Small Step

"I'm not afraid of falling," Jimmy said, standing on top of the highest peak of the jungle gym.

He was with Frank. He was always with Frank. Their fathers lived on the same street and worked for the same business. Paul, Jim's father, was a senior sales representative for a local advertising firm, and Bill, Franks's father, was one of his superiors.

"I bet you are," Frank said.

"Am not, fuckface," Jim told him. "That's what my dad calls your dad."

"Prove it then, lemming," Frank said. "That's what my dad calls your dad."

Jim held tight to the handrails and peered over the drop, swallowing hard like Bugs Bunny looking out over some perilous cliff edge. He'd jumped from the bottom of the monkey bars before, many times, but he'd never jumped from anywhere quite this high. It seemed like suicide.

"I dare you to jump," Frank said. "Unless you're too scared."

"Why don't you jump if you're so tough," Jim said.

"Because: I didn't say I wasn't afraid, you did," Frank explained.

Jim's dad had told him to be careful on the playground; after little Timmy Olsen had jumped from the swing set and broken his ankle, all the parents told their kids to be careful. His dad said Timmy Olsen didn't know his limitations, that a person has got to know his limitations.

"Come on, chickenshit," Frank continued. "Just admit you can't do it."

Jim looked at Frank and punched him in the arm.

"Shut up. I said I ain't scared; I'm not no chickenshit," Jim said.

Resentful, now that Jim had hit him, Frank began to instigate more forcefully. He cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled out over the playground:

"Hey everyone: Jimmy Fragelli is scaredy-cat!"

Kids all around the playground looked up and began to laugh and point at Jimmy. Others, confident in his ability, began to chant "JUMP! JUMP!" Some of them chanted just to increase the chances of a playground catastrophe, to learn what would happen if someone were to jump from that high up. Little Timmy Olsen, with his ankle still in a brace, looked up at Jim coldly.

Jim turned back toward the edge and slowly began counting to three. The chanting beat his ears like snaredrums and his muscles trembled like Mrs. Witherly's hands when she wrote on the chalkboard.

He moved to the edge of the footing and carefully planted his feet, preparing himself for the giant leap. But as he pressed his feet down to spring out into the sky, just as he left the platform, Frank whispered the word: lemming.

Jim became distracted as he launched himself into the air and ribbons of vertigo assaulted his vision. Things around him seemed to slow down and gradually turn upside down. The air became syrupy. He was floating, drifting downward toward the earth, slow like a bubble. He'd forgotten about Frank, forgotten about the chants of the clamoring children around him, forgotten what his father had said about limitations.

There was only him and space, and time.