LIVE-A-LIFE

            Harold Beachman lived a good life, no, a great life, and in the final moments before he died, he contemplated that great life. What made it so good, so great? He had been born in the midst of the Roaring Twenties and spent his childhood surviving through a depression so great it would be forever remembered as the Great Depression. Not that he noticed. Not that his family was rich or anything, in fact, they were quite poor, but then, so was everyone else in his neighborhood, and so, young Harold never knew of anything better. He grew through simpler times, times of kick-the-can and jack-o-lanterns and cheap thrills, very cheap thrills. And then came the war, The Great War, Part II, and young Harold was shipped off to Europe to fight the axis of evil. He survived D-Day and returned a hero, if only because he survived, and was given a hero’s welcome, parade and all. And then he met Nancy, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, and he won her over, he won her over Richard McCasey and Francis Browner and Peter Astridge, and he married her and they had three beautiful children. After a short stint in professional baseball, briefly playing centerfield for the Milwaukee Braves, Harold realized that the life of a traveling athlete was not for him and so he settled on a job in an advertising firm where he would prosper for nearly two decades, pitching products like cigarettes and soda pop and men’s dress shoes. Life was good, no, great, until that unjust war in East Asia took his oldest son from him, the greatest loss of his life. But Harold would bounce back, starting his own business, selling cheap thrills to a new generation, which made him millions, which allowed him to retire at a younger age than most, which allowed him and his wife Nancy to travel the world. Harold would return an old man and Nancy, an old woman, and they would buy land, a boatload of land, in the mountains, where they would build a cabin, with a master bedroom bigger than most houses, with windows that pointed to the east, where they would watch the sun rise each morning. And it’s from those windows that Harold looked out as he contemplated his life, as he lied in bed, surrounded by his loved ones, his wife, his two remaining children and their spouses, and their children, and even some of their children’s children. And Harold would look around and crack a smile, satisfied with the life that he had lived, and take one last breath and close his eyes one last time.

            Jacob Gatlin opened his eyes. He unbuckled the strap around his chin and removed the shielded helmet that surrounded his entire head. He stood up out of the reclining chair and wiped the sweat from this brow. He looked around to see a dozen other people sitting in identical chairs with identical helmets hiding their faces. He stared up at a sign lit up in bright letters that read: LIVE-A-LIFE. Below it, it read: $99 FOR 10 MINUTES, AT YOUR OWN RISK! Just then, Dominick DePelegra, the shop’s owner, shuffled out of the back room. “What the hell are you doing in here?” He yelled. “You’re going to get my permit revoked, you little bastard! Can’t you read the sign?” Jacob looked toward the far wall, where the fat man was pointing, at a sign that read: 21 AND OVER, NO EXCEPTIONS! Dominick grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the front door, shoving him outside, where three of his friends waited. “What was it like?” one of them asked. “It was…It was…” Jacob paused. “It was what?” Another friend asked. “It… just… was…” Jacob said, before collapsing to his knees and bursting into tears. 

Riding a Bicycle on Psychedelic Mushrooms

            Riding a bicycle after consuming a handful of psychedelic mushrooms is much the same as riding a bicycle anytime, except for the fact that you’re tripping balls. Tripping balls while riding a bicycle is much the same as tripping balls anytime, except for the fact that you’re riding a bicycle. Are there any other questions?

            -Are you going to tell us a story about riding a bicycle after consuming a handful of psychedelic mushrooms?

            Great question! Yes. Yes, I’m going to tell you a story about riding a bicycle after consuming a handful of psychedelic mushrooms…

            -Well?

            Well what?

            -Well, are you going to tell us a story about riding a bicycle after consuming a handful of psychedelic mushrooms right now?

            Oh, you want me to tell it right now? The story about riding a bicycle on psychedelic mushrooms?

            -Yes. Yes, I want you tell me story about riding a bicycle on psychedelic mushrooms right now!

Well, okay, calm down, I’ll tell you a story about riding a bicycle on psychedelic mushrooms right now.

This is a story about riding a bicycle on psychedelic mushrooms.

            I was riding a bicycle after consuming a handful of psychedelic mushrooms when my rear tire suddenly went flat. I pulled to the side of the bike path to inspect the damage and immediately realized that I had no flat tire at all. It was a phantom flat and I immediately wondered how long it had been following me. “How long have you been following me?” I asked the tire.

