The Fall

- So I guess this is how it ends. I wonder if this is how he felt when it happened...

He was feeling faint, and had been forced to come to a stop. Now even with his sunglasses on, the light was blinding. A prematurely yellow leaf fallen on the asphalt trail was beginning to turn bright white, as was the sun-bleached grass nearby. In sharp contrast, the trail was a featureless black. The scene was quite remarkable- even stunning- despite the busy freeway in the distance. Was this the bright light they talked about just before the End?

“Please. You don’t believe in that bullshit!”

Blown highlights, and loss of shadow detail, he mused, thinking of times when he had tried to capture a high-contrast scene on his camera. The result never quite turned out like the Ansel Adams photograph he had hoped for. Instead, like many others, it was consigned to the simulacrum of a trashcan at the bottom of the screen.

A few months ago, he had taken an urgent trip to see a family member who had suddenly taken ill. He reached there a few days after the events transpired, and upon his arrival, he had been single-handedly responsible for (or guilty of) casting a sullen pragmatism over the pall that already existed. It was touch-and-go for several weeks after he left, and he didn’t know if the cloud ever lifted. He knew that he had probably alienated many people with his dire projections, and probably several more with his bluntness. After all, this was what he did; his niche, and he didn’t feel the need to apologize for honesty. He had studied about this exact situation, practiced it, taught it, used it in his daily decisions, used it to discuss prognosis with family members. On the flight over, he had read and re-read reams of papers about the dismal statistics, the evidence, the prognosis, and the outcomes.

He had noticed that bench every time he rode past it. It had been conveniently placed there in the shade of those birch trees, but it was far from any trailhead or park. He had often wondered who would want to sit there- it wasn’t a particularly pretty part of the trail. He figured they had probably put it there for that very reason. He imagined the view from it- most likely the freeway with its never-ending blur of vehicles. The occasional occupant was usually a solitary homeless man. He could tell by the sun-scorched, drawn face, worldly possessions all contained in a tattered backpack, spirit visibly missing. But now his head was swimming. He just had to sit down.

He carefully dismounted, making sure he didn’t hit the ground doing it. After all, the ignominy of being found sprawled face-down in those god-awful tights was worse than the very real possibility that he would have to call for help. He couldn’t imagine the fuss that would ensue- he was at least a mile away from any exit point. God, he hated a fuss… He hoped that when they placed him on the gurney, they would appreciate the fact that he didn’t look like a moving advertisement for a sportswear company. He had always joked that he looked like an ugly hooker in those clothes- especially when he had to dismount and walk in those goddamn stiff-soled shoes. There was apparently even an acronym for it- ‘M.A.M.I.L- middle-aged man in Lycra’. Mercifully today instead of the garish stuff, he had put on a newly acquired jersey- mostly black and advertising one of his favorite single-malt whiskeys, no less.

“Dammit, stop being a drama-queen!”

He sat down, and instinctively placed two fingers on the opposite wrist. He couldn’t feel anything. He tried again, moving his fingers around. It hurt like hell, but he couldn't feel anything there. Then he tried the other wrist- nothing but the searing pain. His training kicked in, and he remembered that if he couldn’t feel the radial pulse, his blood pressure was probably less than 80. He ran his hands over his chest, and that hurt like hell too. It was very hard to breathe. Had he broken some ribs? Punctured his lung? Contused his chest? He could only think of the possibilities, but had no way to confirm or refute any of his theories. Knowing too much was a curse, especially when little could be done about it. He took a few minutes, methodically analyzed all this, and felt relieved by the fact that at least his brain was still getting what it needed.

“Are you kidding yourself? You’re thinking about heaven, and seeing bright lights, and you can barely stand, let alone ride. You think your brain is really getting perfused?”

He had called her about an hour ago, and told her about what had happened. It had taken only a few seconds to occur, but he went down pretty hard. She had asked if she should come pick him up, but he didn’t want to scare her, and so he said no. That would have been the biggest kick in the nuts, to have to be bailed out. Plus, at the time, he felt it was more insult than injury, and he wanted to keep pushing on. After all, the morning had started on a high note, and so far, he had done more than he ever thought possible. He had also serendipitously met a kindred soul on the trail. They had discussed photography, immigration, politics, and even the ever-persistent proselytization that was a fact of life in this place. Hell, how many times in this country did one ever do that after meeting someone for the fifth time, let alone the first?

His mind raced back to the trip. He had half-expected to tonsure his head before he returned. It was just something that his people did in such situations, and had probably done for generations. He was after all, a descendant of priests. Even though he had no use for the rituals surrounding it, he decided that if the situation arose, he would do it of his own volition- if for no other reason than to efface his own ego. And then, slowly, the man woke up, and quite literally walked out of it all. While he was relieved to have been wrong, he was also conflicted about the uncertainty of his craft. 

What was the cliché? – ‘Sometimes it's more about the Art, and less about the Science…’ 

A few days ago, there had been a long distance phone call. On the other end was a startlingly normal voice... 

He threw his head back on the bench, his strength drained. He even considered lying down and taking a short nap. But he remembered those scenes from the old war movies, those ones where the ‘eternal sleep’ overcame people in shock who laid down to take a nap, and so he resisted. He gulped down some water, then a little more, until nothing remained. He wished he had taken a few more bottles. 

“Please stop with the self-pity and doubt, and give yourself a few minutes. You are not going to die!”

By the time he came to, several minutes had probably passed by, and the dazzling light had begun to fade. The scene had started to lose its high-contrast. He started to perceive the detail in the asphalt, even noticing some of the smaller cracks. He suddenly became aware that music was still playing in his earphones. He had probably not turned it off earlier. It was that Swedish ambient group whose music he liked, especially this song, a deeply meditative piece. He was always intrigued by the song’s title- Betula pendula- the botanical name of the silver birch tree. It invariably made him deeply introspective, and it soothed him whenever he was stuck in rush-hour traffic. He looked around and at the trail again. The leaf had now blown away.

He restarted the song and turned up the volume to take his mind off the painful ride ahead. Getting back on the saddle, he started to pedal tentatively. Everything hurt. After what seemed like an eternity, he reached the car. He eased himself into the seat, pulled his phone out of his pocket, and looked at the stats.

43. 

A personal best...

But he was shaken from the fall, and he knew something was broken. He just couldn’t tell what...