“you’re not one of those people who are afraid of high places, are you?”
she asks me this as i’m swinging the second leg over the windowsill and dropping softly to the roof below, a nice flat bit of roof a good 4 feet wide at least.
“up until last year i couldn’t even stand on a chair. i would edge along second floor apartment balconies as close to pressed up against the wall as possible, because it felt like i was getting sucked over the edge.”
she grabs my hand to steady me, “i didn’t know!”
i gently pull away, tell her i’m fine, no way to express just how good this is, this standing here on the first roof of my whole life, picking up the two errant window screens and (as instructed) tossing them onto the patio below.
i’m surprised i hadn’t told her, i’ve certainly recounted the story countless times, how i conquered my fears of heights and spiders by climbing up on furniture with my camera. now, when i say conquer, i don’t mean conquer like clobber, crush, lick, master, overcome, prevail, surmount, trample underfoot, trash, or vanquish, not like that. no, my story has more of a conquistador vibe: travel to undiscovered lands, glance around nervously, claim some shit i have absolutely no right to, run home. sit around talking long shit about my journey to the cobwebs and beyond. and boring the living snot out of anyone who would sit still looking like they might be listening.
it’s gonna be even worse now. i’ve been on a roof.