In My Time of Dying

In My Time of Dying

By Vern R. Beachy

May, 2004

Dying is a bad way to learn about life and Randy Saxon wasn’t ready for this. He had pondered the idea for several months and with the persistent coercion from the gang at the office, he finally crossed the line of sanity and agreed.

That was two days ago and he was wishing now that he hadn’t said yes.

“People do this every day” they told him.

“You’ll love it” they said.

Maybe so he thought, but they die from it as well, and dying just wasn’t on Randy’s list of “things to do on Saturday.”

Despite his growing regrets, the idea of backing down from his commitment would be humiliating and Randy couldn’t face the searing eyes of his co-workers on Monday if he didn’t go through with it. And besides, people DOdo this every day.

Crazy people maybe.

Sane people no.

That was then and this is now and he was bound and determined to go through with it, no matter what. Maybe plunging 3,000 feet to the earth with nothing but flimsy fabric between life and death appealed to the adventuristic character of some people, but Randy became increasingly convinced it was plain fucking stupid.

Randy was crouched in the back of the small Cessna. He and the jumpmaster shared the same foreign position while the pilot sat comfortably strapped to the single seat occupying the aircraft. The only thingsRandy was strapped to consist of a canvass sack containing a parachute that was probably packed by some dope head that had a bad day.

At least he was optimistic.

The jumpmaster turned the shiny steel handle and the door flew open exposing the small grated step-plate that was the last obstacle between him and nothing.

“Get into position, don’t look down and you’ll be all right!” the jumpmaster shouted above the wind noise that now enveloped the tiny cabin. Randy chuckled inside despite his overwhelming fear. Telling him not to look down was like telling someone not to look as they drive slowly by an auto accident.

He HAD to look.

Randy stepped onto the steel plate with one foot and grabbed the wing strut confident he was squeezing hard enough to collapse the aluminum tube. When the jumpmaster signaled, he hesitated for a moment and then said “fuck it” and let go.

The wind whipped violently at Randy’s face as the airplane sped away allowing the nylon tether to pull his parachute automatically. His body shook intensely and his bowels moved. The three-hour classes prior to his jump had prepared him for the entire gamut of emergency scenarios, but they failed to tell him how to keep his sphincter muscles in check.

His head was bent tightly upward watching the parachute unfold form its canvass sack and his heart skipped a beat as one of the chute’s tethers slapped across his face.

What he saw was not a happy sight. His happy thoughts, what little remained, ceased to exist.

The tether whipped violently back and forth in the strong wind, preventing the chute from opening and catch the life-saving zephyr. The altimeter Velcroed to his chest descended quickly past the 2,000 foot mark as his 160-pound body plummeted toward earth dragging a lifeless

(streamer)

parachute.

Randy’s ears popped and his stomach regurgitated the mediocre breakfast of ham and eggs he consumed five hours earlier. The putrid vomit hung inanimately for several seconds before traveling upwards toward the high clouds. The green puke soiled the Dacron fabric as the inoperable parachute flittered against the half-digested sustenance.

Randy plunged faster toward earth.

Roman…what was it? What the fuck did they call…? He tried desperately to remember the term for this sort on an emergency the instructors had pounded into his brain for three…

Roman Candle!

Very good Einstein…now what the hell do you do about it?

The tether whipped fiercely at his face.

Randy instinctively reached for the metal latches that held the main chute. Pulling them would release this piece of shit fabric that was proceeding to ruin his day.

The hills and trees and cars and bars were growing larger as Randy continued his speedy death ride. It was at this point humiliation seemed a pleasant alternative.

The tether continued to whip at his face rendering him almost unconscious.

The reserve chute strapped to his chest lay dormant as he struggled with the latches. The force of the whipping rope snapped at the bones of his left wrist as he desperately tried to rid himself of the disabled main canopy. He reached down with his right hand to grab his Buck knife confined in a leather sheath at his waist.

The all-purpose tool. Good for whatever ails you.

Randy swung his knife-wielding hand back and forth trying to cut the nylon tether as it danced in the turbulent winds.

He slashed and slashed.

