Mat Johnson - Pym

The chasm didn’t seem nearly as deep upon return to the site, or nearly as wide. But then I started thinking about having to hang down on a cable into the abyss again and it seemed as scary as it always had. I was already sore from the first attempt, but that was fine because Jeffree ‡eagerly volunteered for the task of trying to rescue the drill this time.

“Ever since we got to Antarctica, the traffic to the blog has started building again. We’re getting more unique hits every day. They love it. Polar adventure. I’m like a super-nigger on ice! The people, they need someone to live through. Trust me, I used to be in roller derby back in the day. People need a hero.”

Even as Jeffree prepared to go down and secure the drill, he managed to create a dramatic air about himself. It was in the beat to his jaunt, the elaborate kufi that covered his bald head, the fact that he let his parka crack open just low enough at the top that his cowrie-shell necklace still affirmed his blackness into the frozen air as his breath turned white before him. Carlton Damon Carter, as always, hung behind. Like Garth, Carlton Damon Carter would not even remove himself from his truck’s driver’s seat. I found Carlton Damon Carter much more intriguing than his louder accomplice, because Carlton Damon Carter seemed to have no need for attention at all. Sure, he kept himself looking dapper, his lightly processed hair sculpted neatly with Dax pomade, but while Carlton Damon Carter clearly took pride in looking attractive, he seemed to feel no need to attract attention from anyone but the protagonist of his own life story, which of course was not Carlton Damon Carter. Even there, staring across the distance through his truck’s frosted window, I could see that Carlton Damon Carter sat preparing his camera equipment to focus on what really mattered to him.

“Looks like you didn’t fuck it up too bad” was Captain Booker Jaynes’s estimation on seeing the drill below. With that blunt assessment I felt better; the fact that it was Jeffree who was attaching the climbing harness through his legs and not me added to my mood. In that moment the earlier vision of the white shrouded figure, the stress of the initial accident, it all began to dissipate. Melt away, just like we hoped none of the snow that surrounded us ever would. My obsession was starting to scare me. It was leaping off the pages of the old manuscript and into my real world. That thing I saw was either real or a sign of just how advanced my mania had become. Back now, though, was the ever present mundane. We would get the drill, we would fix the damn thing, we would keep going. Back on TV and in reality, the world would not end, and just like all the other unrest, this spike would gain a vague name and be sectioned off into the land of anecdote. I would address my obsessions, and no longer let delusions of massive pale monsters get the better of me.

When Carlton Damon Carter finally arrived on the scene with his video camera and lights ready, Jeffree prepared to begin the rescue. He made a big deal about going down the hole too; despite the wind blowing as it did, ruffling the fabric in our hoods, further muffling our hearing, it was possible to hear his generous sighs and huffs. Even at the time of his complaints, I knew enough about Jeffree to know that he would be bragging about this later, replaying the clips of it on the computer for us even though we’d been here to see it happen. The man was physically built for this. Even through his parka the thickness of his arms was visible. I had never seen Jeffree lift weight one, and yet there the muscles were. §

“Rock and roll, baby. Time to get all action star out here.” Jeffree was smiles before this jump. Captain Booker Jaynes, his hood and hat removed, his dreads so many silver snakes dancing in the wind, tested the suspension line for him, giving it a tug for attention. “No cowboy bullshit. Go down slow, hook the pulley to the frame. Gentle, clean, easy.”

“Don’t worry, it’s going to be easy,” Jeffree responded, looking down at his target. Then to the camera.

“You hit the ledge with your full weight and you’re going to knock the rifler off the shelf and send it in an avalanche another twenty feet down,” I warned.

“I’m like a cat. Let me show you how a real man gets it done,” Jeffree responded, pointing at me with the last sentence. Then with a smile and a salute, not even looking down or over into the crater, he quickly jumped up and flew down. Standing on the opposite lip beside Jaynes, I watched Jeffree slide in a quick, smooth, and effortless glide. Then I watched him hit the drill so damn hard when he landed that he set the whole thing in a secondary avalanche, falling another twenty feet down. Angela screamed. ‖Carlton Damon Carter kept the camera on and focused.

“I’m okay, didn’t break anything,” Jeffree yelled, but the weak cracking of his voice betrayed him. “Least I don’t think,” he retracted.

Captain Jaynes had two gloves over two calloused hands over his one face. He was breathing heavily; I could see the mist shoot clouds between his fingers. “Ig’nant ass fools,” he said, which I felt was a bit rude, but Jeffree was so far down he wasn’t hearing anything.

“Yo, Chris, you got some big-ass feet,” Jeffree quickly followed. I could still see him from where I stood, brushing himself off, trying hurriedly to regain his jovial persona. I had small feet. I wasn’t going to yell that down on account of the myth, but I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Before I could respond, Jeffree offered, “I thought you said you didn’t come down here? You got your big-ass boot tracks all over the snow.”

“I didn’t go down there,” I yelled immediately, looking to Captain Jaynes, largely to make sure he knew that Garth and I hadn’t been just goofing off this time. But I hadn’t gone down there. Leaning forward to peer over the edge for a moment, besides Jeffree’s dark form, now covered in powder as he stood by the rifler, I saw footprints as well. They were like little craters, oblong, in a pattern that suggested the gait of a biped.

“Hey, this is wild. You got to come see this. You got to take a look at this, Chris Jaynes. Carlton, you got to get a shot of this.” Jeffree was getting really excited now. You could tell, because for once he didn’t sound as if he was reading lines off of a teleprompter.

I turned to Captain Jaynes, showing too much excitement before the first word, because he knew where I was going.

“Look,” my older cousin interrupted me. “I don’t want to hear none of that snow honky bullshit, you hear? We got reality to worry about. Real issues, real money. I don’t want to hear any of your dead ofay book theories, conspiracies, or anything else.” Captain Jaynes raised his head to address Carlton Damon Carter and the Lathams, who were only now deeming the event worth coming out of their own truck’s heated cab. “And I don’t want anyone else hearing your nonsense either. We’re going to suspend down there, get our drill out of the snowball it’s stuck in, and then we’re done here. Not another word.”

So I didn’t offer one. Not as we attached our own harness gear around our waists and between our thighs. Not as we dangled slowly in the air into the hole and carefully controlled the slack as we drifted down. I didn’t offer to say anything, not even after our feet touched firmly on packed ice, and I looked over at Jeffree, who was standing on top of the drill’s snow-encased carcass where it rested against the wall, staring into the space around us. As I looked around, they did seem to be real footprints — an observation I made quickly and while Captain Jaynes was busy disengaging himself from his line. The spacing of the holes was a bit wide for footprints, but it was consistent.