But before heading out, clipped into one’s Peloton and played Lanebreak, the new video game-inspired fitness experience in which the rider amasses points by biking over blazing, rhythm-inspired bars of neon light, pedaling through gemstone-green streams of sustained cadence, and sprinting over breakers from which the rider bursts out at each finish line through fluorescent blue triangles. Changed lanes to decrease resistance. Wheeled over a series of strikingly blue beams. Reminded oneself of TRON. Imagined oneself as a program in an arena, speeding along the galactical track on a light cycle, rocking an all-black bodysuit with radiating streaks of circuitry colors. Thought about how they’d killed off Bartnik in the TRON: Legacy movie, derezzing him before anyone could see how the homie could really tear it up on the light cycle. Thought about the scene when the homeless Black man was taken prisoner and learns he is about to be rectified, reprogrammed to serve a new purpose. Remembered reading Peloton’s warning, cautioning riders with epilepsy of how the lights of the game could trigger an epileptic fit. Recalled tuning in to Finding Your Roots with Henry Louis Gates, Jr. and how Terry Crews found out that his grandfather was once sentenced to a chain gang for a year, and died not too long after being released back into society of an epileptic seizure. Considered one’s own ancestors who had potentially been jailed and were forced to serve their time with ankles shackled, chained to another Black body shoveling out roads on which they most likely would never have the chance to travel. Finished level on Lanebreak. Worked up a sweat. Exited the game. Showered. Threw on an all-black sweatsuit and white Nike running shoes, on which the check, when the light strikes, pulsates with Argentine silver. Felt ashamed of how one only left the apartment to drive to work or the store. Figured a walk could do one some good, to avoid feeling like a prisoner in one’s own home. Opened door. Rode elevator. Headed out into the earthly universe. Recognized white Nikes blended in with the sheets of snow. Ignored the couple making out in the truck facing the pond. Passed a tree wearing a chain-link fence, its branches interlaced with sections of railing and tension bands, barbed wire snaking up its trunk, thorns embedded into its flesh. Felt similar pain from one’s examination. Wished that one had brought gloves to relieve the tree from its suffering. Spotted a pair of mini-evergreens lying side by side in the leaves that looked as if, from the cylinder-shaped dirt and roots, they had at one point been potted. Figured that the human felt the tiny little trees needed to be released back out into the wild. Walked. Shook head at the numerous beer cans at the feet of trees, an empty box of diapers discarded near the water’s edge. Stared at cracks in the pond that resembled shards of shattered, expensive glass. Eyed a facade of glass by Nike shoe, gleaming from sunshine, embraced by the emerald soil. Imagined it as a window, a portal to the underworld. Knelt. Excavated glass bottle from the earth with a brittle stick and noticed nothing inside but dirt and earth, and one’s own reflection. Heard a man speaking Portuguese into his phone while standing on a bench from the hill above. Turned and considered the man and thought about Christ the Redeemer. Learned that when one was 17 and anxious about stepping into the real world, Christ the Redeemer had been newly added to the list of New Seven Wonders of the World. Journeyed down to the breakwater and became more intimate with the mostly-frozen pond. Spotted the wrapper of a Pass Pass mouth-freshener stuck on a rock in the creek bed and remembered that one had not yet brushed one’s teeth. Stared at the blocks of ice locked under the surface. Placed one’s hand on the ice, eyes closed, amazed by the chilling feeling of its frosted flesh. Felt astonished at one’s calming view through transparent ice, into a world so still and silent. Became emotional at the sight of countless beige and brown-stained water bottles scattered on the edges of the stream. Promised the earth that one will be more mindful to recycle. Considered the thaumaturgic triangle—the symbol of a triangle fitted inside of a circle—indicating a line for well water, from which one of its bolts had been twisted out of its home. Learned that the thaumaturgic triangle once was an image to guard against evil spirits; to unify one’s mind and body, each point of the triangle represents the arcane, the divine, and the magical. Clawed up a stone that one’s “Rock Identifier” app considered to be either basalt or chalcopyrite—the latter is also considered to be fool’s gold. Discouraged by the uncertainty and grew annoyed by the app’s constant ads which interrupted one’s research. Settled on the fanciest nomenclature. Ran fingers down its coarse face. Felt its minerals mingle in one’s palm. Deposited the stone back into its burrow. Stunned by an ominous sketch from chalk on a sewer hatch. Studied the composition which appeared to be a cartoonish skull smoking a thick cigar venting out ropes of smoke, its eyes—which looked out at the world via lowercase x’s for pupils—were illustrated as the O’s in its one-word message spelling out “DOOM.” Noticed the hatch was unlocked. Decided not to attempt to lift the hatch open. Wondered, instead, about who or what waited beneath in a hole which imaginably reached all the way to the earth’s core. Contemplated knocking and being greeted by a troll or some type of subterranean creature who’d pull one down toward one’s impending doom. Remembered one was rocking Nikes, which would be put to the test during a spirited escape. Kept walking. Caressed the peeling skin of a tree. Saw something. Stopped. Froze. Felt body stiffen while trying to make out what was lying on the edge of the pond. Realized its body was shaped similar to a bird. Zeroed in on its limp leathery feet, the breathless and gray plumage, the silver ombre in its immobilized feathers. Confirmed that it was a Canada goose, frozen, lifeless. Thought the goose had frozen to death or had ingested one of the many articles of plastic planted all over the terrain. Noticed the goose’s neck was twisted and was unable to identify the location of its