Letter from Simon
It was staring at the window that did it, I think. Wondering if it could be opened, if the company allowed such trust in its employees, especially sixteen floors up. And of course it could be opened, because this building isn't that new or that fancy. You just had to move a tiny latch to unlock it and then it would slide open (eventually...after four tries) , releasing a fresh wave of noise and atmosphere.
My first thought? Surprise at how thick and heated the air outside was in comparison to ours. It was like what existed below was actually hell, and all that stood between us and the foul exhaust of the cesspit below was that few centimeters of glass. Second thought? My first thought was stupid, and I was stupid for thinking it. Look out below New York, I'm getting stupid all over you.
You'll be fascinated to know that I have barely moved from my desk all day. Twice for the bathroom and that's it. My officemate Glenn actually counts how many times I leave the room, but that's just his nature. He's the kind of borderline narcissist that owns his space, really owns it. It's as if it's the only thing he truly posesses in the world.
He's sighing now, you should know (he does this a LOT, it's his favorite form of expression) and trying very hard not to swivel his head towards the window I just opened. Such an acknowledgement, such evidence that I still exist and can affect his world so easily, is not a pleasure that he's going to grant to me. Or to himself, for that matter. Even at this moment, you will observe, he has turned up the industrial music he keeps on his iPod. Another sigh and a shaking of his head towards his monitor screen are the only outward signs he will give to point out that I am disrupting the delicacy of his mad imaginary biosphere.
The irony is that if you don't respond to these non-signals then he gets REALLY upset.
Do you know how tall this window is? Tall. That's all I'm saying. Nearly tall enough for me to stand up in. Its construction is quite mid-modern and unsure of what it's supposed to be preventing or encouraging. Freedom? Space enough for ideas? Thinking outside the box by making that box bigger? You don't want to give the worker too much distraction, that's certainly a consideration. Also you don't want to have them be able to open it, not only because it might aid terrorists somehow (or daring cat burglars), but also because I might climb up onto the inch-thin ledge for reasons that will soon become apparent.
Hey, check it out, Glenn turned his head. I think I heard a few of his neck bones cracking under the strain. There's something about Glenn that you realize after spending a lot of time with him in an isolated room, something really special, and that's how tiny his eyes are. Really, he's like a mole. A mole that updates national mortgage rates for the company database.
I wish you could be feeling the same kind of vertigo I'm undergoing right now. It's like being plunged right back into your single digits, straight through to childhood. That magical portion of your life when you insist on climbing the playground's elaborate playset by the most unconventional means possible. Wedge a foot into this bar, steady yourself with a hanging metal ring, jump up onto the plastic dome and hope your sneakers and hands are grimy enough to stick. All of a sudden someone's boisterous baby boy is on the roof of the slide. Simon get DOWN from there. All too happy to, mother. Just let me get to my feet and I'll make the jump.
Of course, that's not sand below me now, but concrete, and the million treads of people on their way to something. Ordinary yet fascinating folks with a point A, B, and beyond, and a definite destination in mind. Some of them have backpacks on, which is somewhat odd since we're among the highrises of the financial district on the lowest point of Manhattan, but a part of me really digs that kind of quaintness. They are not a part of this environment and damned if they're going to fear it. I hope I don't hit them when I land. Actually, I hope I don't hit anyone, but if I have to hit someone I don't want it to be them.
"What are you doing?", asks Glenn in an accusatory tone that never seems to fall out of grace with him. It's at its most amusing when he's in the break room asking if anyone made coffee. "Decaf? Why did you make decaf?"
I can't answer him now, I'm busy letting the muscles in my arms relax and go jelly-like. I'm also calculating certain things, and at the same time trying to look up instead of down. That's when the vertigo really kicks in...looking up when you know there's little below. The air whips around my face, a vertical river of current escaping the ground as fast as it can. Even looking up from a window ledge on the sixteenth floor you can scan the surrounding spires and skyscrapers. There's a great majesty in the size of these buildings, all of them ending high above me, and in the whole exaggerated scale of a major city.
I don't comprehend the nerve impulses or mental decision to let go. It just happened, as if my mind skipped over the actual command and by the time it realized what had happened it was all over before it began. I'm very glad this is how it happened, as it was really very much the way I wanted to happen. No conscious decision, just me doing something inevitable and right for once.
I have dealt with the "why" of this already, in fact have given it years of aching, personal comfort in my head, so you're not going to see me dwelling on it now. I've put it behind me forever. Though if you must know, and of course you must, then the answer is not impending disease, jail time, or anything else mildly interesting. Simply, it was time.
The fall happens very fast, you know. There's only the rush of air and this absolutely bizarre sense of peace flooding your body. Very overwhelmingly quick, warm, and chemical, it's as if your body has shut down in preparation for the shattering that is to come. Despite the enormity of pavement filling my vision, I just can't make myself care about my pending impact against it.
