Stuff that's not true (fiction)

Monday, October 23, 2006

Flying Leap

Below I present a work of fiction. I’m more than a little a-scared about putting it up. It’s been up on the site for a while, though in a “closed” state, so only I could see it every time I logged on. Too chicken to let it go out into the world. Isn’t it weird, I’m more than willing to talk on-line about getting a vasectomy or publishing really embarrassing photos of myself, but this little short story I wrote a while ago, letting this out into the wild, scares the be-hoobies out of me. The story is called Flying Leap.

I am sitting two rows down and to the left of McKay. We’re in one of those arena-like classrooms. I think Professor Cromby likes the place because he can look up knowledgeably over the rims of his glasses at his students. Turning around and looking up at McKay I can see his lip quivering. He glances over to me and then down at his book.

“Mr. Berkeley, can you answer the question?”

McKay can not answer the question. This is obvious to me. He’s one of those sick types that always seems to be prepared on the days he is called on. Sure, Professor Cromby, Juris Doctor, Order of the Coif, is a jerk and always tries to nail his students unprepared, but something is wrong with McKay. His eyes lack rationality. They’re open just a little too wide. His Adam’s apple begins to bob. His mouth is open like it’s on hinges and uncontrolled, letting in his quick, shallow breaths. He is a deer caught in headlights. A deer with a Mets hat on.

He’s gonna throw up. Or pee right there in Kimball Hall in the Dr. and Mrs. Timothy James room.

Everyone in the room can feel it. It’s thick in there. Nothing moves except for a few of McKay’s body parts. I’m not even breathing anymore, I’m just waiting for a shoe to drop.

I steal a look at Cromby. He’s unfathomable. I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or dumbfounded. He’s staring at McKay. Oncoming headlights.

With every pupil in the room focused on him, McKay stands up. Too fast, his chair toppling over, bouncing once and then laying there motionless. McKay moves sideways behind the other student’s chairs to the end of the row. He walks quickly up the stairs of the arena and out the door. His open book and pack lay on the desk.

The door, one of those automatic jobs, closes behind him with a click. Cromby, the evil one incarnate, turns off the hi-beams and looks over the class and says, “Is anyone friends with Mr. Berkeley? If so, I think someone should go after him.”

Everyone looks at me. I mean, every head turns and looks at me. I’m his friend, of course. Hard to go to school with a guy for as long as we have and not be friends. I know, though, that I’m not equipped to handle whatever McKay is putting out here. Cromby looks over at me and asks if I know Mr. Berkeley well enough to go an make sure he is all right.

“Yes, he is my friend.”

Cromby is all compassion now. Like he’s doing his pro bono work for the month. “Please Mr. Johnson, be good enough to see that he is all right. I shall merely mark him absent for this class and disregard his lack of preparation.” The twit. He sounds like he’s been ready since the beginning of time for someone to stare blankly at him and walk out in the middle of class. Probably happens every semester. I get up and go out into the hall.

The corridor is long, but McKay has left me a trail. Pieces of his clothing are in regular heaps on the floor leading out into the courtyard.

I go outside and see him sitting there on the side of the fountain with nothing but his Mets cap on. He’s staring at the bouncing water.

“McKay? McKay, are you OK?” What an asinine question. The guy just walked out of Torts with his facial muscles twitching, took off his clothes in the hallway and is now sitting naked as a jay bird on a very public fountain.

He looks at me, his eyes no longer terribly open, “Yeah, I think I’m OK. It’s a little cold out here, but I think I’m OK.”

“McKay, what’s up?”

“Do you remember that time we hitched down to the city to see a game, only to realize that the only team playing was the Mets, but we went to the game anyway?”
Insanity. Public nudity, baseball games and insanity. That’s where this is leading, I can tell. “Yeah, I remember. You bought that hat you’re wearing. Which, by the way, is the only stitch of clothing you currently have on. It’s a nice hat, but it doesn’t go a long way in the modesty department.”

He smiled. For a second I thought he was giving me one of those crazy person smiles where the crazy guy grins just a little too wide and a little too long. “I’m going to get to that. Give me a second.”

“Sorry, look, do you want my sweater? It’s a little chilly out here.”

“In a minute. So anyway, that was a pretty good day, huh?”

“Yeah, we had a good time that day.”

“And those girls, do you remember those girls we met at that jazz club and they gave us a ride home because they were worried about us thumbing back?”

“Yes, of course I remember. They were nice. I’ve always said that pretty women giving rides to semi-strangers is partial proof of the existence of God. McKay, is there a point here? If there is, I think I’m missing it.”

“What I have done is a symbolic gesture, Cal.”

“A what?”

“A symbolic gesture. You know symbolism, don’t you?”