head. Stepped closer. Felt foot stretching the mesh of one’s Nike shoe and thought that if the goose had suddenly sprung back to life and stretched its mighty wings in defense, one would sprint faster than the speed of light and fly home. Lowered head to look into the eye of the deceased. Noticed its eye was screened with snow. Thought about wiping the snow from its eye just in case there was still a glimmer of life hanging on, which would find peace in its passing by capturing one final image of the sky. Wished one had brought gloves. Considered, while kneeling beside the deceased, performing necromancy. Thought to lift and cradle the deceased to a nearby lair hidden in the forest and perform a ritual on a thaumaturgic triangle to bestow its soul back into its exanimate body and watch in awe as it arose and soared towards the clouds. Stayed with the deceased for a while, thinking how one had watched others pass by without having recognized the perished goose. Learned that geese couples remain together their whole lives, but if their partner dies, the other goose may go on to find a new mate. Pondered over where that particular goose’s significant other had flown to and whose feathers they were now cuddled up under at that very second. Wondered if they had honked a final goodbye for the goose lying before one’s Nikes. Surveyed the scene for strings of cordgrass and sticks with the urge to craft a little cross for one’s fallen goose friend. Noticed, during one’s inspection, a cluster of its feathers clinging to a twig reaching out of the ice. Smiled at the remnants of its plumage which seemed to flicker with life in the wind. Left the deceased after silently expressing one’s final goodbye. Noticed, a few feet away from the deceased, a Red Bull can; however, was unamused by the irony. Walked on. Paused and marveled over a pair of white puffball mushrooms. Grabbed a stick. Poked the larger puffball mushroom delicately and gazed as gaseous fumes expelled from its peridium, like smoke from a chimney. Learned that the common puffball is known as Lycoperdon perlatum, which means “wolf fart” in Latin. Learned that if one inhales a significant amount of the mushroom’s spores, their lungs experience irritation. Learned, when released into the atmosphere, its fungal spores serve as condensation nuclei that aid in the engineering of raindrops. Concluded, after extracting its fungal exhaust, that if it rains in the next few days, it was all from one’s amateur alchemic actions. Heard weird sounds. Hushed thoughts. Listened. Discovered that the sounds were drumming from underneath the ice. Tuned into the music being performed below the frosted pond. Perceived that the ice, in some ways, was talking to itself. Learned that the electronic kick drum sound was created from the melting of ice. Learned that it was caused by gasses being released back into the water. Chuckled at a YouTuber’s comment regarding the sound being similar to an “underwater rave.” Enthused by another YouTuber who claimed the sound echoed the discharge of a plasma rifle from the movie The Terminator, or how, according to NPR, the burst of the Star Wars blaster was inspired by such naturally-produced acoustics. Pictured an ancient, intergalactic battle unfolding underwater across the expanse of the pond and awaited a Star Wars fighter to fiercely eject and thrust out of a block of ice, whizzing past one’s head and instantaneously ascending into another dimension. Wanted to speak back to the ice. Yearned for a climate-changing conversation. Felt the need to apologize on the behalf of all humans. Felt the words melt away on one’s tongue. Reached the end of the breakwater. Turned around. Retraced one’s steps. Considered the couple on the opposite end of the breakwater snapping pictures of a flock of gulls; one of them tossed bread while the other’s head was buried into the camera, the birds posed for their 15 seconds of fame, suspended mid-air as if some puppeteer positioned each individual gull directly in front of the lens. Felt the urge to get closer to the picture-taking couple; however, one’s essential desire was to be closer to the gulls. Pictured, unfortunately, being attacked. Played scenes from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds in one’s head; non-photogenic, evil flesh-eating birds circling and squawking above and once again enabling the athletic capabilities of one’s Nikes. Retreated because of this thought. Watched cautiously as a man suddenly began stepping onto the ice. Felt the need to scream out, “What the hell are you doing?” Refrained. Recognized that the man was rescuing a ball for his dog, who was also momentarily on the ice before being called back. Looked on intently and prayed for the ice not to buckle under the man’s boots. Begged some higher power that one wouldn’t have to dive in and save that man, increasing the possibility of two human beings sinking under the ice. Wondered if the man’s dog held the same thoughts and, if things took a life-threatening turn, was fully prepared to launch into action. Studied the man’s every step as he tiptoed closer to the dog’s ball, his reflection anxiously looking back at him. Exhaled a breath of relief when the man retrieved the ball and safely jumped back onto land. Thought about how a man would risk his life for his best friend. Watched the man and his dog for a moment, wondering if the man or the dog would consider the deceased goose. Felt a little guilty from not designing a cross. Skipped with swift purpose over puddles. Escaped falling into the ice. Thanked Nikes. Found abandoned honeycomb in pieces, every hexagon emptied out and hollowed. Wondered where all the honey flowed, why the bees had neglected their hive. Asked, “Where are you now?” Ditched that deliberation while scaling a mound of snow, Nikes sliding down its slick slope. Trekked home.
Evan J. Massey is an African American U.S. Army veteran who served his country in Afghanistan. His work can be found or forthcoming in Colorado Review, Hunger Mountain, Bat City Review, The Pinch, Indiana Review, Gulf Coast, Quarterly West, and various others. He holds an MFA from Virginia Tech and teaches Upper School English at The Rivers School. Find him at evanjmassey.com.
Header photo by Gerd Altmann, courtesy Pixabay.
