Power Over the Vulnerable

The chalk infested carpet scratched at my palms as I aimlessly leaned forward, then backward on the cubbies like an involuntary screen saver designed to keep the body busy as the mind remained occupied. I thought about how ridiculous of a sport climbing is and how unreasonably obsessed I was with it. In all respects, it is an exercise in futility; gravity simply never fails, and yet here I was testing it again and again. Climbing is like gambling, someone once told me; it’s the thrill of a jackpot that keeps you motivated. A finger poked me in the shoulder and a voice asked me if I was ready. “I guess,” I sighed as I languidly leaned forward to pull the backing of my climbing shoe over my heel. My toes gave a sharp pain, then relaxed as though in numb confusion of the usual, yet unjustified torture I put them through. I rechecked my knot as I have never quite gotten over my fear of falling (many people still question the appropriateness of my choice of sport). It looked secure and I stared at the shiny, artificial lumps of plastic hanging from the wall that surely conspired with gravity to pitch me off and send me speeding downward to a possible meeting with the pebbles on the gym floor. As always, I retained that small sense of hope that today I might finally clip that last carabineer and be lowered in a controlled manner, as opposed to my usual reckless tumble before the punishing halt of a taught rope. I meticulously contemplated each move as my fingers mechanically maneuvered around the first hold till they found the ideal grip, and my feet swiveled on top of a polished indent in the wall. The moves weren’t exactly easy, but I was confident. I had mastered the climb in pieces, but never in its entirety; now it was just a question of endurance. As I approached the most challenging test, I hung on a relatively untiring hold, trying to relieve the building pressure in my forearms. I tried alternating arms and violently shaking the free limb (don’t ask me why I can’t take myself seriously) before, in a matter of seconds, body weight transferred from crumpled toe to clenched hand. “I got it!” I immediately told myself.
Not so fast. A powerful force from below halted my progress at clipping the final quick draw, and I frantically glanced down to see Sean, my belayer, smirking and shaking his head. He wanted a fall, and I knew it would, frankly, be utterly terrifying. Before I knew it, I was swinging inches from the gravel and guarding my knees from the unforgiving wall with an arm as though it was somehow invincible from bruising. I swiveled around to face my cockily grinning friend who forcefully questioned, “What the Hell did you fall there for?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think gravity had a little help,” I said, my voice getting progressively higher. He laughed, and then lowered me so my toes tickled the gravel while gleefully swinging on the end of the other rope. He was untouchable and he knew it.
As my harness began to cut off all circulation to my thighs, I sarcastically inquired, “Are you having fun?”
“Yep,” he replied. Just like that. In moments, I had flashbacks at the age of seven of my face inches from some algae encrusted liquid (I’m not sure you could call it water) as my body swung like a pendulum at the control of oversized hands. I can honesty attest that I have never felt more vulnerable than in that moment, until now. I reached in my sack of emotions but could only scrounge up disbelief; anger was somehow buried. My first reaction bubbled out of my lips as a whiny moan, and a frustrated flailing ensued like the fit a grumpy, empty-handed toddler in a candy store. Before long, however, I realized that I could disgustedly roll my eyes, even throw a temper tantrum, but no cutting remark or tricky escape plan could better my situation. And yet, I honestly couldn’t blame him. It’s funny how power in the midst of an audience and without immediate consequences can be so satisfying, if only for a minute. It consumed him, and I watched him savor each remaining centimeter as I was finally lowered to the ground.
Then, a few weeks ago, as I was walking near the gym office, I noticed Dave, my trainer, gingerly holding Sean’s tennis shoes with his fingertips. With an amused expression, I hesitantly asked, “Dave, what are you doing?”
“Oh, I’m just putting Sean’s sneakers in the freezer,” replied the beaming and unquestionably balding man as though it was simply customary.
“Nice,” I giggled, trying not to sound too pleased as more than slightly comical images of Puma-popsicles danced through my head.