Drop

45 Minute Story

 

40,000 feet up in the air flying at a speed faster than I have ever gone in a car. Talk about an adrenaline rush. Maybe I should mention…I don’t have a parachute.

 

There are those days where you wake up and just know something bad is going to happen today. So, you cautiously step through the day and wonder, “Is it coming now? Maybe now?” It never happens when you wait for it to happen. 

 

I had a friend, Jerry. We grew up together in the same neighborhood. Our mom’s were book club buddies so, naturally, they thought since we were both boys at the same age, we would be best buddies too. Jerry was a tyrant. Don’t get me wrong, we were friends, we weren't buddies, but we were friends. He was the guy you wanted to be friends with because he was huge. To other kids he was a giant! He had thick, curly red hair, piercing blue eyes, freckles all over his face and arms, and he stood at least a head or two above the rest of us. He was a natural looking Irish beast. I, on the other hand, was about a head, or two, shorter than Jerry, boney structure, thin brown hair that just went all over the place like constant bed head, I bit my nails, and wore the thickest black glasses. I was your regular ladies man, if ladies were attracted to scrawny, nerd looking kids. Let’s just say I grew into my body but not in a Brad Pitt sort of way. More in a way that resembled Colin Farrell if he was skin and bones. I didn’t hold my muscle mass very well. Jerry though, he grew into something that looked like he should be playing rugby and football at the same time. His arms didn’t even lay flat against his sides. He was still huge. Come to find out, he joined the military. I guess that would be the perfect place to release aggression. I headed to college, graduated from Penn State, and headed to the New York Times to pursue my journalism career.

 

Jerry and I kept in touch through the years and saw each other at neighborhood functions when we would head back home since our mom’s were still “BBCB’s” as they would say, “Best Book Club Buddies!” I would vomit a little in my mouth when they would scream that. I mean come on, really? I’m surprised they didn’t get matching tattoos, well, maybe I shouldn’t think about that. 

 

One summer I came home for the annual summer bbq after I had written a story about the effects of steroids in the military.