Coming Down
By Gene Axton
An odd sort of calm sets in when standing on a seventh-story ledge. The sounds below are made by disjointed parts that together form a symphony, perfectly in sync while sending notes upward through the haze of streetlights. From up here, mankind looks like the self-fulfilling prophecy of machine parts striving for specialization when their continued existence relies on interchangeability. I take my eyes off the people in the streets and hope that none of them notice me as I draw in a bigger breath than normal. I let go of the brick wall behind me and hold my breath, then change my mind.
I want as many people as possible to see this. I want them all to see this. I was never particularly good at jumping, so I play to my strengths and walk off the ledge. My eyes haven’t even adjusted to the environmental hazards associated with falling when my life starts flashing before them.
The first time it happened, I was eleven. The fifth grade history teacher at my elementary school organized a trip to Washington every year for his students. It was meant to be a proper sendoff into the unknown territory better known as middle school, but, to us, it was a vacation during which the only adult figures present were a few nonchalant chaperones and the stoic likenesses of our founding fathers. We tried our very best to be responsible pre-adults for the most part, but playground rules still very much applied despite the shift in location. That was a guarantee that I was going to find myself in a situation.
Barnaby Noll was the typical early bloomer. He was bigger than I was, he was stronger than I was, and while I would have to let out a “here” for the teacher to notice me during roll call, Barnaby’s complete disregard for personal hygiene spoke for itself. It was no surprise, then, that Barnaby utilized his God-given gifts to impose an authoritarian rule on his fellow classmates. We were all slaves to the clock and until puberty set in, we were waiting to catch up to Barnaby Noll. Problem was, while I was waiting for puberty, Barnaby caught up to me on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.
Barnaby caught up to me because I caught up to Barnaby.
I bought an ice cream cone from one of the concession stands on the National Mall and I was enjoying my ice cream cone thoroughly. It had sprinkles on it; I like sprinkles. So, I wanted to take full advantage of the situation before they melted and fell to the ground. I was walking behind Barnaby, and when we got to the top of the stairs, he stopped and stood in awe at the majesty of stone Abe Lincoln. I was in awe of sprinkles. I neither saw nor smelt the tall fifth grader in front of me and ran cone-first into the bully’s back. First, I was sad because I liked sprinkles. Then I was sad because I had no complaints in regards to the current shape of my facial structure.
All attempts at an apology fell on deaf ears. The first casualty was my ice cream cone. Barnaby calmly removed it from my hand and threw it headfirst into the ground. In retrospect, he was defacing a public landmark, but at the time I was more concerned about his blatant waste of jimmies. Some people call sprinkles “jimmies.” With my ice cream cone out of the way, Barnaby focused his anger onto me. The fifth grade giant glanced behind me and, deciding on a fitting punishment, placed his feet and pushed me backward as hard as he could. I went flying through the air, and seeing as we had just reached the top of the stairs, there was ample time for me to come to terms with the fact that my ice cream cone was going to come out of this the better looking one.
As I reached my apex and began to come down, I prepared myself for an impact that never came. I expected to feel an excruciating pain, but the only thing I felt was the force of the still air against my flailing limbs; I felt like I was swimming. I opened my eyes and saw that I hadn’t hit the ground yet. I was suspended in air and nothing was holding me afloat. I was flying. I could fly.
Well, not fly so much as float. I couldn’t propel myself in any direction and by the time I grasped my situation, I fell the final foot or so to the ground. Barnaby couldn’t believe what he just saw. Nobody else could, either. One of the chaperones took me to a doctor who diagnosed me with a few cuts and bruises. When the chaperone asked if anything seemed out of the ordinary about me, the doctor said, “no.” When the chaperone pressed the question, the doctor asked us to leave.
I returned to my fifth grade tour group that was more interested in me than Washington. One of my fellow students asked me if I was going to become a superhero and began suggesting aliases. Another asked me if the government had experimented on me in the time since we arrived. Barnaby claimed he was telekinetic and stopped my fall before I hit the ground. Nobody believed Barnaby. Barnaby hadn’t the slightest idea why.
Word spread throughout town when I arrived home from my class trip. My parents were especially excited. They joked about having more wonder kids and parenting the world’s first superhero team. I couldn’t tell if they believed me or not, but my grandma certainly did. She was aging quickly, and even in my younger years, I knew I hadn’t much time left with her, so I spent as many days with her as I could. I often helped take care of her by cooking her breakfast and making sure she had taken her medicine. When I told her about my ability, she didn’t seem surprised at all, only thankful that I was okay.
Word stopped spreading when mother and a concerned citizen ,Patricia Atkinson, took her daughter to a psychiatrist after she told her mother she saw her classmate fly. The good doctor told Mrs. Atkinson that her daughter and the rest of the field trippers were suffering from induced delusional disorder and without some type of evidence, this event was somehow all in their heads. Fifth grade for me happened in the early nineties. Back then the Internet was more of a novelty than a necessity, and it wasn’t as easy to take photos or video as it is today. Still, it’s the Lincoln Memorial, so a few tourists caught my maiden voyage on their camcorders and used converters to upload their footage to the web once technology facilitated conversion. The general consensus of the online community was that my flight was a hoax, and I’m honestly not surprised.
