Igniting the Wild Sparks

by Alexander, Ren

  However, there’s nothing stopping me now because apparently, the previous rules have been thrown out the car window at 90 mph.

  Feeling the sudden, hastening thrill brewing like a storm in my gut from the thought of jumping from my bridge again, I purposefully look back at the camera and affirm, “Yeah. As a matter of fact, I am doing it this year.”

  Not expecting that answer, Drake says, “You are? That’s great!”

  I smile into the camera at his response, although I know that I’m in for an immense fight, and eagerly nodding as the weight of my declaration sets in more. “Yep. I am. I can’t wait. It’s been way too long.”

  Drake asks, “Did someone dare you to jump?”

  I vaguely answer, “You could say that.” Indirectly dared me, I suppose.

  “Can you tell us who?”

  Keep smiling. That person just might be watching. “Uh, I’d rather not this time.” Drake says something else, but I don’t hear him. My mind is buzzing. When I’m cleared, I switch off my mic and exchange a few more trivial things about white water rafting with Rory. We then shake hands and I work on removing the mic attached to my clothes.

  “Are you serious, Finn?” Milo skeptically asks.

  Not looking up as I work on the wire, I reply with my own question, “Serious about what?”

  “New River?”

  I warily glance up at him and shrug as I unclip the pack. “Yeah. Why not?”

  “Because I practically had a coronary!” He then deliberately pats my chest, over my tattoo. “And because of that.”

  I moodily arch my eyebrow. “So?” As I hand the mic off to Kyle, I observe people milling around the park as the crew packs up around us. There are some curious onlookers, but nobody approaches us, which is good because I’m not in a sociable mood at the time being. I reach into my polo pocket and pull out my sunglasses, deciding to put them on just in case, not that I’m staying long anyway.

  Milo says, “You had told me that you won’t be jumping from it again because you were asked not to.”

  I mumble, “Things change.” He follows me as I walk to the cooler to grab a bottle of water. Something harder will have to wait until I get back to my apartment tonight.

  “Oh, no, Finn.” Milo gloomily deduces from my pleasant disposition. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Snapping open the bottle lid, I say, “No. Not particularly.” I take a swig and look around us to escape his incisive stare that even my sunglasses can’t thwart. Still feeling his sharp inspection, I curtly shrug to cast it off that way. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  Milo puts his hand on my shoulder, and I reflexively look at him. He says, “Why don’t we go grab some beers?” Beer won’t do. I need to get plastered hard and fast, just like last night.

  I pivot and dodge his concerned face again. “No, thanks. I have plans. I need to get going.”

  “Okay. Well, let me know if you change your mind or want to anytime.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I evasively agree, twisting the cap onto my water. “See you later.” I brush past a few people and stride to my car. Today was supposed to be my day off, spending it in Kentucky with Becks, but after that fucking letdown, I called Hank and asked him if there were any interviews pending that I could pick up this week, needing to keep my mind busy, and as tempting as it sounds, drinking the entire day away is counterproductive. I need to be sober long enough to get some shit done and not lose my job. Nevertheless, that hasn’t stopped me from sneaking a few sips before I go live on Air to loosen me up.

  As I walk, I yank my phone out of my jeans and call Ricky. When he answers I spout, “We still on?”

  “Yeah, man. You sure?”

  “Yep. Pick me up in 20. My place.” I hang up and unlock my car.

  There are 12 of us in line. Ahead of me, Ricky is next, but before he can go, I spontaneously cut in front of him and zealously leap out of the C90 Super King Air. The blast of air encompassing every molecule of my body cushions me like I’m floating on an inflatable raft in incredibly choppy water. This is the best cure for all my woes. The only thing I think about is the speed whooshing around and through me, while the air exploding in my ears submerges the incessant thoughts overrunning my brain. The adrenaline coursing through my blood gives me the ecstasy I’m frantically searching to find.

