It was dismal out. A light rain had been laying siege to the town all day. The temperature hovered between cold and chilly. I was driving in my beater of the time when I heard the local radio station was sponsoring a day at one of the local places of amusement: hosting batting cages, a golfing range and go carts. But a crane had temporarily set up shop for a new craze that was sweeping across America: bungee jumping.
When i first learned of bungee jumping, I immediately added to my mental checklist of things I wanted to try. It lay there for quite awhile, sitting patiently next to to sky diving and to the left of mountain climbing. When it came to the area, I, in typical procrastinator fashion, was able to click off a series of excuses not to do it. The main thing was the apparently large sum of money I would have to pay for such a brief activity.
But when the radio station announced that it was at a reduced price, my excuses fell short and that little part of me that liked to wave my shortcomings in my face trumped the procrastinator and made up my mind for me. I went home and started to call friends and family with the news. It was cheap, I explained, and now would be the time to do it. Called one, received an excuse. Then another, another excuse. Then three, then four.
Slackers. All of them.
It became apparent that this was going to be a solo excursion, so I snagged a couple of twenties and my lucky coat and headed to the USA Sports.
Perhaps it was the weather. Perhaps it it was was a whole series of creative procrastinators able to drum up better excuses than mine. But the place was empty. When I entered the Bungee jumping area, it was me, a couple of workers, a large yellow air bag and a crane.
I paid my money, and made some sort of off-colored joke while I signed the waiver. I find that when you are doing anything that requires signing such a piece of paper, it's best to not dwell on it and the kaleidoscope of maladies that could ruin a perfectly good crappy day and get on with the insanity.
I stepped onto the crane where a guy started equipping me with the stuff needed for my plunge. He said I had two options in which to hook the bungee cord: by the waist or by the feet. May as well do it right, right? I chose by the feet. He started strapping on the only device that would keep me from a headlong collision with the (hopefully effective) air bag. Used persistently by stunt men, I'm sure the airbag is pretty reliable, but I could not help but wonder if hitting it head first would have its drawbacks.
We reached the top. The lift had taken to swaying a bit in the breeze. I noted that this didn't help things along and stuffed it in the back of my head. The worker opened the gate and I shuffled to the edge, staring down at the distance that seemed far greater than it did from a safer vantage point. The airbag looked suspiciously like a postage stamp.
"Alright, you need to jump headfirst, like a dive." he said.
"Right." I said.
"Okay. I'm going to say 'One...two...three...bungee.' Then you jump. Okay?"
"Right."
And while that all seemed like a fair deal on the outside, my inside was telling me that I lied when I agreed to his terms. Every bit of common sense was knocking at the inside of my skull, saying, "There's no way you're going to do this, Kwapich. You are intentionally jumping out into a distance that could very well kill you. Head first."
My hands were like vice grips on the railing.
"One," he said.
"You know you basically have a rubber band strapped to your feet? You know I'm not going to let you do this."
"Two."
And I jumped.
I couldn't tell you why I did. I can't remember making the conscious effort, let alone put my finger on some resolve that overcame my rational side. I don't even know why I didn't let the guy get to three.
I had, at one point in my imagining that moment, decided that I would yell out something when I jumped. A unfettered cry of "WAHOOOOoooo" perhaps. But my throat would have none of that. There was no air coming out of that blow hole until I was sure I was going to make it out on my feet.
The equipment held. The bungee bungeed. And my vision blurred because every pint of blood in me was in my face. My coat and shirt were at my shoulders, my bare belly was at the mercy of the chilled rain. I must have looked quite foolish-like I was reverse depantsed.
But what a rush! I had an adrenaline buzz all day. I felt the thrill of a head on dive to the ground and lived to rub it in the faces of all my acquaintances who opted out. On top of that, I was able to check off another thing on my "wouldn't it be cool" list.
Would I recommend everyone else do it? Meh. Different strokes, and all that. But if you are a fan of roller coasters, it would probably be a good bet you'd enjoy this.
