LJ Idol Week 12 - Barrel of Monkeys
Donovan suggested the climb the way Donovan suggests everything, a dare presented over drinks in the resort lounge, his eyes glinting with the spark of madness he only gets after a half-dozen shots of tequila. And you refused the way you always refuse, with a roll of your eyes and just enough hesitation to let him know that you were, in fact, seriously considering it. Because it was your job to hold out as much as it was to be the voice of reason, and his to guilt you with stories of how he beat up all your bullies in school, or how he always brought you orange juice when you were sick, or how he was, in general, the best husband ever and you really owed it to him just this once.
The waterfall was a cascading series of rounded stones, small plateaus, and sheets of dazzling water that roared through the stillness of the jungle. It was almost too loud to speak over, certainly too loud to hear the singing of the birds and the wind in the trees, the only other sounds save your voices. You rocked back and forth on your heels, the neoprene of your water shoes spongy and unfamiliar against your feet, and rubbed your arms as Donovan sold you on how to climb the falls. A human chain, he told you, just with only two people. He'd seen it in all the tour guides, he told you. Like the red plastic monkeys you played with as kids, he told you, in his bossy voice that only got louder and more demanding the longer you kept that skeptical look on your face. When you finally relented and took his hand, letting him pull you toward the first ridge of stones, he crowed his victory so loudly a flock of birds lit from the trees in a screeching cloud.
"Don, we have to go back," you told him at the midway point, stumbling as a rock shifted under your foot.
"What do you mean? It's an adventure!" he replies. "Once we get to the top we can hike down."
"We're never going to get to the top."
"Jess, come on, don't be like that."
"Be like what?" Frustration and exhaustion lend an edge to your voice that would normally never be there. "You have no idea where you're going and I'm scared, okay? This isn't fun anymore and I just want to go back to the resort."
"You're being ridiculous. What's there to be afraid of?"
Three hours later and the heat has made you dizzy. Your muscles ache and your skin stings with sunburn, and you can almost imagine the water rushing across your feet is a horde of clutching, hungry creatures trying to dash you against the rocks. You tug at your plastic wristband and shiver as a cloud rolls over the sun, reaching down to rub your feet and ease the ache of your ankles. Hundreds of feet beneath you, the rental car is a blue shape through the trees, a goal as unattainable due to distance as the keys still zipped into the pocket of Donovan's board shorts.
You sniff loudly, your sinuses burning and your eyes raw from tears, from the constant rubbing, from the strain of squinting into the sun. Your fingertips ache and throb from trying to climb the steep, crumbling bank that lines the edge of the falls, your fingernails cracked and chipped from the effort of trying to hoist your body. You lean over the edge of the small rock ledge you've taken refuge on, for the time being, and stare down at Donovan beneath you, his wide eyes and glassy stare and slack-jawed expression of shock that hasn't changed since the moment his foot skidded on a patch of smooth stone, since his fingers slipped from yours. And a small, sick part of you wonders if he knew this would happen. If this was some sort of test. If he had suspected that, in the dire moment when you both tottered on the edge in the rushing water, that you would simply let go.
This week's entry was inspired by the song "North American for Life" by Matthew Good, the acoustic version from his album "Life in a Coma (1995 - 2005). Also inspired by my climb of Dunn's River Falls in Ocho Rios, Jamaica.
The waterfall was a cascading series of rounded stones, small plateaus, and sheets of dazzling water that roared through the stillness of the jungle. It was almost too loud to speak over, certainly too loud to hear the singing of the birds and the wind in the trees, the only other sounds save your voices. You rocked back and forth on your heels, the neoprene of your water shoes spongy and unfamiliar against your feet, and rubbed your arms as Donovan sold you on how to climb the falls. A human chain, he told you, just with only two people. He'd seen it in all the tour guides, he told you. Like the red plastic monkeys you played with as kids, he told you, in his bossy voice that only got louder and more demanding the longer you kept that skeptical look on your face. When you finally relented and took his hand, letting him pull you toward the first ridge of stones, he crowed his victory so loudly a flock of birds lit from the trees in a screeching cloud.
"Don, we have to go back," you told him at the midway point, stumbling as a rock shifted under your foot.
"What do you mean? It's an adventure!" he replies. "Once we get to the top we can hike down."
"We're never going to get to the top."
"Jess, come on, don't be like that."
"Be like what?" Frustration and exhaustion lend an edge to your voice that would normally never be there. "You have no idea where you're going and I'm scared, okay? This isn't fun anymore and I just want to go back to the resort."
"You're being ridiculous. What's there to be afraid of?"
Three hours later and the heat has made you dizzy. Your muscles ache and your skin stings with sunburn, and you can almost imagine the water rushing across your feet is a horde of clutching, hungry creatures trying to dash you against the rocks. You tug at your plastic wristband and shiver as a cloud rolls over the sun, reaching down to rub your feet and ease the ache of your ankles. Hundreds of feet beneath you, the rental car is a blue shape through the trees, a goal as unattainable due to distance as the keys still zipped into the pocket of Donovan's board shorts.
You sniff loudly, your sinuses burning and your eyes raw from tears, from the constant rubbing, from the strain of squinting into the sun. Your fingertips ache and throb from trying to climb the steep, crumbling bank that lines the edge of the falls, your fingernails cracked and chipped from the effort of trying to hoist your body. You lean over the edge of the small rock ledge you've taken refuge on, for the time being, and stare down at Donovan beneath you, his wide eyes and glassy stare and slack-jawed expression of shock that hasn't changed since the moment his foot skidded on a patch of smooth stone, since his fingers slipped from yours. And a small, sick part of you wonders if he knew this would happen. If this was some sort of test. If he had suspected that, in the dire moment when you both tottered on the edge in the rushing water, that you would simply let go.
This week's entry was inspired by the song "North American for Life" by Matthew Good, the acoustic version from his album "Life in a Coma (1995 - 2005). Also inspired by my climb of Dunn's River Falls in Ocho Rios, Jamaica.