“Yes, good. Very good,” he’d say, passing the pages to my mother. He kept a notebook in his shirt pocket where he’d write the words and idioms that were unfamiliar to him, and he’d try to work this new vocabulary into conversation— Isn’t dinner a ball? This picture you took has good chiaroscuro. Wicked tasty, teriyaki. I’m stoked for your graduation.
“So talented,” my mother would say. “But when will you get paid?”
“Soon,” I would tell my parents. “Art takes time. It’s all about finding the right people who get your work. It’s very complicated.”
I think about my parents and uncle waiting for me at the bakery where I work part-time in the summer. Maybe they’ll assume I’m wrapped up in my writing. I think about my family waiting for me at home, calling the police. I can see my father taking out his notebook from his top pocket, talking to detectives, telling them to break a leg.
We hear new voices in the void as we push on. A cry for help, a drawn-out hello. We instruct the newcomers to follow our voices— over here, over here now—until our bodies collide.
“I was driving the twenty-eight bus. Just pulled out of Fillmore, and suddenly all went black. Felt like I was falling,” one newcomer says.
“Falling?” several people murmur.
“Like I was wearing a parachute.”
“Anybody remember falling?” I ask.
Silence.
“My god, my passengers,” the bus driver says. “My bus.”
I consider the stories of the newcomers—what if we did come from above? And what does above mean in a place where we can touch the air beneath our feet? For all we know, we’ve been walking in circles.
“So, what are you saying?” the felon says.
“Maybe up is the only way out,” I say.
“Or there is no way out,” the gamer kid says. “Like an animal trap.”
“Let’s say there is a way out up there. How do we reach it?” the lawyer asks. “It’s not like we have a ladder.”
More voices reverberate in the distance. Too many to discern any kind of direction. The silence evolves into a steady hum like a crowded cafeteria. Fragments of English, Spanish, German, Chinese, languages I can’t make out. I tell everyone to count off: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 . . . 26, 27, 28, 29, 30 . . . 63, 64, 65 . . . what if, what if . . .
“Are you fucking nuts?” the felon says. “This ain’t no circus.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’d be able to do that,” the old woman says. And maybe I have my doubts, but we need to try something.
“C’mon everyone, think about it,” I say. “Whatever we are here, these aren’t our real bodies. We’re not tired or hungry. We don’t feel hot or cold. I think we can do this. I don’t think we can get hurt.”
We try to arrange ourselves by size to create a human pyramid; figuring this out feels like it takes hours or even days. People shout their height and weight. But I’m not a doctor or a police officer and so the numbers mean little to me. We move on to broad descriptions— pretty big dude, you know? I work out. I picture a tank top and gym shorts.
“Okay, bigger folks down below. Crouch on all fours,” I say.
Based on our initial math, which seems increasingly pointless due to the endless stream of people joining, we likely have the numbers for at least a fifty-layer pyramid. Surprisingly, everyone is communicating with ease, helping each other to their positions. I wonder if our work would go so smoothly if we were able to see each other.
I feel out the first layers of the pyramid for tightness, stability, running my hands across more bodies than I have touched in a lifetime. This is no time for shame or modesty.
“We need more strong people here. Follow my voice. Over here now,” I yell, noticing a gap in the chain.
“Somebody just squeezed my ass,” a woman yells.
“Seriously? Please stop,” I say. “You don’t want me to find you.”
“Can we hurry this up already?” the felon says, crouched somewhere in the center of the base.
The next layers proceed to climb, slowly, regularly apologizing for stepping on people’s heads. Again I inspect the pile, feeling for gaps, asking if everyone has a firm grip and foot anchor.
“I don’t think I can do this. Someone get me the fuck out,” a voice says, and I hear the muted thumping of a body falling down the pyramid, the slap of skin, the occasional motherfucker.
“Whoever that was, I need you to climb back up. You can do this. Think about your family and friends. Forget about what your body could do. That doesn’t matter now.” Several other people fall as I’m saying this and, again, I encourage them to find their places.