Momnesia

As I Am Dying

The whoosh of rushing wind fills my head as the cargo bay door opens.

“I don’t want to die.” I beg the man standing in front of me.

“You’re not going to die,” he says – and pushes me out of the plane.

I am 10,000 feet over a bright green field, strapped to a man I do not know, hurtling toward a brutal, painful death. I am skydiving on a bet, a stupid bet that is going to kill me.

I never apologized to my little brother. My sister and I used to dress him in our old party clothes and call him “Susie.” He is scarred for life. This is why I am going to die.

“You are not going to die,” shouts the man strapped to my back. “We have a parachute.”

The parachute is made of silk and it will not save us. Our bodies will shatter upon the earth. Will they be able to tell us apart, or will they think that one huge person exploded in the field - perhaps while wearing a lovely silk dress? This is not the way I want to die.

“You are not going to die.”

I started a rumor in fourth grade that Kristen Gandy was really a boy. I was mad at her and I had just learned about sex-change operations. It followed her all year. This is why I am going to die.

I can almost hear him roll his eyes.

“We’re not going to die.”

My neck snaps forward. I am wrenched upward so hard that I can hear my vertebrae fracture, and suddenly I waft through the air. The sky is lit with a heavenly glow. I am dead.

“You are not dead. I pulled the ripcord. Enjoy the ride.”

I am making absurd doggie-paddling motions with my arms and legs. I will myself to cut it out and assess the situation. We are still falling, but will not die instantly. Now we will suffer.

In ninth grade, I ditched Greta Haug, a smart and sweet girl, for “cooler” friends who wore gothic clothes and listened to The Cure and Joy Division. For loving these bands alone I am going to suffer – and die.

“No one is going to die,” he shouts, and stops because shouting is no longer necessary. “Try to relax.”

“Relax,” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood. I bought that album. I deserve to suffer and die.

A truck waits at the edge of the field. Tiny people shade their eyes, studying our descent. Are they prepared for our mangled bodies, for the gurgling and gasping as we suffer and die? I am concerned children might be watching.

“No! It doesn’t matter, because we’re not going to die.”

The summer after high school, I scored press passes to Lollapalooza. Eddie Veddar climbed the back wall of the amphitheatre and dove off into the waiting crowd. I found myself crushed against him and kissed him, with tongue. For this assault, I deserve to suffer and die.

“Okay, get ready.”

The ground spirals up at us. I am not ready. I never returned “The Bell Jar” to that nice neighbor woman in Athens who had Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t remember I borrowed it. For sometimes thinking that’s kind of funny, I deserve to suffer and die.

The tiny people are now people-sized people running to meet us. Oh, God, they will be covered in entrails. They will never recover from the trauma. I try to wave them away. They wave back. Fools!

“Bend your knees.”

I curl into the fetal position. I dropped all of my classes one semester and used my loan money to party. I cheated on most of my boyfriends. I lied about cheating on them. They all believed me.

“Remember to go with the momentum of the landing.”

I never go to church. I don’t recycle. Sometimes I don’t walk the dog for days.

“Here we go!”

We are mere feet from the ground. I kick wildly. He shouts at me to stop. I wish my family long happy lives and brace for impact. My toes brush the ground and we are standing, back on terra firma.

“See?” he says. “We’re perfectly safe.”

A gust of wind grabs the unsettled parachute and jerks us back several yards. We land hard on our backs, me on top of him, like two stacked turtles.

“That was kind of fun,” I gasp, and gasp again, because I can. I am still breathing.

He groans. “I think you killed me.”

(c) originally published in Sass Magazine, 2005