"Leave me alone,” I muttered.
He stopped. “All right,” he said. “See you tomorrow, okay?” he called after me, but I didn't look back.
* * * *
I ran upstairs and got in bed, hating everyone. I even blamed Mister Jones for starting the whole thing. When Ma knocked on my door for dinner, I buried my face in the pillow to hide my black eye and pretended to be asleep. I heard her call my name and then walk quietly up to my bed. I must have done a good job of pretending, because she turned and left my room. But she took at least five seconds to let go of the doorknob.
I knew I couldn't hide forever, and by morning I was pretty starved, so I went on down and told a story about having been hit by a bad pitch. They seemed to believe me, especially my father. And though my mother made me stay inside all day, I didn't mind too much; I rather enjoyed the attention. Also, staying inside gave me time to think. I flipped through my old copies of Rocket Science Magazine, carefully studying the tall, shining metal rockets, and then looked out the window at what Mister Jones had built. But still, I believed. If anyone could make a rocket out of nails and wood, it was Mister Jones. The hole was probably to protect the rest of us from all that fire.
* * * *
I saw Mister Jones only a few times in the weeks after that, and then he never even looked at The Rocket, only walked around his yard like he didn't know what to do with himself. Maybe he was just tired, I thought as I watched him through my window. He sure looked it.
Then school started and everyone forgot about The Rocket. I still looked out my window every morning to see if anything had happened during the night, but nothing ever changed. And then, about a month later, I woke up and saw that the dirt that had been piled next to the fence was now back in the hole. And The Rocket itself looked different, as if it had been sprung like a trap. The ropes that had been so tight were now hanging loose and the beam that used to stick straight up was pointing down to where the hole had been. And though to me this was very strange, no one else paid any attention to it. So I went on to school.
That afternoon, as I was walking home, I noticed a group of men standing in Mister Jones's backyard, several of them awkwardly holding shovels. Some were still in their office clothes, though they had taken off their jackets and loosened their ties. I recognized two of them as men who had come over earlier that summer to lean on our fence and ask Mister Jones about The Thing. But now, instead of joking, they stood in small groups, shaking their heads and talking quietly. The only person moving was a short, bald man who still had on his jacket and tie and who went up to first one man and then another, his hands fluttering in the air. The men nodded their heads in agreement as they stared down at the ground, but they did not move, and so the bald man would throw his hands up and move on to the next group. Mrs. Jones was out there, too, and she looked really upset. One of the men had his arm around her, and as they were standing there, she suddenly collapsed and had to be helped inside.
I ran home and saw Ma, all bent over, holding onto the phone, crying, talking, and screaming all at once. My father had his arm around her, trying to hold her up like the other man had been doing with Mrs. Jones. When she turned and saw me, she started crying even louder and I finally understood what had happened. Mister Jones had done it, had flown off in his rocket and left everyone behind. I threw my books on the table and started for the door. Ma screamed my name and grabbed my arm, but I broke free and ran out the back door, jumped over the fence, and pushed my way through the circle of men. As I stood on the mound and looked at them all, I saw Tony and a few of the other guys slowly walking through my backyard and up to the fence like they were in a trance.
"A-ha!” I shouted as I jumped and thrust my fist into the air. “I told you! I told you!” I laughed as I raised my arms and turned in circles with my eyes wide open, until the world was spinning faster and faster. Until the still white faces with their dark open mouths mixed with the blood-red roses and the glorious light and it all flowed into one flower as big as the sky, and I called out, “Goodbye, Mister Jones! Goodbye!"
