10 Written by Thomas Miller

    During the previous year, while Dap, Feeney and Bruce were walking across campus to a show, Dap dashed in front of Feeney, spun, dropped to one knee and asked her to marry him.  When she refused, Dap ran to the nearest tree a sixty-foot-tall oak and shimmied up the first ten feet until he reached a branch.  He perched there, declaring that if she wouldn’t marry him, she could at least go out dancing with him.  Just like once.  Otherwise, he was never coming down.
    “You’re the counselor,” Feeney screeched at Bruce.  “Talk him down!”
    On a dare during his freshman year Bruce had joined the university’s all-night volunteer psychiatric hotline.  He’d loved it.  It was the one place he could say anything in the world and be perfectly sure the person on the other end would not laugh.
    “I’m kind of offended he didn’t ask me to marry him,” Bruce said.  “After our long history, too.”
    “You’re cuter, but she’s the better dancer,” Dap called down.
    “Can’t argue with that,” Bruce said.  He cracked his knuckles. “If we threw something, maybe.  Something heavy.  Bowling balls.”
    “I’ll dodge, I’m nimble,” Dap shouted.  He danced a little on the branch.
    “He is going to fall and die!” Feeney moaned.
    Bruce looked at his watch.  “We’re late for the show.  Dap, if you’re not coming down, we’ll write you out of the set list.”
    “It’s not up to me whether I’m coming down,” Dap said.  “It’s up to Feeney.”
    “We’ll write you out of the set list, then,” Bruce said.  “See you tomorrow.”  He turned and walked away.  A moment later Feeney jogged after him.
    “You’re not going to leave him there, are you?” she demanded.  “Because he will stay up there all night.”
    “Longer than that,” Bruce replied.
    Returning after the show, a sparsely attended benefit for an adult literacy group, they found Dap still treed, now with a bicycle policeman parked underneath and a dozen students taking in the spectacle.
    “If I were protesting something, you’d let me stay,” Dap shouted down.
    “I asked nice and now I’m calling the fire department,” the bicycle cop shouted back.  “They ain’t gonna be happy to get woke up.”
    “I’m protesting the fact that Feeney won’t go dancing with me,” Dap countered.  “Ask her,” he shouted, pointing.
    “You know this guy?” the cop asked.  Feeney and Bruce nodded.  “What’s he on?”
    “Love juice,” Bruce deadpanned.
    “You think this is pretty fucking funny, don’t you?” said the bicycle cop.  “You know what funny is?  Funny is throwing you and your buddy in the drunk tank for the night.”
    “Dap just get down here!  I’ll go dancing, I don’t care,” Feeney yelled.
    With that, Dap soft shoed a few steps out onto the tree branch and leapt off.  For just a moment, it looked to Bruce as if Dap had misjudged his jump and would come crashing down on top of them.  But Dap soared overhead, legs astride, over the asphalt walking path to the wet grass beyond, landing hard enough to leave inch-deep prints in the mud, tucking and rolling, teeth locked in a snarling grin that Bruce knew well: equal parts bravado, despair, and a sudden shock to the knees.

Posted on February 9th, 2009 in Fiction