The Fall of Men

I watch as the man takes one step over the cliff and plummets toward the water like a small rag doll. Falling, his face tips peacefully toward the impending surface until he is parallel to the horizon, and yet I barely flinch as his entire body hits the water with a sickening thud. High above his girlfriend lets forth a piercing scream as the white skin of his shoulders and neck reappears at the surface of the water, his face hidden beneath the small waves.
Should I do something? Probably. I really should. I should do something right now. Probably. Should I stop thinking about this and get in the water? Probably. Probably probably probable.
But with growing apathy, I continue watching from my spot in the canoe. Why his friends dragged him to the top of an 80 foot cliff when he couldn't even manage to move himself on all fours is beyond me. Standing on shore just a few minutes ago as they made their way toward the cliff's base in their red dinghy, I told them. I told them no. I told them what a poor decision it was. I told them that they should leave him in the boat. I told them that they were making a mistake. I told them once, twice, again and again. And yet there they were, telling me to mind my own damn business as they dragged his inebriated body up the rocks and toward the looming danger.
And now here I am, sitting quietly in a canoe large enough to accommodate his body, sitting here quietly questioning what it is to be him, what it is to be me. Questioning his right to be. Maybe I should do something. Maybe I should wait until they've all committed murder. Maybe I should wait, wait here to act as a righteous witness to the death of a perhaps already dead man floating lifelessly in the water. Or maybe I should stop thinking about it, because someone is swimming toward him. It looks like this is everyone's lucky day thanks to someone's sympathy. Standing now in silence, I watch as that someone grabs the man, turns his face out of the water, and struggles back toward the bottom of the cliff with his pallid cargo in tow.
Casting my gaze back up toward the wailing woman beside the only tree on the cliff's lip, its branches hang perilously over the water, like fingers just having released their grip. Images of the man falling just beneath its gangling branches replay over and over again in my mind as they all call for help. And now, with some remaining humanity and the call of duty at my back, I leap again into the water and swim back toward the cliff's base.

Clown Shop: Through the Cellardoor

I wish I didn't know who was here before me, but that's all I can really think about now that I'm here. The paint on the wall to my right is bulging out, as if the inner workings of the house were suffering from an aneurysm. It just needs time. Less time.

"Well, that's your bed there."

Naturally, I had figured that out before he mentioned anything, but I nod my head glumly while I continue gazing at it anyway. I've never seen a bed frame like this one before; it's like a sandbox, but in the place of sand is a sagging mattress.

"Thanks. Not much room under there for my suitcase, is there?"

Taking a seat across from me on his own sagging bedbox, he replies, "Probably not, but there are a few drawers in the closet that slide under there without much problem. But only near the foot and head of the bed."

"Okay."

Some time passes as I consider what I'm going to do to clean this place up. The floor could use sweeping. Moving the beds to be parallel instead of perpendicular would create more floor space. 

Continuing my thoughts out loud, I turn to Joe, "Have you ever thought about moving the table toward the window?"

"No, but we can if you want to. I don't really care either way."

"And we have a broom?"

"Yeah, at the top of the staircase." 

"And it's in reasonable condition? Is there a dust pan?"

"Uh, yeah. I think so."

"Good."

As I turn back toward the window, Joe anxiously interjects before I can continue, "So, do you want to see the rest of the place?"

"Now, be careful whenever you go up or down the stairs in your socks. I've fallen a few more times than I want to admit."

All of the swirling stairs have been painted in a thick blue lacquer which must make them as slick as ice at the right angle.

"I can see why. It's amazing what kind of vertical tunnels can pass for staircases around here."
"Seriously, man. This is ridiculous."

As he steps into the narrow hallway below, Joe proudly announces, "Welcome to the infamous clown shop! Home sweet home!"
Crouching on the bottom step to avoid hitting my head, I try to look up and down the hall approvingly.
"By the way, if you lift the step that you're standing on, you'll find the entrance to the cellar."

"A cellar? Is there anything down there?" I ask while spotting the hinges hidden in a crease right behind my heels.

"I don't know. I've never gone down there."

"Really? Well let's check it out!"

Down on our knees right at the precipice of the stairway's entrance, we slowly pry open the cellar door.

