March 06, 2004

Make sure your computer crashes on a Friday night when you’re writing something important. After you swear and slam your fist on the desk, walk outside briskly to stretch your legs in the evening air.

Pause outside the door and inhale deeply, pushing your crotch forward. The night smells moist and fresh, and you feel your body expanding in the darkness. Grab something to eat and go walk with your friends in the park — they only go out after sundown.

It’s the beginning of March and the air is warm, so you leave your winter coat behind. Without it, you feel as light as air and suddenly you want to dance. Hum a tune and start waltzing in the night. Glance at the girl walking next to you, and restrain the sudden impulse to grab her waist in your hands and dance her into the air.

If you ask her to dance, she’ll laugh and say no. “Is she laughing at me?” you’ll wonder as you continue waltzing. You’ll decide it doesn’t matter — you feel liberated.

As you pass the evenly spaced wooden poles by the side of the road, stop and look at them closely. They are about a meter high and seem to have been planted there to keep cars from leaping onto the grass.

Rest your foot on one of them, nonchalantly, and while you play a tune in your head convince yourself that you can leap from one pole to the other like a butterfly. “It’s almost like dancing,” you say.

And you jump from pole to pole, as your friends watch, landing on your feet with a certain unearthly elegance. Your cheeks are flushed and your legs tremble with intense concentration. And immediately you want to do it again, to skip into the air.

“I’m flying,” you say, as you once more land on your feet, eager to get up again. The thrill makes you shiver.

Again you lurch yourself into the air, full of mad confidence and beauty. Your feet elegantly graze the tops of the poles, and your outstretched arms make you look like a giant bird about to vanish into the night’s sky.

And then, if you plan it just right, your right foot will land a few inches away from the centre of the pole. You’ll swing your arms to regain your balance and promptly fall sideways, smashing your body against the ground.

Your elbow broke your fall, and though your head barely touched the ground you imagine your brain splashed on the asphalt road. “What would that feel like,” you wonder.

Your friend picks up your glasses and looks worried, as you try to painfully lift yourself from the ground.

“Did my body make a thump?” you ask as you start walking again.

Your friend smiles as he hands you back the glasses, and you’ll roll up your sleeve to see your elbow painfully bleeding — your right leg doesn’t feel quite right either.

Just keep moving — the pain will subside especially if you walk with exaggerated motions.

By the time you reach the train tracks the pain will be almost gone, though your head will still hurt slightly. Try to smile and make a joke.

“I can’t even lick my fucking wounds,” you say. And you’re perfectly right — the only way to lick your elbow is by dislocating your shoulder. Ask your friends if they can help, and show them where you want to be licked.

When they refuse, ask them to lick your other elbow, the one you didn’t fall on. You will realize, sadly, that they don’t want to lick any part of you.

To numb the pain of the rejection, you decide to walk downtown in search of alcohol. You won’t find any booze, but at the clearance store you find a blue shirt with the insignia of the Indiana Department of Correction. God knows how the shirt ended up here.

You immediately buy it and put it your skinny body. The shirt is much too large (correction officers in Indiana are three times your size), but you feel a warm wave of authority wash over you and for a moment your fall is forgotten.

That shirt will make you feel important for the rest of the night, until you decide to give it to your friend. He asks to try it on, and he looks so sleazy and sadistic in it that you simply have to let him keep it — it’s just perfect for him.

You return home alone and much to your chagrin you realize that you’re no longer able to masturbate with your right hand (the wound restricts your range of motion). It doesn’t quite feel the same doing it with the other hand.

That’s what you get for falling from the sky.