Despite my own room and a great deal of privacy—one might argue neglect—growing up, the posters that festooned my walls were not what one would call traditional for your average tween/teen. Absent were the pop idols of the era—no Steve Austins, Morks or Sweathogs; any interest in automotive-alia was confined to the hundreds of Matchbox and Hot Wheels vehicles in the half dozen dedicated cases under my bed; my appreciation of all sports Boston remained on the small screen; and though I certainly enjoyed (read: salivated over) Farrah, Kate and Jaclyn, the thought of putting any or all of the Angels of Charlie on my walls mortified me.
Not that I had a choice in my early childhood. My parents installed new wallpaper when I was about five, ultimately selecting an olive-green nautical print over my choices, which all contained some variation of anthropomorphic cartoon animals. Only the wall against which the bed was placed would feature the seafaring design; the remaining three were covered with a rudimentary pattern of an accompanying color. It sounds more ghastly than it was, but the scads of stuffed toys which occupied every inch of dresser, bookcase, bureau, chair, side table and desk supplied more than enough color to overcome the ennui of the walls. My bedroom looked like the storage warehouse, which serviced the entire Toys ‘R’ Us chain.
I loved these reproduction circus posters!
Hanging, taping or tacking anything on the new wallpaper was strictly verboten until one day my mom gave me a set of three vintage Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus poster reproductions, which she allowed me to thumbtack to one of the bare walls of my room. The “menagerie” one with the various animals was my favorite, though I loved ’em all, even the scary-clown one. But it wasn’t just the subject matter. I was taken with the classic design, muted colors and sepia tone, which hearkened to a more romantic, bygone era. Cripes, I was old school before the term even existed!
Once my bedroom’s pin-up cherry was popped, other items made their way to my walls, though still only that which my mom gave her blessing. I was an avid jigsaw puzzler, and could put together one of more than 500 pieces in a single sitting. Two of my faves—one of a gumball machine bursting with a kaleidoscope of chewy chicles within its glass globe and surrounding its base and the other of a bald eagle’s head—my mom glued together with a large sheet of construction paper attached to their reverse sides, creating cool wall hangers. The pressed incision lines of the individual pieces made for a nifty overlay, transcending the images from the merely cool to provocative.
Springbok led a resurgence of puzzle mania in the 70s with sets that combined brilliant graphics and sharply cut, interlocking pieces
By the time I’d reached my teens, my mom ceded her control of my bedroom décor. My funny book fanaticism was in its infancy—I was late bloomer when it came to the pleasures of the 4-color world—but no less insane than that of a seasoned geek. Fortunately, my parents didn’t impede its progress. They’d been separated for several years by then, and cared only for my grades, which remained good. Not that they understood my love of “funny books,” the only term they used when referring to my passion. My father would always accompany his mention with the type of look usually reserved for smelling bad mayonnaise. There was no disgust from my mom, and though she never bothered to learn the names of any particular titles which I collected, she would occasionally bring me home comics she’d picked up the store, but only if they were on special—God, that woman loved a sale!
A surprise from Mom one day, this issue began my love for Ghost Rider, a love which Nicholas Cage will not diminish no matter how hard the actor tries!
It was she who gave me The Mighty World of Marvel Pin-Up Book for Christmas in 1977. I was fourteen, and would spend every waking moment not spent at school or doing homework perusing, reading and re-reading my modest comics collection, which amounted to a few two-foot stacks piled in a side dresser. At 17" by 11", with each page bursting with a huge action shot of a single superhero or group on über-colorful, high-glossy poster paper, I’d be able to sneak a peek at my hobby regardless how short the visit to my bedroom. The editors wisely left the backsides of each image with nothing more than a pithy write-up of the hero on its opposite, so one didn’t have to choose a side to display… They were all presentable! I wasted no time peeling all 21 images off the binding and putting them up. And that’s where they stayed until my mother moved during my senior year of college.
Ghost Rider by the under-rated Ernie Chan, a melange of Avengers by John Buscema, Dr. Doom by Jack Kirby, and Doc Strange by Frank Brunner were but a smattering of the twenty-one-derful pin-ups featured in the book.
I certainly never considered myself a Betty Grable, and I’m sure Farrah’s red bathing suit would not have fit me as well, though at the time it premiered, my man-boobs probably bested her female ones—I was a hefty prepubescent! But an adolescent growth spurt and combination of cutting out the Yodels and Devil Dogs for lunch and becoming more active helped trim the fat. Still, no one could have guessed I’d emerge as a pin-up idol.
Your Rambling Raconteur circa 1976
My debut as everyone’s favorite wall-hanger occurred at the mock Spider-Man wedding ceremony at Shea Stadium in the summer of 1987 as part of a gift bag given to all attendees. That historic happening was recounted in my past postings, “Wedding Photo”—about the actual photo shoot for the poster—and the epic trilogy “To Thee I Web”—relating the tantalizing tale of the nuptials itself. I was a relative super-newbie at the time and shared the spreadsheet spotlight with some of my 4-color friends, as well as a quartet of Mets. As a local amenity available only to those at the event, the pin-up’s notoriety was finite. It wouldn’t be sharing the black light section of your local Spencer Gifts any time soon.
The true test of my pin-up pulchritude came about a year later. In 1987, spear-headed by then Editor-in-Chief Tom Defalco, Marvel released a high-quality line of books, which reproduced the original issues, in order, of some of its most iconic characters. Marvel Masterworks debuted with three volumes, presenting “remastered” (if you will) collections of the first ten issues of Fantastic Four, Amazing Spider-Man and X-Men. Some—the bean counters and business experts—considered it folly. Comic collections to this point were packaged cheaply—paperbacks of crappy paper with no extras—and regurgitated the same dozen or so “Best of” stories in every volume. It was the equivalent of an oldies radio station playlist. These haters had no understanding of what the comic book marketplace had become and didn’t think anyone would pony up the dosh for the type of book DeFalco envisioned.
Marvel-ites have Tom DeFalco to thank for Marvel Masterworks. Despite internal opposition, he pushed for and oversaw their genesis.
There were no electronic files of these vintage tales and somehow finding the original artwork, if all the pages existed, was impractical if not impossible. Thus, scans of the original comic books were made and then the dot-matrix color pattern, which created the hues, was washed out. The resulting art had to be repaired—since the color was saturated into the lines, the integrity of them was greatly diminished when the color was excised—and then the story was recolored. Everything was collated and printed on high-end white paper with all the touches one would expect from a coffee-table book, i.e. dust jacket, end papers, title page, table of contents, introduction, etc. At $40, the volumes were more than four times what a standard trade paperback was at the time.
