The Hunt for Blood

The blood is gushing down Jacob’s face from a wound just above his eyelid. It’s mingling with the shampoo and water, pouring down his jaw, down his mostly naked body and onto the bathroom floor. Alex, who just punched Jacob, is panicking. So is Shane, who let us into his apartment just minutes ago. Alex is apologizing to Jacob profusely as he tries to mop up the blood. I’m swabbing it up, too, as I keep the video camera steadied on the crimson river flowing down Jacob’s grill.

See, 22-year-old artist Jacob Calle, his friends Alex and Laura, and I are on Jacob’s Scavenger Hunt. We’re pitted against five teams from all over the city (one team boasts a suburban high school teacher as a member). As they tear around the Montrose, each team must try to complete insane tasks that range from “get a blow job from a stranger” (someone on another team actually does) to “do the moonwalk at Starbucks and order a Michael Jackson latte” (Jacob takes care of that for us). Everything must be videotaped for proof and for a crazy viewing party afterward.

So far, we’ve gotten noogies from strangers at Half Price Books, where Jacob also tore a page out of The Horse Whisperer. A girl shows us her boobs at Numbers. Devin — a complete stranger — and his partner Carl let us in their apartment, where Carl agrees to give Jacob a shave (hey, it’s on the list) and Devin whips him with a belt. Jacob and Alex jump 11 stairs at Chapultepec restaurant before we’re all thrown out. Laura cuts off a piece of a guy’s mustache at Starbucks. Prior to karaoke at the Proletariat, Jacob pees his pants. (Again, it’s all on the list.) And me? I’m here to videotape.

Crazy stuff, but it’s at Shane’s where things have gotten out of control. Amazingly, Shane allowed us into his apartment, where Jacob disrobed and bathed in his tub. Jacob even convinced Shane to lather him up and wash his hair. Scanning his list, Jacob, wearing nothing but boxer shorts, decided to put toothpaste in his eyes. After a few bloodcurdling screams, he realized that the pièce de résistance would be getting punched in the face (ten points).

And now I’m videotaping an assault while trying to clean up the evidence. The bleeding Jacob — still in his boxers and in desperate need of emergency medical attention — insists we meet the other teams to tally the scores. He’s sure the punch in the face — plus the whipping and the whole bathing-in-a-stranger’s-house thing — will vault our team to the top.

We come in third.