It echoed what I would hear repeated for two decades.
My grandmother passed away as I entered sixth grade. After being presented with a huge void to fill, I spent the next three years focusing as much time as I could researching what had happened to me. I read comic books, I consulted movies, and I even called a toll-free hotline.
Not only did my questions receive no answers, they seemed to make people uncomfortable. Apparently I had a very active imagination for a boy my age. Apparently, I was to just forget it and move on with my life. Apparently, if you call a toll-free hotline for “tips and tricks,” the only response you’re going to get is “up down left right B A Start.” I decided that the only way to prove myself was to replicate the event, so I spread the word around school that there was going to be an event on the steps outside after the final bell. I even asked Barnaby to come (his parents pulled him out of our school after the event revealed his superpower: bullying).
As I stood at the top of the steps outside of my middle school and stared into the crowd of onlookers, I was certain that this would prove to everyone that the only experience shared in Washington was the first unassisted flight of a human being. Instead, I proved that my parents have a fairly generous benefits package. My school steps may not lead up to a national memorial, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t to be taken lightly.
This episode ensured my social status for the remainder of my public education. All other attempts at replicating what had quickly become my defining moment were halted by the crippling fear felt on that sixth grade afternoon. The sole purpose of my flight became ridicule. I was not a happy teenager and graduation was my salvation. I started over in college; I didn’t mention the incident, and when it was brought up, I played it down. My drunken soliloquies were about girls and my goals were about girls. I was a normal college student. I liked girls more than books and way more than flying. I seemed to have more luck with girls, too, because I actually found one who wanted to stay with me. Unlike the ability to fly. And also unlike ice cream. I didn’t really eat ice cream after fifth grade for obviously symbolic reasons.
This girl became my girlfriend and then my fiancé and then my wife and now we are having our first child together. We did fairly well after college and were able to move to the city, and I honestly couldn’t ask for anything more. This makes it hard to explain the thoughts of inadequacy that find their way out of the recesses of my mind and into the forefront when I think about what kind of man I am, what kind of human being I am. I learned a truth about myself, and I let those around me influence what I did what that truth. I let them shape and influence me. That isn’t the type of example I want to set for my son. Somehow, I always knew that something would bring me back here.
My eyes adjust quickly enough to give me some time to aim. I don’t want an argument with an uninsured driver to be my last words and I don’t want to hurt anyone, so I aim for the area least likely to be occupied with I arrive. I think about my mom and dad, who may or may not believe that their son can fly. I think about my grandmother. I think about my friends and my wife and how they never knew my secret identity. I think about my son. I close my eyes and prepare myself for an impact. It never comes.
I want as many people as possible to see this. I want them all to see this. I was never particularly good at jumping, so I play to my strengths and walk off the ledge. My eyes haven’t even adjusted to the environmental hazards associated with falling when my life starts flashing before them.
The first time it happened, I was eleven. The fifth grade history teacher at my elementary school organized a trip to Washington every year for his students. It was meant to be a proper sendoff into the unknown territory better known as middle school, but, to us, it was a vacation during which the only adult figures present were a few nonchalant chaperones and the stoic likenesses of our founding fathers. We tried our very best to be responsible pre-adults for the most part, but playground rules still very much applied despite the shift in location. That was a guarantee that I was going to find myself in a situation.
Barnaby Noll was the typical early bloomer. He was bigger than I was, he was stronger than I was, and while I would have to let out a “here” for the teacher to notice me during roll call, Barnaby’s complete disregard for personal hygiene spoke for itself. It was no surprise, then, that Barnaby utilized his God-given gifts to impose an authoritarian rule on his fellow classmates. We were all slaves to the clock and until puberty set in, we were waiting to catch up to Barnaby Noll. Problem was, while I was waiting for puberty, Barnaby caught up to me on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.
Barnaby caught up to me because I caught up to Barnaby.
I bought an ice cream cone from one of the concession stands on the National Mall and I was enjoying my ice cream cone thoroughly. It had sprinkles on it; I like sprinkles. So, I wanted to take full advantage of the situation before they melted and fell to the ground. I was walking behind Barnaby, and when we got to the top of the stairs, he stopped and stood in awe at the majesty of stone Abe Lincoln. I was in awe of sprinkles. I neither saw nor smelt the tall fifth grader in front of me and ran cone-first into the bully’s back. First, I was sad because I liked sprinkles. Then I was sad because I had no complaints in regards to the current shape of my facial structure.
All attempts at an apology fell on deaf ears. The first casualty was my ice cream cone. Barnaby calmly removed it from my hand and threw it headfirst into the ground. In retrospect, he was defacing a public landmark, but at the time I was more concerned about his blatant waste of jimmies. Some people call sprinkles “jimmies.” With my ice cream cone out of the way, Barnaby focused his anger onto me. The fifth grade giant glanced behind me and, deciding on a fitting punishment, placed his feet and pushed me backward as hard as he could. I went flying through the air, and seeing as we had just reached the top of the stairs, there was ample time for me to come to terms with the fact that my ice cream cone was going to come out of this the better looking one.
