1/11/16
Sometimes when I write, I find it difficult not to do it
without being cynical and self-defeating. It’s almost akin to walking a
tightrope.
He ascended onto the high-wire,
his feet tripled its girth. His balance stick waved to and fro, bending with
the wind like an overloaded barbell. He tried not to look down, but became
consumed with the thought. Not the thought of dying, but of looking down to see
just how deep the sky goes. How long he would have to spend cascading to his
splattering doom wondering, “did I leave the crockpot on? Even if I did, those
things are meant to run forever, right? If there were an electrical problem, it
would just cause a short due to fancy technology and safety regulations, right?
What if it’s on for several days, and the juices have all cooked out of the
roast and the potatoes catch fire..” SPLAT.
Birds didn’t even fly by, he was
so high. His stomach gurgled and he regretted the handle of bourbon from the
night before. Like, he would have never bet his buddies he could traverse a
tight-rope if he wasn’t plowed from Jim Beam. He was a cab driver for Christ’s
sake. Even worse, he would have never eaten all of those greasy tacos in a
drunken stupor, which is also pretty bad for your health. He worried that an El
Nino fart brewing from bourbon and tacos would be just the gust of wind to undo
his equilibrium and send him bobbing for concrete.
“Get yourself together,” he confided
in himself, “this is exactly like that time you thought you couldn’t stay awake
through another episode of MasterChef, but you did it, damnit. And that Indian
vegan chick cooked a perfect medium rare filet, and it was a beautiful moment.
This will be your vegan filet.”
He neared the half-way point,
his knees shook like a white NBA player being chased down on a fast break. He
thought about all of the good things in life he would never get to do again if
he died, like shining laser pens at oncoming drivers on the freeway, or dipping
French fries into milkshakes, cause it’s so wrong that it’s right. Oh how he
would miss the euphoria of executing a perfect handshake with a black guy, the
rare and momentous highlight of some truly memorable days.
As he continued he had a slight
hitch, and the two people watching let out a barely audible groan, because
nobody knows or cares when a cab driver decides to walk a tight-rope. I mean,
he announced it on Twiter, but he only had 12 followers despite a ton of witty
and controversial posts. Mostly memes. Even most of his friends who dared him
to do this didn’t show up because they couldn’t call out of work. He considered
his legacy. He would forever be known as an honorable gentleman who didn’t back
down from a bet. Like the time he did the cinnamon challenge, and threw up
profusely. Or the time his buddy bet he wouldn’t ask a girl if she liked cider,
and when she said yes, he said “what about dickincider?” and she punched him
square in the nose because even girls train in mixed martial arts now. He
started to notice a pattern and his fright began to overtake him. What about his
newborn child, growing up without a father? Then he realized it was better than
his son growing up with a fraidy cat for a father.
And just then, as the sun shined
in his eyes, he had an epiphany. The rope was just a metaphor for the fear that
had held him back his whole life. If it wasn’t for that fear, he would’ve quit
his job and became a musician just like he had always dreamed. He would’ve went
to the gym and gotten ripped instead of growing soft and doughy on the couch. He
could have the life of his dreams, and it was the fear of failure that was
stopping him. And then his knee gave out and he fell, realizing that not
everything is a metaphor with a deeper meaning you self-indulgent, pretentious
dummy.
