Zal Hendricks stood at the open door of an airplane exit and watched the young woman drop, like any material object with some weight, completely at the mercy of gravity, thirteen thousand feet above land. It was his first flight since the one when he was a child, the first airplane he had entered, the first airplane he would exit — and exit midflight—but suddenly it became grave, chilling, almost wrong, when he saw the girl go down so speedily, so heavily, looking so the opposite of how they said it would feel. They had said again and again that the minute-long free fall would feel like floating, but this girl, strapped to an instructor in a jester’s hat — like the saying, a monkey on her back — dropped like a dead weight, as if she was already dead, not actually suspended in a state of animation. That was all skydiving was, Zal decided as he looked down: just another trick.
He turned to his own back-monkey, a man who went by Spike who was already latched on to him by four hooks, who moments ago had been straddling him on the plane floor as, two by two, the others went down. They saved the lightest for last, Spike had told him, grinning wildly the whole time, giving him the rock on hand signal one minute, the hang loose one the next. “Listen, Spike!” Zal had to shout over the roars of the doorless, propellered Twin Otter. “Can’t do this! Thought I could! But can’t!”
“Dude!” Spike was shaking his head, still grinning through disapproval. “No way! You’ll love it!”
Zal had been sure he’d love it. He’d looked it up on the Internet, seen celebrities, ex-presidents, scientists, models, everyone doing it. It had been his dream, he had told himself. It had been his only choice. It was the closest anyone ever got to flight, real flight. And it was the closest he could let himself get — after all he’d been through, after all the many changes — to himself, his old self.
And now he saw that it was the opposite of flying; it was actually falling.
Zal thought about Silber’s second act of the Flight Triptych. Maybe there were strings there, too. Maybe not. But Silber was, had proved himself to be, a man of tricks, something Zal had no interest in.
“I don’t want to, Spike!”
“Don’t think it! Just do it!” Spike shouted, mantras he seemed used to pulling out at moments like this.
“I just can’t,” Zal said, too softly for Spike to hear him. He was thinking about it: the girl become rock; the four-page Assumption of Risk agreement and its all-caps Because this document will drastically affect your legal rights, you must read it carefully; the guys in the instructional video from the seventies who had said, “There is not now nor will there ever be a perfect parachute, a perfect airplane, a perfect pilot, a perfect parachute instructor, or, for that matter, a perfect student”; his jumpsuit that felt too big to protect his skin and the primary chute that could maybe fail him and the reserve chute that could also maybe fail him. He thought about all the things to remember without margins of error: the chute knob to pull at the altimeter’s 5,500 feet, which he could forget about, which Spike would remember if he forgot, although Spike could die or go insane or just be an asshole or turn suicidal and also “forget”; the five to seven minutes to the landing knoll, where more things could go wrong than during the minute-long free fall; the $189 that he had thrown away to experience an exalted ascent, which, like much of life, turned out to be its crummy opposite, a lowlife descent.
He was suddenly faced with that most humbling feature of human normalcy: he was paralyzed by his fear of death.
What. The. Hell. Was. He. Doing. Here?!
Spike inched him up to the door; he could feel Spike’s body, like a mollusk’s shell covering him, coating him almost, moving for him, making slight pushing thrusts that were causing Zal to lose control.
“I’m sick, Spike! I’m sick!” Zal screamed as a last resort.
“C’mon, Zed!” He didn’t even know his name. “You can do it!”
Zal pulled his goggles off and yelled louder than he thought was possible. “NO! I am sick! Get me down now, fucker!”
It was the first time in his life that he had said it, the awful F-word. It felt, of course, awful.
But it worked: Spike shook his head and yelled something to the pilot and they made the landing in silence. On the ground, the jumpers were gushing and gasping and giving each other hugs and high-fives and taking photos with their undone parachutes.
The girl before him was crying, he noticed.
He went up to her. “I’m sorry you went through that. I actually didn’t do it.”
She looked up at him, laughing through her tears. “What?”
“I’m sorry they made you do it. .”
She laughed harder. “They didn’t make me! Oh, no, these are happy tears! It was the most amazing thing of my life!”
Happy tears. Zal nodded, embarrassed.
The girl skipped away to her man waiting for her, and Spike came back with a form. “I just need you to sign this to say you didn’t jump but you know you still owe us the money,” he said gruffly, not looking him in the eye, no hand signals, no grins, nothing.
Zal signed. “I wanted to fly, not fall,” he tried to explain. “That was just falling.”
“Whatever, man,” said Spike, and he walked away. Zal stood on the empty knoll and stared at the sky. A group of divers were coming down from another plane, just little black dots in the sky, like a flock of birds, looking not like bodies dropping with no choice but like floating — indeed, flying — things.
He had learned a lesson, he supposed: things were not as they seemed. What seems one way might actually be the opposite. What a human he was becoming, he thought. What a stupid human.
Plus, with Asiya now condemned to months in the clinic — on a whole special program, with special foods and special medications and special exercises and special counseling, what her mother, wherever she was, had demanded when she had gotten word from the hospital — what else did he have to do but court death? He had passed the test: he was afraid of it. Normal. He knew that was true because he had concluded one amazing thing recently, which even Rhodes couldn’t have said better: it wasn’t Asiya’s fear that she was going to die that made her insane — everyone feared that and, of course, it was ultimately a true thing — It was her fear that they all were, together, in the very near future.
It was time to move on to the next thing, he thought, what the closest he had to a wise man had once suggested. It was time for a job.
He talked to Asiya a few times a week when she was allowed to take phone calls. Every time, he could barely hear her whisper versus the loud clangs of that clinic in New Jersey that sounded more, he imagined, like a soup kitchen than a hospital. He had asked if he could visit her and she had said no, that she didn’t want anyone to see her while she underwent “the phony transformation.”
“What do you mean by that, Asiya?” Zal would ask. “That they make you eat?”
“Zal, they can change my body, but they can’t change my mind,” she would often say.
One day, sounding more “meds-y” than usual, she told him, “Okay, they are changing my mind — I’m all mixed up, Zal — but it’s temporary. When I come home, I’m off this stuff.”
“You won’t want to be,” Zal said. “They’re fixing you. Just do what they say.”
“You don’t even know,” she shot back — a common line in that phase that he just ignored.
“Trust me,” he said. “In a lot of ways, they fixed me, baby.”
Baby: he had started calling her what men called their women. Baby was a normal thing to call a woman you loved, he knew this. In her absence, he possessed her more wholly than ever.