NYU Black Renaissance Noire Volume 18 Issue 1 - Winter 2018 - Page 132

OLDGUY: SUPERHERO — THE END? STICKY NOTES face-up onto a Caddy roof. Save for her foot askew and a torn nylon, it looked like an ad for Beautyrest. Will he look so tranquil? And what might he slam into? He wonders whether he missed seeing some poor soul below, walking to work or the mall. He sees he headline: Mother Killed by Falling Codger, then pulls out the denture grapple, sets it on Bungee, and fires it at a passing ledge. At the perigee, it slingshots him back up to a fifth-story window, where he snatches a glimpse of milky thigh in a fitness class before he jumps, recalling how he used to soar like a peregrine instead of drop straight down. The air’s chilly, and the wind blows his cape vertical. He wonders if, barring utter lights out, like when he had his appendectomy, the hereafter might resemble some despotic theme park, streets of eye-stabbing glitter, Teutonic mountains and waterfalls, choirs of muslin-clad born-agains basking in their last laugh at doubters, crooning Kumbaya ad infinitum for their God, squatted in his Barcalounger, a capo in his man-cave. He’s falling faster now, approaching what’s double-aptly called “terminal velocity.” It’s hard to see, or to hear anything but the rush of wind. He recalls a picture in Life of a woman jumper, young, dressed as if for church, who slammed Near the final chill, we stick them on birds and trees — goldfinch, chickadee, sugar maple, weeping birch, but they come unstuck, swirl away, muddled among the snow geese and brown leaves. yoyos back down into the Big, sweet Apple, savoring its bouquet of exhaust fumes and sewer gas. he They tell us to pay the bills, water the begonias, wish Aunt Estelle (the old bat) a happy eighty-sixth. Our need accrues as years go by and memory totters. We slap them on the fridge, car keys, toothbrush, though sometimes we can’t tell what the hell we wrote on them. Oldguy finds himself on a top ledge o ѡܵѽ($) ͱȁ ե($)ݡɔѕȁɕ٥ݥ($)ѥ݅ɑ̰($)٥̰ѡ($)ɕ͕ɕ̰