The tire did not answer, so I got back on the bike in hopes of outrunning the phantom flat. But damn if that phantom flat wasn’t following close behind, constantly urging me to stop and check my rear tire. So, again I stopped and again there was no flat. The tire was fine, but I knew the phantom flat, that wily son-of-a-gun, that tricky bitch, was still there, mocking me. I was about to get back on my bike when suddenly, all of a sudden, abruptly, out of the blue…

BOOM!

...a heavy, deafening explosion shook the world around me.

I turned around and looked up just in time to see a bird—was it a bald eagle? A peregrine falcon? A very fit ostrich? Who knew?—fall from an electric line that hung precisely thirty-seven feet, three inches off the ground. Time suddenly slowed down as I watched this bird fall head over tail, its wings flopping, its feathers on fire. It smacked the ground at an incredible speed—not terminal velocity, but undoubtedly some fraction of it—and lay motionless in the high, dry grass.

Out of nowhere, a crowd evolved, a dozen strong. Where the hell did all these people come from? They all pointed at the bird and asked questions only the bird could possibly answer—Is it all right? Do you think its hurt?—but the bird, like a stubborn old man staring at those punk kids in the park who have no respect for anything these days, said nothing. And then, a miracle. The bird rose from the ground—from the ashes?—shook itself violently and stumbled away from the electrical tower like a seasoned drunk stumbling out of a bar at three in the afternoon. Which raised some questions: How could someone possibly get so drunk so early? And why do people claim that vodka is tasteless and odorless when any idiot with a tongue and a nose can tell you otherwise? I guess some questions may never be answered.

The crowd cheered!!! The bird was alive!!! But the cheers were short lived. Another problem arose—from the ashes?—a far more serious problem. The high, dry grass was now on fire!!! And the bird, it seemed, had started it. Fucking arsonist birds and their disrespect for fire! I was half-expecting Smokey Bear to run out of the woods and lecture his fellow animal on preventing wildfires, but nothing, no bear, just a group of spectators on the verge of hysteria. What will we ever do?!?

Luckily, I was there. With no formal training (or informal training for that matter) on extinguishing wild fires, I immediately decided that it was up to me to put out the fire, to save the high, dry grass from burning alive. I went into action, dropped my bicycle, jumped a four-foot high chain link fence and approached the raging fire with reckless abandonment. The crowd all stared at me, at the hero in front of them, unquestionably thinking: What I wouldn’t give to have just an ounce of that man’s courage.

I was only a few feet from the flames when the sound of sirens filled the afternoon sky, which triggered an unsettling fear of authority figures that had been lying dormant in my psyche since childhood. What the hell am I doing? I thought out loud.

“What the hell are you doing?” Some guy yelled at me from the crowd.

That was the same thing I wanted to know. So, I did a quick review of the events that had just previously occurred: A loud noise, a flaming bird falling from the sky, a grass fire out of control, me hopping a fence that clearly said “NO TRESSPASSING.”

I stared at the fire and then at the crowd and then at the fire and then at the bird, who was still stumbling away from the flames. It was then I remembered that I had previously eaten a handful of psychedelic mushrooms and had no business fighting a grass fire.

I hopped back over the fence, grabbed my bike and took off for home, that damn phantom flat riding my ass the entire way. Looking back, I often wonder if the phantom flat and the flaming bird weren’t working together the whole time…

The Night Taco Bell tried to Kill Us: A Love Story, of Sorts

             First thing first, I must decide how to properly describe the sound of myself throwing up, because, unfortunately, this story is going to entail a lot of that. I could go with traditional words such as puke, hurl, barf, ralph, retch, or vomit, but in reality, the act of throwing up doesn’t really sound like any of those words. Perhaps “bleagh” is more appropriate, or “blargh,” or “guahp,” or a prolonged version of one of those, such as “bleaaaaaaaaaaagh,” or “bbblllaaarrrggghhh,” or “guuuuaaaaaaahhp.” But to be honest, none of those words quite do justice when describing the way it sounds when I throw up. When I throw up it’s loud. When I throw up it’s theatrical. When I throw up it sounds like a Tyrannosaurus Rex throwing up a cow that’s giving birth to a porcupine. So perhaps, for literary purposes, the best way to describe the act of me throwing up should be the word “Trexowpine!” as in, I hovered over the toilet bowl, opened my mouth, and Trexowpine! Ok, now that that’s settled, let’s get to the story.

            I get home from work and it feels like there’s a reenactment of the “Rumble in the Jungle” inside my stomach. And not just the boxing match, not just Muhammad Ali rope-a-doping George Forman, but also the 60,000 screaming fans in attendance, yelling, and clapping, and jumping up and down. I hurry to the bathroom and Trexowpine!