DeFalco got the last laugh. The first flight took off and Marvel Masterworks has continued to expand ever since. There are hundreds of volumes with most, if not all, still in print and new ones arriving every year. Thank you, Tom!
Through the years since their debut, the Masterworks line has expanded to include classic tales from the company’s Golden Age and Atlas Eras, and B-list characters, such as Iron Fist.
But at the time, there were more than a few Marvel Nabobs biting their nails and watching the sales reports during the initial release. The books out-performed even their wildest expectations, which lets face it, given their grim forecast, wasn’t all that wild. A second flight, expanded to four books was announced. But the Suits’ pleasure was never more evinced than when they actually decided to put a few shekels toward marketing the unexpected second stage of the line. By the standards of any other industry, the promotional efforts for the second coming, so to speak, were small, but they were something at least. And I was to be a fortuitous benefactor, so I wasn’t complaining!
A high-quality sales poster, which would be distributed among comic book retailers across the country, was commissioned. Now Marvel has ever produced retailer ephemera—signs, sell-sheets, shelf talkers, among others—for decades. 99% of them feature clip-art of their signature heroes—if it were a generic “Buy Marvel Comics!” type item—or feature new art from an upcoming debut of a title or character. Yet, even in the latter scenario, the art was “clipped” from the forthcoming ballyhooed product or merely displayed its cover art, thus reducing the cost to just design, production and distribution. Rarely was any “new” money invested in custom art for such sales materials. The second-wave Masterworks signage would surpass even the rare extra expenditure of original illustration, catapulting into the realm of live-photography, which meant the aforementioned costs plus studio fees—lights, sets, props, scenery, and shutterbug, of course—and model.
That’s where I came in…
Personal Appearance Department Manager Babs just gave me fresh Spidey threads and the basic 411 on the gig, which directed me to a loft studio in the Chelsea area of Manhattan early one weekday morning. One of the things I love about New York City is how elevators can take you up a hundred stories and open out onto a wondrous new world. Anyone only familiar with free-standing bowling alleys the size of supermarkets with ample parking, for example, should visit Bowlmor Lanes in The Village section of Manhattan. At street level, you enter into nothing but a lobby the size of a closet with an elevator. Step in, and after a few moments and several floors, the doors open and you’re in a bowling alley. It’s like the moment when Dorothy enters the colorful world of Munchkinland from her crashed home after the tornado.
I was experiencing a similar moment as I entered the photography studio directly from the freight elevator, which, from the sidewalk below, looked fairly skeevy. The one indication that it was functioning was the vertical row of gold business nameplates affixed to the chipped painted brick wall beside it.
The only New York loft I’d seen to that point was the one Tom Hanks buys in Big and this one may not have been as up-to-date, but it was certainly as tall. The ceilings had to be at least twenty feet high. A balcony office was built at the back, opposite the awesome floor-to-ceiling windows fronting the street side, which provided plenty of natural light. The studio had a fly system, like a theatre, fer cryin’ out loud! Scaffolding concealed by heavy navy-blue curtains framed what looked to be the area in which the shoot would take place, and an unrolled white screen draped down and along the floor with spots shining their beams toward the set-up’s center.
I dropped my bag and army jacket, and made a beeline to the bathroom to change into my Spider-Man togs. Upon my egress, three young women in little black dresses had joined the small party of Babs, the photographer, his assistant and me. Their similar wardrobe suggested they would be part of the shoot, and my suspicions were confirmed moments later when they joined my in the shooting zone. But what the concept behind the picture was, I couldn’t fathom. I was instructed to strike the usual Web-Slinger fan poses, albeit professionally staged and lighted. Plus, the caliber of the “models” was far from what one would expect from a fashion shoot; less runway, more Amway. I guess, the generosity of the Marvel Mucky-Mucks only went so far.
Robert Palmer... Eat your heart out!
Test Polaroids were taken in order to get a proper feed on how the scene would appear in print before switching to film. You don’t want to discover the lighting was wrong after shooting three rolls! And no, my young readers, Polaroids is not a problem, which Inuits contract from long hours of sitting on a frozen block while ice fishing (rim shot… so to speak!). Polaroid cameras allow instant photos to be created from the device itself using a picture cartridge. For all I know, studios may still employ them, though I would bet many simply photograph into a computer via cable and print the shots immediately thereafter.
The camera used was more advanced than those generally employed at the time. The photo didn’t roll out immediately upon clicking the picture. Rather, it was pulled free of the camera and its development timed before the chemically-treated contact paper was peeled back—old school, but still effective in producing crisp, vibrant photos, far sharper than those that pop out of its cheaper brethren. And, no, you new-schoolers, viewing the prospective pix onscreen will not provide an accurate rendering of their print appearance, since computer images are backlit; paper products are not.
Surprisingly, the session took less than thirty minutes. Huh? I was told to keep the whole day open. Then, the trio of ladies thanked the photographer—some giving him a friendly kiss on the cheek—and walked out. I soon learned they were from another business in the building and the last half hour was merely a favor to them. Ooh, let’s get a professional photo with Spider-Man. I know, we’ll wear matching outfits and pose like we’re models! Either the shutterbug was double-dipping—making a little extra dosh on Marvel’s dime—or he was trying to impress one of the gals. Regardless, I felt like a prop in a department store photo area.
The stage for “Three Women and a Spidey” was struck and a new was constructed, one that made better sense. The scaffolding was maneuvered more closely together and a thick plank—what appeared to be a door, except there was no hole where a knob would have gone—was placed between. The deep grain and dark veneer suggested a desktop. Secured to its underside were a lamp, of the ubiquitous sort found in the reading rooms of libraries and law offices, and selection of Masterworks volumes, stacked flat with four notable exceptions, which were standing. The covers displayed what I presumed to be the forthcoming books in the series, collecting the second ten issues of Amazing Spider-Man, and the inaugural ten of the Incredible Hulk, the Avengers, and the legendary 1975 revival of the X-Men by writer Chris Claremont/artist Dave Cockrum.
I nearly fainted; Avengers was my favorite comic series, issue #148 of which indoctrinated me into the 4-color wonders of superheroes, when I was eleven. My comics reading to that point was reserved for the more appropriately delineated “funny books” variety of the genre, published by the likes of Gold Key, Charlton and Harvey. Hot Stuff, Spooky, Little Monsters, Sarge Snorkel and Pink Panther were among my faves.
The inaugural issue of “Earth’s Mightiest Heroes” had been reprinted ad nauseam in various arenas. I think I may have first read it in one of the great Fireside Publishing collections of the 70s or Dynamite magazine, the early volumes of which featured classic Marvel and DC superhero origins, taken directly from the source material among its monthly slate of pop culture articles and games. Ditto with issue #4, which introduced Captain America, the star-spangled hero of comics Golden Age, to the Silver Age. The other eight stories were hard to find outside the actual issues, which for an eleven-year-old of very modest means were too expensive even in poor condition.
