Читать книгу Attention. Deficit. Disorder. - Brad Listi - Страница 31

There were no passenger seats on the aircraft. There were no tray tables and no upright positions. There were no stewardesses and no adornments—just a cockpit chair, a throttle, and some gadgets. The cabin was spare and empty, and nobody was talking.

The pilot was a large, unruly Mexican man with a large, unruly mustache. He appeared totally confident in the functioning of the aircraft. He was dressed casually in a T-shirt and shorts. His T-shirt read ¿SUPERVIVENCIA? ¡NO PROBLEMA! Above those words, there was a cartoon drawing of a smiling shark.

I did not know what Supervivencia meant. I found this bothersome.

I was seated on the floor of the aircraft, without a seat belt. My knees were up against my chest, and I was hugging them tightly. A.B. was a few feet away, in the back of the aircraft. He was hugging his knees too.

A.B. and I had elected to jump first. The other three groomsmenwere on the beach below. They were standing in sand, watching the aircraft ascend, waiting their turn in quiet agony. All three had agreed to go skydiving with varying amounts of reluctance. They were doing it because A.B. was doing it. There had to be solidarity among the groom and his groomsmen on the day of the wedding, just as there had to be solidarity among the bride and her maids. Everyone understood this.

If all went well, A.B. and I would be landing on the beach in a matter of moments, triumphant.

If all did not go well, A.B. and I would die in a tragic skydiving accident on the Mayan Riviera. It would be the kind of story that caught fire on the AP wire. A horrifying tale, submitted for public consumption. Inside Edition would almost certainly run a story on us.

Jenny would be interviewed, backlit and weeping.

My parents would be interviewed, ashen and defeated.