            “I think I have food poisoning,” I tell Katelin.

            “It’s probably just heat stroke.”

            “No, I’m pretty sure…Trexowpine!...it’s food poisoning.”

            “Well, what did you eat?”

            “I had the leftover shrimp for dinner last night.”

            “Oh, yes, it’s definitely from the shrimp. That’s why I don’t eat shellfish,” she states, a-matter-of-factly.

            “I think I’m going to die,” I say as I make my way from the bathroom to the couch.

            “Oh stop. You just have ‘man’ cold.”

            “I don’t have ‘man’ cold. I have food poisoning.”

            “Well, then you have ‘man’ food poisoning. Quit being such a baby,” she says as I stumble back to the bathroom and sit on the toilet seat. Number2! (Do I need to go into further detail? I didn’t think so.)

            “Google says to drink ginger tea and apple cider vinegar,” she says as she sets two glasses down on the coffee table.”

            I take a sip of the ginger tea. Trexowpine! I take a sip of the apple cider vinegar. Number2! “I can’t do it,” I say. “They’re both disgusting.” Trexowpine and Number2!

            “Quit being a baby and just drink them. They’ll make you feel better.”

            “I can’t do it.” Trexowpine!

            “Well, I’m going to bed. Are you coming?”

            “No. I’m just going to stay on the couch.”

            Five minutes go by. Katelin comes out of the bedroom. “I don’t feel well,” she says as she hurries into the bathroom.

Now, Katelin’s act of vomiting doesn’t sound quite like mine. It’s a bit softer and less dramatic, like a feline coughing up a bowl of hairball stew. Let’s call it “Feliballew!”

            I grab the garbage can out of the kitchen and set it next to the couch. Trexowpine! Katelin kneels on the bathroom floor. Feliballew!

            “Luckily you didn’t eat the shrimp,” I say.

            “Why is this happening to us?” she asks. “What did we eat to deserve this?” Feliballew!

            “Taco Bell,” I reply. “Taco Bell is the only thing that we both ate.” Trexowpine!

            “Does that mean we can never eat Taco Bell again?” Feliballew!

            “It does.” Trexowpine!

            “But I love Taco Bell.” Feliballew!

            “Drink some ginger tea,” I say. “Have some apple cider vinegar.”

            “I can’t do it.”

            “Quit being a baby. It’ll make you feel better.” Trexowpine!

            “Screw you!” Feliballew! “I’ve never been so sick in my life. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.”

            “I would.” Trexowpine! “I wish this on Tom Brady. I wish an eternity of this on him.”

            “Oh shit!” Number2! “We’re out of toilet paper.”

            “This is going to be a long night.” Trexowpine!

            It’s a long night. I can’t sleep. I chug water and then I Trexowpine! it up, over and over again. Maybe I can flush the poison out of my system. Water. Trexowpine! Water. Trexowpine! Water. Trexowpine!

            For twelve hours straight, I Trexowpine! For twelve hours straight, Katelin Feliballew!s We both have enough Number2!s to go through a roll of paper towels.

            It finally subsides. The Trexowpine!s stop. The Feliballew!’s stop. The Number2!s stop! But we still both feel like a couple of zombies who got run over by a tractor trailer. We make our way into bed. “If this is it what it feels like to kick heroin,” I say, “then I fully understand why nobody kicks heroin. If you offered me a needle full of anything right now, and told me that I would feel better if I injected it into my arm, I gladly would.”

            “Oh my God,” Katelin says, staring into her smart phone. “My grandma died this morning.”

            “I’m sorry, sweetie,” I say.

            An hour goes by. “Oh my God,” Katelin says, again staring into her smart phone. “Your grandma died this morning too.”

            “What are the chances of that?” I ask. “Maybe we were supposed to die, but they took our place instead.”

            Another hour goes by and I decide to venture to the drug store for some supplies. It’s only a quarter-mile away. I’ve run marathons, bicycled across the United States twice, and canoed the Mississippi River, yet the quarter mile to the drug store and back is the hardest journey I’ve ever taken.

            When I get home we sip on Pedialyte, eat chicken noodle soup and watch some movie where Liam Neeson kills people, because apparently that’s all Liam Neeson does these days.

            “Do you still love me?” Katelin asks.

            “Of course I do,” I answer. “Why wouldn’t I?”

            “Because you heard me being sick all night.”

