Gone, but Never Forgotton

Team Buffalo Beau took a huge hit on Saturday. I was so devastated by this loss that I’m just now coming to terms with it. Parked in a Target parking lot, I screwed my single-burner camp stove onto a propane canister, set it out of view by the back tire of Rodeo, fired it up, and boiled some water for coffee. Coffee in hand, I let Single Burner chill out in the lot to cool off while I started up a DVD on my laptop (Never, never watch Good Dick – no, it’s not a porno). After watching the crap flick, I sped out of the lot in disgust, shifting my focus to the hunt for the night’s sleeping location. Rodeo selected a semi-secluded plot of asphalt in a Wal-Mart lot with light traffic and few lights, but my praise of his choice was cut off mid-sentence when my jaw dropped and I realized that Single Burner had been left behind - all alone. Not even a half hour had lapsed from the time we left Target to the time our tires screeched to a halt in the same parking spot we were in previously. I jumped out of Rodeo, not bothering to close the door, and raced around to his passenger side where I would scoop S.B. up in an apologetic, loving embrace. My eyes fell on empty pavement. My heart fell to the bottom of my chest. I fell to the ground. It was minutes before I could muster the strength to pull myself to my feet, but adrenaline coursed through my bloodstream, forcing me to frantically search the lot, leaving no leaf unturned, no car window un-peered through, and no person (suspect) un-stink eyed. My investigation continued with the questioning of two teenage cart gatherers donned in bright orange vests. They knew nothing of a missing camp stove. They were telling the truth; I could tell by their eyes – and by the fact that they looked like their brains were trying to process what a camp stove even was. My next stop was at the store’s Customer Service counter, where I asked if they had a lost and found. “What did you lose?” a Twilight-pale punk wearing a red polo asked me. “A single-burner camp stove,” I panted, “about yay-high, wearing a small green propane canister with a black base.” This was followed by an extended silence and a look from Emo Joe that made me think I had Gummy Worms wriggling out of my nose. As I covered my nose with my hand, E.J. reluctantly checked a drawer that could barely hold a pair of sunglasses, let alone a camp stove. No dice. Heart heavy and head hung, I slowly and sadly made my way back to Rodeo, defeated and devastated.

Days later, the pain has not diminished. Nothing has come of the Amburner Alert that was issued on Saturday, and I haven’t received any calls in response to the various “Have you seen S.B.?” picture flyers that I’ve posted around town. I can only hope he made it into the hands of an outdoor-loving family who he nourishes with his heat, and who love him like one of their own in return. Hephaestus, great God of Fire, please let my flammable friend not have fallen into the clutches of villainous hands - hands that would force him into slavery as an unwilling pawn in the production of basement-grade narcotics!