The Climb Down
by Charles C. Cole
Burton Jaglom has seen better days. He stumbles into the busy lobby of the apartment building looking like he’s barely survived the losing side of a drunken brawl. He’s clearly broken. He’s bleeding, from his lips, his nose, his hands, somewhere under his torn left trouser leg.
It’s the dinner hour on a Friday evening. Neighbors are checking their mailboxes, coming in with groceries and dry cleaning, waiting for rides. At night when they are behind closed doors, they are not nearly as vibrant, as busy, as intrusive.
Old Man Phelps, looking up from the envelopes and magazines in his hands, does an almost cartoonish double-take: “Burton, you look like hell, man. Damn. You’re gonna give the kids nightmares.”
“Can’t be helped,” mumbles Burton.
Burton heads to the elevator. A familiar sign says it’s broken. He knew. He forgot. This happens at least once a month. He doesn’t have the energy to curse.
All attention is on Burton.
“No easy way up,” says Phelps. “Blame the teenagers. I’ll buzz the super, if you want. Maybe he’ll let you use the freight elevator.”
“Can’t wait,” Burton manages.
Burton heads for the stairs. People with wide wild eyes, some who he knows by name, move out of the way, like he’s highly contagious.
Mrs. Tarquinio enters behind Burton. She has a small bouquet of mixed flowers from the corner market. She assesses the situation quickly and steps toward Phelps. They are the longest and oldest residents. They have seen it all. They could be spouses, except they are too much alike. She stage-whispers: “Brenda left him. Not taking it well, I see.”
“Well enough,” grumbles Burton through gritted teeth.
“You should have those injuries looked at,” says Phelps. “Jaywalking is no laughing matter.”
“Wasn’t jaywalking.”
“Mugged, car accident, whatever.” Burton shakes his head at each suggestion. “Dude, you want me to call an ambulance?”
“No.”
“It hurts to look at you.”
“Turn away,” says Burton.
“Can’t.”
Burton’s left leg won’t bend; it twists outward. His fingers on his right hand are mashed together. He has to reach across himself with his left hand to the railing to pull himself up, one painfully slow step at a time.
“This is a week he’ll remember,” says Mrs. T.
“Need help?” asks Phelps.
“Thank you, no.”
“What’s so important you gotta rush upstairs like some hungry zombie?”
“A date with destiny,” mumbles Burton.
“In his case, Destiny is a cruel mistress,” says Mrs. Tarquinio.
There are so few adult men in the building. “Burton,” offers Phelps, “I’m so sorry to hear of your misfortunes. If you ever want to talk.”
“No time.”
“We’ve all been there. If you’ve had nightmares about it, I’ve probably lived it.”
“Sorry you have to see this,” says Burton, managing a moment’s worth of his old self, then he notices a couple of the junior-high girls recording him on their phones. No privacy.
“Ladies, stop that now,” says Mrs. T. with the tone she used to use as a cafeteria aide. “Show some respect.” They head outside.
Burton’s apartment is on the third floor. At the end of the hall.
“I should call somebody,” says Phelps.
“Why embarrass him more?” says Mrs. T. “We all make our own choices. This is his.”
“I have Brenda’s work number.”
“You should probably delete it. She’s moved on. A court order couldn’t bring her back.”
They stare, each slowly shaking a white-haired head. “This is why I live on the first floor,” says Phelps.
“I thought it was because you wanted to be the first out if there’s a fire.”
“That, too.” They watch some more. “I should call the super.”
“He’s not hurting anyone,” says Mrs. T.
“He’s dripping blood. It’s not safe.”
I can do this, thinks Burton, temporarily closing his eyes, as if that will make it easier. It’s just a stair. One step.
When he was a child, he and his father watched the Apollo moon missions in complete awe. His father in his dark green Naugahyde recliner, cigar smoke about his head like a mangled halo, his right arm holding little Burton close.
“I’m gonna be an astronaut,” said Burton, inspired by the moment.
“Burtie,” his father said, “I love you, boy, but you come from a long line of losers and drunks, on both sides of the family. You’re young yet. It’s okay to have goals and dreams, but at some point you gotta be a realist. What I mean is: you can staple wings to a goldfish, but it ain’t never gonna fly.”
Burton gets to the third floor. The heavy door to the roof is ajar. Some workers have been putting down new tar, rainproofing. He shoulders his way through and closes the door behind him. The metal handle feels slippery and gooey. On one level, Burton knows this too is his fault, his blood.
As he turns to continue, he hears muted excitement from the stairwell. Old Man Phelps and Mr. Linderer are on the prowl. Timing is everything. He’s created quite a public disturbance. Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad. Again.
When he was a senior in high school, he asked Brenda Buchanan to marry him. They’d dated for two years. He was going into the Army, to be a patriot, to start a family. “You’re a nice guy, Burtie, but I’m only gonna be young once. I need to see the world. Try me when you’re a free man.”
He did his tour in the Army, even got an early promotion to E4. Then he returned home and grew his hair to his shoulders and pierced his ear, went to community college, got a good job, and found Brenda. They married, though she was still restless.
He was committed. Sometimes, when only one person is committed, that’s not enough.
But today, in the spirit of commitment, he is completely in charge of his actions. Today he is going to throw himself off the roof, head-first, and get it right the second time.
Copyright © 2024 by Charles C. Cole