            “If anything, I love you more than ever. Going through something like this only makes our love stronger.”

            “It does?”

            “It does. It’s just too bad we can never have sex again…”

           

           

           

            

If I Could Only Eat One Food... (A Poem)

If I could only eat one food for the rest of my days

I'd choose whipped sugar to satisfy my ways

It’s pink and it’s blue and shaped like a cloud

The kind you can find in any carnival crowd

And though one set of teeth is all that I’ve got

And I’m aware that my mouth will certainly rot

Not to mention my dentist won't be very happy

Luckily you don't need teeth to eat cotton candy

Facebook before the Internet

            The bell rang. The old man answered his front door to find two young men dressed in suits. “Excuse me sir, but if we could have just a moment of your time…”

            “I’m not buyin’!” The door slammed shut.

            Again the bell rang. Again the old man opened the door. “Did you not understand what I meant when I said I wasn’t buyin’?”

            “But that’s just the thing, sir, we’re not here to sell you anything. In fact, what we’re here to offer you is absolutely, one-hundred percent, free. Now, if you’ll give just a moment of your time, I guarantee that we will present you with something so amazing, so revolutionizing, so extraordinary, that it will be impossible for you to say ‘no’.”

            “Just a moment?”

            “Just a moment, sir, and then we’ll be on our way.”

            “Come in to the living room and have a seat.”

            The two men in suits followed the old man into the living room where they had a seat on the sofa. The old man sat across from them in an old rocking chair.

            “Sir,” the man on the left side of the sofa said, “my name is Mr. Zucker, and this here is my associate, Mr. Burg, and the extraordinary thing we are here to offer you is something we like to call Facebook. Now, sir, do you enjoy reading the newspaper?”

            “Well, I suppose I do.”

            “Then you’re going to absolutely love Facebook. Please, let me explain how it works.”

            The man on the left side of the sofa went on with his presentation while the old man sat patiently, nodding his head here and there, as if to say: Yes, I’m still following what you’re saying. When the presentation was over, nobody said anything for a minute. Finally, the old man broke the room’s silence. “So,” he said, “let’s see if I understand this correctly. You want me to give you all of my family photographs, all of my most private thoughts, and even my most cherished memories and you’re going to take all of these very personal things and share them with the world on a daily basis?”

            “Precisely,” the man on the right side of the sofa replied.

            “And you’re not going to charge me a dime?”

            “Our service is absolutely free and always will be.”

            “But then how do you make money?”

            The man on the right side of the sofa looked over to his associate on the left side of the sofa and smiled before returning his eyes towards the old man. “Let us worry about that, sir.”

            “Well,” the old man said as he stood up out of the rocking chair, “it all sounds good to me. Now, let me just go get some old photos to start out with.”

            “Wonderful!” said the man on the left side of the sofa.

            “Outstanding!” said the man on the right.

            The old man left the room. He returned a couple of minutes later with a double-barreled shotgun with which he put a bullet into each man sitting on his sofa. He then dragged their bodies behind his house and buried them in his backyard, right next to the bodies of the men from Twitter, Instagram, and the Mormon Church.

Recognition, by John Sorensen (Guest Blogger)

“You see that guy over there?” Harvey asked his wife.

“Which guy?” she asked.  “There’s guys all over the place.”

“The guy missing the leg.  He’s sitting right over there,” he said, nodding to narrow her search around the restaurant.

“How do you expect me to see someone’s legs when they’re sitting down?”

“Jesus, Mary, he’s the guy with fucking crutches leaning against the table,” Harvey said, his voice raising, as was often the case when she failed to catch on quickly.

“Oh, yeah, I see him,” she said.  “So what?  And keep it down.  It’s still too early for you to start embarrassing yourself.”

“Okay, okay,” he said.  “You see him though, right?”

“Yes, I see him,” she said.  “Do you know the guy?”

“No, I don’t know him,” Harvey said, reaching for his beer, “but that’s the guy that’s been on the news.  The one who lost his leg last month.”

“He’s been on the news?” she asked.  “How do you know that?”

“Because I watch the fucking news,” Harvey said after taking in a mouthful of Miller.

“Okay, okay,” she said.  “So what was he on the news for?”

“For losing his fucking leg,” Harvey said.  “Jesus, Mary, you don’t remember me telling you about that?  It happened about a month ago.  He was on his bike, over by Powell, and was about to cross when a truck took the turn and tore the guy’s leg right off.  It was all over the news.”

