“REMBIT”...thud

Michael mulled over another page of his “Book of Records”.

Dreaming.

Ignited in his heart burnt a bright light of eternal fame. It consumed him with fantastic ideas of fortune, of his entry into the holy book of records: Of everlasting glorious fame.

Would he be known as the first person around the world with an egg balanced on his head? Should he pogo along the Trans-Siberian railway? Read out loud the complete works of Shakespeare using only rhyming slang, spoonerisms or rap? Ideas kept tumbling from his inventive mind. But his dreams always returned to Niagara Falls. The grandeur, the sheer spectacular magnificence remained home to his quest. He was going to walk, on his hands, via a tightrope, across the Falls. He could see the rope stretched over its watery chasm. He could feel its thundering power. Hear its deafening roar. See mere mortals look on with envy and admiration. Although others had been across the Falls before, what a thrill it was to discover that no one had risen to the heights of his dream: Walking handstands on a tight rope across “the Falls.”

“MR. HANDSTANDS CONQUERS FALLS!!”

“FAME, FAME, FORTUNE AND FAME FOR MR. HANDS...TASTIC!”

There were some significant hurdles that had to be overcome. Michael reveled in their very presence. Such trifling obstacles spurred his challenge such as a noticeable fear of heights coupled with an appalling sense of balance. But Michael was a man of deep conviction. Such trifling spurred him on. He was a goal setter and a proud owner of logic. He felt someday that he could have put Solomon to shame. Many of Michael's friends and family listened, horrified, unable to grasp his clarity of thought.

“Some of the world’s greatest orators stuttered as children. Some of the greatest warriors who have been scared of the dark, could number in the hundreds. People who hate kids but have shot gun weddings...well millions. People who are scared of the water and become cross channel swimmers...” he paused for a moment, “perhaps not that many, but I dare say a few more ferries will sink sooner or later. Now I plan to conquer the Falls for my rightful place in History. And just think, you all know me personally.”

Michael scurried around his surprisingly cynical local community mustering support.
“Interesting.” burped the old bellicose owner of a Dry Cleaning chain,“Let me just visualise this for a moment. There you are, Michael, dangling helplessly from a high wire. No where to go but down, arms and legs flailing vainly in the air. You can tread water but you can’t tread air. The camera zooms in just as you are about to plummet to a shockingly public and humiliatingly painful death. With your fingers loosening one by one, the sheer terror of the situation hits you and its then all bodily control is lost. Then starts the hysterical screaming and sobbing as you think of your insignificant remains being battered again and again by the pounding water against the jagged rocks until you are nothing but a memory in people’s minds. They will say at parties and Trivial Pursuit nights, ‘And what the name of that dickhead that tried to cross Niagara Falls on his hands?’ As the camera zooms up to you Michael just before you scream ‘Faaarrrrkkkk!!!’ on your way down, there is our company logo, bright as brass, ‘WE GET THE STAINS OUT.’ Now tell me Michael and don’t feel you have to bullshit me on this one. If this was your company, and bearing in mind we are not the many colours of fucking Beneton who think refugees and starving children look pretty cool in an advert, do you feel that it would be good advertising having people watch you take the plunge into a giant washing machine with our logo?”  Michael said nothing, drop his gaze to the floor and left.

Michael tried all the banks and insurance companies. They wanted to be associated with something more solid than suicide. Even the funeral directors shied away from such an overt gathering of business. Although they all wished him luck and asked if Michael would give their card to his next of kin.  In desperation, Michael turned to the one place left; the Church.

