Jumpin' For Joy

JUMPIN' FOR JOY

"So? What's the catch?"

It was a simple enough question, or at least I foolishly thought so. But the question was directed at two classical morons, who perceived nothing past their won privileged needs and wants. My bad.

So here I am, lounging on a vast field in Southern Illinois, waiting for the foolishness I signed up for. Again, my wrong.

The sun desperately attempted to squeeze through a thick layer of threatening clouds and succeeded to the extent that the sky was kissing the horizon in the distance. Thirty of us were scattered about that dew-drenched field, waiting for that phrase, 'It's a go.'

I leaned against a tree at the edge of a small thicket to sneakily bend my head into the thicket and puke my guts out as I'd been doing since early this morning. I would not let Norman (one of the morons) know how nervous I was.

When he and his buddy, Bender (the other moron), talked about skydiving as if they were the chosen ones, it made me want to puke ever back then. After I expressed an interest (purely to shut them up), they laughed at me like I was talking about running for mayor of Tokyo or something. Right then and there, I knew I was going to do it. Then, as the saying goes, "The rest is history."

So, after fourteen hours of training, there I was, ready to jump out of an airplane at six thousand feet for no apparent reason than the fact that I was an idiot.

An idiot for letting two jerks, whose IQs couldn't total eighty even if you used the newest math possible, goad me into this nonsense. It made me question my own IQ. Looking back on things, with a perceived growth in maturity, it wasn't as much childishness as it was stupidity on my part. I mean, now I realized that some immature wet-nosed college kid double-dog-dared me, and being even more juvenile and wetter-nosed, I accepted.

We did everything but a pinky-swear.

Norman Gibson said I wouldn't do it. He said I didn't have the balls for it. Well, if Norman said I wouldn't, you could damn well bet the ranch that I would. Norman would need an extra two years of school just to climb up the ladder to moron status.

When I told him I would do it, he and his IQ-challenged Siamese twin, Bender, laughed their asses off. They would not stop. Two losers, you know the type. They both lived in Evanston, graduating from Evanston Township High School.

They looked down their noses at me because I was born and raised in Chicago.

They were both North Shore, albeit low-rent North Shore, to hear anyone from Wilmette, Winnetka, or Lake Forest tell it.

The only time I had ever been to Evanston was one Saturday I fell asleep on the train going to my clarinet lessons.

But what really galls me is that anytime they were

- or all other suburbanites, some as far away as Mundelein or Fox Lake – asked where they came from, the first thing out of their mouths was Chicago.

They did it for street cred at a state university. If they had gotten accepted at Northwestern or Wesleyan, you could bet your last dollar they couldn't scream out the name of their north shore haven loud enough.

After they finished their laughing fit, Bender looked at me and said, "You're really going to skydive with us?"

With us? Jesus, they talked as if I was aspiring to pitch batting practice to Willie Mays. "Yeah," I eloquently replied.

They both started laughing again.

"Shit, if you two geniuses can do it, how hard could it be?"

"You don't have the balls," said Norman. Didn't Bender already say that? Two peas in a pod.

That was then; this is now. After those fourteen hours of intensive training, I might add, while Norman and Bender, the 'experts' watched, critiquing every move I made, I was primed and ready to make my first jump. I not only surprised them but totally surprised myself. Ambushed by my own pride and stupidity.

However, due to the luck of the draw, I was going up in the first load of five, thirty jumpers in all; first-timers and experienced, and here I was in the first five. Lady Luck was beaming down on me, and Norman and Bender weren't going up until the fourth and fifth loads.

And due to the lack of equipment, Norman and I had to share a jumpsuit. We were both big boys, over two hundred pounds, but I carried mine well. We were assigned cargo chutes.

These were my thoughts as I calmly relaxed and vomited while waiting my turn to jump out of a plane. Yes, You heard right; jump out of a plane!

"Edwards!" So much for relaxing. It was Norman, dutifully followed by Bender. I watched them closely to see if Norman's lips moved when Bender talked. So far, the answer was no; Norman was excellent.

"What the hell are you doing over here? We're about ready to rock and roll, baby. The jumpmaster told me to give you this and for you to get your ass over there. They are starting the briefing now."

He practically threw the jumpsuit in my face.

