Sit On It

from the Probability Spinner by Regan


Virginia remembered with a chill the amniotic trap that had been her mother’s womb. She was at a rock concert when it happened, a flashback brought on not by acid nor hallucinogenic mushrooms, but a projection screen behind a psychedelic 60s throwback band. In milky blues and vaginal pinks, the movie displayed manic sperm chasing a sweaty egg, their tails frantic to reproduce, their heads diving and burrowing with repeated failure. She thought how sad it was to be a sperm, with an obsession that only ended in death, and how sad to be an egg, surrounded by attackers and completely vulnerable to infestation. In an instant, she remembered being there, pre-conception.
A few years later, her younger brother Grant passed through the same bizarre antechamber of life. What were the chances that they had both survived that treacherous swamp and traversed the same escape chute only to emerge into a bright world bracketed by hairy trees? What was the likelihood that one of them would stroll on an easy path through her existence and the other would hit head-on obstacle after obstacle on his way? Was it probable that one of them would die young?
Grant’s medical history was full of statistics. At birth, the doctors told his parents he would die within six months. When he was three years old, the doctors said he would live through childhood, but would never be able to attend school. When he was seven, they said he would attend school, but would not progress from a special education program. When he was twelve, they said he would attend public school, but would never graduate from high school. When he was eighteen, they said he would never be able to live independently and hold a steady job. When he was twenty-two, they said he would never be able to drive. When he was twenty-five, Grant stopped talking to doctors. Instead, he drove his scooter across town to the community center where he taught swimming.
Every morning, toddlers came in with frightened mothers and splashed chubby red water wings when the women let go. Every afternoon, preschoolers bounded into the shallow end and held their breath, inverted on one arm, legs in a V above sea level. After five o’clock, senior citizens arrived – some bedecked in earrings and sporting eye make-up – to do aerobics to a warbling Glenn Miller Orchestra recording. Grant explained to each class that water was their friend, because it helped them with their movements. In the pool, they found their limitations diminished by a lack of resistance. The fluid allowed them to do things that would’ve been difficult if not impossible on dry land.
Grant was tough but not adventurous. Living against expectations had been his greatest feat. Thrills held little allure. He was rather rule-driven and civic-minded, in fact, strapping his head into his helmet each time he got onto his scooter. At the beginning of every lesson, he reviewed the community center guidelines:
1) No Horse Play.
2) Walk, do not Run, on the Concrete.
3) Shower in the Locker Rooms Before entering the Pool.
Therefore, it came as a surprise to those who knew him that Grant ended up in a coma. One evening, after his final session and before the community center closed at 8 p.m., he went for his usual penny dive. He tossed an old metal coffee canister full of coins into the abyss, affixed his air-tight goggles, and scavenged for the exact cents he’d counted on the concessions counter. These were the tips for the hot dog girl and the soda jerk, and Grant felt responsible to both of those perspiring teenagers to seek every last copper circle. Somehow on his descent that evening, Grant had hit his head and floated to the surface like a goldfish, his orange trunks glistening under tubes of fluorescent light.
It was water on the brain, the doctors said. They gave him six months to live.