God's Finger

Summer in the Midwest, for those of you who have never experienced one, is a combination of heaven and hell. Summers that are smothered with humidity you can walk on, and knowing that this may not be the first day of the rest of your life, but probably the last.

When you live in the city you don’t have a lot of choices when it comes to escaping the heat. You have even fewer chances when you are ten years old. Cement ponds are an attempt to squelch the riots that stem from the stress that accompanies, not being able to escape what is recognized, as torture.

Fighting the elements, in winter meant heat. Most homes accommodated that need. Summer, if you weren’t of a certain class, you managed to barely survive with a fan that did little more than move the stale sticky air about the room. It gave the sensation that it was, if not lowering the discomfort level, made a purring sound, like that of a cat in the throes of Consumption, boring you into a wrestles sleep.

Our cement pond was on the edge of two worlds, from the high board above the pond you could reportedly look over the wall onto the manicured lawns and red tiled roofs of the other world.

Our pond was enclosed, protecting it from the street noise and the prying eyes of non-swimmers. It was a public pool which meant if you could get there you were allowed entrance no matter your color, or financial status. Those distinctions and accompanying judgements were left to the guy who operated the popcorn wagon parked under the old oak outside the purview of the cities nondiscrimination protocols.

We made our way to the pond, usually by walking the mile or so, allowing us to use what little money we had managed to accrue from collecting bottles and ransoming them for money to purchase our lunch; popcorn, or if we splurged, an All-Day sucker.

You had to prove at that time, if you could swim, to be allowed into the nine-foot end of the pool. It was separated from the six-foot section of pool, by a rope with various colored floatation devices attached to it. The reasoning I assumed, was that you could drown in the nine-foot end, but somehow be able to float to safety in the six-foot end. 

The deep end of the pool sported the tower. A steal ladder ascending the wall to a walkway that led to another platform from which protruded, a spring board, by which one could propel himself like a frightened angel into the air, hopefully landing with as little notice to the watery surface, as one could manage. 

Just recently having attained the coveted recognition of the life guard for having adequately traversed the twenty-four-foot pool without mishap, was allowed to exist in the world demarcated from the other world by a deep blue line, painted on the concrete walk that linked the two worlds.

We, I say we, because I would not go alone. I was, truth be told, not allowed to go alone. The other world was a suspicious place that could hold, and probably did, all manner of evil. People just waiting in the bushes to grab you if you crossed into their territory. So to make sure we weren’t discretely abducted, we were required to remain paired.

Johnny and Dennis, neighbors, would often times accompany my brother and I, as we reasoned the chances of someone abducting four of us was slim, and that the remaining three would be able to escape and report the abduction. We never really talked about who was the most likely to be abducted, but we all knew in our hearts it was Dennis. He was large for his age, and suffered from the awkwardness that accompanies a person whose mind does not develop at a similar rate to that of their body. 

We would often sit on the edge of the pool, me on one side of the blue line and the floatation device that separated the two worlds, and those who had not successfully passed the survival test, on the other. We would watch with anticipation as those who believed they could fly, found their wings had been clipped by arrogance, of course not realizing the predicament until halfway through their descent to the cold hard water below. It was entertaining, although it provided a certain amount of anguish to the contemplation of such an attempt.

The spring board represented to me the finger of God, protruding from a place of structured assurance to one of exuberant freedom, if only for a few seconds. I had visions of being painted one day on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, floating effortlessly arms extended in swan like fashion, defying gravity, refusing to be baptized, as there was no longer a need.

Of course dreams are what they are. Reality has a way of tempering our most ardent wishes by introducing the element of fear. As glorious as the ascension into this concrete heaven was, the practicality of hell loomed ten feet below God’s finger; the green water waiting to judge those who tempted fate, by pretending God was on their side.

It had been settled. Me, being the only one on the right side of heaven, would make the slow climb to heights only imagined, and make the fateful plunge into the reality of all boys, immortality. Having one’s picture on a Wheaties box. 

I was of course suffering from the possibility that this would be my last hour on earth and therefore needed reassurance that things could never be as bad as imagined. Everyone offered up their golden chained crosses and decoder rings, as a means to thwart the devil, should he attempt to intervene and make my debut only an incident recorded on the obituary page, of the Starr and Tribune.

I remember that day, as vividly as if living it in the moment. The concrete having heated to the sole blistering temperature needed to increase anxiety, and a black cloud, in an otherwise empty sky, blocking out the sun, left me shadow less as I climbed the metal ringed ladder towards heaven, or as close as I imagined I would ever get.

I reached the landing at the top with out incident, despite the added weight of the talisman that hung from my neck.  The board stood alone against the green watery surface below, resembling an arm of a cross jetting into the unsupported realm of a world that until then, was imagined unattainable. I stalled, for what I considered an adequate amount of time, taking in the sights previously unappreciated from the lowlands of concrete below. The entire world appeared to take on an apostolic appeal I felt should be kept in periodicals about transitioning to the other side.

With the increasing enticement from below, “chicken, coward, yellow belly,” I made my way in stoic fashion to the railing that helped those on entering the approach, from losing their nerve or lunch, and retreating to the safety of a ladder that functioned in both directions, but only disgracefully in one. 

I could not bear the thought of having to push past those behind me to the incriminating cries from below, decided death, was preferable to shame. I walked the spongy plank and stood on the end grasping the crosses with so much force, they screamed in agony for me to jump.  “Don’t be a wuss,” the words echoing behind my closed eyes. With the belief that God would not let a boy who only wished to learn about the intricacies of heaven, die, I jumped.

I did not hear the cheers from below, or feel the contact with the emerald water. All I felt was the desire to breathe and found attempting to do so, while beneath the water’s surface, was not one of my better antidotes for remaining alive.

I broke the surface spewing water like an Italian statue onto those around me, whom I could only assume, looked on with admiration. No one however, appeared to recognize the importance of the feet I had accomplished, in bridging the worlds of anticipated fear, and fear itself, together. 

As I began to sink, having forgotten how to swim, a kindly older gentleman helped me to the concrete shore, where I realized looking up at the finger of God, that heaven wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I’d stick to baseball. Perhaps find heaven on a Wheaties box dedicated to the solid ground surrounding home plate, at the World Series.