Ronald Malfi - The Ascent

We dream-waltzed through lush lands, past fenced-in yards populated by suicidal-looking chickens and land crabs captive in pens, which ate nothing but grain in order to cleanse the badness from their noncomplex systems before becoming meals. In parts, it was a city of somnambulists: the shambling, drunken-eyed swivel of puppet necks outside every whitewashed tavern with pictures of naked young girls pinned above the bar showing gap-toothed smiles. Saw-toothed, spade-shaped flora waved at us at every turn. The skeletons of rusted automobiles snared in mountainous ruts, the green veiling of trees, fences of fronds, and all the wet and dark places that smelled of some indeterminate amphibious odor.

On our last full night in San Juan, after a bout of acrobatic love-making, I left Hannah curled up in bed and met Andrew at one of his favorite bars by the bay. A number of empty glasses stood before him on the bar, and when he turned to look at me, his eyes were like the headlamps of an eighteen-wheeler.

“It’s your last night, Overleigh.” A tannin-hued hand clamped down on my shoulder. The glow of the gas lamps prompted shadows to caper across his face. “Tonight will be the flight of all flights.”

We’d spent every evening jumping blindly from cliffs along the bay. This night, however, we taxied across the island, the looming silhouette of the Sierra de Luquillo now at our backs, and were dropped off at a slope of beach covered in dark, reflective stones. To our left,a sheer cliff, black as a thousand midnights and like the rampart of a castillo , rose into the night sky.

As the taxi lumbered away through the brush, I gazed at the wall of rock. “Where’s the path to get up there?”

“There is no path. We climb.”

“Are you kidding me? That’s impossible.”

“Nothing,” Andrew said, removing his sneakers, “is impossible.”

I took several steps backward, still staring at the vertical face of the cliff, until my feet were lapped by the surf.

“Take your shoes off,” Andrew said. “It’ll be easier to dig into the rock. Besides, there’s too much moss on these stones. The soles of your sneakers would slip right off.”

“You’re out of your mind—do you know that?” But I was already following Andrew’s lead, pulling off my shoes and tossing them farther up the beach and out of reach of the surf. “We’re both gonna die here tonight.”

“No.” Andrew stood beside the face of the cliff, his hands planted on his hips, looking straight up. His white linen shirt was unbuttoned and billowed in the cool breeze. “Not tonight.”

The climb began slow and arduous. There was little talk, as much of our concentration was limited to the climb. Finding hand-and footholds was tough at first—the niches were either too small or the protruding fingers of stone too thick—but I soon got the hang of it. Halfway up the face of the cliff, I could feel the muscles straining at the back of my legs, my heart galloping at a steady pace, and the ebb and flow of my breath coming in syncopated rhythm.

Only once did I pause to glance over my shoulder, and that was when I nearly lost it. The world tilted to one side, and the tremendous expanse of water, black like velvet covered in glittering jewels, seemed to rush up and claim me. My muscles tensed.

An instant later, Andrew’s fingers wrapped around my wrist. “Don’t look down.”

“Yeah.” I directed my eyes back against the wall of rock. Closed them briefly to recalibrate. Opened them.

“Never look down. Come on.”

He ascended steadily and I followed, shinnying ratlike up the vertical face. Still, the top seemed very far away.

“She’s a good girl,” Andrew said as I came up beside him. “You’re a lucky guy.”

“Thank you. And, yes, I am.”

“Would it be …?” He paused, swinging out to grasp an overhanging finger of stone. He pulled himself up, his toned legs following. “Would it be too much of a cliché if I were to threaten you with her well-being? You know, the jaded male friend locking horns with the new guy?”

“It would be a cliché,” I said, “but I appreciate the sentiment. I love Hannah very much.”

“I would hope so.” He climbed faster now, his arms working like machinery, the tendons in his ankles popping with each pivot of the joints.

Something flashed within me, sending a jolt of adrenaline coursing through my system like a fire through an old warehouse. I kicked it into high gear and matched Andrew inch for inch. Together we pulled the cliff down into the earth and brought the summit closer to our fingertips.

“You’ve got … a lot of willpower,” Andrew breathed.

Beside him, I said, “What’s the matter? Can’t you keep up?”

“I’m keeping up … just fine …”

Gritting my teeth, my fingers growing numb, I advanced up the face of the cliff but could not outdistance him. Goddamn it.

“Takes … a man … to make it to the top,” Andrew said.

“I know what it takes,” I growled. My arms quivered; my muscles ached. Still, I climbed. “Would it be too much of a cliché … to have me beat you to … the top?”

“Never … happen,” Andrew wheezed. Amazingly, he began to climb harder and faster, leaving me in his wake. It was almost preternatural. He clambered up the side of the cliff, issuing grunts and groans as his muscles surrendered under the strain.

I refused to surrender. I pushed myself, feeling the burn throughout my body, that great warehouse conflagration no longer a detriment but rather a source of energy— use the pain . I could see nothing but the top of the cliff just a few feet above: my goal.

“Shit,” Andrew groaned.

We both climbed over the cliff at exactly the same time. My heart like a jackhammer in my chest, I didn’t pause to collect my breath. I scrambled quickly to my feet and, like lightning arching toward the earth from a bank of clouds, tore out across the grassy plateau toward the opposite end of the cliff.

Andrew was right beside me, his bare feet smashing potholes in the dirt. He let loose his linen shirt, which was lifted by the wind and carried out across the bay. I peeled off my T-shirt and tossed it into oblivion, still running. Our finish line was the opposite end of the plateau; the winner would be the first to sail over the abyss. I pushed harder, passing him. The bastard might be able to beat me in climbing, but he wasn’t going to outrun me. Not by a long shot—

“Coming up on you, Overleigh!” He suddenly appeared beside me, a locomotive of white, ghostly flesh, his legs pumping like pistons through the reeds.

I could feel the sweat freezing on my skin, could feel the icy pull of tears trailing across my temples. The edge of the cliff rushed to meet me. With one final strain—a grunt, a childlike cry—I leapt over the edge just milliseconds before Andrew. Arms flailing, legs cycling through the air, I gulped down fresh oxygen and held it in as the frigid waters rushed up at breakneck speed to swallow me whole.

An hour before daylight, I climbed into bed beside Hannah.

“Hmm,” she moaned softly.

“He’s a strange guy,” I said.

“Are you talking to me?” Her voice was groggy with sleep. “Are you some stranger in my bed talking to me?”

I rolled over and kissed up and down her ribs, her neck. Hannah told me I smelled like the ocean, and I promised her that I’d already showered.

“Just how friendly were you two in college, anyway?” I asked after a while.

“Who? Andrew?”

“Who else?”

“In other words, you’re asking if we slept together?”

“I would consider that pretty friendly, yes.”

“I thought you were stronger than that.”

“What does that mean?”