  Yes. I’ve been secretly skydiving again. And yes, as I was accused of doing, it’s been awhile, not two years yet. I tried giving it up and I did for seven months; however, with the building guilt constantly taking ahold of my life and the stress from recent events, I’ve done what many other recovering addicts have done: I relapsed. I needed a hit. It’s six to eight minutes of pure bliss.

  Damn it. Bliss.

  I started diving again in the spring of last year. When I told Ricky I wanted to start going up again, he was excited, yet skeptical. He asked 20 fucking questions about my motives behind it. I told him I need that shot of adrenaline to make me forget my problems since other distractions weren’t working for me. Alcohol, but I’d rather be on a high than a low. Sex. Even that has become too complicated, thought provoking, and even more hazardous than BASE jumping. I also need a partner for that, but she’s the reason for my guilt, and plays a role in the complications I’m trying to escape.

  We started small, maybe once a month, but then it kept increasing. I had to be careful because too many absences on the weekend draw too much attention. This week alone, I’m working on four since we have two more scheduled.

  This is one of my favorite feelings in the world, to jump out of a plane at 13,500 feet, watching the world beneath me as I free fall at120 mph, which is the terminal velocity of a human being. I sense God up here.

  Still, the New River Gorge Bridge further ups the ante. Although it’s only a 876-foot plunge, BASE jumping is far riskier than skydiving. You have to be lightning quick with the chute since the fall is shorter. There is zero margin for error or you’re dead. Goodbye, cruel world. And since the descent is so much shorter, many jumpers, including myself, don’t usually pack a reserve parachute. There’s no use for one. By the time I’d notice there’s a problem with the main canopy, it’d be too late. The adrenaline is an in your face, hard punch. There are also not a lot of places where you can jump legally because it’s so dangerous. That’s why when I gave up New River, it was a definite blow. I used to look forward to that third Saturday in October like it was Christmas morning. I missed two years of BASE jumping.

  Well, now I’m back.

  After about 60 seconds of free fall and at 2500 feet, I pull the pilot chute, which drags out the main canopy and I’m jolted up as the powerful updrafts catch, filling the rectangular chute. I look up to check to see it inflated right and pull on the toggles connected to the lines to steer myself to the open field below, knowing Ricky is close behind. If my chute ever failed to open, my automatic activation device, or AAD, which is a little computer attached to me, would automatically deploy my reserve chute at 750 feet, if I fail to before then.

  I land with low impact, as if I had been walking and stepped over a hole in the ground. Listening to Ricky whooping behind me, I grin and release the canopy from the container on my back, savoring my high that will last for a little while, yet not long enough.

  Amongst other fellow divers landing, I hear Ricky yelling, “Real smooth, Wilder! You’re going to pay for that!”

  Taking my pack off, I taunt, “Yeah. I’m so scared, officer!”

  “Rematch, you dick!”

  My grin is unwavering. “You’re on, slowpoke!”

  I grab the bottle of Jack to fill our glasses, sloshing some on the coffee table.

  Ricky doesn’t move to grab his glass, but instead gawks at me. He says, “You know, we could’ve gone to a bar.”

  “Nope. I’m good here. I’d rather not be bothered.”

  He argues, “Yeah, but you don’t usually get totally wasted in public. Well, except for last month—” I glower at Ricky, slashing him with a hard gl
are, hoping he’ll just shut his damn mouth for once in his life. Succeeding, he takes a deep, breath and changes topics. “So, when are you going to talk about what’s going on with you? What happened?” Unfortunately, it’s another topic I don’t want to talk about.

  “I already told you.” I look up at the living room clock for a distraction, but it only reminds me of where I would be right now had things gone differently yesterday.

  “No, you didn’t. You showed up at my door 10:30 Tuesday night after you came home from your trip. I asked you what was wrong and you told me about your trip to Kentucky being screwed. That’s all you said before you raided my bar and got too trashed to care. I had to pry you up off the floor at 1:30.” His disapproval irks me and I look back to my drink. He says, “You wouldn’t talk to me about it on the car ride to the airstrip earlier, either. It’s obvious you need to talk, man.”