Would I do it again? I believe I probably would. But then I think it necessary to whack common sense with the ol' insanity stick now and again-just to let it know that it doesn't have a monopoly.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Here is an excerpt from my novel Fools of Paradise. This bit is about one of the protagonists of the story, Matt Stahls. Enjoy.
Matt’s home was a rusted shell of what was, at one time, a perfectly good trailer. It lay dying on a small patch of land some one hundred feet of the main road along a dirt driveway created by the wheels of Matt’s various vehicles over the past decade–two of which found their final resting place in Matt’s yard. The yard, if one would call it that, was defined by worn patches of ground and weeds that weren’t quite as high as the ones on the perimeter.
The headlights of his pick up bobbed up and down as his truck stumbled over the ruts and uneven ground of his drive. The truck suspension squealed in complaint. As he pulled next to his trailer he cut the engine and flicked the headlights off. The trailer was dark. Matt had outgrown his dependence of lights. He, at one time, had several lamps that he would switch on when he would return form his excursions to the bar. But, one light bulb blew, then another, then another. He had not replaced the bulbs and did not feel the need to kick himself for not making the thirty- minute drive to the local Walmart to pick up new ones. He had grown accustomed to the darkness and found the convenience of artificial light to be less and less necessary. There were only two surviving light sources in the trailer: the light from the refrigerator and the light of the stove. And even the light of the stove was questionable, as he never used it.
The trailer was a mess, as Matt would admit. A vast array of empty alcoholic beverage containers was tucked in every last available bit of open space; only to be accented with the occasional discarded fast food wrapper. One could not spit without hitting a beer can, beer bottle or empty fifth…all ranging from Budweiser to Miller to Jim Beam to Smirnoff. Sure, he was an alcoholic, but no one could say that he didn’t at least have a wide range of tastes.
Welcomed by the darkness of his home, Matt shuffled through the garbage on the floor with only dim moonlight and memory to guide him. He made his way to into the living room. He was sore. His cheek throbbed a dull pain that promised to be sharper when he sobered. A small section of the couch was clear. This was a familiar spot for Matt. While he did have a bed which was just a mattress on the floor), there were many times, this spot on the couch was Matt’s final spot of the night. Mostly on nights he was too tired, drunk or drained to even attempt a trip to the bedroom. This was one of those nights.
A spring on the couch whined as Matt flopped onto it. He smelled the faint scent of dust. Across from the couch was an old TV, which at one time, had worked. But a well- flung Jim Beam bottle had put an end to that. The screen, cracked and frowning, ogled accusingly at Matt. All it had wanted to do was entertain the man with what few channels its meager antennae could sift from the area, but a late night news rerun, a foul temper and a sturdy fifth bottle had put an end to its days.
Matt stared at its dark screen. It was the culmination of his life: empty, cracked, ugly and useless. Its purpose had been stripped away–its existence hollow and simplified to that of a table that held even more of Matt’s clutter, including the remnants of the Jim Beam bottle that destroyed the television’s screen. The only reason Matt had not taken the TV to the dump was that it wasn’t important enough for him to tend to.
Matt felt empty. He had no alcohol to drink, which would have been his ritual at this time
of night. Without such, he had no purpose to stay awake for. And with the fight at the bar going a good distance to sober him up, Matt was not in the position to simply pass out, as was also his ritual. So he sat in his living room, a chorus of crickets outside and his own heavy breathing his only companions.
He reached underneath the couch and felt around until he found what he was looking for: a
cigar box well flattened so that it could clear the low space of beneath the couch. It rattled as he slid it out and placed it on his lap. He flipped the lid up and turned the box so the moonlight would reveal its contents. In it lay a .38 caliber handgun–simple, black and dull. He had bought it over a half dozen years ago from Bud. Where Bud friend acquired it from, Matt did not know, nor did he care. Matt only cared for its purpose. Accompanying the handgun in the cigar box were five bullets. At one time they occupied the chambers of the revolver, but had long since been relieved of it. The sixth bullet, however, remained.