Falling by Traci Brimhall
"A twin-engined B-25 Army bomber, lost in a blinding fog, crashed into the Empire State Building.... “—The New York Times, July 29, 1945
They think it's an earthquake,
the rock and settle of the building,
but then tourists, listening to a tiny waltz
from crackling speakers, lean over railings and observe flames
and ash moving in three-four time, and see wind moving
through the fluttering bomber jacket, sleeves dancing down
seventy-nine stories, waving at windows, slowing cars; and a distant boy
dreams of wings floating alone toward rooftops
as an elevator operator licks her lips and tastes
her own burnt skin, hears the crack of snapped cables,
feels gravity press her like a lover, its weight
in her wrists and hips as she falls through
unforgiving air—diving the shaft with heels lifting
her to the ceiling, hearing the casual scream of brakes,
the grate of landing—then waits for the screech
and peel of metal as the roof lifts back and the wisp of a boy
lifts her smoking hem over the heat of her face as she cries, Thank heavens,
and the building shudders.
Hangers swing unclaimed coats,
firemen sip coffee and eye young nurses while
around the corner, a sculptor returns to his studio to find
an impotent motor and rubble, mumbles, Holy smokes....
.... You can't replace anything, and walks over fragments
of his broken skylight to discover an angel's severed
arms stretching through smoke.
Counting Nuns by Christian A. Dumais
(nonfiction)
There are as many bees as there are gypsies in Wroclaw, just as there are as many spiders as there are nuns. It's not anything I'd generally notice, but if you'd seen these things as often as I have in the last two months, you'd make a note of it too. In fact, I go out of my way to count how many nuns I see every day. It started out as a private joke; now it's become part of my routine.
I'm in the shadow of a cathedral. The shadow feels cool. It's about three hours past dawn. I'm sitting on a bench with a cup of my urine sitting beside me like some kind of twisted imaginary friend that everyone can see. There's a man playing the flute across the way, his hat sitting on the ground in front of him like a hungry dog with its mouth wide open. A nun walks past him in a hurry. Four.
The leaves are falling and the sun's looking strong; you can tell it's going to be a beautiful day. I'd appreciate it more if it weren't for one small but major detail. In less than an hour, someone is going to put a sharp needle inside of me and remove a fair amount of blood that's never seen the light of day. And so I'm sitting here on this bench trying desperately to grow a huge pair of balls for my medical appointment.
* * * *
Those who know me know I'm not the kind of person to become too flustered or anxious. Stress is usually as foreign to me as Polish. I like to think of myself as a practicing Buddha, with a slight weakness for beautiful women and alcohol. I believe everything in life works out without any form of divine intervention; it falls into place as easily as a dream, and to expend any form of stress or worry on something that may or may not happen is fundamentally pointless.
Because whether you believe it or not, it's going to balance out; it's going to be fine. Think about all the moments of panic in your life, all the moments of hysteria, all the close calls: think about those long and hard. Remember how you felt that this was the end, that nothing would ever be the same again? Remember how empty you thought your heart had become? Now reflect on all the tears you lost. Remember the ache in your eyes?
It may not have gone the way you expected or how you hoped it would, but there you are, right now, reading this,
breathing in and out; your heart is pumping and you're alive. Feeling. Thinking. Experiencing.
You made it. It worked out. And you wouldn't be where you are now if you hadn't lived through it.
It's really not all so bad, is it?
* * * *
Back in August, I was on this little prop job from Munich to Wroclaw. Every minute took me further east than I'd ever gone, further and further away from the soft reassurance of English. I was sitting in the third row in an aisle seat; a pretty Polish woman sat to my right. She only smiled at me when I gave her the chocolate from my meal. There was an old woman to my left, on the other side of the aisle. Whenever the plane jerked, she reached over and put her hand on my arm. Her grip was dictated by the turbulence. She laughed sometimes when the plane evened out. She would say something in Polish and I'd just nod.
When the plane began its descent to Wroclaw, the flight turned rough. The plane was jerking all over the place. The flight attendant was thrown from side to side. The pretty girl gripped the armrests. A baby in the back started to cry. The old woman next to me put her head down and started praying, with her right hand planted firmly on my arm.
