 pounds of food along the way. Soon after we got everyone outside, Catherine and her brother left, probably in passive disgust that they were even on the wagon to begin with. So, there I was--sober as could be with three people left: Andrew, who ran across the street without looking, Ben, who looked as if he had contracted typhoid, and Jill. Jill seemed to be fine, so while Andrew and Ben went inside a 24 hour diner, Jill stayed outside while I smoked.
Jill began to tell me about her life and how everything seemed to be different. At that point, she asked me if she could have a puff of my cigarette. By this time, I was just happy to have someone to talk with who could speak in complete sentences. But after just a couple of puffs, everything changed. Jill began to cry, and I asked her What's wrong? And with smoke still seeping out from her lips, she announced, Please don't tell the boys, but I think I'm pregnant. And then I went into panic mode. This is that point in Oregon Trail when everyone's dying, health is poor, no one has food, and the weather is hot. I immediately grabbed the cigarette from her and instructed her to go inside.

Weather: We're inside the diner, doesn't matter
Health: Terrible
Food: Way over the 200 pound limit, everyone ordered too much
Miles traveled: Too many

Within the first five minutes, Jill announced her "pregnancy," Andrew wanted breakfast, and Ben didn't have his debit card. So I had to go negotiate with the people at the bar, Indian style, to get the debit card back. By the time I returned, the food had arrived, and Jill was taking a leave of absence in the bathroom. She had forded the river, Virginia Woolf style. At this point, she was a goner. For my troubles, I left a substantial tip for the waitress on Jill's card because she was still in the bathroom, and then we got another ferry to take Jill home. Finally, it was just Ben, Andrew, and me. As soon as we got in the car to drive home, Andrew "fell asleep" in the front seat, probably from measles, which left on two surviving wagon members: Ben with typhoid, and me. I managed to get the wagon back to our apartment, but only after losing six of the original wagon members, seven oxen, all the food, and at least 4 boxes of bullets.
But that's the thing about The Oregon Trail, and life in general... you don't really play to be a hero and make the highest score--you just play to survive. We found out the next day that Jill was not pregnant at all--apparently that was just something she needed to say whilst on the trail. Andrew's measles nap was apparently completely premeditated, and everyone else's departure was made with clear minds. However, what happens on the trail is nothing to be ashamed of, and it's nothing we should hold over one another's heads for revenge because the Oregon Trail is a messy place. If life were as easily planned as a game that can be saved on a colorful floppy disk (mine was yellow, for those interested), then it would probably be a lot easier than it is. But we ford rivers and lose axels and sometimes people get cholera, but it's not about what happens on the trail--it's just about making it to the end.