Gravity being the great attractor that it is, the trip down sixteen stories is only about six or seven seconds, from start to finish - the entire thing began and ended before you even finished reading this sentence.
Well, this is interesting.
My first thought? Surprise at how thick and heated the air outside was in comparison to ours. It was like what existed below was actually hell, and all that stood between us and the foul exhaust of the cesspit below was that few centimeters of glass. Second thought? My first thought was stupid, and I was stupid for thinking it. Look out below New York, I'm getting stupid all over you.
You'll be fascinated to know that I have barely moved from my desk all day. Twice for the bathroom and that's it. My officemate Glenn actually counts how many times I leave the room, but that's just his nature. He's the kind of borderline narcissist that owns his space, really owns it. It's as if it's the only thing he truly posesses in the world.
He's sighing now, you should know (he does this a LOT, it's his favorite form of expression) and trying very hard not to swivel his head towards the window I just opened. Such an acknowledgement, such evidence that I still exist and can affect his world so easily, is not a pleasure that he's going to grant to me. Or to himself, for that matter. Even at this moment, you will observe, he has turned up the industrial music he keeps on his iPod. Another sigh and a shaking of his head towards his monitor screen are the only outward signs he will give to point out that I am disrupting the delicacy of his mad imaginary biosphere.
The irony is that if you don't respond to these non-signals then he gets REALLY upset.
Do you know how tall this window is? Tall. That's all I'm saying. Nearly tall enough for me to stand up in. Its construction is quite mid-modern and unsure of what it's supposed to be preventing or encouraging. Freedom? Space enough for ideas? Thinking outside the box by making that box bigger? You don't want to give the worker too much distraction, that's certainly a consideration. Also you don't want to have them be able to open it, not only because it might aid terrorists somehow (or daring cat burglars), but also because I might climb up onto the inch-thin ledge for reasons that will soon become apparent.
Hey, check it out, Glenn turned his head. I think I heard a few of his neck bones cracking under the strain. There's something about Glenn that you realize after spending a lot of time with him in an isolated room, something really special, and that's how tiny his eyes are. Really, he's like a mole. A mole that updates national mortgage rates for the company database.
I wish you could be feeling the same kind of vertigo I'm undergoing right now. It's like being plunged right back into your single digits, straight through to childhood. That magical portion of your life when you insist on climbing the playground's elaborate playset by the most unconventional means possible. Wedge a foot into this bar, steady yourself with a hanging metal ring, jump up onto the plastic dome and hope your sneakers and hands are grimy enough to stick. All of a sudden someone's boisterous baby boy is on the roof of the slide. Simon get DOWN from there. All too happy to, mother. Just let me get to my feet and I'll make the jump.
Of course, that's not sand below me now, but concrete, and the million treads of people on their way to something. Ordinary yet fascinating folks with a point A, B, and beyond, and a definite destination in mind. Some of them have backpacks on, which is somewhat odd since we're among the highrises of the financial district on the lowest point of Manhattan, but a part of me really digs that kind of quaintness. They are not a part of this environment and damned if they're going to fear it. I hope I don't hit them when I land. Actually, I hope I don't hit anyone, but if I have to hit someone I don't want it to be them.
"What are you doing?", asks Glenn in an accusatory tone that never seems to fall out of grace with him. It's at its most amusing when he's in the break room asking if anyone made coffee. "Decaf? Why did you make decaf?"
I can't answer him now, I'm busy letting the muscles in my arms relax and go jelly-like. I'm also calculating certain things, and at the same time trying to look up instead of down. That's when the vertigo really kicks in...looking up when you know there's little below. The air whips around my face, a vertical river of current escaping the ground as fast as it can. Even looking up from a window ledge on the sixteenth floor you can scan the surrounding spires and skyscrapers. There's a great majesty in the size of these buildings, all of them ending high above me, and in the whole exaggerated scale of a major city.
I don't comprehend the nerve impulses or mental decision to let go. It just happened, as if my mind skipped over the actual command and by the time it realized what had happened it was all over before it began. I'm very glad this is how it happened, as it was really very much the way I wanted to happen. No conscious decision, just me doing something inevitable and right for once.
I have dealt with the "why" of this already, in fact have given it years of aching, personal comfort in my head, so you're not going to see me dwelling on it now. I've put it behind me forever. Though if you must know, and of course you must, then the answer is not impending disease, jail time, or anything else mildly interesting. Simply, it was time.
The fall happens very fast, you know. There's only the rush of air and this absolutely bizarre sense of peace flooding your body. Very overwhelmingly quick, warm, and chemical, it's as if your body has shut down in preparation for the shattering that is to come. Despite the enormity of pavement filling my vision, I just can't make myself care about my pending impact against it.
Gravity being the great attractor that it is, the trip down sixteen stories is only about six or seven seconds, from start to finish - the entire thing began and ended before you even finished reading this sentence.
Well, this is interesting.
posted by greenland at 10:15 PM
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