The captain came on the speaker and said something that didn't seem to bring any relief to the passengers. The flight attendant strapped herself down. The man behind me spilled his coffee; the smell came up from the floor. The plane rocked back and forth. There was something unusual about the turbulence; it wasn't as playful as what I'd experienced before. This turbulence somehow felt serious.
The old woman leaned over. She spoke like she was out of breath. I put my hand on hers. I said, “It's going to be fine. We'll be laughing about this when we land, you'll see.” I could tell she didn't understand anything I'd said. She smiled anyway; it was brief, but it was a smile nonetheless.
There's always that moment of resignation when I fly—usually when the plane's in the air and the wheels are folding in. It's the moment when my love of flying and my fear of death come together with such precision that love and fear become synonymous. It's when I truly understand what is and isn't within my control, and how meaningless it all is. You'll never find me closer to comprehending faith than at thirty thousand feet, where life is both far and near. It's the kind of revelation I wish I could grasp with both of my feet on the ground. Still, in the right frame of—
The plane jolted and made a sound that was anything but comforting. The pretty girl put her arm around mine. I turned to her. Her eyes were damp. I said, “You'll see."
* * * *
All of that equanimity counts for fuck-all the minute I know there's going to be a needle pushed into my pale body.
The fifth nun walks by, eyeing my urine and me. I don't know how to respond to nuns; when I make eye contact with her, she looks away and increases her pace. I've never been around them enough to know proper nun etiquette. Hell, I'm not even used to seeing them in real life at all. The first day I took a walk in Wroclaw, I was shocked by the presence of so many ninjas.
I look down at my urine, as if to say something funny. But the sight of the container reminds me what I'm waiting for. If there was a smile on my face, it's gone now. Actually, it seems I can't feel my face. Even my mind feels numb. I try to say, “It's going to be all right,” but it comes out like a weak sigh.
When I was four years old, it took four nurses and one doctor to hold me down to give me a shot. There was talk of getting an animal-tranquilizer gun. It went downhill from there. The last time I had a shot, a few years back, I remember telling the doctor, “If you step one foot closer to me with that thing, I'm going to take you down."
I don't know where the fear stems from. Pretty much every time I've had a shot, I've been surprised by how quick and painless it was. Still, the days leading up to the big event are sleepless and riddled with fear. I imagine trolls with giant needles, inches thick, chasing me through the woods. When I seek comfort and try to explain my fear to others, they take joy in pointing out my tattoos.
I look into a mirror and see the face of a man approaching thirty, and yet I still have all these fears and doubts.
* * * *
After the eighth nun, I notice the time. I walk to the medical building, holding my container of urine like a warm cup of coffee. I translate all the signs I see on the way.
Poland: Our needles are the biggest!
You won't know pain, American, until you've been stuck with one of our needles!
Inside the building, I'm overwhelmed with Polish. I'm told to go here and there and here again. The hallways look like school corridors between classes. The ninth nun pushes past me just as I find the doctor's office.
The doctor asks me a lot of questions. I can tell she learned English from a Canadian. She takes my blood pressure. It's high.
"Are you nervous?” the doctor asks me.
"Yes,” I answer. “Doctors make me nervous."
"I won't hurt you."
"You say that now, but you're going to take some blood. I don't like needles."
She looks at my tattoos. “The lab will do that. Not me."
"Is there a way I don't have to do that?"
"What do you mean?"
"Can I kill a cat or something and use its blood instead?"
She pretends to give it some thought. “No, that won't work."
"Is there someone I can buy off?"
"Like blackmail?"
"More like bribing."
"Nice try. No.” I can tell she's finding all of this so funny. “It won't be bad."
She fills out some paperwork. She tells me that I need to go to the laboratory to give a blood sample and then I need to get my ears and eyes checked out. “You can do whatever one first.” She explains where to go next, wishes me luck—with a hint of laughter—and pushes me out the door.
* * * *
I decide to bite the bullet and go to the laboratory first. Next to the door is a window where a nurse sits. She takes my urine without giving me the chance to say goodbye. It's like losing an old friend.