He slid the cylinder out and with a quick glance verified that a single bullet remained in its chamber. He began to spin the cylinder. It was not oiled or tended to since he had gotten the revolver, so it did not spin as freely as it should. He looked out the front door across his dilapidated yard and toward the street. There was no traffic. He wondered, as he always did as he spun the cylinder, how many cars would pass by before his body was discovered. How many suns would set behind his house before he would be removed in a body bag? How many people would care? None, he supposed. There was nobody left in the world that gave a damn about him. But he really didn’t give a damn about anyone himself. Funny how things worked out like that.
He snapped the cylinder into place. Remembrances of the past rushed through his head. Normally he suppressed such memories; a feat of sheer will bolstered by both alcohol and bull-headed stubbornness. But, in moments such as these, he allowed them–intrusive, beguiling memories. Memories that teased him with happier times. But these were short-lived. He would not allow them for long, as fate would not have such things for mortal man. In one fell swoop, all his happiness would be stripped away. He was not deemed worthy of it. Scant good memories were soon squelched and beset by more lingering, familiar ones: regret, misery and helplessness. They settled upon his shoulders and throbbed like a dull, aching pain. But along with them, they carried a numbness. They allowed him the ability to do what he was about to do. He lifted the revolver to his temple. Some stubbornness echoed in Matt to not let them defeat him. By taking his own life, it would be the final submission. But Russian roulette allowed for an out, of sorts. Even though Matt would squeeze the trigger, it would be fate that took his life, should it strike true of the single bullet that lay hidden in its chambers. Cause of death, Matt justified, would not be suicide, but pure random chance. There was some distant, rational part of Matt’s mind that knew better, but did not have the audacity to tell him.
He cocked the hammer of the .38. I am a house of cards, he thought. Matt allowed for one last picture in his mind. A cute blonde with smile that could turn a man sane. His eyes welled. I failed you. I’m sorry, he thought.
At times such as these, Matt allowed for her name to cross his lips. Only at times such as these, could Matt summon the courage to bring her to the forefront of his thoughts. He spoke his last word before letting the hammer of the revolver fall.
“Jessica.”
Matt’s home was a rusted shell of what was, at one time, a perfectly good trailer. It lay dying on a small patch of land some one hundred feet of the main road along a dirt driveway created by the wheels of Matt’s various vehicles over the past decade–two of which found their final resting place in Matt’s yard. The yard, if one would call it that, was defined by worn patches of ground and weeds that weren’t quite as high as the ones on the perimeter.
The headlights of his pick up bobbed up and down as his truck stumbled over the ruts and uneven ground of his drive. The truck suspension squealed in complaint. As he pulled next to his trailer he cut the engine and flicked the headlights off. The trailer was dark. Matt had outgrown his dependence of lights. He, at one time, had several lamps that he would switch on when he would return form his excursions to the bar. But, one light bulb blew, then another, then another. He had not replaced the bulbs and did not feel the need to kick himself for not making the thirty- minute drive to the local Walmart to pick up new ones. He had grown accustomed to the darkness and found the convenience of artificial light to be less and less necessary. There were only two surviving light sources in the trailer: the light from the refrigerator and the light of the stove. And even the light of the stove was questionable, as he never used it.
The trailer was a mess, as Matt would admit. A vast array of empty alcoholic beverage containers was tucked in every last available bit of open space; only to be accented with the occasional discarded fast food wrapper. One could not spit without hitting a beer can, beer bottle or empty fifth…all ranging from Budweiser to Miller to Jim Beam to Smirnoff. Sure, he was an alcoholic, but no one could say that he didn’t at least have a wide range of tastes.
Welcomed by the darkness of his home, Matt shuffled through the garbage on the floor with only dim moonlight and memory to guide him. He made his way to into the living room. He was sore. His cheek throbbed a dull pain that promised to be sharper when he sobered. A small section of the couch was clear. This was a familiar spot for Matt. While he did have a bed which was just a mattress on the floor), there were many times, this spot on the couch was Matt’s final spot of the night. Mostly on nights he was too tired, drunk or drained to even attempt a trip to the bedroom. This was one of those nights.
