Sort of Umbilical

Here’s an excerpt from Bungee, which details my experience and is now part of the Curious Sicilian book file. It’s a few minutes read:
The lot looked more ominous up close. Broken bricks littered the grounds, evidence that buildings, perhaps arcade and food stands, had once stood here. To the right, approximately 100 yards away, was the Thunderbolt, a rollercoaster long shut down. Foliage had grown around much of it. I was reminded of the ivy covered walls of Wrigley Field.
The entrance was a hole in the fence. It did not increase my confidence in the reliability of the operation. Ahead, directly before the Boardwalk, at the far end of the lot that was about the length of a city block, stood a crane. It stretched, I would soon learn, 200 feet into the air. A cable hung from it, to which a small cage resting on the ground beside a blanket was attached. I’d hoped, should the jump area not have been out over the ocean, that an air mattress would have been positioned below, which, if the worst occurred, might prevent death, if not paralysis. Then again, the point was to defy death, whose aura might be diminished considerably were a safety net in place.
Three vehicles were parked on the grounds. Young men were leaning against a customized black jeep that had lavender trimming. One, in shorts, sans shirt, was fidgeting, running a hand over his incipient beer belly. He had tattoos all over his body. His speech was the coarse vernacular that was becoming rare in Brooklyn. I imagined he lived near Bay 50th, an area whose reputation had struck fear in me as a youth.
“Wut duh…?” he said, shaking his head. “I gotta try it.”
A buzz swept through the crowd that lined the left corner of the lot along the cyclone fence that enclosed it. I was standing near the registration table, pleased the fee was only $50. I’d expected it to be at least $80. I was also glad someone was going to attempt a jump before me, prove the safety.
The electricity in the area intensified as the young man entered the cage and it began its creaking ascent.
“Don’t do it,” a woman cried.
Two black men were seated near the registration table.
“He looks down, he ain’t gonna do it,” said one, short, heavy-set, eyes trained skyward. “You look down, you’re…”
“That’s right,” said the other, who was tall and thin. “Think his blood’s pumpin’ right now?”
“Damn, he probably has a hard-on. He does it, he won’t sleep all night.”
They laughed. I smiled.
The three young men in charge weren’t Brooklynites, as was apparent in their accents. I wondered if the blacks owned the property or were just hangin’ out, observing human nature.
Soon the device reached the maximum height. Seconds passed without action. The crowd became restless. The would-be daredevil’s friends began taunting him: “Pussy,” Faggot.” The cries were echoed by several spectators as well.
“He can’t hear you,” said the heavy-set man. “You can’t hear nothin’ up there. All you thinkin’ ‘bout’s how scared you are.”
The cage began to descend. The catcalls intensified. I was disappointed, as I didn’t want to be the first to jump.
The young man’s face was red as he approached his companions, who continued to belittle him.
“I did it,” said one scornfully. “Why couldn’t you?”
The attendants came to his defense, lauding him for having had the courage to at least go up. I wished I’d arrived soon enough to see the other’s performance. For all I knew, it might have occurred at another, safer venue.
An older man in a baseball cap, the crane operator, approached, smiling. I wondered if he were a union guy earning extra cash. He seemed to be enjoying it.
“Fawty dollahs fuh the seckin jump?” said the one who’d done it. “I’ll be back layta. I wanna do it at night.”
A sickly man approached and asked questions about the height of the crane in comparison to the Parachute Jump, which loomed nearby. It had been shut down long ago.
One of the attendants, tall, slender, long-haired, donned a harness. I sensed, business being slow, that he was trying to attract customers by demonstrating the safety of the procedure. I now suspected I wouldn’t back out, talk myself out of it. No doubt this country boy with surfer looks had made many jumps. His flight was graceful, fearless, his exclamation one of wonder, his smile broad.
“Thinkin’ about it?” said the heavy-set man.
“I don’t know if I have the balls.”
“You heard what happened in Michigan?”
I hadn’t, but it didn’t have to be explained. It wasn’t what I needed to hear. Apparently, the two were not part of the operation. It made no sense to scare a potential customer.
“That’s not it. I understand the risk.”
“I been up there twice. I ain’t done it yet.”
I was amazed someone so heavy would consider it. How much strain would the cord take?
“I skydived once,” I said, feeling I was already rationalizing should courage fail me; “but in that you have a parachute.”
“That’s what the cord’s for — same thing.”
He’s right, I thought. The only difference was that there was no alternate safety device, no emergency chute per se. Even if there were, there wouldn’t be time to deploy it. I realized I was searching for reasons not to do it.
“You got a brother?” said the same man.
I hadn’t been asked that in a long time. It had been a constant question in my youth. “No,” I said, assuming he thought I was Hispanic. I sensed he didn’t believe me. Did he think I was covering for a sibling in prison?
“You look just like this dude I know.”
Poor guy, I thought.
“Give it a shot, man.”
“I think I will,” I said softly.
“We got one,” he called to the crew.

Here’s the only item in today’s news that caught my fancy, a photo of a growing trend:

The weather was dreary but book sales were not. Here’s what sold: two books in Russian, a collection of cartoons from Esquire magazine; Truly Tasteless Jokes by Blanche Knott; a Reader’s Digest four-in-one of abridged novels; Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapy by David D. Burns; The Scarlatti Inheritance by Robert Ludlum; Jim Cramer’s Real Money: Sane Investing in an Insane World. Yesterday Steve, aka Mr. Conspiracy, returned Clapton, the autobio, miffed at learning halfway through that the guitar god is an anti-vaxxer. As expected, it sold today.

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