As she's going over my paperwork, I realize that the nurse is sexy. When she stands, I notice she's wearing a mini-skirt, which only strengthens my whole sexiness theory. I think this is a good thing. I'll have to be strong if I am to win over the affections of this sexy Polish nurse in a mini-skirt. She'll find my American accent impenetrable, but she'll discover my roguish charm is irresistible. As she gets the needle ready, we'll make eye contact. There'll be that moment of connection, the kind that comes once in a lifetime. This connection will tell her many things about me. It'll tell her that I am the man of her dreams. It'll tell her that we are physically and mentally compatible in ways she never knew were possible. And, most importantly, it'll tell her that I don't need a needle stuck in me.
The sexy Polish nurse in the mini-skirt waves me into the laboratory. I walk confidently. I sit down like a man without a care in the world. Her gloved hands are getting a needle ready. I keep trying to make eye contact, but she's obviously playing hard to get. I think I might be getting a little desperate. I move my body closer to her, my head ducking and rising. She's oblivious to me. Her attention is on that needle, the one that appears to be getting bigger and bigger.
She takes my wrist. I'm thinking, Yeah, now we're getting somewhere. She wraps something around my arm and tightens it. My heart is speeding up. She sprays alcohol on my skin and tells me to make a fist and clench, still not looking at my eyes.
She can't fall in love with me if she won't look me in the eyes!
She holds the needle up to the light. My mouth is dry.
I'm just about to scream, “I LOVE YOU, SEXY POLISH NURSE IN A MINI-SKIRT! I WILL TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ALL OF THIS! I WILL MAKE YOU THE HAPPIEST WOMAN IN THE WORLD! I WILL MAKE ALL OF YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE! JUST DON'T PUT THAT NEEDLE INSIDE OF ME! FOR ALL THAT'S HOLY, DON'T PUT—” when, in the blink of an eye, the sexy Polish nurse in a mini-skirt puts the needle into my arm.
As she's drawing the blood, she smiles and looks me i
n the eyes. I realize it would never work between us. In fact, she isn't all that attractive and I really hate her.
* * * *
The tenth and eleventh nuns are sitting outside of the laboratory. I walk with my arm bent and my heart broken. I trudge down the stairs and find the next room I'm meant to go to. My head is spinning just a little bit. It's not bad, but it's certainly enough to notice.
When I find the door, another nurse immediately whisks me into the room. She sits me down, reads my paperwork quickly, and immediately starts putting things in my ears and nose. There's another nurse in the room; they're talking to one another in Polish. The spinning is gaining momentum. I can feel large drops of sweat forming all over my head. It's starting to get cold. It feels like I should be dizzy, but it feels worse than that. It's like gravity gave way and my equilibrium followed.
I want to scream. I want to throw up, but I know that won't change how bad I'm feeling. I've never felt this way. It's like I'm bordering on a panic attack and a complete physical meltdown.
The nurse puts something in my mouth and then quickly removes it. She pulls her chair back. Her face looks grave. She obviously doesn't like what she sees. “You good?” she asks loudly.
I shake my head. I don't know if I'm nodding yes or no.
The other nurse stands up and the two pull me off my chair. Once I'm on my feet, I want to die. My joints are loose, my muscles are aching, and my spine feels like it's coming out of my asshole. The nurses throw me on a couch. I'm looking up at the ceiling. They're lifting my legs up. They're talking to me in English now, but I can't make out what they're saying.
As I'm lying there, my mind drifts to the memory of a night when I took a hit of acid. I was stumbling through my apartment and I fell on the couch. I landed on my back, the cushions catching me softly, yet my soul continued to fall, through my flesh, through the cushions, through the floor, through the apartment below, through the ground, through the dirt. I just kept falling and falling into this bottomless darkness, my arms reaching upward, my hands hopelessly seeking anything to hold—
GUD Magazine Issue 3 :: Autumn 2008 Page 16