There’s nothing I could put here that wouldn’t get the site shut down by the FCC
The books in the set dressing were bolted to the faux desktop; L-brackets utilized for the four free standing ones. It pained me to see the collections maligned so, especially those, which weren’t even available yet. The backdrop of white was replaced with one depicting a home library, the sort one might envision in a Victorian novel. The idea of the poster was simple: Spider-Man hangs from the ceiling of an athenaeum, enjoying the latest Masterworks volume, the stories therein worthy to stand alongside other literary classics.
I was impressed with the ingenuity of the prop people. Their slight touches helped strengthen the sense that Spider-Man was truly suspended, such as gluing a wire behind the lamp’s on/off chain, so it appeared to hang naturally. A closer examination reveals its angle being slightly askew, but an observer would have to be looking for errors. The fact that it is lighted with its bulb plainly visible furthered the illusion. The wire snaked down the scaffolding into the wall plug with the aid of an extension cord. The first question any one of my friends and family members asked upon seeing the completed poster was, “How long did you have to hang like that?” I can’t think of a finer compliment to the scenery designers.
The whole thing was leveled about ten feet above my six-foot figure. I was given an undamaged copy of what appeared to be one of the new Fantastic Four Masterworks, with which to appear reading, to complete the tableau. I ravenously opened it, excited to be one of the first to savor the stories therein. Imagine my disappointment when I discovered, it was nothing more than a mock-up. The dust jacket was in truth taken from one of the first flight’s books, a high-quality graphic of one of the new wave covers carefully glued over the gilt-framed image.
In fact, none of the erect volumes were real, merely props cobbled together for the shoot. Look closely at the desktop titles in the test shots I’ve provided. The cover reproductions of the legendary Marvel issues sit atop the aforementioned gold framing, the sculpted figured of which extend over the image edges of the actual Masterworks.
Comics cognoscenti will also notice a discrepancy with the depicted second wave books. The Hulk collection shown on the left wasn’t released until the third flight, volume #8 of the entire series. The X-Men Masterworks on the far right is also incorrect on several levels. Not only doesn’t it feature the original team’s second ten issues—a volume which was indeed a part of the follow-up line-up as volume #7—it displays issue #94, one of the issues of what would become Masterworks #11, the aforementioned resurrection of the title, which combined a couple of original members with new ones, such as Wolverine, Storm and Nightcrawler. But when released in what would become the third stage of Masterworks, Giant-Size X-Men #1 would be on the cover of this mondo volume in which the origin of this fresh batch of genetically advanced super-teens is revealed. It hit the stands in May 1975, three months prior to #94 in August. And if you understand anything of that, you get a gold star. I wrote it and I’m confused!
I don’t believe all these to be mistakes on the part of the marketing or editorial departments, but rather forward-thinking decisions. Given the tremendous response of the initial wave, they were confident that the program would continue past its second, thus catered the staging of the poster, so it would have legs beyond those releases. Ever frugal even in the face of success! The X-Men cover mix-up? No X-cuse for that, I’m afraid.
Notice, too, that the credits, which normally appear under the cover graphics in the actual editions, have been airbrushed out of the final poster image. As mock-ups, they don’t correspond to the cover displays, and although you can’t make out these incorrect credits on screen, they are legible on the approximately 27" x 20" retailer hanger.
Masterworks photo shoot: Take 563
It seemed to take forever before the tableau was prepared and ready for its featured star. After every few test shots, production stopped while the photographer conferred with his assistant. Lighting adjustments were made, scenery minutely shifted, and then I was directed back to the hot zone for more preliminaries. I didn’t even bother with the top half of the costume. These pix were all about fine-tuning until the correct levels were achieved.
Just as the photographer seemed to have everything to his expert liking, his helper noticed what would have been a major faux pas in the scenery. The library background was hanging right side up, where it should have been upside down like every other element on the set… except me, of course. I can’t imagine what would have happened had no one realized the error before the photos were taken and sent to the Grand Poo-Bahs at Marvel for approval. And what if they hadn’t noticed and the ad went into production?!! It could’ve been a disaster of the same magnitude as Battlefield Earth.
Instead, it added several more hours to the shoot, a minor inconvenience when considered against the aforementioned what ifs. Of course, I would’ve been a lot less inconvenienced had I been getting paid by the hour like a real supermodel! At least, I was getting a free lunch, which had just arrived. Though, as starved as I was, I couldn’t dig-in like I wanted too. I was half naked in a skintight spandex bodysuit, and about to have my picture taken for a retail poster and comic-book ad, which millions of people would see. I stuck to the fresh fruit and a small salad. Still, with every swallow, I felt my hips widen and my stomach distend. Ladies, I feel your pain!
It was back to square one upon completion of our midday meal. With the library scrim correctly hung, more test photos were taken. I’d begun to get stir crazy, standing in one place for so long without anything to show for it, which explains my irreverent poses in some of these shots. Even the props were getting restless, it seemed, the flower and vase preferring suicide to enduring another minute of inertia. It simply dropped to the floor at my feet amidst the set-up pix. “Just leave it,” was the photog’s reaction. Thank goodness. Securing it back onto the doppelganger desk probably would’ve added another hour to the session, and with every moment, the sunlight shifted in the loft, which meant an accompanying tweak to the Kliegs.
This gig is driving me up the walls! Aaaahhhhh!!!
When the shutterbug was ready for my close-up, I was ready to go home. Fortunately, with his pronouncement of readiness came a renewed vigor—there was finally light at the end of the tunnel. Plus my intimacy with the powers of the costume gave me the advantage. After patiently suffering the mundane suggestions of his and the assistant’s (see the test shot of me reading with my free hand in Web-Shooter mode—yawn…), I countered with a bevy of exaggerated Spidey poses that would’ve made Webhead progenitor extraordinaire Steve Ditko blush. Granted, I would only be seen from the midriff up, but it seemed an utter waste to the awesomeness which the suit brings, to have me simply standing there, like a commuter on a bus with the latest bestseller (or Kindle, if you prefer). And the unusual torso twist is evident enough in the resultant poster to magnify the ad’s impact.
One of the exciting shots composed by the photographer
“That’s a wrap!” Three of the most wonderful words I’d ever heard. It was approaching six in the evening and the shadows had given the loft a film noir appearance. I’d no idea how many rolls were shot, nor which of the myriad poses were favorites. But as I grabbed a banana for the road, I noticed a few test photos strewn about the festering buffet area and asked if I could keep them. I felt like Dorothy asking the Wicked Witch of the West’s castle guards for the half-burnt broom—how could they refuse after all I’d done? The photographer’s answer wasn’t inane like the guard’s—“Please. And take it with you.” (No, I thought I’d leave it here and pick it up later!)—but the result was the same. I grabbed them and scurried home.