Jesus, did he actually use the word 'briefing'? They sure wanted to sound like some right-wing, para-military bozos for a group of drunken weekend skydivers.

The movie GREEN BERETS was probably in the theaters this week, and they all went to see it. They most likely came out hootin' and hollerin' saying how the Duke just kicked ass. I went to see it with many foreign students at SIU to learn English.

They were all from South America.

One guy was this skinny fellow named Hugo, and rumors had it he fought with Che Guevara. He looked at me after the movie and asked, "Do Americans really believe this bullsheet?" Hearing about our 'briefing,' I could only imagine the answer was yes.

After we made the trek across the field, these would-be "Golden Knights" were gathered around the plane. One of the future Knights pointed to an oil leak to the lecturing Sky King. Our lecturer just plugged it with the piece of gum he was chewing – the marvels of American engineering. Another leak was pointed out. He simply ignored this one. Out of gum, I guessed. Something fell off as he pointed out yet another part of the engine. He picked it up, put it in his pocket without losing a beat, and continued talking. I turned to Norman, panic traipsing along the edges of my voice. "What the hell? How the hell are we gonna go up in that? Half the engine is in his pocket, for chrissakes!"

"Get a grip, Edwards. He's a professional; he knows what he's doing." Norman was so calm and in control. If the plane crashed, so what? He was not going up until the fifth load anyway. He is just about his jumpsuit. A small price to pay for air safety.

"Professional? Then why isn't he flying for Continental instead of being in this jerkwater town taking up skydivers whose only qualification is the ability to pay?"

Norman must have seen the look in my eyes or heard my voice edge up a couple of hundred octaves because, at that moment, he became as sensitive and understanding as he had ever been since I'd known him.

"Hey, just don't piss in my jumpsuit. I gotta wear it next."

The pilot rambled on and on, failing to ease my tension and fear, probably not even caring if he did. He talked about superchargers, turbochargers, Dodge Chargers, over-chargers; hell, he might have even included the San Diego Chargers for all I knew, none of which this plane had unless it was in his pocket.

The only purpose I could think of for all this crap was to anesthetize the jumpers before the jump. Finally, the jumpmaster came to give us our last-minute instructions, aka pep-talk.

"Now, men, today is the day," he began as if we had no idea what the last fourteen hours of instruction meant. "This is the day you make that first entry into your jump logs. This is what the last day and a half of intense training were about." Not to mention the seventy-five bucks we had to shell out.

"I know you're all excited and want to get on with it and believe me, we will. But first, let's go over some details. First, I will be going up with every group." Oh, boy, my cup runneth over. "There'll be room enough for me, a pilot, a co-pilot, and six jumpers. So, pay strict attention, especially jumpers in the first group."

That's me! First flight, first group, sixth jumper. Life is good.

"You will enter the plane in reverse order, last jumper first, first jumper last. Once we're all on the plane, we'll have a final equipment check before take-off. Once in the air, I'll assume plane command until all jumpers are airborne."

Mothers stand at ease; your sons are about to jump from six thousand feet with Jumpin' Jack Flash, the missing stooge in command. I'd feel safer with Curly or even Joe.

"The instructions are simple; First, I will call your name. You will, in turn, approach the front area; hang your feet out the door."

Hang my feet out the door! Six thousand feet in the air! Panic was beginning to rear its ugly head once again.

"The pilot will cut the engine and lock the wheel brake on my signal. We will, in effect, be gliding."

Gliding! Six thousand feet in the air, in a plane with the engine off, half of its parts in the pilot's pocket, a wad of gum holding together what's left, and only a parachute – a parachute I packed, mind you – between me and mother earth! God bless America, home of the terminally stupid.

Me.

"The next order will be to get out. At that point, you will climb onto the wing, place one foot on the wheel and the other on the step, and grab the wing with both hands. You will then await your orders to jump. And that's it. You will be on a static line, so there's no worry about searching for the ripcord. Okay, one through six, into the plane. Good luck, men."

Great. After fourteen hours of intensive training, my instructor caps everything with a hearty "Good luck ."Just great.

Touching all the bases just in case he missed something. Making an early peace with his God. Not mine.

With this decision to jump, I think my God has forsaken me.

