'The 5% Nation of Pay-per-view' by Robert Vaughan

1. It was like falling down

Once we jump out of the plane, the free fall is my favorite part. The air around every corpuscle, charging every cell, every atom screams. Plus knowing the ground would be game to splatter you into fragments. But once you tug the ripcord, the sensation is gone. You float onward. Your nuts tighten, you remember which bills you forgot to pay. The missed therapy appointment. How you made her cry on her last birthday.

2. This never happened

Lugging the wash to various laundromats. It was one thing washing undergarments, tank tops. Even jeans. But when I brought my new Chick-A-Fil rubber uniform home and asked Brenda to wash it (well, I didn’t really ask her, I just added it to the hamper), she threw her keys at me and left. Never came back. Took over a week for the swelling on my face to go down.

3. Don’t sweat it

She agrees to meet me after her march for some equality event. Pick-its. Signs. She lay her sign face-down on the manicured park lawn. The grass smells like fertilizer.
“Try to see it my way,” she says. Chips at her fresh manicure.
“We can work it out,” I encourage her.
“Only if you do the wash?”
“Deal. Plus, I quit Chick-A-Fil.”
Brenda laughs and I cry. Not outwardly. Because I love love.

4. See the manager

We announce our engagement and my father visits Erie. It has been a few years. He wants to go see the lake, and at the hardware I tell him we have a bun in the oven. He grunts, like he’s passed wind. We get out and there is dead fish smell, even in late winter. Dad wants his own bench. My feelings aren’t hurt, just who he is- the way any visitor from outer space might feel. We sit there, staring into the partially frozen lake, under the tall tree canopy, this infinite planet.