“As a token of our appreciation for releasing us from the Wicked Witch’s servitude and saving Oz, here’s a broom...”
A couple of months later, I saw the handiwork of my modeling session. I’d since forgotten about the episode and was quite surprised when I saw the full-page ad in a comic whilst flying to a gig. My initial reaction was to share my moment with everyone around me, but in a plane surrounded by strangers, that type of public exaltation may’ve gotten me restrained. Besides, I couldn’t rightly reveal that it was I in the Spider-Man togs—secret identity and all. So my celebration was reduced to merely beaming in my seat, 30,000 feet in the air.
Soon thereafter, I espied the actual poster in a comics shop. True to form, I zeroed in on an egregious blemish in the composition, a pit stain beneath the outstretched arm holding the Masterworks. Sheesh, they took the time and effort to excise the creator credits beneath the mock-up books, but couldn’t remove the sweat under my arm?!! Still, I had to admit, the overall result was excellent. Okay, so I wasn’t going to unseat the popularity of Farrah and her one-piece anytime soon. But at least I wouldn’t become the object of every prepubescent’s fantasy either!
[It has come to my attention, via my Ever-Faithful Bloglodytes, that users of Internet Explorer (IE) may encounter problems in viewing Heroes In My Closet. Whether this is due to recent changes in Blogger or IE is unknown. Regardless, to enjoy the full Heroes In My Closet experience, open using another browser (Firefox is a freely downloadable and endorsed by Your Nattering Narrator). I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause. Now, without further ado...]
“Yeah, I’m gonna bungee jump... What’s it to you?!”
Spider-Man bungee jumping makes about as much sense as Fred Astaire line-dancing. But then again, there’s little sense in everyone’s favorite Webhead riding the hood of a racecar or using an elevator (see “Web Stock” and “I Slept with Stan Lee,” respectively). It’s just that when you have a character whose preferred mode of travel is swinging from a strand of homemade webbing, the idea of him plummeting with an industrial strength elastic band tied to his ankles seems a bit… well… anti-climactic.
But of course, I speak from a position of being Spider-Man. In a world where the beloved Web-Slinger doesn’t exist, where the average Joe has no hope of actually witnessing the red-and-blue idol of millions spanning the skyscrapers of the Big Apple at the end of a silk thread, then being privy to a bungee-jumping man in a Spider-Man suit may be the next best thing. In the case of my performing the stunt as the Wondrous Webster, I was more of a puppet on a string. I had little, if any, say in the matter. And quite frankly, I was scared shitless, which may not sound surprising until you learn that I’d jumped out of a plane less than ten years prior!
Spider-Man skydiving?! Crazy? Not so much, as evinced by this panel from Amazing Spider-Man #1, penciled by Steve Ditko
Toward the end of my senior year at Boston University, my best friend Chris and I made a pact to go skydiving. Whence the idea came remains hidden in the deepest recesses of my memory. Neither one of us was a daredevil or extreme sports enthusiast—Chris more so than I by far. My greatest life-changing experience since entering college was quitting the use of the hatchway for peeing in my cotton undies for the more convenient and sensible maneuver of simply pulling down the waistband! This revelation came via an otherwise forgettable two-man improv piece by my room- and classmate, David, during sophomore year. At one point in the acting exercise, David, held up a pair of the ubiquitous briefs—often sold in three-packs at chain stores, such as Bradlees (now out of business) and Sears, and I would guess today at the likes of Target and Walmart—poked his finger through the penis trapdoor and asked the audience, “Does anyone actually use this?”
Fortunately, I stopped my hand before it was fully raised and hunkered in ignominy, questioning my existence. How else does a guy pee?! Isn’t that why the hole is there?! Later I confronted my roommate in the privacy of our 10' by 15' prison cell… uh, I mean dorm room. I appreciated his not reporting me to the authorities, though he couldn’t suppress a look of incredulity at my questioning his ability to pee whilst cotton-undie–clad without employing the manufacturer’s penis portal. Finally, he blurted in exasperation, “Just pull down the waistband!” My next trip to the urinal I did just that, albeit with more than a smidgen of skepticism…
Cue angel chorus.
It was shockingly simple. Using the manhood manhole was like trying to coax a cat out of a tree. I felt like such a fool… All that time wasted… sigh…
The idea to jump out of a plane may have come from a New School catalog. Unsure whether these exist throughout the U.S. or only in larger metropolitan areas, but they can be found in New York City as well. The New School catalog is a magazine-size listing of learning opportunities—for lack of a better way of explaining the catalog’s kaleidoscope of offerings—available in the city. On average, the teachings are of the more esoteric variety, like theoretical canoeing or pet psychology, but there were also adventures such as white water–rafting and skydiving. The catalogs are free—though the courses therein are not—and freely distributed via boxes similar to newspaper-vending machines.
As I dredge the murky depths of this story, a clearer vision of Chris excitedly bringing my attention to the sky diving class in the New School’s pages manifests. An outfit in southern Maine, called Skydive Lebanon, offered the course, which included training and one static-line jump, for $156. The fee wasn’t cheap for a graduating college student in the era shortly following Orville and Wilbur’s historic flight at Kitty Hawk, but soon Chris had my promise to join him in the endeavor after graduation before we began our lives in the real world as adults.
Prices circa 1986
Graduation came and went. Chris went back to his hometown of Armonk, NY, where he prepared to move to the city. Determined to work throughout the summer to raise enough cash with which to pursue my acting career in the Big Apple in the fall, I moved in with mom, who’d permanently relocated to our summerhouse in Cape Ann, MA. But I never strayed from my pact with Chris. Unfortunately, the distance between us was unfeasible for organizing the promised skydiving trip, and I soon realized it would never be… at least not with Chris. So I booked a date.
A few days later I received confirmation in the mail, along with the outfit’s typewritten handout, a far-from-professional, double-sided flyer, which featured crude drawings and handmade directions. At the time, I didn’t think much about the quality of the flyer, that it might be indicative of Skydive Lebanon service or expertise… or lack thereof. Perhaps, since New School featured them among their courses, I felt comfortable with the company. Or maybe, my hard-on to jump from a plane blinded me to what may have been a fly-by-night operation. You’d think I’d be a little more concerned. It’s not like I was entrusting my life to someone teaching me the ins and outs of needlework!