As I reached my apex and began to come down, I prepared myself for an impact that never came. I expected to feel an excruciating pain, but the only thing I felt was the force of the still air against my flailing limbs; I felt like I was swimming. I opened my eyes and saw that I hadn’t hit the ground yet. I was suspended in air and nothing was holding me afloat. I was flying. I could fly.
Well, not fly so much as float. I couldn’t propel myself in any direction and by the time I grasped my situation, I fell the final foot or so to the ground. Barnaby couldn’t believe what he just saw. Nobody else could, either. One of the chaperones took me to a doctor who diagnosed me with a few cuts and bruises. When the chaperone asked if anything seemed out of the ordinary about me, the doctor said, “no.” When the chaperone pressed the question, the doctor asked us to leave.
I returned to my fifth grade tour group that was more interested in me than Washington. One of my fellow students asked me if I was going to become a superhero and began suggesting aliases. Another asked me if the government had experimented on me in the time since we arrived. Barnaby claimed he was telekinetic and stopped my fall before I hit the ground. Nobody believed Barnaby. Barnaby hadn’t the slightest idea why.
Word spread throughout town when I arrived home from my class trip. My parents were especially excited. They joked about having more wonder kids and parenting the world’s first superhero team. I couldn’t tell if they believed me or not, but my grandma certainly did. She was aging quickly, and even in my younger years, I knew I hadn’t much time left with her, so I spent as many days with her as I could. I often helped take care of her by cooking her breakfast and making sure she had taken her medicine. When I told her about my ability, she didn’t seem surprised at all, only thankful that I was okay.
Word stopped spreading when mother and a concerned citizen ,Patricia Atkinson, took her daughter to a psychiatrist after she told her mother she saw her classmate fly. The good doctor told Mrs. Atkinson that her daughter and the rest of the field trippers were suffering from induced delusional disorder and without some type of evidence, this event was somehow all in their heads. Fifth grade for me happened in the early nineties. Back then the Internet was more of a novelty than a necessity, and it wasn’t as easy to take photos or video as it is today. Still, it’s the Lincoln Memorial, so a few tourists caught my maiden voyage on their camcorders and used converters to upload their footage to the web once technology facilitated conversion. The general consensus of the online community was that my flight was a hoax, and I’m honestly not surprised.
It echoed what I would hear repeated for two decades.
My grandmother passed away as I entered sixth grade. After being presented with a huge void to fill, I spent the next three years focusing as much time as I could researching what had happened to me. I read comic books, I consulted movies, and I even called a toll-free hotline.
Not only did my questions receive no answers, they seemed to make people uncomfortable. Apparently I had a very active imagination for a boy my age. Apparently, I was to just forget it and move on with my life. Apparently, if you call a toll-free hotline for “tips and tricks,” the only response you’re going to get is “up down left right B A Start.” I decided that the only way to prove myself was to replicate the event, so I spread the word around school that there was going to be an event on the steps outside after the final bell. I even asked Barnaby to come (his parents pulled him out of our school after the event revealed his superpower: bullying).
As I stood at the top of the steps outside of my middle school and stared into the crowd of onlookers, I was certain that this would prove to everyone that the only experience shared in Washington was the first unassisted flight of a human being. Instead, I proved that my parents have a fairly generous benefits package. My school steps may not lead up to a national memorial, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t to be taken lightly.
This episode ensured my social status for the remainder of my public education. All other attempts at replicating what had quickly become my defining moment were halted by the crippling fear felt on that sixth grade afternoon. The sole purpose of my flight became ridicule. I was not a happy teenager and graduation was my salvation. I started over in college; I didn’t mention the incident, and when it was brought up, I played it down. My drunken soliloquies were about girls and my goals were about girls. I was a normal college student. I liked girls more than books and way more than flying. I seemed to have more luck with girls, too, because I actually found one who wanted to stay with me. Unlike the ability to fly. And also unlike ice cream. I didn’t really eat ice cream after fifth grade for obviously symbolic reasons.
This girl became my girlfriend and then my fiancé and then my wife and now we are having our first child together. We did fairly well after college and were able to move to the city, and I honestly couldn’t ask for anything more. This makes it hard to explain the thoughts of inadequacy that find their way out of the recesses of my mind and into the forefront when I think about what kind of man I am, what kind of human being I am. I learned a truth about myself, and I let those around me influence what I did what that truth. I let them shape and influence me. That isn’t the type of example I want to set for my son. Somehow, I always knew that something would bring me back here.
My eyes adjust quickly enough to give me some time to aim. I don’t want an argument with an uninsured driver to be my last words and I don’t want to hurt anyone, so I aim for the area least likely to be occupied with I arrive. I think about my mom and dad, who may or may not believe that their son can fly. I think about my grandmother. I think about my friends and my wife and how they never knew my secret identity. I think about my son. I close my eyes and prepare myself for an impact. It never comes.
About the Author
Gene Axton is a graduate student at California University of Pennsylvania studying secondary education. He hopes to write more fiction in the future if his professors will cooperate, but this hardly looks like a lesson plan.