The Wall

Write about a character giving something one last shot.

The Wall

I’m struggling here. My legs burn, my insteps and toes are cramped, my hands look like claws, my arms are shaking. I’m hanging on a very thin rope 45 feet up a climbing wall in the middle of a 3-story department store.

I beat the wall with my left toe, searching for a toe hold. I shift my weight, push myself up the wall with my legs while my hands seek hand holds. Sweat burns my eyes, I throw my right arm up to snag the next hold with my frozen clawed hand. I shift too soon. I can’t hold on. I swing off the wall.

Too exhausted to even kick the wall in frustration, I dangle in mid-air. I see my husband below me on the second story balcony, camera ready for when I hit the button at the end of the climb 15 feet above me. The button announces with a cock-a-doodle-do that the climber has successfully completed the route.

Not happening today. Just like it didn’t happen the last three attempts. I started today’s climb chanting “I think I can, I think I can” to myself. Disappointed, tears wash the sweat from my eyes.

I massage my sweaty hands, kneading feeling back onto my fingers. Why am I doing this? I’m 56 years old, walking is my sport of choice, not rock climbing. My job does not depend on my hitting that button, my relationship with my husband is in no danger if I don’t hit that button, my life is not in jeopardy if I don’t finish this climb!

Swinging back and forth in the air, I remember how this all started. It was the casual way my daughter dropped, “Your granddaughter needs a climbing partner,” into one of our many conversations.

Climbing partner? My seven year old granddaughter is afraid of heights. She can’t even climb the stairs to the kiddie slide! Climbing partner?

“She accepted a dare from one of her best friends,” Daughter continued. “It’s taken five weeks, going almost every day, but she finally made it up the 15 foot wall at the Rec Center. She loves climbing. Can’t get enough. She really wants you to climb with her, Mom.” Then came the stinger, “You wouldn’t want to disappoint your granddaughter, would you?”

So here I am, dangling 45 feet in the air on a climbing wall in the middle of a department store, for the fourth Friday night in a row. And once again, the button eludes me.

“Down,” I say to my belayer. From up here, he looks twelve years old.

Nothing happens. I’m not going down. “Down,” I say again.

“No.” The word floats up to me.

No? What does that mean? No what?!

My whole body aches, I’m sweaty, I want a drink of water. I really want to nurse my failure.

“Wipe your hands, shake out your arms, chalk up, reconnect and finish this climb, Carolyn. You’ve had three weeks to try, today is the ‘do’ day.”

I look down at him, he looks up at me. From here he looks tiny, too tiny to be telling me what to do.

 “I’m ..”

“Shake out, chalk up, reconnect, finish the route.”

His calm voice irritates me. Doesn’t he understand? I can’t do this! My little engine just can’t do this!

I sway back and forth -  a bit closer to the wall, a bit farther away.

I could stage a rant and demand to be lowered. I can see the headlines: 56 year old woman refuses to complete climb, her belayer, a college student who is putting himself through college, is fired.

Great! Now my own conscious is betraying me!

I close my eyes, the wall rings hollowly as I kick stubbornly at it when I swing into it. Waiting. I’m waiting for my belayer to bring me down.

I can hear him chatting with the other on-staff belayer. He isn’t in any hurry. There are no other climbers this evening. He’s waiting for me.

Angrily I rub my hands on my pants; “Okay!” I mutter to myself. "I’m a college professor! I know how to problem solve! I can do this!"

I fumble for the chalk bag hanging behind me on my belt. The chalk absorbs the sweat on my hands. I reach out with both hands and grab holds, pulling myself closer to the wall. Desperately I scrape my feet against the wall until I find holds I can stand on. My foot thuds echo throughout the store, announcing I’m on the move.

I look up; three bloody body lengths away, the big red button waits for me.

My toes find holds where my knees were. I see the next hand hold, just out of reach. I throw my right arm up while my legs push me toward it. I plant my left hand on the wall, wishing I was Spider Man. My right hand barely catches the hold, I scrape my knuckles on the wall. My left hand searches fanatically for the closest hold. Latching on to it, I take a deep breath, then repeat the process, working my way up the last 15 feet like an inch worm.

I’m looking down for a toe hold, throwing my left arm up when I suddenly hit the button. Startled, I come off the wall as the cock-a-doodle-do announces my success. I hear clapping from the balcony – not just from my husband, but from shoppers who stopped to watch me make my final assent.

Emotionally spent, I whisper, “I did it,” to myself. I’d pat myself on the back if people weren’t watching. I bite my lip to keep from crying.

I swing back and forth for minute before I say, “Down.”

This time my belayer slowly lowers me. I savor the ride.

I started this night out believing I was the Little Engine that Could. I got side-railed. But because someone believed in me, I finished as the woman who succeeded.

My feet touch solid ground. I’ll be back.