A spring on the couch whined as Matt flopped onto it. He smelled the faint scent of dust. Across from the couch was an old TV, which at one time, had worked. But a well- flung Jim Beam bottle had put an end to that. The screen, cracked and frowning, ogled accusingly at Matt. All it had wanted to do was entertain the man with what few channels its meager antennae could sift from the area, but a late night news rerun, a foul temper and a sturdy fifth bottle had put an end to its days.
Matt stared at its dark screen. It was the culmination of his life: empty, cracked, ugly and useless. Its purpose had been stripped away–its existence hollow and simplified to that of a table that held even more of Matt’s clutter, including the remnants of the Jim Beam bottle that destroyed the television’s screen. The only reason Matt had not taken the TV to the dump was that it wasn’t important enough for him to tend to.
Matt felt empty. He had no alcohol to drink, which would have been his ritual at this time
of night. Without such, he had no purpose to stay awake for. And with the fight at the bar going a good distance to sober him up, Matt was not in the position to simply pass out, as was also his ritual. So he sat in his living room, a chorus of crickets outside and his own heavy breathing his only companions.
He reached underneath the couch and felt around until he found what he was looking for: a
cigar box well flattened so that it could clear the low space of beneath the couch. It rattled as he slid it out and placed it on his lap. He flipped the lid up and turned the box so the moonlight would reveal its contents. In it lay a .38 caliber handgun–simple, black and dull. He had bought it over a half dozen years ago from Bud. Where Bud friend acquired it from, Matt did not know, nor did he care. Matt only cared for its purpose. Accompanying the handgun in the cigar box were five bullets. At one time they occupied the chambers of the revolver, but had long since been relieved of it. The sixth bullet, however, remained.
He slid the cylinder out and with a quick glance verified that a single bullet remained in its chamber. He began to spin the cylinder. It was not oiled or tended to since he had gotten the revolver, so it did not spin as freely as it should. He looked out the front door across his dilapidated yard and toward the street. There was no traffic. He wondered, as he always did as he spun the cylinder, how many cars would pass by before his body was discovered. How many suns would set behind his house before he would be removed in a body bag? How many people would care? None, he supposed. There was nobody left in the world that gave a damn about him. But he really didn’t give a damn about anyone himself. Funny how things worked out like that.
He snapped the cylinder into place. Remembrances of the past rushed through his head. Normally he suppressed such memories; a feat of sheer will bolstered by both alcohol and bull-headed stubbornness. But, in moments such as these, he allowed them–intrusive, beguiling memories. Memories that teased him with happier times. But these were short-lived. He would not allow them for long, as fate would not have such things for mortal man. In one fell swoop, all his happiness would be stripped away. He was not deemed worthy of it. Scant good memories were soon squelched and beset by more lingering, familiar ones: regret, misery and helplessness. They settled upon his shoulders and throbbed like a dull, aching pain. But along with them, they carried a numbness. They allowed him the ability to do what he was about to do. He lifted the revolver to his temple. Some stubbornness echoed in Matt to not let them defeat him. By taking his own life, it would be the final submission. But Russian roulette allowed for an out, of sorts. Even though Matt would squeeze the trigger, it would be fate that took his life, should it strike true of the single bullet that lay hidden in its chambers. Cause of death, Matt justified, would not be suicide, but pure random chance. There was some distant, rational part of Matt’s mind that knew better, but did not have the audacity to tell him.
He cocked the hammer of the .38. I am a house of cards, he thought. Matt allowed for one last picture in his mind. A cute blonde with smile that could turn a man sane. His eyes welled. I failed you. I’m sorry, he thought.
At times such as these, Matt allowed for her name to cross his lips. Only at times such as these, could Matt summon the courage to bring her to the forefront of his thoughts. He spoke his last word before letting the hammer of the revolver fall.
“Jessica.”
First blog
Greetings to all of you who have the curiosity enough to check out my blog. This is my first entry. So before I partake on my excursion of borderline vanity, I will extend welcome. So...welcome.
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