In a strange sort of way the Roman Candle phenomenon reminded him of a high school band leader’s streamer as he directed the homecoming parade.

The streamer was pretty.

The streamer was deadly.

The Roman candle continued to …candle…

…white candles burned luminously in the candelabra’s that graced either side of the altar. Randy turned and reached for the hand of his beautiful wife-to-be as the preacher readied his time-worn nuptial verses. His high school sweetheart was by his side and would continue to be for ever and ever. A shiny tear

…he slashed and slashed…

ran down the side of her cheek as she told him she had been unfaithful. She was crying but he was the one that was hurt. A slight breeze came through the bedroom window and ruffled the drapes like dangling rows of tether’s…

…that whipped his face as Randy continued to slash. His frantic efforts went unrewarded as his body continued to plunge downward, gaining velocity with every second that ticked by. He didn’t realize it at first but he began to cry. Tearing down the ego barrier that encased his emotions appeared to comfort

…he slashed and slashed…

him during his time of dying. But the miracle he wanted most—life—was slipping away at a horrendous pace.

Randy Saxon was too young to die. Although if he was 80 years old he would still maintain that never-me-die intellect. What a crazy thought…80 years old. At this pace he would never see 30 candles atop his annual birthday cake, a cake covered with…

…white frosting, candy sprinkles and one candle to signify their first anniversary. Randy had shopped

…he slashed and slashed…

carefully and finally decided upon a diamond bracelet for his wife to commemorate the occasion. The stones were bookmarked by their birthstones. He knew she would like the sentiment, but candle wax was dripping on the pristine frosting because she was late. Randy had reserved a special room just for the event with an invitation delivered to her office. He grabbed his Polaroid to capture the moment before the candle burned completely down and the flashcubes made his…

…eyes widened as the cold, hard ground drew nearer. He had heard that one’s heart would give out long before hitting the Earth if ever a person were in this situation. He waited and hoped for that to happen but his ticker didn’t feel on the verge of crippling. It pumped extravagantly strong within his chest.

Randy continued to flail his arms in one last attempt to cut free the main parachute. His arms and hands crossed paths and the Buck Knife dug a deep ravine in his already broken left hand. His swollen extremity began to spew blood and the wind splattered the crimson substance on his face like a fine mist. He blinked his eyes like a butterfly’s wings as several droplets began to blur his vision. But God I want to SEE the ground when I hit it he thought pathetically.

He slashed.

The ground was near.

Pretty Roman Candle.

He slashed

Randy screamed but didn’t hear anything as he shut his eyes hard trying to brace for the impact that would shatter every bone and pull the life from his flailing body. The mixture of tears and blood that would normally (if this were indeed anywhere near normal) run down his cheeks instead tracked against his forehead and into his hair before the tempest-like winds could dry their path.

The ground was nearer.

Randy’ body shuddered as the streamer cut its final path through the sky. With his last breath he managed to…

…scream madly as he sat bolt upright atop a mattress dripping with

(sweat)

and sheets and blankets scattered in a manner that resembled a battlefield. Randy felt as if he had just run a marathon…his body continued to quiver and his heart beat to the cadence of a speed metal band.

He sat motionless as reality gradually reentered the body of Randy Saxon. It was dark and the big red digits on the alarm clock next to their bed displayed 3:47.

“Oh God…” he moaned as he realized his hand was gripping something other than the sideboard of the king size waterbed. He threw the object across the room where it struck the corner of the dresser and came to rest on the carpeted floor with a muffled thud.

His quivering slowly subsided as the vivid scenes of the horrendously mind-fucking nightmare lost their sharp edges.

Randy reached for the “on” button of the small desk lamp on the nightstand, hesitated, and then pressed it. The soft glow from the bulb spilled into the room and he got the first glimpse of the strange object.

The butcher knife he used three weeks ago to carve the giant turkey for Thanksgiving was lying next to his London Fog sport coat he lazily discarded on the floor the night before.

Horrified, he turned his attention to the opposite side of the bed where his wife lay idle.

The blood-stained sheets fell off to one side as Randy cradled her mutilated body in his arms and cried.