I. Sober
Mrs. Anna Shaw dreaded Saturdays, though if you asked her why, she wouldn't have known exactly what to say. "Dinner just doesn't feel right," she might say, tugging thoughtfully at he
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David Drury lives in Seattle, Washington. His fiction has been broadcast on National Public Radio, published in Best American Nonrequired Reading, ZYZZYVA and elsewhere. He has a master's degree in Christian Studies and been kicked out of every casino in Las Vegas. Read more at daviddruryauthor.com.
I fell out of the airplane with style, like a raindrop rolling off the bill of some majestic migratory goose. If anyone questions my commitment, they can all kiss off. Who made it to First Floater in fewer than 200 jumps? Not Rodney, that’s for sure.
The team filed out behind me with whatever grace they could scrape together after my dirt dive rant and me stonewalling them the whole ride up to 14,000 feet. They tucked and began to catch up to me. Sabrina was last to our 8-Way Star. She held up just long enough to see where Rodney was joining the formation, and slid in next to him. God, I just knew it. I glared at her from across the ring of hands.
We transitioned to a Requited Donut and I found myself on Rodney’s ankle. I gave it a burn and a hard twist as we rolled out into Hearts Abloom. Now it was Rodney staring me down, and Sabrina could only steam her goggles over how all of this was going to play out. When we split and re-formed as Vulture’s Accordian, Chadwick couldn’t maintain the five count. He swung into Chan’s burble and, sure enough, we all broke apart. We managed to come back together for an unconvincing Box of Diamonds, but it took way too long. Time was up, and we separated.
I pulled the cord, but my chute did not open.
I hesitated to reach for the reserve. If I used the reserve, Rodney would slander me in front of the group. Who packed your chute, he’d say. The answer was me. I was the one who had packed my chute. That was all the ammo he needed. He would try and get me a squad demotion. They were all eating out of his hand at this point. I pulled the cord to the primary parachute again. Again it did not open.
The thing is, I know I packed it correctly. You think I would sabotage my own maiden voyage as First Floater? But I had no choice now. If I didn’t pull the reserve, my bones would be pulverized against a baler or a barn or a mown field dotted with cow pies. Rodney would talk. Rodney would be promoted to First Floater. Rodney would comfort Sabrina in his rat-colored Camaro after my memorial service. They would skip the funeral.
But this wasn’t over. I was still in control of when I deployed the reserve chute. Rodney had no say in that. I could easily wait till 1500 feet above ground to pull it. One thousand feet would leave plenty of room to spare. Seven hundred and fifty would be better, but then again, the automatic emergency reserve chutes usually deploy at 750, so nothing special. Five hundred feet off the ground would be an impressive pull. Three hundred and fifty would be talked about for months. Three hundred would really unify the team in advance of our upcoming Nationals competition.
The earth rushed to meet me. If I waited until 250 feet from impact, they would all soil themselves. Base jumpers do 200. Structure jumpers have gone at 100. If I could coax it down into to double digits, I thought—or even further—now that would truly cement my legacy.
The team filed out behind me with whatever grace they could scrape together after my dirt dive rant and me stonewalling them the whole ride up to 14,000 feet. They tucked and began to catch up to me. Sabrina was last to our 8-Way Star. She held up just long enough to see where Rodney was joining the formation, and slid in next to him. God, I just knew it. I glared at her from across the ring of hands.
We transitioned to a Requited Donut and I found myself on Rodney’s ankle. I gave it a burn and a hard twist as we rolled out into Hearts Abloom. Now it was Rodney staring me down, and Sabrina could only steam her goggles over how all of this was going to play out. When we split and re-formed as Vulture’s Accordian, Chadwick couldn’t maintain the five count. He swung into Chan’s burble and, sure enough, we all broke apart. We managed to come back together for an unconvincing Box of Diamonds, but it took way too long. Time was up, and we separated.
I pulled the cord, but my chute did not open.
I hesitated to reach for the reserve. If I used the reserve, Rodney would slander me in front of the group. Who packed your chute, he’d say. The answer was me. I was the one who had packed my chute. That was all the ammo he needed. He would try and get me a squad demotion. They were all eating out of his hand at this point. I pulled the cord to the primary parachute again. Again it did not open.
The thing is, I know I packed it correctly. You think I would sabotage my own maiden voyage as First Floater? But I had no choice now. If I didn’t pull the reserve, my bones would be pulverized against a baler or a barn or a mown field dotted with cow pies. Rodney would talk. Rodney would be promoted to First Floater. Rodney would comfort Sabrina in his rat-colored Camaro after my memorial service. They would skip the funeral.
But this wasn’t over. I was still in control of when I deployed the reserve chute. Rodney had no say in that. I could easily wait till 1500 feet above ground to pull it. One thousand feet would leave plenty of room to spare. Seven hundred and fifty would be better, but then again, the automatic emergency reserve chutes usually deploy at 750, so nothing special. Five hundred feet off the ground would be an impressive pull. Three hundred and fifty would be talked about for months. Three hundred would really unify the team in advance of our upcoming Nationals competition.
The earth rushed to meet me. If I waited until 250 feet from impact, they would all soil themselves. Base jumpers do 200. Structure jumpers have gone at 100. If I could coax it down into to double digits, I thought—or even further—now that would truly cement my legacy.