Don't Think, Just Do It!

             

                 Dan pressed an eye to the camcorder's viewfinder, aimed the lens up at me, and flashed the thumbs up.  I vaulted each leg carefully over the railing of the rusty fire-escape, holding on for dear life, as I gazed down at the dumpster below.  Dan had thrown both lids open, and inside, it was stuffed to the brim with putrid bags of garbage. 

                "Hey, man" I called down, "I'm not so sure about this.  I didn't realize how high it was..."

                The distance between my feet and the concrete below was no less than 20-feet.  I ball-parked it closer to 25, but Dan maintained a casual insistence that I'd be perfectly safe jumping from a height of up to 30-feet.  Once I was up there, though, just the 20 was giving me vertigo.  Leaping off some guy's front porch into his shrubbery was simple enough, but if I missed my mark here, I was in real trouble. 

                Dan turned the camera off, annoyed with my hesitation. "Listen, man," he snapped. "I'm not trying to force you into anything here.  I mean, we agreed that it'll look hilarious on tape, and it's not even that high, but if you're not up to it, just get down here and take the camera, so I can jump.  We don't have all day." 

                Reverse psychology was the first tactic Dan resorted to the instant I expressed reluctance to perform some perilous stunt that he'd cooked up.  I could always tell when he was working the angle on me, but on the occasions I'd actually punk out, Dan always stepped to the plate.  The bit would turn out funnier than hell, and I'd spend the rest of the day full of regret for not mustering the gusto to perform the stunt myself.  

                I shook my head and waved him off.  Focus on the dumpster again, I calculated my trajectory, and squared up my intended landing zone.  It felt like staring into the jaws of some hungry beast, and there I was readying to fling myself right down its throat.
                Once again, Dan queued the camcorder and pointed it skyward.  Grinning, he flashed me the thumbs up, and I steadied myself.  Sweat beaded at my temples as I leaned further away from the railing.  I took a deep, meditative breath, and tried to clear my mind.
                Ready to let go in: 3...2...1...
               Without warning, the Exit door crashed open behind me, and I felt the wind as it whipped by and slammed heavily against the brick wall.  

                "HEY, KID! STOP!" demanded an angry voice. "WHAT THE FUCK YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!" 

                As I whirled to face the voice, I lost my grip on the railing.  A sickening wave of horror washed over me, as gravity pulled me away from the fire-escape.  My world seemed to slow as I grasped for something to hold on to but managed only a fistful of air. Something like a yelp escaped my lips. Then, I was plummeting towards the pavement...

                I had really expected to die, but Lady Luck had designs on keeping me around awhile longer.  So, instead of in Hell, I came to neck deep in a mound of bulging Hefty bags.  The acrid aroma of hot garbage had never smelt so sweet. Buzzing flies and half-consumed food scraps and rotted organic refuse coalesced all around me and I was in no hurry to be anyplace else.  I was so relieved to be alive, I wanted to splash around in it, and make garbage-angels.  

                "CHRIS!" Dan screamed, rushing up to the lip of the dumpster.  "Are you OK?! Talk to me!"

                "I'm fine," I called.  "No worse for the wear.  Please tell me you got all that?"

                "Oh, you better believe it.  I got it alright."  He started laughing hysterically.  "Wait'll you see it, man.  You're gonna fucking die!"

                "I'm pretty sure I almost did."

                The owner of the restaurant on the first floor was coming for us down the alley.  Huge, red-faced, and enraged.

                Dan stuck the camera in his backpack, caught me under the armpits, and dragged me up to the lid of the dumpster.  My clothes were soaked in rancid garbage-juice.  Flies orbited.  Dan nearly retched and turned his face away.  "Let's fucking go!" he cried.  "That son-of-a-bitch looks pissed!"

                I swung my legs over the lip, and jumped to the ground just as the owner began racing toward us. 

                "Jesus, what the fuck does he want?!" I screamed.

                "I don't know, but I don't think we want to find out!  RUN!" 

                Dan turned and dashed off across the PNC Bank parking lot at the other end of the alley.  I was right with him; sucking wind, glancing over my shoulder as we distanced ourselves from the restaurant owner.  But he was already doubled over, panting in the alley not twenty paces past the dumpster.    

                A few blocks later, we passed a quaint little house with a shed in the backyard that looked like a miniature barn.  The shed had a slate-shingled roof and was painted a dark shade of red.  Surrounding it on three sides were voluminous hedgerows sheared into green cubes.  Dan and I spotted them at the same time, and moved toward the shed.  Dan was already unzipping his backpack and firing up the camera. 

                "You wanna take the honors, or should I?" he asked casually.

                "She's all yours, cowboy.  I'm still a bit tense from the dumpster-dive.  How're you gonna get on top of the shed, though?"

