The knot of fear in my stomach feels like a cherry bomb
with a lit fuse. If I wanted to, I could make it go away by climbing down from
the tree to the riverbank twenty feet below where my friends are currently in a
contest to see who can shout the vilest epithet of encouragement to me. But if
I leave the tree in any manner other than riding the rope, my reputation as a
daredevil—which as far I can figure is what manhood itself is based upon—will
be shot. Kaput. Finished.
Clinging to rough bark with one hand, gripping the rope
just above the knot with the other, I look out at what the lying s.o.b. Louisiana
swamp river below wants me to believe is a languid current and I know that I don’t want
to do this but I have to.
I concentrate hard to make my mind go blank, seize the rope
with both hands and push forward from the tree, swinging swiftly toward that
nadir where I could let go and slip feet first into the water with barely a
splash. But I miss the moment, the arc
of my swing heads upward and the water disappears from my line of sight
replaced by treetops and the sky.
Where gravity says “You take him!” and centrifugal force
says, “Screw that!” I feel a change of
direction coming on, like Wile E. Coyote after he’s already over the edge. Blink, blink. The earth stands still for
the briefest moment and then the cherry bomb from Acme Explosives goes off in
my stomach and I let go the rope.
