The ramp was a piece of rotted plywood I pulled off a neighbor’s tomato garden fence and propped up on some old tires.
Had any sane adult seen this scrawny kid dragging the cart up the steep hill and noticed the chalk line I’d drawn to mark out my path, they would have put a stop to it and had me see a shrink for suicidal tendencies.
But this was no death wish. It was a life wish — if there is such a thing.
I’d seen some older kids jump their BMX bikes off a ramp. I decided I’d do the same with a vehicle of my own design. I called it Davey’s Comit. Which was stupid on two accounts: I didn’t know comet wasn’t spelled like “vomit” and nobody called me “Davey,” not even my prodigious inner monologue.
There were no witness to what I did that day — which also means that had the attempt gone horribly awry, I’d have been laying on the pavement with a broken neck for hours.
After dragging the cart to the top of the hill I took a seat in the plastic chair and put on the flimsy helmet intended for a kid going zero miles an hour on a skateboard. But hey, I’d spray painted it silver and only got some of the paint on my fingers and hair.
Looking down the hill at the ramp, it seemed like a tiny shingle on a gingerbread house. I went back to my old neighborhood a few years ago. While the hill wasn’t as long as my memory, it was every bit as steep.
When I lifted my Keds from the ground and let gravity pull me, the going was slow at first. My lawnmower wheels weren’t exactly Pirelli’s.
Soon enough, I began to pick up speed. I quickly passed the point where I could bail out and avoid a nasty scrape or sprained wrist.
Every pebble in the asphalt jostled my suspension-free kart. It soon became just one steady staccato rhythm as my velocity increased.
The tiny ramp grew larger at a fast pace as I fought with the cords to keep the nose of Davey’s Comit straight along my chalk line.
I’d designed my ramp carefully, accounting for the distance between the front and rear axle. When I hit it, my forward motion was gradually changed into upward momentum.
The impact was anything but smooth, but it didn’t stop me. Hell no. I was a bat out of hell — on lawnmower wheels.
I remember the front of the kart leaving the edge of the ramp and could feel the precise moment in my ass when the back wheels left. I was goddamn airborne!
Twenty feet? Fifty? It felt like I was jumping the Grand Canyon.
Yes, when I went back to measure how far I’d gone, there were clear indentations only 29.5 inches from the ramp to where my rear wheels actually landed back on Earth. But don’t tell me I didn’t make a giant leap.
The landing was just the beginning. While the ramp was at the edge of the pavement, the hill still continued down through the Montgomery family backyard.
I slid down their green lawn picking up even more speed.
At some point one of my front wheels came lose and the end of the wooden axle dug a furrow into the grass.
Did I come to a stop? No, sir. Davey’s Comit proceeded to spin around as it plummeted down the hill in sideways cartwheels.
Eventually the inertia was too much and I was thrown from my craft.
I pulled my arms in and rolled with it until I came to stop. I laid there, arms stretched out, watching the world spin around me as my inner ear tried to process what the fuck I just went through.
I just stared up at the sky, seeing right through the clouds. Past the blue of the atmosphere and straight into space.
I saw stars, not the dizzy kind that tell you your brain isn’t getting enough oxygen. These were the real ones. Surrounded by planets and asteroids and mysteries.
In my mind’s eye, I was seeing space.
How far did that ramp jump take me?
I couldn’t tell you.
I still haven’t landed.
Three
Aerodynamic
MOTHER OF GOD!!! My heat shield is vibrating so much I think my brain is going to snap from my spine and turn to apple sauce in my skull.
If going down in the Unicorn space capsule last time was like being a penny in a dryer, this is like being a penny in a dryer inside a tilt-a-whirl in a hurricane during an earthquake as the world gets sucked into a black hole.
Heat shield? It’s a goddamn inflatable raft. There’s no top to this thing. I can see damn stars out the side of my visor!
Man was not meant to do this.
If I could time travel back to that kid on the hill I’d knock his lawnmower wheels off and tell him to go inside and play video games for crying out loud.
“DDDDDDAAAAAAAAVVVVVVIIIIIIIIIIDDDDDDD?????” says Laney’s scratchy voice over the comm.
I start to speak but my teeth are chattering so much much I’m afraid I’m going to chip them. Instead, I manage to hum something.
Oh crap. I thought the vibration was bad. Now there’s the weird high pitch wailing sound like air blowing air over an open bottle. Must be demons. Has to be. No other reasonable explanation.
Lord Satan, I accept! Just stop the noise!
Nope. He still won’t shut up.
Oh crap! I see fucking flames shooting up over the edge of the raft!
Wait? Is that flames or ionized air? Flames mean my Space Raft of Ultimate Doom is deteriorating underneath me and I’m seconds away from burning alive. Ionized air means I’m one giant goddamn neon sign in the sky.
“LLLLLLLAAAAAAANNNNNNNEEEEEEEYYYYYYYY?”
Not even static. That means the channel is being blocked by the electric charge of all those electrons whoring it up around the air molecules I’m battering with my space raft.
But it could be fire too…
I take a whiff and smell the scent of fear and stupidity as I realize I’m trying to smell something outside my spacesuit.
How the hell did they let me be an astronaut in the first place?
Oh, right. I was the dumb guy that volunteered to be the guinea pig they tested all the stuff they didn’t want killing the real astronauts. Letting me into space was more of an oversight.
Oh crap. I can see a pinkish red glow all around me now. I totally feel tingly. Heck, is this the way to Asgard?
How much longer? I forgot to check my wrist display before I re-entered the atmosphere. Jesus Christ. I just re-entered the atmosphere — on a damn raft.
Okay, do the math in your head, David. How fast were we traveling? About 17,000 miles an hour give or take. Alright, how long does it take to slow down? Um, what’s my weight and the surface area of this heat shield? Beats me.
Okay. So let’s just wait a while. Hopefully the folks down at Ops realize what kind of idiot they’re dealing with and will chime in once I can actually get a radio signal.
Shoot, how long has it been? I have to be going a mere 10,000 miles an hour right now. I should probably wait until I’m at 1,000 before I bail out.
Is it getting hot in here?
Holy cow! I can feel the heat from the glowing wall of fire all around me! It’s like every damn Arby’s heating lamp in the world is trying to fry my ass.
They said this suit could deal with the heat.
They also said it had never been tested and Congress shut down the program.
“DA…” says a disconnected voice over the comm.
“It’s me!” No kidding. Who the hell else were they expecting? The air monkey gremlin that tried to tear apart William Shatner’s jet engine in the Twilight Zone?
Thanks for that mental image. I can still hear the demon howling sound. Now I’ve got a face to put to it.
Heck, if one of them showed up right now I’d totally be cool with it — because then I won’t have to die alone.
“David? Check are you reading us?”