“Oh,” she said, her eyes widening in recognition.  “That’s the guy?”

“Yeah, that’s the guy,” Harvey said, reaching for his beer again.  “That’s the guy I was telling you about.  He’s been all over the news.”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember now.  Are you sure that’s him?” she asked, narrowing her eyes as she stared across the room.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Harvey said, turning in his chair to get a better look.  “Yeah, that’s him alright.”

“Well, should we say something to him?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Harvey said after taking another drink.  “Maybe.”

“Jesus, Harvey.  I was kidding.  What would we even say to him?”

“I don’t know,” Harvey said.  “Maybe just tell him we know who he is or that we saw him on the news.  He doesn’t seem too upset about the whole thing.”

“Of course he’s upset about it, Harvey.  The guy lost his leg.”

“Yeah, of course he’s upset about it.  Who wouldn’t be?  I’d be pissed.”

“I’d probably kill myself,” she said.

“Of course you would,” he said.  “I just meant that he seems to be taking it fairly well, given the circumstances.  I bet people talk to him all of the time about it.  He was on the fucking news for almost a month.”

“That is a long time,” she agreed.  “I was on the news once.”

“You were never on the news,” Harvey said, gesturing to a waitress for another beer.

“Yes I was,” she said.

“When?  When were you on the fucking news, Mary?”

“Well, I wasn’t on, but they interviewed me once.  I told you about this.  I was in the car, and it was in the middle of that heat wave a few years back, and I was at a stop sign at the grocery store and they knocked on my window and asked me about the weather.”

“They asked you about the weather?”

“Yeah, yeah, they asked me about the weather,” she said.

“Well, what did you say?” he asked.

“I said it was hot out.”

The waitress arrived at the table to drop off Harvey’s beer and cleared away the empties to make way for their dinners, which would be arriving shortly, according to the waitress, and was turning to leave when Harvey placed his hand on her forearm.

“Can I help you, sir?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, gesturing for her to lean in closer, which she did.  “Do you see that guy over there?  The one with the missing leg?”

“Yes, I saw him,” she said.  “He’s been coming in for the past few days.  He’s a very nice man.”

“Do you know who he is?” Harvey asked.

“No,” she said.  “Should I?”

“That’s the guy from the news,” Harvey said.  “The one who lost his leg last month over on Powell.”

“Is it really?” she whispered.  “That was all over the news.”

“Yeah, it was—big story,” Harvey agreed.  “Listen, what’s he drinking?”

“Jesus, Harvey, you don’t have to buy the guy a drink,” Mary said.

“Just shut up,” he said.  “Whatever he’s drinking, give him another on me.  He deserves it.  And bring me one more of those too when you get a chance.”

“Well, it’s not my table, but I’ll find out what he’s drinking and have it taken care of,” the waitress said and walked away.

“Harvey,” his wife said, “don’t you think that might put him on the spot a little?”

“Everyone knows it’s him,” Harvey said, looking around the room.  “No one wants to say anything though.  No one wants to acknowledge him, and that’s a problem.  I mean, look at him.  He lost a leg last month when a truck ran him over, and now he’s here, like nothing happened, just like the rest of us.  I couldn’t do that.”

“I’d probably kill myself,” she said.

“You probably would kill yourself,” he agreed.  “Not me though.  I wouldn’t do that.  I’d learn to live with it, but it would probably take some time.  How does he even get around?  It only happened a month ago.  I couldn’t do that.”

“I bet you could,” Mary said.

“Sure, sure, I’d be way too embarrassed.  You know me.  It’d be like losing a tooth.  Could you imagine losing a tooth and then having to go out in public like that?  I’d be way too embarrassed.”

“John Stanford lost a tooth once.  He didn’t leave his house for days, and even then it was only to go to the dentist to have it fixed.”

“John Stanford needs his whole face fixed,” Harvey said.  “Oh, look, look. She’s bringing him the beer.

Across the room, the man with the missing leg spoke briefly with the waitress, shook his head several times, and finally accepted the bottle, after which she pointed to Harvey, who waved and smiled from across the room.

“I don’t know,” Harvey said, turning back in his chair to face his wife.  “Maybe I would kill myself.”

A Long Way to Fall: Notes on Jumping off a Bridge

           

            Start with shit—human shit. Start with Jay tracking human shit through the emergency room entrance, across the lobby, into the bathroom. Tell them how he stinks the whole place up with the overwhelming stench of fresh feces—the entire hospital, which is supposed to be a safe, sterile environment.