Looking over hesitantly at me, Joe mentions how dark it is down there.

"Yeah, I can't see down there at all either. Hey, Joe, did you know that a famous linguist once said that 'cellardoor' is the most beautiful word in the English language?"

"Really? Who said that?"

"Just some linguist. I forget exactly who."

"But is cellardoor even one word? I thought it was two." 

"Eh, I don't really know. So are you going down there first or am I?"

"You still want to go down there?"

"Sure. I bet there's a light switch nearby."

Swinging my right foot over the threshold and into the darkness, I have to wonder about cellars in this country. I thought it was as good as impossible to have a cellar around here.

"You see a switch yet?"

"I don't see anything, and these walls are damp."

"Damp? Are the walls stone?"

"No. More like old brick from the feel of it, but I'm not really certain."

"Dallin, what about the cell phone? Just use that as a flashlight."

The screen of the cell phone illuminates the walls of the cellar before me. 

Joe's voice echoes down from the top of the stairs, "What do you see?"

"Nothing much. Just a few shelves with what looks like canned fruit."

"Canned fruit? Who does that anymore?"

"No one around here, I would have thought. There's a lot of dust on the jars."

Stepping onto the landing, my foot suddenly becomes soaked. Recoiling, I nearly fall over before grabbing the nearest shelf.

"Yuck! And there are a few inches of water down here too! Forget this, there's nothing down here anyway."

"Whatever you say, man. I'm not coming down there."

Climbing back out into the hallway, Joe asks me what I want to see next: the prop room, the costumes, the dressing room, or our kitchen and bathroom near the back.

"Let's go ahead and start with the props."

"A wise choice, my friend."

Table and Spoon Circles

If I kept a journal, there are a few things that I'd write in it. Perhaps I'd describe the contrast of my couch's pink flower decor in comparison to the dark skin of my roommate's legs as he told me about his country last night. Perhaps I'd write about the brilliant color of an old friend's hair in yesterday's sunlight as we were reunited months after I had to tell her that I couldn't give her what she wanted. Maybe I'd write about the insults that this same friend managed to subtly sling at me with frightening skill and finesse as I stood dumbfounded. Perhaps I'd write about how I smiled in relief as she walked away, knowing that she finally felt better after exacting her premeditated revenge. Maybe I'd write about none of these things, because blogging briefly about them is more than enough.
I drag my thumb along the smooth edge of the table at which I'm sitting. Whenever I'm tasked with choosing where to sit, I always choose the round tables. Maybe I appreciate how nonthreatening they are, but mostly they remind me of the regality of a fictional King Arthur's court. Sean Connery would be proud.
I look up from the table's edge. She's still complaining about work. I shouldn't mind, seeing as how I was the one to ask her how work is these days. And do I expect any true-blooded American to not complain about his or her job? I guess I dug my own grave this time.
At the next break in her story, I interrupt her with the first question that comes to my mind, which for some reason turns out to be: "Do you know what it means to believe in something?"
Taken aback slightly, she quickly says, "Of course I do." I watch as she looks up from the table, her black hair falling nicely beside either side of her face. Our conversation has taken a sudden turn for the more serious, and I'm not sure if I like where it's going with her; she doesn't really seem to know how to answer for herself as she continues, "But I don't see how that's important."
I wonder if she's ever really thought much about the question for herself, but instead I just say, "You're right. It's not that important. I'm not sure why I brought it up."
She eyes me as I innocently savor another bite of my burger. I can see a mark of frustration on her brow. "Okay, but what does it mean to you to believe in something?"
Chuckling, I set the burger back on the table. "To me? That's an ever-changing answer."
"Then give me your current answer."
"Well, if you really believe in something you should feel good about it, and you should trust it. And not because of what anyone else tells you. Be that what it may."
"I guess that makes sense. I've never really thought about it much," she says as if talking to someone else entirely, apparently herself, as we both lean back in our chairs.
Glancing down at the illuminated screen peeking out my pocket, I know that I have to go soon.
She must have noticed, because she makes one more request, "Before you go, have you ever managed to bend a plastic spoon into a complete circle without it breaking?"
"No! Can it actually be done?"
Smiling, she assures me that it can.
"All right, I'll give it a try," I tell her while grabbing the only spoon lying on the table.