                We strolled right across the tidy lawn as if it were our own, and stood before the shed, sizing it up.  

                "Ya know what, just gimme a boost," he said, "Pretty sure I can pull myself the rest of the way up, if ya gimme a boost."

                He placed the camcorder gently on top of his backpack, and I dropped to one knee and interlocked my fingers.  Dan stepped onto my palms, using them like a step-ladder, to grab hold of the edge of the roof.  He scrambled up onto the shingles and dusted off his hands.

                I wiped mine off on my shirt, and collected the camera. "Nicely done, Dude McGruder. Are you ready?"

                He nodded, steadied himself, and got into position.    

                I flashed him the thumbs up, aimed the camera at him, and zoomed in, while Dan stared into the lens with a dramatic intensity. 

                "DON'T THINK!" he yelled before he leapt, "JUST DO IT!" 

                He hung in the air for a moment before his entire body was swallowed up by the shrubbery. It looked like he had leapt into a giant, green Jell-O mold.  I could hear limbs snapping as he swam and thrashed to free himself, but he was trapped.  The shrubs held him tight, suspended about a foot from the ground. All I could see of him were his hands, which were just barely sticking out the top of the bushes. 

                He started to scream. "Help!  HELP!  I can't get out!  I'm trapped!  You gotta help me, man, I'm TRAPPED!"

                There was genuine alarm in his voice; it rose an octave, then cracked.  He was becoming hysterical.

                I kept the camera rolling; taking smooth steps around the shrubbery, capturing his struggle from a variety of angles and perspectives.  Occasionally, one of Dan's hands would burst through the wall of prickly, green limbs, and he'd unleash a torrent of scatological profanity.

                "Chris!  CHRIS!  HELP!  I'm not fucking joking anymore!  For the love of cock-sucking, cum-farting, shit-eating SHIT!  IT HURTS!  GET ME OUT!"

                This went on for nearly three minutes, before Dan was finally able to wriggle free of the shrubs' embrace.  He inched himself along; clawing his way to the surface, snapping branches the whole way.  First, his arms and hands came free.  Then, his massive noggin, followed by his scrawny torso.
                Dan was nearly out, when a man appeared suddenly on the back porch of the quaint little house.  It took him a few seconds to discern what was happening, but when he did, he was down the porch steps and coming for us.  "HEY!  BOTH'A YINZ HOLD IT RIGHT THERE! YA LIL BASTARDS!  LOOKIT MA FUCKIN BUSHES!  YA WRECKED EM, GODDAMMIT!"

                I turned the camera on the homeowner for a split second, just before I snatched up Dan's backpack, and bolted.  Dan was still tearing himself out of the bushes, leaving them bent and broken. Finally, he fell to the ground, rolled, and caught his feet.  We raced, side by side, down a gravel alley behind the shed, with the raging homeowner in hot pursuit.

                "STOP!!!!" he bellowed.  "GETCHER FUCKIN ASSES BACK HERE RIGHT NOW, DAMMIT!  YER GUNNA PAY FER MY SHRUBS!" 

                "He's still coming!" I screamed.  "Let's cut between those garages!" 

                We darted across a backyard, and busted ass down a narrow passage between two squat garages.  The passage emptied out between a pair of brownstones, and we kept on running.  Across another road, we hurtled a low fence, and dove underneath a towering, blue pine.  We sprawled onto the carpet of pine-needles, exhausted, gasping for breath. 

                "Where'd he go?" I whispered frantically.  "Do you see him anywhere?"

                Dan could barely breathe; he only shrugged and shook his head.

                The thud of heavy footsteps provided my answer.  The man had kept pace as far as the garages, but he'd lost track of us on the other side of them.  I spotted him across the street through slats in the pine.  He was padding across the lawn between the brownstones, head on a swivel, scanning for any movement.  Every fiber of being was bent on avenging his poor shrubs.  It looked like he was muttering to himself, possibly debating whether to search any longer.  But he'd lost the scent.  Kicking at a dandelion, he cursed us, before flouncing back the way he'd come. 

                "He's gone," I gasped. "We lost him."

                "Well, thank fuck for that." 

                I took a look at Dan and took out the camera.  "Here, look at me," I said.  "I have to get a shot of your face right now.  It seriously looks like you got in a fight with a fucking mountain lion."  I scanned over Dan's mangled flesh.  The jagged limbs had torn gashes in his forehead, cheeks, and chin.  Rivulets of blood streaked his face, massed in his eyebrows.  His arms were ripped and bleeding.  Twigs and debris clung to his pompadour hair-cut, dirt smeared in with the blood.
               He grinned wide, as I zoomed in on his filthy kisser.  "I knew I should have taken the damn dumpster, ya sonuvabitch!"