With reluctance and a heavy heart, I moved to the plane. My eyes gave a last-minute scan of the horizon seeking help; a thunderstorm, hailstorm, blizzard, earthquake, tornado, even a dog named Toto. Where was Auntie Em when I needed her?

I thought I'd feel better once in the air, maybe settle down some, and let my training take over. Think again, idiot! I was wrong about anything since I signed up for this fiasco.

Why should I start now?

The plane finally left the confines of mother earth with almost the same speed common sense left me when I let Norman and Bender bully me into this bullshit.

The first five jumpers left the plane without mishap. Of course, this was purely speculation on my part since my eyes never opened since boarding the plane and nestling into the farthest corner.

"Edwards!"

Needs to be more distant. I opened my eyes to discover I was alone and no other jumpers, let alone another one named Edwards.

Maybe I died and went to heaven.

"Edwards!" It was Jumpin' Jack Flash. I didn't quite make it to heaven if I died and he was here. I gave the plane a quick once over, hoping to find that elusive "other" jumper, Edwards, who wasn't there.

Slowly, very slowly, I crawled to my destiny. I hung my legs out the door when commanded.

I thought I was going to faint.

Don't vomit, don't vomit.

"Get out!"

Don't vomit, don't vomit. I hesitated, and Jumpin' Jack noticed. He tried to prod me gently with words of encouragement during this very stressful moment in my life.

"Get the fuck out on that goddamned wing!"

Instantly bolstered and swelling with confidence, I climbed onto the wing and immediately began looking for a place to vomit so it wouldn't blow back in my face. Jumpin' Jack hit me on the shoulder and shouted for me to jump.

Instead of pushing off the wing, I applied a vice-like grip, probably giving the branch a permanent flap.

Again, he shouted to jump, and I responded by tightening my grip on the wing. My fingers were turning blue as I bent metal with my bare hands. Next, he grabbed the top of the doorjamb with both hands, swung out with both feet, and kicked me off the wing, out of the plane, and into space.

Airborne at last.

Thank God I was on a static line. I wouldn't have regained consciousness enough to yank that ripcord. The sudden jerk of the chute opening brought me around. Anyway, there I was floating – no – flying through the air like some graceful bird of prey and not some fool who was just using artificial means of slowing down the gravitational process. I hoped I was too far from the ground for anyone to hear me scream, "Oh, shit!" when I opened my eyes.

Looking down, I saw the billowing chutes of the jumpers ahead of me. Two had already landed near the large "X" of our target, and the other three would be close to it, and I was drifting towards it at a slightly different angle.

I had to adjust. Then I thought, toggle switches! You control your descent and direction with toggle switches.

I pulled the right one, and the chute rotated right. I pulled the left, and I turned left. I pulled the right again, didn't let go, and did a complete circle. I drew left, another full circle in the opposite direction. Right, left, right, left. Then it stuck, and I couldn't budge on it. Three thousand feet in the air, I was doing Lazy Susans, headed for God only knew.

When I came down, I thought I might be arrested for traveling without a passport. Or maybe some half-naked people would come running out of the bushes, having me for lunch or making me their God, Edwards of the jungle.

With my luck, there would be no Jane.

I missed the target by some eight hundred yards by my own modest calculations. As my luck would have it, Norman was among the first to reach me.

"I guess I was a little wide of the target," I mumbled.

"No problem," said Norman. "The bloodhounds picked up your scent right away. We'd have been here sooner, but we had to stop and restock with provisions and set up a base camp. It'll be tough getting back, all the Sherpas quit, but I think we can make it."

"I don't need this aggravation, Norman."

"Right, what you need are brains." The moron was laughing at me.

I stood up and started getting out of my harness.

"All in all, Norman, it was pretty satisfying."

"Satisfying! How the hell could this be anything but humiliating? You bitch and whine like a little girl all morning. Mr. Gilkey said he had to drop kick your ass out of the plane.

On your jump, you look like a merry-go-round gone berserk, and on your landing, you barely landed in the same time zone you took off in, and you stand there and say it was 'satisfying'?"

"It really was, Norman."

"Then, genius, tell me what was so damn satisfying for you today."

"I pissed in your jumpsuit, asshole!"