“We’ve met on occasion. So what is so symbolic about being naked on a fountain in the courtyard?”

“I’m leaving, Cal. This is a new beginning.”

“Leaving? Where are you going? What new beginning are we talking about? A career as a stripper?”

“Doubtful, I don’t think I could get the pasties to stay on.”

“So, what you are saying is that you are having some kind of return to the womb thing happening here?”

“Sort of. I’ve just decided that I’ve had enough and I’m not going to do what they expect of me anymore.”

“Well, this fountain trick will certainly catch Tom and Louise off guard. Don’t think they’ll see this one coming for miles.”

I remember that I am talking to a naked person in the courtyard. McKay is being very normal, almost like we are sitting here fully clothed remembering our weekend jaunts and hating his parents. I look up at the windows, expecting to dozens of eyes glued to the scene, but no one has noticed. I can see a few people staring out of our classroom, but Cromby must have resumed his grilling. I’m sure they will keep the rest of the class informed if anything truly weird happens out here.

“Hey, look, I’m over here having a epiphany and you are mocking me.”

“Oh, please, McKay, you are naked on a fountain in the courtyard of Kimball Hall in late October. This is hardly what I would call epiphany. Stupid. Insane. Loopy. These are words to describe this scene, not epiphany.”

“Don’t forget cold.”

“Do you want my sweater? Better yet, let me go get your pants and the rest of your clothes. They’ll go great with what you have on now. Plus I know they’ll fit you. No tailoring necessary.” I move to get up.

“No! Don’t you get it? I took off those clothes because of what they symbolize. I’m not putting them on again. Ever.”

“I’m afraid I don’t get it. Do you have something against the Levi Strauss Company and the cotton industry? Or are you being melodramatic for some point I am missing?”

“No, stupid. My parents bought me those clothes. And everything else I could ever call my own. Those clothes are a part of the person they want me to be, not the person I am, or want to be. I was sitting there in Cromby’s class thinking about how much I hated them and everything they represent. Then Cromby asked me that question and I realized how much I hated law school and being here and living a lie for my parents’ sake. I just about threw up. I had to get out of there.”

“I knew you were gonna puke. You can tell by the Adam’s apple.”

“To tell you the truth I don’t really remember leaving or taking off my clothes. Something sort of went ‘ping’ in my head and the next thing I knew I was out here in the buff.”

“Well, let’s not forget that you do have on your Mets cap.”

“See, that’s the point. It’s my Mets cap. I bought it. With my own money that I got tutoring that undergrad. It was my money. Not the money Dad sent me.”

He takes the cap off, waving it in the air, gesturing at it. “This is my little key to freedom. It represents my new beginning. Me, McKay J. Berkeley, independent person of the year. I’m going to start doing what I want to do. I’m an adult after all. I have a college degree. I can get a job on my own. I don’t need my Dad to get me one. And I can wear whatever I want. I don’t need my Mom to pick everything out for me. I may never take this here hat off.” He plops it back on his head.

“Look if you are not going to ever take it off, at least use it wisely and cover your more salient features.”

“Shut up. Can I have your sweater now? I’m about to freeze out here.”

We went back into Kimball Hall, gathered up his clothes and went into the bathroom. I gave him my clothes and I took his. His were way too small for me. He looked swallowed in mine.

We decided not to go back to Cromby’s class that day, but went to lunch instead. McKay practically bounced off the walls on the way to the cafeteria, talking about what he was going to do instead of law school and how he was going to tell his parents to go to hell and how he was going to wear the Mets cap while he was doing it, too, damned if he cared what they thought anymore. Why he might just show up on the door step nude and capped one day and tell them to shove it in front of the neighbors and wouldn’t I just die to see their faces?

I sat there the whole time eating and nodding at appropriate intervals, telling him to try and be a little reasonable in the lack of clothing department. I figured he was having some sort of post-stress, post-breakdown high and just needed to get it out of his system. I knew he’d eventually calm down.

Everything he said made perfect sense. Like a business plan on paper. He would drop out and get a job as far away as possible from Tom and Louise. He wouldn’t even tell them where he was going. Poof and he’d be gone. Out of the loop. Everything was going to be so great for him he thought. He would completely change his life. Become a new person. Rebirth. The bad karma of the past McKay was dead. To hear him talk, tulips were about to sprout in October.

I didn’t want to remind that the Mets lost more than a hundred games this year.

Jon scribbled this mess on 10/23/06 at 11:08 AM, best we can tell it fits in the category of Stuff that's not true (fiction). This many folks had something to say about that, The permanent home of this entry is here: Link

Stuff that's not true (fiction)

Monday, October 23, 2006

Flying Leap

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