Ryan
Brotman
English
Bread
and Fish at 5000 Ft.
by Ryan Brotman
Harold
looked down. The view dizzied him. His hands gripped the inside rim of the
open airplane door.
“Don’t
worry,” his dive partner soothed, “I packed your chute myself.
Harold
looked over his shoulder. Jesus squatted behind him. He wore tattered
Levi’s, a shirt that read “I died for the sins of mankind and all I
got was this crummy T-shirt”, battered Birkenstocks, and a beard that
smacked of his scripture days.
The
two of them had gone out the night before and got tattoos. The prettiest,
blue-jean garbed, red-and-white striped shirt-wearing sailor girl to ever
grace a man’s biceps kissed the world from Harold’s arm. Jesus had
gone with I-heart-Ozzy Osborn on his butt.
Today’s
agenda included skydiving, and afterwards, dinner at Red Lobster. They had
eaten there the last four nights. Harold couldn’t stand the place any
longer, but Jesus never seemed to tire of the endless crab-leg bucket and
cheesy biscuits. The nervous mortal had paid the bill every time. Harold
figured that Jesus had been a martyr, so the least he could do was buy
Christ up with some shellfish. Despite Harold’s growing dislike for
seafood, he couldn’t brandish enough courage to say, “Hey J.C., lets
grab a burger instead.”
“You
sure about this J?” Harold stammered.
“Just
jump already! I got you covered!”
Taking
a sharp breath, the young man flung himself out of the plane. The ground
rushed upwards, an impressionistic painting that worked in reverse. The
closer the ground got, the clearer the picture became.
Suddenly,
Jesus floated next to him, his back chute free. What
does he have to worry about? Harold harumphed. Even
if he does die, he’ll be back big, shiny, and new.
“Hey,
isn’t this great?” Jesus yelled, giving a thumbs-up, and a wink that
Harold swore galaxies formed in.
Harold
smiled small. The wind rushed between his lips and peeled them apart until
his mouth gaped like a scooped peach pit. He fumbled for his ripcord.
Gloved hands chased down the vital lifeline and yanked
Nothing.
Harold
plunged toward earth like a dead star. He looked above him. Bread and
fish flew from his pack.
“Harold,”
Jesus held out his hand, and the man took hold, “thanks for all the
crab-legs, and remember, it’s better to burn out than to fade away! Pull
the emergency cord!” Then, he vanished.
Harold
jerked his secondary line.
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