“Jesus, Kentucky. Those are very personal questions. Why don’t you ask about my age or where I’m from?” He holds the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, rocking up and down on the slackline while watching me through the smoke. Okay, he doesn’t seem to lack self-esteem.
How old are you, and where are you from?Guys like him usually intimidate me, but it’s different with him because he’s not completely normal himself, and yet he seems to care about me.
“Twenty-one, almost twenty-two, and I was born in San Francisco.” He flicks the butt away.
West Coast, I knew it! You have that accent.
I know from all the Hills in Cottage Grove. Many rich families come from California.
River’s gaze darkens briefly. “You have an accent too, Kentucky,” he says darkly.
I don’t talk. I can’t have an accent.
“If you spoke, you’d have one. Probably some nasty, nasal Texas slang. That’s probably why you don’t speak.” He laughs,only to become serious again the next moment. “Are you coming up now?”
He didn’t ask why I don’t speak; he just accepted it. But I still have one question, and maybe I’ve read too many headlines.
Wait. Stop. Are you on the run from the police or whoever?
River’s gaze lingers on the words. “Aren’t we all on the run from something?” He jumps off forcefully and lands in front of me, frowning. Only the line at knee height separates us. “What do you think? That I’ll suddenly turn into Ted Bundy? Seriously?”
I turn away, then realize how stupid I’m acting. When I turn back, his arms are crossed over his chest, and his lips are pressed together. I force myself not to look away, which is difficult because his deep, dark eyes shimmer in the morning light, and I’m not used to direct eye contact.
At some point in the middle of the stare-off, he shakes his head. “Okay, I’ll tell you something about me once you’ve stepped onto the line.” He raises the corner of his mouth in a conciliatory manner.
I raise my shoulders.I don’t know.
He uncrosses his arms. “Slacklining is freedom, Tucks,” he says quietly, saying Tucks as softly as a pet name for a lover.
I’m getting hot. We stare at each other again, but it’s no longer a duel.I’ve lost my mind in the world of lovers. Why I am thinking about Rumi’s words now, of all times, is a mystery to me.
River clears his throat. “This here, this line, is just the beginning. On a highline, over half a mile above the ground, everything loses its meaning. It’s more than you can ever imagine. Heart palpitations. Wind and fear. Sweaty hands. An adrenaline rush, absolute concentration. Once you’ve been up there... you feel as if you had just been sleeping and woke upat that moment.” Something like longing colors his words, and I can almost feel the gusts on my skin and see the boundless depth. He comes another step toward me, standing directly next to the slackline. “Some time ago, slacklining gave me stability. It helps you re-center when you lose yourself.”
We look at each other again. I want to swallow but can’t. He is so close to me. All I can do is stare.
Suddenly, he jumps onto the line again, rocking up and down while standing, his features taking on an almost reverent expression. “Beginner lines shouldn’t sag and are a little wider than normal lines,” he says and walks a few feet without taking his eyes off me. “And, of course, they’re not that high up.” My heart flutters as I watch him. There’s something about him. It’s not just his proportionate facial features, his confident mouth, and his eyes; there’s a beauty that feels as fragile as it is frightening and strong. As if all it would take was one last touch to either destroy him or make him completely crazy. As if he were constantly balancing on a tightrope.
He says something about wearing a safety belt for high lines, and I want to point out how counterproductive that is if he actually wants to jump.
He clears his throat. “The most important thing for beginners is not to look at your feet but at a fixed point ahead. The best spot is at the end of the slackline.” He jumps off and comes back.
I’m hypnotized. How does he make sure I never question anything he says? Without even hesitating, I set foot on the line.
“Angle your standing leg on the line... now push off.”
I do as he says and stand with both feet on the springy line. It’s shaking... or is it my legs?
“Good. Remember what I told you about the fixed point at the end of the line. Upright posture... hips straight... don’t arch your back. And yes, bend your knees a little...”
I scream silently and jump off before I fall.
River grins. “You looked at your feet.” He pulls a hip flask out of his pocket and takes a sip. “Whiskey,” is all he says.
To wind down, I recall.
He makes it disappear again.
I roll up my jeans, place one foot on the slackline again, push off, and step up. Again, I have both feet off the ground. Even though this height isn’t a problem, I still feel unsafe, as if my equilibrium has to collect new information. It’s a lot different than balancing on a balance beam, something we did a lot in gym class in middle school. I carefully stretch my arms to the side as I look at the pine tree at the other end.
