Judy Budnitz - Flying Leap

But I have only begun to strip down; I am peeling myself like a complicated fruit and leaving the husks in his path. So many layers: scrapings of makeup, blobs of cellulite, breast implants like two clear disks of Jell-O. Scars, tattoos, an IUD.

Now I begin to pluck out the deeper things, which grate against my bones and aggravate my stomach. The things that fester in my cramping brain. Barbed memories, secret thoughts, hairy hands, thickened skin, dirty secrets whispered drunk late at night. Abortions, braces, blood tests. I am plucking these things out with tweezers; I am throwing them down in a flood of tears and mucus and menstrual blood. Here I am: This is my pure center, the fruit’s core, the inner nugget.

Down here in the luggage hold, I am unloading my own personal baggage and strewing it at his feet. And he—at the sight of this blinding nakedness, this shocking intimacy—flees, howling.

He races away, and I chase after him, scratching at his back with rough-bitten nails. He tosses the gun aside and vaults up the ladder. I follow after him, wild and cackling.

We dash through the cabin, past rows of surprised faces. The hijacker is raising his hands in surrender. I run faster; I am nearly upon him.

Then the shoe salesman leaps to his feet. He sticks his foot into the aisle and trips up the hijacker, who falls flat. I am running too fast to stop. I plow straight into the shoe man, who catches me in his arms. The passengers applaud wildly. He pushes me aside and plants a foot on the hijacker’s rump.

I look down and see that I am no longer naked. I am as I was before—sheathed, concealed; only bits of my clothing are missing. Passengers crowd around. The heroic shoe man nods and beams, accepting high fives and slaps on the back. The captain awards him an airline pin. Children beg for autographs.

I twist about, trapped in the crush. My blouse pops open and men are staring at my breasts. The stewardesses are passing out free cocktails. People are dancing around with oxygen masks on their heads for party hats, the elastic straps beneath their chins. The plane dives and loops; people raise their hands and whoop as if they’re on a roller coaster. The in-flight movie begins. I’m blinded by dancing colors. “You’re blocking the screen!” somebody yells. The passengers cheer as the opening credits scroll across my chest.

Framed in the window is a sunset, with the words The End sketched across the sky.

And then suddenly there is a whooosh , a great blast of air as the hatch is opened. Everyone turns to stare. The twelve Girl Scouts, fully equipped with parachutes and helmets, spring out into the air. They’re looking ahead, squinting, sunlight glinting on their braces. They float down two by two, holding hands. Sailing free and brave in the wide-open sky.

This is a city of many faces. It folds itself into dark corners. It stretches out its fingers of neon signs and asphalt. It unrolls itself like a magic carpet. It changes from day to day. It had a heart that beats in the center, though no one knows where the center is. This is a city of paths and destinations. A hundred thousand people make their way through the maze. Their paths meet and cross; they leave their trails of broken hearts and bread crumbs behind them. They think their ways are secret, their desires unknown. But they are like the ants in an ant farm: Anyone watching from above can see exactly where they are going and where they have been.

Mr. and Mrs. Clark stand on a street corner. They are looking for the Theater District. They are visiting their daughter here in the city for the first time. They are to meet her for an evening show. She had offered to make arrangements for them, but Mr. Clark said, “What? Do you think we’re senior citizens already? We can take care of ourselves, thank you.” But now they are lost; they have wandered far from their hotel and the streets are unfamiliar. The boys playing on the sidewalk speak in foreign tongues. Some have no shirts; some have no shoes. Mr. Clark has a thick red neck. He is perspiring a bit. Mrs. Clark clutches his arm, not because she loves him but because her new shoes are too tight. Now Mr. Clark looks for a cab, then tries to make sense of the street signs. Mrs. Clark tries to ask directions of the boys. They laugh and call her “fat lady” in their own language, but she understands anyway. She turns away from them, lips trembling, and says, “We’re going to miss it, aren’t we? We’re going to miss the show.”

You’re lost. Or you’re looking for something. You’re trying to find your way. You turn a corner, then another—no, that’s not it. The streets all look the same, but they change their stripes as soon as you turn your back. You need a guide; you need a map. You walk with your collar turned up and your chin sunk in. The sun’s going down, the streets are empty, and it’s getting later and later. The something that you’re looking for is waiting for you to find it, but it won’t wait forever.

Gordon sits on the examining table in his underwear and a paper robe. His feet are very, very cold. “I’m sorry,” says the doctor. “I have some bad news.” “Yes,” says Gordon. The doctor shows him shadowy pictures of his insides. The doctor points to this dark splotch and that one, and tells him a long, dull story about the microscopic things in his blood. “I see,” says Gordon. “I’m sorry,” says the doctor. Gordon says, “How long do I have?” “According to the statistics, you have about five to ten years. But they could be wrong.” “Five years. Five years,” says Gordon. “Five years or fifty thousand miles, is that it? Is that my warranty?” The doctor has no sense of humor. He is a bald man, all business. Gordon looks with envy at the doctor’s bald head. Then he puts on his clothes and leaves. Outside, the receptionist tells him that his fly is undone. She is white-haired and wrinkled. Gordon looks covetously at the wrinkles in her face, the soft folds of her neck, and her twisted fingers.

This city wakes and stretches itself like a cat. New neighborhoods spring up overnight like tropical jungles. Old neighborhoods die majestically, slowly sinking to their knees in the muck like dying dinosaurs. The old theaters are the last to go, the gilded palaces filled with ghosts of music. They groan and settle and expire with a wheeze, and then there is only dust.

Natalie is a practical girl. Not about money or everyday things. She is practical with her heart. When she loves, she does it efficiently and well. Her heart is reliable. She has two arms and two legs and her hair is red. Just yesterday she lost something. She lost it to a man she thought she loved, and then afterward he put his hand on her thigh in a proprietary way and told her about his wife. Most girls would have slapped and cried, to have lost what she did, to a man like that. But not Natalie. She is a practical girl. She put on her shoes and she put on her coat, and she went out into the street and started walking. And she’s still walking today. She’s searching. She’s a practical girl—she lost something and now she’s going to get it back. “I’ll find it,” she says, “I’ll find what he took from me.”

You’re still looking. You’ll never find it. You know it’s here somewhere, but this city keeps teasing and changing in the corner of your eye. You’re about to give up—but then you look up from the sidewalk and there it is—the map shop, wedged in between the skyscrapers. It’s there waiting for you. Low, sagging, with a mansard roof like a hat pulled low on the brow. MAPS—GUIDEBOOKS—DIRECTIONS reads the sign. What a coincidence, you say to yourself, that it should be right here, right when I need it.