            Flashback to the Allegheny River, to the Kinzua Reservoir, to the bridge you all traveled so far to jump off of. Flashback to Mikey, to how he had a momentary lapse in judgment, to how he believed he could leap like an Olympic long jumper. Tell them how he cracked his shin on the backside of a guardrail—the sharp side of a guardrail. Tell how he fell to the asphalt and shouted, “I can see the bone!”

            Tell them how you could see the bone, how the tight skin over his shin was split, not cut, split, like the dry leather on an old shoe. Tell them how you could momentarily see the white of his bone before the blood, red and dark, began pouring from the wound.

            Tell them how Joey drove a hundred miles an hour to the emergency room, how he weaved in and out of traffic like an ambulance driver, even though Mikey’s condition was far from an emergency. Tell them how Joey said, “I finally have a real reason to drive like this!” Tell them how you arrived at the hospital in record time—the hospital in which Jay would soon track human shit through.

            Bring it back to the present, to Mikey receiving a handful of stitches, to buying booze at a drive-through beer store, to returning to the bridge—the bridge where Mikey split his shin open.

            Describe the bridge, about how it must be a hundred feet above the water, about the ladder leading up to the catwalk underneath, about the human shit covering the lower rungs of the ladder—the human shit Jay stepped in before tracking it up the rungs earlier in the day. Tell them about walking across the catwalk, eighteen wheelers barreling sixty-five miles an hour just above your head, which causes the catwalk to tremble like a ramshackle ride at the carnival. Tell them how you can climb over the rail of the catwalk, down another ladder, and find yourself standing on a concrete pillar sixty feet above the Allegheny River, above the Kinzua Reservoir.

            Tell them how Tex is about to jump blindly off the upstream side of the pillar when some local yokel—some Marine home on leave—says “Whoa, wait a sec, bud. I ain’t ever seen anyone jump off that side before.” Tell them how Tex proceeds to jump off the “usual” side, how his scream seems to last forever, how he hits the water’s surface and swims the forty or so yards back to shore.

            Next, tell them about the Marine, how he jumps after Tex, barefoot and silent. Tell them how when he hits the water he disappears beneath its dark surface, how he doesn’t come up for fifteen seconds, for thirty, for over a minute. Talk about what’s going through your mind, about how you think you just witnessed somebody die, how you don’t know what to do next.

            Hold the suspense, just for a moment, then have the Marine break through the surface of the water. Have his small audience let out a sigh of relief. Have the Marine burst out in laughter before he swims back to shore and disappears up the hill, over the guardrail that Mikey split his shin on and out of your life forever.

            Tell them how Jay and Tex can’t get enough of jumping off the bridge, how they jump, swim to shore, climb the ladder, cross the catwalk, descend the second ladder, stand on the concrete pillar sixty feet above the Allegheny River, above the Kinzua Reservoir, before jumping again, over and over.

            Talk about how you and Josh and Joey stand on the pillar this entire time, watching them jump, trying desperately to build up the nerve to do it yourselves. Tell them how you’ve never jumped off anything nearly that high before, how you look over the edge and vomit from fear. Tell them how Tex calls you all a “bunch of pussies,” how Mikey claims he would jump if it wasn’t for his split shin, about how Jay has only words of encouragement to offer. “It’s easy,” he says. “Just jump. Like this.”

            Tell them about how you realize that traversing back across the catwalk is a more frightening prospect than actually jumping, how you finally find the courage to stand on the edge, how the water appears to be a mile below, how it seems like such a long way to fall. Hold the suspense. Tell them how you finally do it, how you jump off the pillar, how you seem to fall forever, how you scream as loud as you can, how you hit the water with a violent force, how you plunge ten, fifteen, twenty feet underwater, how you hurry back to the surface, how you swim back to the safety of shore.

            Tell them how Josh and Joey chicken out. How they climb back up the ladder, across the catwalk, and down the other ladder—the one covered in human shit. Tell them how Tex rags on them for being “pussies,” how Jay only mentions that they missed out on an incredible experience, how Mikey claims he would have definitely jumped if it wasn’t for his split shin.

            Tell them how Joey tells Mikey that he’s “full of shit,” how Tex says, “No, Jay is full of shit,” how Josh laughs at Tex’s joke, how Jay responds with “At least I jumped off the bridge.”

            End the story with something sentimental. End the story with a quote. Tell them how you’ll never forget that day, how you’ll never forget that bridge, how you’ll always remember a certain five words: “I can see the bone!”