“Have you thought this through, my son?” the priest asked, concerned.
“I have never been so sure of anything in my life.” Michael replied confident and animated at the mere thought of his epic challenge. The priest nodded,
drawing closer to the young man, placing a hand upon Michael’s shoulders,
"I am not sure how to really put this, but I think, even without discussing it fully with my other colleagues who are gathered here is this room today; we have a problem with your idea.”
“Problem?”
“Yes Michael,” another priest added, “a big problem with what you are planning.”
“What is the problem?”
“I am not really sure if there is a priest in this room who can give you salvation much…”
“Salvation!” one of the older priests blurted having just stirred from a quick snooze, “If you repent I may be able to give you salvation. Are you clean in thought and deed? Especially any personal habits you may be harbouring? Spanking the monkey recently?”
“Father Bronson, Michael is not here for salvation. He wants sponsorship.”
“For what?”
“Walking across Niagara falls on a tightrope.”
“Like Blondin!” wondered the old priest.
“On his hands!” Monsignor explained.
“Like an idiot.” clarified another.
“Who wants sponsorship from the Church.”
“A bit difficult to deliver a sermon when sponsoring something like that the day after it goes well…badly.” Mused Father Bronson.
“But you must give me the sponsorship. I have been praying for it.” pleaded Michael, “You are my last chance.” he added desperately.
“See that is the problem. No one comes to us first. Bit like faith healing really. We only get people who are crippled or so chewed up with cancer there is more of the cancer than there is of them; always the last resort, never the first. And now you want us to sponsor your death wish?”
“Would you?”
“This fool is being sponsored by St. Joseph’s of the Seriously Disturbed.”
“We could throw in a few catchy lines,” offered Monsignor Fitzsimmons, “HEAVEN IS JUST A MOMENT AWAY” This seemed to spark up the others who chimed in with their own slogans.
“WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU DIALED A PRAYER?”
“IF GOD MEANT US TO FLY HE WOULD HAVE TAKEN OUR BRAIN OUT.” Laughter started to roll across the room and Michael felt the conversation slipping away from him. He looked across at the monsignor for some compassion.
“If we do sponsor you,” Monsignor Fitzsimmons looked carefully at Michael who leaned forward in hope, “you will have to promise us something in return.” Michael became animated again.
“Of course, anything.” he blurted excitedly.
“To get in a few good genuflects before you disappear to your doom. Also if you could give St. Peter our best regards and let him know we are doing everything we can to comfort the flock.” Despondent, Michael left. As he closed the heavy wooden door behind him, uproarious gales of laughter burst out in humiliating tones.

Chastened by the experience, he shuffled home with his dreams and enthusiasm dampened by the day’s outing. But then his thoughts turned again to his inevitable fame. This temporary bucket of cold water was soon forgotten. He was well aware all tasks take time. He spent hours everyday attempting to perfect hand stands. He relieved his boredom, and lack of progress by shouting, “TIMBER” every time he thudded to the ground. Soon bored with that he started playing mental exercises with the word, “TIMBER”, which he discovered to be more difficult than the hand stands.

“TIMBER”...thud.

“REMBIT”...thud.

“TRIMEB”...thud.

“BRIMET”...thud.

“MITBER”...thud.

“METRIB”...thud.

“OHSHIT”...thud.

“MITREB”...thud.

How time flies when you are have purpose in your life. In what seemed like a twinkling his wife left him, the children disowned him, and even the dog knew only one good thing for a tree; falling or otherwise.  It was a lonely time of quiet desperation for Michael as opposed to when the doctors came to take him away. He panicked when he saw their needles. Frankly he was stunned to discover he no long had the use of his legs...thud.

When Michael eventually awoke, he was appalled to be chained to a heavy hospital bed. At first, unable to believe this nightmare he berated all those around him loudly for their lack of ambition. Screaming at the top of his lungs, Michael kept this tirade going during his waking hours. Although in that first week, were not that many he was actually awake. Every time he hollered the word “Ambition”, they would plunge another needle into him.  This of course made him miserable. Then there was the food. Slops!

Finally, one of the doctors told Michael he was to be sponsored by the government in his quest to cross ‘Niagara Falls’.
"But we have to see a marked improvement in those handstands.” smiled the doctor. The doctors behind him were also smiling, as were the nurses. What a day of sunshine this was turning out to be. Michael would have hugged the doctor had it not been for his manacled hands. He burst into tears of joy unable to comprehend his good fortune.

Now Michael happily does hand stands on the Mental Hospital’s lush lawns pleased to know that there are people in government who still promote the sacred dreams of the individuals. Every now and then, Michael has a wave of guilt that he once believed his country to be governed by idiots.

“TRIBEM”...thud.