With its top-notch typesetting, stunning graphics and cartographer’s map, the Skydive Lebanon flyer exuded professionalism and confidence
My parents were not happy, and their response had nothing to do with the shabby-looking handout, which I wisely kept to myself. They were just being parents. My mother, whose overly dramatic reactions are legendary, was nearly in tears. The day she learned that I occasionally smoked marijuana, her hysterical diatribe culminated with, “I don’t want you ending up like Judy Garland!” Huh?! When I confessed my plans to jump from a plane, she all but ordered a casket for me. My father, who served in the army during the Korean War, was in complete denial. “What the hell would you want to do that for?” he spat with complete disdain, like I’d committed some heinous act. He cut me off mid-reply, telling me he didn’t want to hear anything about my escapade until after I’d landed. Their reactions merely strengthened my resolve.
Stop recreational marijuana. Don’t let this happen to you!
The reactions of friends ranged from similar to awe. You’d think my decision to trade six years in one of the most prestigious prep schools in the country for a degree in acting would have prepared them to some degree for my unorthodox approach to life. Some were envious; oddly, many of the call-me-crazies, defended their positions with “I’m afraid of heights.” I found this strange, because at 10,000 feet, there is no height; that is to say, there is no frame of reference with which one’s mind can compare in order to experience that type of fear, as opposed to when one stands atop a ladder or chair, where the distance is accessible to the senses and the crash zone is clearly visible.
Jumping out of an airplane—crazy? Not in the least. Now, skiing? You have to be insane to propel yourself down a tree-dotted mountainside with nothing but an insulated bodysuit. Not to mention the cost. After the skis, poles, boots, gloves, goggles, various other winter wear—which, granted may be rented, but that still isn’t free—there are travel expenses and the lift ticket. If you are a beginner, you’ll need instructions.
More importantly, schussing takes skill. You could devote hours of practice and point to one run down the bunny slope without falling as your greatest achievement. Now, skydiving. All you need is a heartbeat; you don’t even need legs. Anyone can fall—gravity doesn’t discriminate. A sporty thrill with little instruction, relatively little economic outlay and no skill required? I’m there!
I understand skiing is an internationally popular pastime/sport, the fans of which find thrilling and fun. I wouldn’t be poo-pooing it, if those skiing aficionados with whom I spoke of my wish to jump from a plane hadn’t disparaged me my choice of adventure. To each his own. One man’s crazy is another’s idea of fun.
Overall—even outside the aforementioned Jean-Claude Killys—I received little support. Chris, the rare enthusiast to my cause, was too distant to make more than a faint impact.
No matter.
On Friday, July 18, 1986, I left home for my date with destiny. It was a clear summer day free of haze and humidity. My jump was scheduled for 5 P.M., which by the standards of early summer would leave a few hours until dusk. It should be noted: my mom was not home upon my departure, even though she was well aware of where I was going. She was in denial, which would prove a common refrain whenever I or one of my sisters did anything with which she disapproved. A few weeks later when I left for New York to pursue my acting dream, she couldn’t be bothered to tear herself away from washing dishes to say good-bye as I drove away in the U-Haul truck. I don’t think she ever truly relinquished the thought that I would be returning home at some point.
Lebanon, ME, is approximately 75 minutes from Boston. Manchester, MA, is 40 minutes north of Beantown. It wasn’t a straight shot, however, since Cape Ann sticks out from the mainland. Still, even with the southern backtracking to access Route 95 from Ipswich, I arrived at base camp about an hour later. The leaflet described Skydive Lebanon as an airport, which would be like comparing an episode of Green Acres to Gone with the Wind. A large homestead and separate storage facility sat beside a single airstrip, nestled in the backwoods of Maine (The business has since grown to include a pro shop, café, overnight accommodations and nightlife). Fortunately, the runway was paved, though I don’t think a dirt track would’ve swayed me from my goal.
This larger sign greeting thrill-seekers did not exist when I made my dive. Nice to see the smaller one survived.
This was no high-falutin’ corporation, but rather a small business—I hesitate to use the word—started the same year of my escapade and run by like-minded lovers of skydiving who decided to turn their passion into a career. It reminded me of the male cliché of owning a bar, wherein after much imbibing, one of a group of buddies enthuses, “Hey, if we bought a bar we could hang out and drink together forever!” These guys were truly living the dream of doing what they loved. Much of the talk among the base campers was how many dives they’d already fit into the day and what that number did to their lifetime total. Perhaps it’s just my memory exaggerating the moment for effect, but I remember the tallies being in the thousands. “Enthusiasts” would have been woefully inaccurate to describe the Skydive Lebanon personnel. They fit a jump into their mornings before peeing.
Though the official name may have changed, Skydive Lebanon in Maine flourishes. And why not? They’re consummate pros whose love for jumping ensures a high level of safety and fun.
There were three of us scheduled to take the plunge, and as it was already late afternoon, the crew was anxious to get into the air while conditions were good. One member led us to the storage building, where we were outfitted with jumpsuits and parachutes. From the look of an area containing an easel fronted by dual desk/chairs, it appeared the squat structure doubled as a classroom. My suspicions were confirmed a moment later when our instructor decided to test us on skydiving procedures, which we learned at the course a few weeks earlier.
Huh?! What course? When? Where?!! My heart dropped as my senses reeled. Somewhere along this ride toward destiny, I’d missed a turn. I was so fixated on the brass ring, I forgot to get on the horse. And the evidence of my screw-up was clearly delineated in black ink on the shabby little handout: 10:00 AM 7/6. There were no other notes, but the time and date’s meaning suddenly clarified. That was the date of the skydiving class! All I noticed were the scribblings alongside the directions to base camp.
While my guts Ping-Ponged in my chest, outside I kept a cool veneer. Already that BFA in Performance was paying dividends! Now understand: I’d just discovered that my plans to hurl myself from an airplane at 10,000 feet necessitated my having taken a course, which would allow me to perform said plans successfully, i.e. without becoming a bloody stain on a remote field in Lebanon, Maine, and my only thought was fooling my instructors into thinking I’d passed the course and was ready to go.
What was I, a f***ing idiot?!!
And no, I wasn’t high… yet!
It’s funny how age alters one’s perception of mortality. I gave no thought at the time about the ramifications of skydiving without knowing the basics. I just wanted to do it. Only in my calling forth these thirty-year-old memories, when the awareness of death is more prominent, seemingly hanging more precipitously over me like the sword of Damocles, have I realized what a young, naïve fool I was.
Fortunately, the Skydive Lebanon instructors were not so easily flimflammed. They may have presented themselves as the jumping equivalent to Moon Doggy and the other surfers in Gidget, but they were consummate professionals. After fumbling through a couple of questions, one of them asked me, “Didn’t you take the course?” I’d been caught with my hand in the cookie jar and could do nothing more than confess. My heart sank. Surely, I’d be sent home, my only hope was a quick rescheduling for taking the course and jumping at a later date.
