Closer
Steve Crouch leans out the window a little too much, just by an inch or so. His knee slips, and just like that he’s falling from his high-rise apartment. He tries to spin around and purchase a ledge with his fingers, but it doesn’t work like that–his body, the time, the space, the stuff around, none of it. He’s in open air. He’s looking at the big ground.
Always thought it could happen, what with him reaching to water the flower bed instead of resting it on the windowsill. No use beating himself up. His wife is back in the living room watching tv or something. He only stepped out the room for a second. How long before she notices he’s gone? Did he make any sound slipping out? Making any now? Maybe his body is whistling like a cartoon bomb. In dreams he’s always survived things like this. They say in dreams you can’t die. He wonders about a miracle.
Someone is screaming below. He can just hear it over the wind beating his ears. Would you call it wind? That’s what we get on the ground standing still, but he’s making this wind. It’s his and no one else’s. It’s even his fault, his music. Only he can feel it and he’s moving faster than anyone. That’s sort of lonely but he likes it. It’s a gift for him. He never got worried being alone. In a way he’s prepared for this and he forgives himself.
The screaming becomes a chorus as he nears the ground. Their bodies are getting bigger fast. Their colors fill more space. The ground is like sitting front row for a technicolor film in his honor, a real end of the rainbow. He can think whatever he wants now. He realizes he only thought about himself all these years but maybe couldn’t have helped it. Things are clear now that weren’t before. He’d like to keep falling forever but it must come to an end. Closer, closer, closer.
A guy on the ground, who just happened to be walking by, puts his arms out as if to catch Steve. Steve smiles because people are sort of good in their befuddled way. The arms fail to reach him. His body smacks the sidewalk hard, bounces, and lands near a small garden. The guy with his arms out doesn’t move. He sits down next to the blood with his palms facing up. He also has blood on him since he was so close to Steve in the end. “I almost had him,” the guy says. “Sorry. Sorry. I almost had him.”
Faint Organ Music
Bud works at the fix-it place. All day people call and whatever the problem there’s a solution for it. I’m overweight. I’m poor. My spouse doesn’t love me anymore. Here comes a call: “My son doesn’t know if he wants to go to college, but he also doesn’t know if he wants to join a trade.” “Is he smart?” “Of course he’s smart.” Bud pulls up the kid’s IQ test from the third grade. “Any hobbies?” “He’s known to tear the leather off a baseball.” Pulls up the kid’s high school ball stats. “How’s his social life?” “He’s got a group of friends. Better four quarters than a hundred pennies.” Pulls up text messages, phone calls, footage of the kid drinking in someone’s front yard. “Friends going to college?” “State schools. A few on scholarship. Some cast adrift but working at a decent hibachi place.” GPAs, decision letters, signing day photographs with coaches and parents, videos of a boy with surprising knife skills. “Describe your emotional reaction to the following words. Enrollment. Failure. Dropout. Incomplete. Withdrawal. Dorm. Roommate. Shared restroom. Girlfriend. Boyfriend. Underage drinking. All nighter. Minimum wage.” “Stress. Disappointment. Misery. Fear. Reticence. Reticence. Disgust. Aplomb. Nausea. Arousal. Disillusionment. Excitement. Happiness. Unworthy.” Bud reads the results on his monitor. “Your son has an average aptitude. He could play D3 ball with luck but don’t go shooting for the majors. We all have to stop playing the child’s game one day, etcetera. Casual drinking is prevalent in his age group. Be aware of the risks of alcohol dependency. Whether your son attends college or takes up a trade he’ll likely remain in an income bracket less than two standard deviations from the one he was born in. With effort he might break six figures. Your stress response unhealthy. You’ll be mailed a prescription to be taken twice a day after meals. We recommend a half hour of exercise and regular breathing. Thank you and have a nice day.”
When his shift is finished Bud takes off his headset and leaves. He calls Mary and they agree to meet for dinner. Walking to the restaurant he sees a man holding a sign that says ON YOUTUBE! VISIONS OF HELL VIDEOS. The man has a big grey beard. Bud approaches him and says, “Excuse me. Can you show me the videos of hell?” and the man shows Bud a video on his phone. The video features hundreds of people mashed together in deep ravines of boiling red goo as fire melts their flesh. Lots of screaming. “Is this real?” Bud asks. “Of course it’s real.” “It looks like it could be fake.” “Heed the warning and rid yourself of wrongdoing!” And Bud is gone down the street.
A bell rings when he opens the door to the restaurant. Mary is wearing her purple sweater and sitting where they usually sit. She gives him a hug and kiss and Bud sits across from her. She asks how work was and he says it was just fine, every day is the same now. They eat noodles across from each other. This place has two-dollar bowls of soup for sale every afternoon. Isn’t that something? The pair get up and leave. Mary walks down the street and Bud watches her until she’s a tiny purple dot on the long sidewalk. He wonders if they’ll be together forever.
Bud left the lamp on so his apartment is already bright when he walks in. He turns off the lamp and on the television. He puts on baseball. His team is losing badly. He watches to the very last pitch, doesn’t even change the channel during commercials. They float by like clouds. The rookie favorite strikes out on a knee and the announcers call the game, call the series, and fuck it, call the whole season. Our team is finished!
Bud gets in bed and thinks about messing with his thing but then decides not to. The men on his phone say messing with your thing is bad and will ruin it by shrinking and rendering it useless, thereby destroying the nerve endings in your thing. Some say you need to mess with your thing or else you’ll get prostate cancer. And so on. Bud’s tired anyway so he uses his phone to tell Mary goodnight and falls asleep. In the morning he wakes up and goes at it again.
