Mat Johnson - Drop

‘My neck’s ticklish,’ she said, staring up at me. I helped her rise off the ground.

Looking around, we were all standing there, the whole neighborhood. People were talking, nodding their heads, people were brushing themselves off.

‘Is everyone okay?’ I yelled. All present seemed to think so. A group inspection showed there was nobody left on the ground, nobody hiding in the bushes, nobody left bleeding in a car that we didn’t know about. First-floor apartment windows opened and everyone was fine in there, too. Nobody seemed to know who the guy was shooting at, but whoever that was had disappeared like the rest of the madness. And in its place were smiles. Wherever people had been hurrying to go five minutes before was forgotten. Giggles and grins. A block party without music or potato salad, just us celebrating being alive. It was like we all hit the numbers at the same time.

‘Now that’s a good omen!’ the elderly woman said smiling, retying her scarf around her head. She danced up and down as she did it. When her bonnet was set, I handed her my flowers. She smiled so big that the top row of her dentures fell down, clacking for me. Chris Jones, the recluse, for once so proud to play the part of the Philadelphia Negro.

The pop pop had finally come to me and still I was standing. Not just alive, but standing, calm, watching the dust return to rest. Look at me, not even sweating on this humid afternoon. I was unshakable; I was. I was invincible. I was determined. So I was fireworks bound.

Near sunset, I got off the number 34 trolley alone, joining the current of pedestrians marching north towards the Art Museum, protected only by a T-shirt and shorts and the camera that hung before me. Together, we, the city, walked to the Parkway, feeling as if the clouds were boiling, our clothes heavy with sweat. T-shirts that would be outdated by tomorrow and flags that would be forgotten even before then, left as litter for someone getting paid overtime to pick up.

Legions of temporary nomads trudging forward in the spaces between traffic-stricken cars, the screams of drunks and infants and the overwhelming feeling that something was about to happen, something good, something free. Amateur arsonists letting bottle rockets fly over the crowd by lighting the fuse and launching them from their hands, toddlers staring at the tin sparklers they held, fantasizing about eating the flame. Cops on bikes glided down 22nd Street towards the action, their tight blue butts hanging over the seats. As they coasted, they tapped on car doors and told young men to turn their music down, trying to bring peace in the battles of sound. Yam-skinned man canvassed out on the corner of 24th and Waverly, smiling and putting his hand forward like a Tuesday morning politician, waving at children, dancing to whatever rhythm was loudest to his ears. ‘Hot!’ he said to me when I passed. If they packaged whatever fire burned in his skull, we’d be addicted to that, too.

The Parkway is a full mile of wide street and grassland separating the lanes, its main road lined with flags of every nation worth arguing about, colored banners I used to stare at as a child and wonder if they existed beyond names. At the end of the street, making the whole thing look like an emperor’s driveway, sits the Art Museum. That’s where I was headed. A public palace complete with Greek pillars as thick as redwoods and steps so wide they seem to invite the entire city to climb them simultaneously. By the time my section of crowd poured out onto the Parkway, the museum’s orange stone was illuminated in floodlights, its majesty accentuated by the fact that it was deserted and the street before it was heavily packed with worshipers. That’s where the fireworks would be coming out of, so that’s where I kept walking. When the flow of the crowd died I continued to charge on, armed with a sharp elbow and endless self-pardons.

Two blocks from my target, the crowd had compacted into a sweaty wall, people packed so tight they couldn’t move their arms or balance themselves if they were falling. The cops had us jammed in like this, stuck on the grass partitions. They were clearing the roads for ambulances and important people. It was hard to see anything but heads. Short folks and children were scampering up shoulders, lampposts, and telephone poles. Standing confidently on streetlight boxes until mounted police rode up and told them, on eye level, to get down. I wasn’t short but that’s what I needed to do: climb up, get a vantage point, somewhere I could not only get a clear view of the festivities but also some good overhead shots of the crowd. Through pushes and will, I made it to the side barrier, ducking underneath the wooden horse when the cop closest wasn’t looking. When he turned around, I was already walking towards him to ask how I could get back to the press booth. Nodding, he pointed me down the street towards my goal.

I made it all the way to Eakins Circle, directly across from the Art Museum steps, when the PA system started announcing tonight’s celebration. The sky was as black as North Philly. On the podium, a local diva was reinterpreting ‘The Star Spangled Banner,’ prancing about the notes, determined to make the song hers. I tried getting a shot (maybe I could dish it off to her publicist later in exchange for cash), but the crowd wouldn’t spread for me. I still needed higher ground; there was a fountain about thirty yards away I started pushing towards.

Its ornate bottom was shaped like a square, a life-size copper animal guarding every corner. Each beast was currently being ridden by spectators who’d had the foresight to arrive earlier than me. At the center of the monument, atop a massive granite podium, sat George Washington on his perpetually trotting horse, its metal muscles bulging from the weight it would continually bear. Besides George, the space went unclaimed. I could get shots of everything from up there.

Climbing into the fountain’s dried basin, I pushed through bodies as the crowd continued to condense in anticipation. At the base of Washington’s podium, it was clear why it went unclaimed. The bastard had to be fifteen feet high. The singing had stopped; the mayor was talking; it wouldn’t be long now. I had to get up there. My only chance was a waterspout further along the side, an old painted thing that probably didn’t even work any more. It looked solid: it stuck out about two feet from the ground. This was it, this would be my final victory.

The crowd around the pipe spread for me once it realized I was about to do something stupid. Using the yard of space I had as a runway, I thrust forward. My left foot landed squarely on the spout’s top, my calf coiled and aching to be sprung. In an instant, a leg that was bent shot into straight rigidity. I was flying. My hands reaching upward, my body stretching so fiercely that sections of my vertebrae no longer connected. Higher I floated, the distant pedestal above becoming close, feasible, nearly in my hands. And then it was becoming distant again, as far away as Brixton, moving more beyond my capacity the further I fell to the ground. Landing, my feet stung, Alex’s camera banged hard against my chest. I tried again. Up. Down. I tried again. Up. Down. I tried again. Too dumb to stop. Certain that my ancestors would witness my struggle, bless me with the gift of flight.

‘Yo cuz, you need a boost.’ He was a short brother, muscular. Behind him his girlfriend seemed annoyed he had offered to touch me. In three seconds, I thanked him so many times he already regretted his offer. My booster cradled his hands and leaned against the stone for balance as I stepped into his palms. Up, up, I was reaching. Still a good six feet away but getting better. The strong little bastard was pushing me higher as I balanced myself against the granite, lifting his hands from his waistline to his shoulders. I could hear him grunting over the noise of the crowd. Above us, all my fingers twinkled for something to hold on to. General Washington remained in his saddle, motionless and nonplused. Wedging my foot against the wall and bending his knees for support, booster had pushed me above his own head now. He was a superhero. The crowd had turned from the mayor’s final words and it was booster they were watching. Two hands over his head, his arms trembling, balancing my one sneaker in his palms. I almost didn’t care that I was still about three feet from touching the top. There was a great view from here; maybe he could just hold me for an hour till the fireworks were over. Maybe we could walk like this home together.