But no! As if it’d been their mistake, the teachers seemed equally crushed that I’d somehow missed the course and thus be unable to experience the thrill with which they’d devoted their lives. They unilaterally decided there was enough time to verse me in Skydiving 101, so I could go on with the jump. Apparently, it wasn’t rocket science... or skiing for that matter.
The maiden skydiver had only two options when jumping, at least as far as Skydive Lebanon was concerned: “Tandem” or “Static Line.” With the former option, an instructor jumps with the parachuting preemie, literally harnessed to the individual. The advantages range from experiencing a longer fall before chute deployment to literally not needing to know a damn thing. Static line choosers jump alone, but the pull cord is attached to the aircraft, thus deploying the parachute once the newbie’s descent reaches the end of its tether. Those of the latter variety may not plummet as far, but their skydiving experience includes the thrill of going it alone without the relative comfort of a professional literally at your back; although there would be one in your ear!
Along with the jumpsuit, each Static Line diver wore a helmet, which did more than protect the head. A receiver inside ensured that an instructor was with a jumper at all times, whether Tandem or Static Line. Each would be carefully monitored from the ground and talked to if the case warranted.
I’d signed up for the static-line option—I never did play well with others…
Although in both cases, the onus of popping the chute was not left entirely in the hands of a neophyte, other problems could occur. There were only a handful of these, however, the most pressing of which was the absolute failure of the parachute. Without an expert to lead the way, the static-line jumper needed to know how to respond to each. True, the ground crew could supply instruction and guidance via the helmet, but the individual still had to perform the necessary maneuvers themselves. And there was always the possibility of a malfunctioning headgear.
One other literally drop-dead failsafe was in place, if the primary parachute didn’t deploy and the emergency ripcord fizzled as well. There was also the possibility the jumper—realizing their canopy hadn’t opened—totally freaks to the point where they can do naught but flail about like a piece of Samsonite luggage in a gorilla cage or is so terrified they freeze or simply pass out. In any of these extreme cases, an automatic activator attached to the back-up chute would trigger. The device measures the air velocity at which the skydiver is plummeting. If a certain speed is attained, one indicative of a body plunging unimpeded for hundreds of feet, the gadget releases the emergency canopy.
[Count.] Look. Look. Pull. Pull.
That was the mantra instilled in all potential divers before take-off. The count was eight one thousands, if I remember correctly, begun as soon as one’s body leaves the aircraft. After the eighth, the jumper looks up to gauge the success of the chute’s deployment—the initial “Look.” A series of simple drawings was used to exemplify the possibilities that might occur. Of these, a perfectly formed canopy was the ideal, but even the most expertly packed chute occasionally suffered twisting or entanglements when opening. Each of these had a sketch and method of troubleshooting. Encountering any of the aforementioned would negate continuation of the mantra. The skydiver would either enjoy the descent—a properly deployed parachute—or take the simple, necessary steps to amend the canopy and then fall as intended.
“Spidey don’t need no stinkin’ fail-safe measures!”
The second “Look” instructs the diver to direct his eyes to the emergency chute-deployment handle, which sits over the left breast, where one would put their right hand when making the Pledge of Allegiance. A diver would only pull the emergency cord if there were nothing but sky—depicted with a blank card—or a torn non-functioning parachute upon initial look. Then, the final order of the mantra—“pull”—would be followed. The echo is there to punctuate the directive, a slap in the face should the first be ignored.
Once the parachute was properly opened, the jumper was then instructed to reach up and pull down the toggles, which controlled the steering, found at the base of the chute. As a newbie to skydiving, I knew little of the advancement in the hobby’s technology. I’d initially been informed of the then relatively new rectangular chutes in the literature provided in the New School offering. Otherwise, I would’ve expected the traditional round ones most people associate with the sport.
Steering was easy. Want to turn right? Pull down on the right toggle. Left? Pull down on the left one. In this way, divers could stay clear of trees and power lines and direct themselves to the landing area indicated by a ginormous traffic-cone orange arrow on the field next to the airstrip. Employing both toggles created a leveling and slowing of one’s descent, a maneuver we were instructed to use when we got to within ten feet of the ground. This technique ensured a comfortable landing.
The Skydive Lebanon instructors flipped the cards before me in ever-increasing succession, as I deftly described the situations depicted on each and the best measures to take. I have no doubt that the staff would’ve prevented my jumping if my troubleshooting knowledge weren’t up to snuff or I showed the least bit of trepidation or hint of hysterics. They were also sure to explain that I was under no obligation to skydive that day, but could take the course and jump at a later date.
I wanted to dive and felt confident of my abilities to counter any problems should they occur. I didn’t even blink when they presented me with the release form to sign.
The plane was small, the only seat being that of the pilot. Even the instructor was on the floor. I’m not sure what I expected—perhaps something along the lines of the D-Day scenes in Band of Brothers and Saving Private Ryan without, of course, the enemy fire—but it certainly didn’t prepare me for the way the parachutists were stuffed into the aircraft’s cabin, like clown in a circus car.
Our positions were predicated on weight to ensure equal distribution. There wasn’t any chance of being coy about one’s heft either. Everyone was weighed before take-off. Thank goodness for that! I’d hate to be the victim of someone’s lying about their poundage because of their embarrassment at no longer being a Size 10. All three of us had chosen the Static Line option. I’m unsure how the staff would’ve configured us had there been a single Tandem Jumper, with the participating instructor, included in the arrangement.
Best not to grab a bite at the Ripcord Café until after your jump
As fate would have it, I was the first to get in, which meant I would be the last to go out. Squished on my knees with my head facing toward the tapered rear of the plane, I rued the big lunch I’d eaten hours earlier. Thankfully, a pair of small, round windows bookended the sides of my head. Otherwise, I might’ve gotten sick. Facing forward, the other two debutante divers sat at my back, the second jumper behind the pilot, numero uno facing the instructor who rode shotgun sans seat.
It didn’t take long for the plane to take off and reach the proper altitude. The instructor opened the door beside which he sat and signaled the first diver to take their place, which meant sitting with legs outside the vehicle, as if no more than hanging out on the stoop of a building. After a final check of the jumper’s chute and static line, the instructor gave the thumbs-up—the roar of the engines made shouting instructions useless. Through one of the portholes from the cramped rear of the plane, I watched the perfect deployment of the Number One’s chute. Like cans in a Coke dispenser, my fellow rookie and I shifted into the respective openings left by our colleagues.
“You go right ahead; we’ll be right behind you!”