  I raise my drink to my mouth, and over the lip of the glass, I say, “No, I don’t. I’m good.”

  He whacks my arm, which jostles me, splashing JD down my chin. Holding the glass away, I angrily swipe at the dribbling drops of whiskey. “What the fuck, Ricky?”

  “You’re really going to fucking blow me off? I know you. Better than almost anyone, or so I think. Talk!”

  Reaching to the table, I lift the bottle. “That’s why I have my buddy, Jack, here so I don’t have to talk.” I pour some more into my glass and he groans.

  “Then why am I even here?”

  Before I take another sip, I shrug and say, “Shit, you got me.”

  Ricky clasps his hands together, appearing abnormally bothered by something that it makes me hesitate for a few seconds before I take a drink. At last, he divulges, “Why’d you do that very public confessional earlier?” I don’t answer him as I stare at the Jack Daniels label before absently taking another drink. He says, “So, you’re going to jump New River with me again?”

  Swallowing, I inhale inside my glass and reply with an echoed, “Yep.”

  The cop in him surfaces and he sticks to the facts. “And you announced it on the Air.”

  I lower my glass and repeat, “Yep.”

  “That was a little…” He actually seems to be a loss for words. I smirk at his uncertainty because it’s so unlike audacious Ricky Tesco.

  “Ballsy?”

  He quickly shakes his head. “Stupid.”

  “Huh?”

  “It was a shitty thing to do.”

  “Kiss my ass, officer.” I take another swig as he sets his drink down onto the table.

  “Why’d you have to announce it like that?”

  Glancing at him from the corner of my eye, I cautiously ask, “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  He watches me as I lean back against the couch, bestowing him a challenging glare. “I don’t need anyone’s permission. I thought I did, but turns out, I don’t.”

  Ricky puts his leg up on the couch and shifts to face me. “If you didn’t tell Hadley, why didn’t you tell me what you’re going to do?”

  My eyes fall to my lap, where my drink sits. “It was a last-minute decision.” That’s the truth.

  “There’s more to it than that.”

  “Nope. Just want to jump from it again.” That’s also the truth.

  “Stop bullshitting me!” he yells, making me glance from my drink, halfway to my mouth. He sighs and says, “Look, I know you’re scared—”

  I drop my hand, pulling my glass away. My voice is hard as steel. “Scared? Nope. Not me.” I cynically laugh as I slowly shake my head.

  “Finn, come on, man. It’s okay to admit it.”

  I snap, “I told you, I’m not.”

  “You’re hurt. I see that, but you don’t have to put up a front with me. I’ve been with you plenty of times when you’ve been upset.”

  Annoyed that he knows me so well, I mutter, “I’m great.” He’s deliberately working my temper. I rub my hand over my mouth in frustration as I use the other to swirl the golden liquid around in my glass.

  “You two will need to sit down and really talk. Maybe you should see a—”

  His continuing insistence triumphs in rousing me. I drop my hand and fling my head in his direction, growling through gritted teeth, “Could you just shut the fuck up? Shit, Ricky! Go home!” Closing my eyes, I lay my head against the couch as I listen to the clock ticking in tune with Ricky’s grating breaths.

  After a minute of silence, Ricky says, “You’re incredible.”

  With my eyes still closed, I lazily grin. “That’s what I hear from all the ladies.”

  “All the ladies. Uh-huh. You don’t want all the ladies.”

  “I thought I asked you to shut the fuck up.”

  “Did you buy the ring yet?”

  My eyes fly open, and I swiftly sit up to slam my empty glass down on the table. “Shit, this damn question? From you now? What’s with the interrogation? No! I did not buy a ring and I will not be buying a ring. Drop it, Ricky.”

  With his arm resting on the back of the couch, he sighs. “Just get it over with. You said you were going to propose to her last week. So, do it already! You’re making it so much harder than it has to be. If I can do it, so can you.”

