The Fall of Roy G Biv

Spectral surfing dominated the skies over southern California long before the sport became popular along the shores and piers of the congested human community below. Cool ocean breezes carried moisture inland on mild November air, creating conditions ripe for brief afternoon precipitation over the hills of Los Angeles. The resulting sunshowers and the accompanying rainbows were spectacular in their arching radiance unless benders were prevented from doing their jobs. It was the benders that turned unremarkable horizontal rays of wet white light into splayed jewels of colored luminance.

Roy kicked off his skids as he monitored the sky, anticipating a hearty straight and narrow that he would mount in a leaping dash from the foothills near Santa Monica and ride for miles in a rush of color and spray. He existed for the pure art and joy of a splendid ride, and prided himself on the depth and breadth of colors he was able to extract, briefly tattooing the sky with his footwork. He would frequently hang five on his descent, goofy-foot on rare occasions, and on his best days bend double rainbows Earthward under his feet.

Catching a ray took timing and patience. Opportunities were scarce, and competition between surfers was growing as the number of benders grew relative to the number of available rays. Because of this rivalry, a ride’s exhilaration was always tempered by the possibility of conflict, or even sabotage.

On the afternoon of November 14^th the rain bent and bowed, shredding into seven brilliant bands under Roy’s white refractals. He dove earthward in the vicinity of the Los Angeles River and dipped below ground level hoping to exit unseen. Too late to react upon approach, he spotted a rival bender reflected in the shallow water of his intended culvert, standing on the bridge above. He struggled to reduce his speed and braced himself for impact, helpless.

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Consumed

Across the yellow-orange display within my head, rhythmic, shadowy shapes drifting across my inner panorama belonged to Evan. He was doing his morning yoga. Judging by the intensity of the sun blazing across the living room and onto my face, it was later in the morning than we had hoped to get started. But I sensed this only through closed eyelids. My throbbing headache was somewhat diminished since the night before, and Aunt Ellie’s couch and blankets enveloped me like a womb. Her condo’s air conditioning simulated the chill of a winter cabin, in contrast to the warmth of my body in its comforting nest. It had been a late night at Tradewinds. It seemed like days ago.

“I don’t get why you do that to yourself, dude,” said Evan, turning at the sound of my groaning.

I didn’t have a good answer. Evan didn’t drink. He claimed to be high on life and said it dulled his senses. I admired him for that.

“Have more fun when I’m buzzed,” I said, squinting briefly before covering my face with a pillow.

“You puked all night. Is that fun?” he prodded.

“Noooo,” I said, swinging my legs onto the floor, folding myself forward onto the pillow like a kid crying on a grade school desk. At least the room had stopped spinning.

“…need food,” I said, standing and staggering slightly on my way to the refrigerator.

“We’ll eat on the way,” said Evan, giving me that look that said, “Don’t screw up my day, man.”

It had been like this since high school. Evan, the energetic free spirit. The Zen master. Always on the go, driven, looking for adventure and testing his limits. He was athletic beyond anyone else at Murdock High, consistently disappointing coaches in their attempts to recruit him for team sports. I drew my strength from him, and I usually grounded him when he needed it most. We were stronger together in school and inseparable ever since.

*****

We hit the river much later in the day than Evan had hoped. Already in the water and sitting upright, straddling his paddleboard on the slightly brackish water, Evan repeatedly dunked his hands into the river, combing and drenching his long blonde hair with dripping fingers. The water offered refreshing relief from the searing Florida sun as he rinsed the sweat from his face with a final handful. I stood at the boat launch, nervously finishing a bagel and scanning the shore. Dense foliage surrounded us, cascading in a hundred shades of green across the river’s banks and onto the water, threatening to consume it. The Peace River has a reputation as a kayaker’s haven. Clear, calm, and deep, it flows for miles from its freshwater inland source to the salty Gulf of Mexico. A dark and green wildlife sanctuary, the river meanders like a living thing, silently, relentlessly through the surrounding junglescape, mingling fresh and salt waters before spilling its secrets into Alligator Bay. Entering the river on boards had been Evan’s idea, something he wanted to try. I reluctantly agreed, but would have preferred to take the boats as usual.

To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.