It’s no good, I can’t do it! I can’t do it! I can’t do it! 

Jordy’s mind chanted the negative refrain over and over, shouting it at him, but he managed to shut it out with the pragmatic part of him, which hated that internal – and uncharacteristic – tone of whining defeatism he had heard so clearly. Then, just as he was about to attempt to haul himself up onto the roof, he saw that the second hand of his watch was no longer moving at all.

It was this final insulting indignity which goaded him into a decision.

I’m going for six!

As soon as he’d decided on this seemingly masochistic prolongation of suffering, the intense pain abruptly began to fade, then vanished completely. In its place came a wash of warmth that flooded through his previously screaming muscles and sinews. Along with this physical warmth came a magnified mental clarity. Suddenly, everything seemed simple – he would stay there until he was ready to move – and when he was ready to move, he would move. It was simply a matter of physics.

Everything is physics, he thought. Movement equals movement.

He looked at his watch again and saw that the second hand had swept past the five-minute mark and was halfway around the six-minute circuit. He felt a surge of triumph course rapidly from his chest up to his brain.

I’m going to make six! Who says it can’t be done? Not me. I know it can because I’m going to do it!

And he did.

By then, his senses had clarified to an intensity far beyond their normal range – he could see, hear, smell, feel and taste far more – and far more clearly –

than ever before. If he had been asked to explain his current physical and mental states, he’d have answered his interlocutor by saying: I’m an ice-pick – sharp, clean, functional and deadly – the one used to climb Everest, kill Trotsky and dig up the Sierra Madre treasure. As an ice-pick he hung there without effort. He dangled thirty storeys up from the roof of an office block in Pittsburg, expending very little energy, suddenly full of the knowledge that he could have held on with just one hand for hours, never fearing he was going to drop to his death.

After seven minutes and three seconds, he decided to climb up onto the roof. Nobody cheered – they were too stunned. By the time he got back to the roof, the talking had started. Alec Murdoch came over to him.

“Pretty good, Jordy.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, really…” Murdoch said. “The way you stayed on it – absolutely great. What’s the secret?”

Jordy told him.

“Ice-picks don’t die,” he said simply.

Murdoch nodded. “True. Very true.” He wandered away, puzzled.

After Murdoch had gone away, Jordy thought about the divide. It was a new record, of course – no one had ever reached seven-three. No one.

Something obvious then occurred to Jordy.

I’m going to go for eight, he told himself. And I’m going to do it now! It seemed like a good idea.

After the others had leapt the divide, Jordy told them what he planned to do.

They begged him not to – he refused to listen. They threatened to kick him out – he laughed at them. They offered to bribe him – he pointed out that it was his money they were using. Nothing they could think of to dissuade him worked.

Jordy was unstoppable. He felt better – more alive – than he ever had. He knew he’d be able to leap the divide and hang from the roof for as long as he chose.

Time is no longer a factor. Neither is the money. Neither is the divide.

Later, when all the spectators have gone, seven people stand in the early hours of first light and watch to see if they can learn how Jordy Michaels leaps the great divide.

Jordy Michaels Leaps the Great Divide

© R J Dent (2010)

www.rjdent.com