  I pour more Jack and retort with a chuckle, “Yeah. You’ve done it twice so far. Thanks for the pep talk. You’re a paragon of virtue.”

  He gripes, “Hey, everyone makes mistakes.”

  I motion to his glass with the hand holding my own drink. “And I think I did by giving you my JD. Your grandma drinks more than that.”

  “True, but I’m not in a drinking mood tonight.”

  “Well, you’re no fun, Tesco.” I shrug and take his glass. “More for me then.”

  “You are not okay.”

  “I’m quite okay, Richmond.”

  “Finn, you’re actually worrying me.”

  I take a few gulps from his glass. Setting it down, I playfully lean over him, getting close to his face. “Aww. You are so fucking cute when you’re all concerned and shit. Is this your police officer face? Do you give it to lost children before you hand them a lollipop and let them wear your hat?” I snicker at his frown and he irritably pushes me away, which is even funnier.

  “Normally, you’re a cool drunk, but for the past month or so, it’s disturbing how much you’ve been drowning your sorrows. It’s not good, man.”

  I roll my eyes, which makes the room tilt. “It’s all good. I’m just chilling out.” I finish off his drink with a satisfied sigh. Putting the glass down, I grab the bottle for a refill, draining the rest of it.

  “No, it’s more than that. You act like it’s over with Hadley. Is it?”

  Grinding my teeth, I struggle with answering that question because I really don’t know the answer. Understanding my weighty silence, he asks, “Did you at least call her last night?”

  “I was busy.”

  “Oh. I forgot. You and Jim Beam.

  “Huh-uh. The Captain entertained me last night.”

  “Did she call you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you didn’t call her back? Why are you blowing this up into something bigger than it is? What are you most worried about right now?”

  Sighing, I pick the empty bottle up and shake it at him. “That I’m out of Jack. There’s a liquor store down the road. Can you go pick me up some more?”

  “You’re cut off.”

  I sulkily protest, “No way! This was my last bottle and I’m not even drunk yet! I don’t even have a good buzz going!”

  His judgmental gaze treks over me. “You’re already drunk, Finn.”

  I shove his arm. “Well, then I can’t drive. Aren’t you supposed to be a public servant? Serve me!”

  He snatches the bottle out of my hand and roughly deposits it on the table. “This doesn’t fall into that realm.”

  “Okay. You’re my best friend. It falls into that one. Now get me more booze.”

  He firmly states, “Finn, you can’
t keep drinking like this. You’re going to become an alcoholic because you depend on liquor to get you through shit.”

  I suddenly laugh. “Liquor. That’s a funny word. Lick her.”

  “I’m fucking serious, Wilder!”

  I shrug as I pick up the last of my JD and look into my glass. The answers have to be somewhere at the bottom. “What’s it matter? Nobody cares.” Ricky tries to steal my drink, but I move out of his reach in time. See? Not that drunk.

  He punches the back of the couch and shouts, “I care, you asshole! And you know very well who else does, so don’t give me that damn shit!”

  I cock an eyebrow as I gape at the blue cushion he just assaulted. “Whoa, officer. This sofa could accuse you of police brutality.”

  “You’re acting like this is more serious a situation than it really is! Why?”

  Returning my attention to my glass, I pleadingly mutter, “Just let it go. I want to be alone.”

  “No. Not until you talk to me!”

  Losing my own patience with him, I pound my fist on my leg in frustration and yell back, “I don’t want to talk, think or even dream about it! Leave me alone!” Returning to my drink, I tip the glass, still feeling his inquisitive police-officer search of my thoughts infringing upon my right to remain silent.

  Ricky is quieter when he says, “I know you’re about to lose it, man. You’re barely holding it together. That’s why I’m here.”

  I keep my eyes on my glass. “I’m not. I’m feeling better.”

  As I take another drink, he leans closer to me, and I tightly swallow the JD as he says, “I’m like a fucking lie detector. I know when you’re lying. Don’t even pull that shit on me. I can hear your heart breaking. What for? A friend was in need—one of your ballplayers! That’s all!”