The Joy in Bouncing

If I were the last man on earth I would go straight to the trampoline store. I would go right in and there would be no one to ask if they could help me with this or that for which I would be grateful because I haven't the time for wasting on salesmen.

I would go to a mighty trampoline and not one of those ground level ones, no. I would go to a big one with massive steel springs and black nylon stretched tight and ready for bouncy-rum-bouncing.

I would remove my shoes and climb up on the trampoline. My first few jumps would be tentative. It has been so many years since I have jumped, so many lost summers in my tattered recliner.

It would come back to me quickly, though, and I would soon be jumping madly, legs and arms lashing the air and legs pumping mighty pumps into that free floating joy that is the trampoline. The grin on my face would stretch the frowns into dust.

I would jump for hours into days and my legs would lose their vigor and they would grow weak but I would not stop. Like a madman I would jump until my guts wanted to fall out of my rectum, I would jump until my legs begged me to stopped, offered me anything; I would jump until I was dying of thirst and my stomach shriveled and spasmed.

I would jump until I fell down dead.

My dying utterance would be, "Dear wife, I told you these things aren't dangerous. But you...wouldn't listen. And now it comes to this."

If there were anyone around to notice they would plainly see a satisfied smile on my gaunt face.