No. 610

The world record for a fall without a parachute is 33,333 feet. That’s an oddly specific number, I know. That’s why I remember it. I don’t remember the woman’s name. I think she was Russian, or Ukrainian, or something. Eastern European, anyway. I’m pretty sure that she has since died. That seems unfair, somehow.

I’m procrastinating, so I take out my phone to check the facts. Her name was Vesna, and she was twenty-two when it happened. She was Serbian.

I’m thinking about falling because it feels like I am. Like Vesna, I don’t have a parachute. I, for lack of a better description, sold mine. Then, I turned the proceeds into a flaming disaster. It’s 2017, and yesterday I bought a travelling circus. Exotic animals. A train, which I think runs. A tent. And a name that means very little to millennials.

You could say I did it on a whim, or that I’m a thrill-seeker. Perhaps those things are true. I was certainly more confident in my choices twenty-four hours ago. Now, I’m waiting to give my keys to the lady who bought my car, and she’s late. It’s given me time to think about Vesna, and my stomach doesn’t like it. After Car-lady arrives, I’ll have my two suitcases, my “investment”, and 279,069 miles of railroad track in North America to ride around on.

You may wonder how I know that particular number, also, but I’ve just Googled it. I’m starting to wonder if Car-lady will show up. Oh man, I wonder if she wants to buy a Toyota and a big top?

No. I’ve got this. Vesna lived. I like road trips. Tigers are cool. I’ve got this.

I might barf, but I’ve got this.

 

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