The plane circled and soon I witnessed the second skydiver take flight, a properly formed canopy marking their smooth departure. I skootched into the hot spot. It was at this point, with my legs outside the aircraft, circling into position that I began to second-guess my decision. In my head, I tried to reassure myself. The odds of anything going awry during a dive were enormous and those of actually plunging to my death were astronomical. I knew this, but all I could think about was the fact that with the successful jumps of my two colleagues, the odds of something, anything, going wrong just went up!
I concentrated on checking my equipment, reacquainting myself with the emergency pull and ensuring my static line was secured, as if I could somehow delay my departure. Too soon, the instructor put up his thumb. I looked out the door at the greenery far below, turned back and shook my head. It wasn’t the height. Again, unless one has experience falling from a particular altitude, the brain can’t comprehend its meaning. But at that moment, I was face-to-face with mortality, and my survival instinct had finally been bitch-slapped awake. The instructor ignored my response and once again gave me the go-ahead, this time more intently with a shake of his thumb as if I’d somehow missed it the first time. I knew if I jumped I was dead UNLESS everything went according to plan. With that thought, I shut off my brain and let fly.
“… eight, one-thousand… Look. Look. Pull. Pull.”
I immediately went into the mantra: one, one-thousand; two, one-thousand… By four, I was yanked upward as my parachute deployed. Of course, my descent hadn’t suddenly changed direction, but rather considerably slowed. The mind and body, however, seemed to continue their descent for a moment creating the illusion of abruptly shooting upward. Still, I maintained my training and completed the count to eight, one-thousands, before checking the canopy above me. But I couldn’t access the steering toggles. My lines were twisted! Still, contrary to what the exclamation point might suggest at the end of the previous sentence, I was cool as a cucumber. Maybe too cool, as I finished the mantra—looking down at the emergency cord and uttering pull, pull, only without actually carrying out the action—before returning my attention to the tangled lines above my head.
“To everything, churn, churn, churn...”
Again, my training smoothly kicked into gear. I began churning my legs, as if I were peddling a bicycle. I looked the fool, but damn if it didn’t instantly result in my spinning out of the entanglement. The ground crew hadn’t chimed in, allowing me to handle the situation without assistance, most likely not wanting to disturb me during the preliminary countdown for fear of causing greater damage. Once twist-free, I activated the toggles, at which point I heard a voice in my ear. “Good job, number three. Enjoy yourself while we land number two. We’ll check back as you get closer to the ground.” With the assurance of the pros watching my back, I basked in the awesomeness of skydiving.
I floated, turned right, then left, flattened out to a seeming hover, even corkscrewed and all the while exulted in the experience. “THIS IS F***ING AMAZING!” I screamed several times with interstitial whoops for good measure. Never again would I look dubiously at a skydiver when they mention having made thousands of jumps. I can’t imagine another drug, which provides the same euphoria. If I were they, I’d be popping Ambien and sleep-diving, so as not to have to wait until morning for the first jump of the day.
True to their word, the ground crew piped in as I neared Mother Earth. I didn’t want the feeling to end, praying for a sudden updraft to lift me back into the sky. No such luck. As I approached the touchdown area and a better perception of my distance from the grass, I discovered that what I perceived as wafting slowly, gracefully, downward was in reality falling at a frightening pace. As the ground rushed up to greet me, I wondered what the Skydive Lebanon guys were waiting for in giving me the signal to employ the toggles for landing. Finally they gave the word and I pulled both down in unison. I leveled out mere feet from the soil.
“THAT WAS F***ING AMAZING!”
A moment later, I hit, stumbling forward a step onto my knees. The landing wasn’t hard at all, like stepping off a bus; it was the sudden reacquaintance with gravity, which caused the misstep—more of a surprise, really. I renewed my chorus—albeit understandably altered—of “THAT WAS F***ING AMAZING!” My heart was thumping liking the drum machine in a disco tune, threatening to burst from my chest with every excited beat. The Skydive Lebanon personnel appeared in an instant. I was fine—there was no reason for them to think otherwise—but it was nice to see them so professional in the care they displayed for their charges. One held a video-recorder, which had been filming my entire jump from my plane departure to touchdown, including every excited epithet.
My one regret of the experience was hurrying off. I didn’t even see the video—something the crew and jumpers share at the end of each skydive session—never mind purchase it for posterity. Now that I’d successfully performed the greatest thrill of my life, I felt it prudent to get home to let my mom, at least, know I wouldn’t be returning to her through the mail slot. Hell, the company offered additional jumps at a special price, and I would love to have taken advantage, but I didn’t want to press my luck. And no, I didn’t have a cell phone with which to alert my mother of my survival—they didn’t exist.
The incredible artwork for this Aliens poster is by my insanely talented friend, Den Beauvais
As it happened, she hadn’t come home, yet, and I was still so hopped up on chemicals my endocrine system hadn’t released since I lost my virginity, I couldn’t stand still, never mind retire for the evening. I moved through the house like a caged animal, wondering what to do with myself. My salvation came in the form of a phone call. I leapt upon the device, answering it before the finality of the first ring. It was my friend Peter, who had just returned from seeing Aliens, which had opened that day. He was as similarly charged and itchin’ to tell someone about the movie, as I was to relate my skydiving experience.
Enthusing about the best of the quartet of Alien movies proved unfulfilling. He wasn’t yet ready to let it go, and suggested we go to the midnight screening. I was in the car and heading to pick him up before you could say…
“Get away from her, you bitch!”
So much for letting my mom know I was okay.
It was just the diversion I needed. The movie was amazing, and although my awe of Aliens now mingled with the residual effects of the jump, the duality of both experiences seem to lessen the impact of each. A heightened equilibrium replaced the nigh-paralyzing thrill of the first. Not that I was ready for bed. A Grand-Slam Breakfast run at Denny’s was in order.
I didn’t get home until the early morning hours. The lights were off and Mom was asleep. I soon followed her lead, exhaustion finally overtaking me. Some time later, I discerned the faint glow of the bathroom light as my mom shuffled to the toilet. As the house returned to darkness I thought I heard her enter my room. Her hand making its way across the blankets along the baseboard confirmed my suspicions. When she got to my leg, she took but a moment to lightly squeeze it in reassurance. There was an audible sigh of relief before she stumbled back to her room.
Where was that bold adventurer of yore? I asked myself as I donned the red-and-blue for another gig, spun from the fertile marketing mind of Eric, the Canadian wunderkind, who’d engineered the successful custom Spider-Man comic promotion of the early 90s (see “Northern Exposure”). I’d been filled with the sort of dread that greets a high schooler when informed of a semester’s final exam schedule ever since Eric had chimed, “I have you bungee-jumping this afternoon at the Canadian National Exhibition (CNE),” after my flight touched down in Toronto. Had I grown so old and cynical in the scant seven years since I foolishly rushed to leap from a plane?
The Canadian National Exhibition in Toronto
Dating back to 1879, the CNE comprises approximately 192 acres, situated along the shore of Lake Ontario directly west of downtown Toronto. The venue is home to more than a hundred annual events, trade and consumer shows (Think World’s Fair Pavilion). At the time of my visit, an Australian bungee-jumping outfit had rented space in the area. The extreme activity seemed just the sort of thing for Eric to continue the hype of his popular Spider-Man custom-comic program, which, in conjunction with The Canadian Association of Chiefs of Police and such high-powered sponsors as Proctor & Gamble, had already distributed millions of comics across the country. This particular event wouldn’t be tied to generating publicity for the release of the new book in the proposed ten-comic series, but rather maintaining the excitement of the promotion as a whole.
Spidey shows Canadian P&G president how he uses the company’s hair-care products
I’d been Eric’s go-to Spidey since the campaign’s genesis and had already racked up thousands of miles across Canada in promoting it, including a whirlwind coast-to-coast press tour (see “Northern Exposure”) and an appearance at a Blue Jays game, where I threw out the ceremonial first pitch (see “How Can They Lay Off Pitches That Close”). It had gotten to the point where the master marketer simply called Marvel with nothing more than a date, and the gig was a go and I was the Man. No other Web-Slinger would do.
Eric’s request (read: demand) superseded any other job for which Marvel might’ve needed or wanted me. I’d missed out on joining a cadre of colleagues to appear at the New York Stock Exchange when Marvel Entertainment went public and another time taking part in a character falderal at Ron Perelman’s birthday party on the grounds of his palatial estate in Miami, because of conflicting events with Eric. But also I was working when other actors were not, traveled throughout Canada, got to do some amazing, crazy-ass shit and developed one of my dearest friendships gigging for him.
“You
want me to what? From up there?!!”
So it wasn’t unusual for the Director of Personal Appearances, Alison, to be clueless about Eric’s intention to have Marvel’s most important property risking its life in Toronto. I don’t recall what made me more nervous: bungee jumping or doing so without clearing it with Alison/Marvel beforehand. I certainly didn’t want my tights confiscated for corporate misconduct. Plus, it gave me the perfect excuse to bow out of the stunt without culpability.
Alison was as ignorant as I about Eric’s intentions. But when it came down to rendering a verdict, she neither condoned nor condemned the act. “I expect you to do whatever you think is best for the character,” was her final ruling.
Isn’t that just f***ing great?!! Backing out would most assuredly look bad and prove fertile fodder for the merciless media. But were anything to go wrong… Brrr… I didn’t want to think about how that might damage the character, not to mention little ole me!
Eric was equally noncommittal, also foisting the onus of the decision onto my shoulders. Passive aggressive machinations were the last thing I needed. Understand Marvel’s concerns about the possible tragic consequences of the stunt and cancel it. Or rant and rave about how much work you’d put into the event; how the negative publicity from aborting would disgrace and do irreparable harm to the program. Just don’t give me your best Eeyore, despondently acceding to whatever my judgment may be!
I decided to do the deed; no spoiler warning required. This posting would be a colossal waste of time had I turned tail and swung back to the airport my webbing between my knees. The negative feedback of the press and resultant harm to the campaign combined with the damage to Eric’s reputation and my desire to do right by my buddy overrode the remote odds of my—Spider-Man—falling to my—his—doom.
“Spider-Man? Yeah, that’s it. I'm Spider-Man... And my wife is Morgan Fairchild... uh, I mean, Mary-Jane Watson Parker...”
Now I was really nervous! I don’t think the fact that
I was hurling myself from a metal cage, hoisted fifty feet in the air by a crane over a giant airbag situated underneath on the cement walkway of the exhibition grounds helped. The height was easy for my mind to fathom; this wouldn’t be like hurling myself from a plane 10,000 feet in the air. But as the stalwart idol of millions who’d saved the world once or thrice and battled the likes of Thanos and Dr. Doom, I wasn’t allowed to display my trepidation. I had to remain my flippant, irreverent, laugh-in-the-face-of-danger, Web-Slinging self. Which became increasingly more difficult the closer I got to launch.
Worst match.com date… ever!
I signed a release form, but can’t remember whether I put my real name, Peter Parker’s or Spider-Man’s. I would never reveal the former, so it had to be either of the latter; yet the crew proceeded with the jump nonetheless. At least my loved ones could sue the pants off the company once they identified the smear on the concrete. There was a slight delay when they had to adjust the bungee after weighing me in. The pros had double-guessed the answer I’d given, only to be proven wrong in their assessment of my honesty.
“I have got to cut down on the flies!”
The aforementioned flippant part was easy. I truly understood the character’s incessant nattering whilst facing danger. I was a blathering idiot, taking it out on the young woman manning the check-in table and the bungee boys securing the canvas leg manacles with which the elastic cord would be attached. I spewed pop culture references like a preemie on Epicac, paying homage to Cool Hand Luke and quoting Bob Euker.
Once the cage started its ascent, my breakdown worsened exponentially with every yard. I was fast approaching Martin Sheen’s Captain Kurtz in Apocalypse Now. I actually broke character—I never break character!—alluding to my mom and revealing Spidey’s relationship with Mary-Jane, an egregious faux pas. Fortunately, the videographer worked for Eric and I’d be getting the only copy.
The bungee company had a mantra, too, only theirs was one keyed for take off not after. Nor do they give the client time to think once the cage is in place. At least I retained enough sense to realize I was an addled mess and thus review the procedure. It also helped me focus and diverted my attention just long enough from envisioning the fall to actually going through with it
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh…!”
“Three… Two… One… Bungee…!” With that I was off. I planned the high-pitched scream beforehand. If he were to take part in such an inane stunt, Spider-Man would be as unfazed as a sea lion diving into the icy waters of the Arctic. Screaming? Hah! He’d be yawning! But I wanted to make it good for the crowd, so I took a deep breath and let out a blood-curdling, banshee yell as I propelled myself from the hanging metal deck. The wail also eased my jitters. It was my plan (PLANNING = COGNITIVE THINKING ≠ HYSTERIA = RESULT). And my admiring throngs loved it.
As for me, the experience was no way near that of skydiving. Yes, endorphins were released, but in comparison it was the difference between firing a bullet and throwing one. I’d parachute again in a heartbeat. Bungee jumping? Been there; done that…
A few weeks later, I was speaking with Eric and he revealed that the Australian bungee jumping outfit stole away one night without paying the business fees they owed the CNE. Looks like a job for Bungee-Ma— er, I mean, Spider-Man!
