Contestant

               Your eyes are closed, blocking out the light and the task in front of you. Breathe. You inhale and hold the air inside your lungs for 3 seconds before releasing it slowly through your nose. You feel concrete beneath your bare feet, the scratchy surface warm after sitting in the sun since its rise over the mountains and trees. A faint breeze wisps around your body catching the sweat that has pooled in the small of your back. You can feel the sun beating down from above, warming your exposed shoulders.

                You open your eyes, feeling concentrated on what you are about to do. You take the pair of swimming goggles that have been dangling from your fist and stretch the elastic over your head. As the goggles slip over your eyes, the surrounding world takes on an orange hue. You breathe again, focusing in on the air that is flowing into your lungs. Hold for three seconds, then release.

                “Is the contestant ready?” A voice calls over to you from off to your left.

                You look over and see Jim Stanton, the host of the show. He stares nonchalantly at you, a wisp of wind ruffling the bottom of his yellow polo. You nod, and hold out your left hand, your fingers curled into a fist and your thumb extended into a thumbs-up.

                “Okay. Entering reality.”

                He pauses, waiting for a signal from the cameramen. You turn your head back to focusing on the water that laps against the side pool. You try to push down the rising tension in your stomach.

                “Will our Daredevil be able to face the watery depths or will their courage just leave them all washed up? We will find out in... Three…”

                The number echoes around your skull.

                “Two…”

                Your heart pounds against your chest.

                “One…”

                Your legs quiver in anticipation like springs wound too tight.

                “Go!”

                The springs in your legs snap, and you send yourself into the air, an arc headed downwards into the water.

                The dive is far from perfect, but your hands do manage to part the water in the split second before the rest of your body. The shock of cold hits your system, and you think for a second that your lungs might give up their precious cargo of air. But they hold, and you open your eyes to watery depths now surrounding you.

                Under the water, you can only hear the stroke of your arms and kick of your legs as you swim downwards. You see your goal, a set of wooden boxes scattered in the middle of a large red circle 15 feet below the surface. Around the perimeter of the circle, a squadron of black-suited divers swim, each one holding various pieces of video equipment that are pointed back at you. You hope that your swimsuit won’t slip from its designated position on your body as you continue to stroke through the water.

                You can feel the pressure of the water building against your ears as you reach the bottom. You arrive first at a large wooden box, with the number 2 written on the lid. A lock holds the lid shut, you will need to find that key. You leave the box, searching for another box with the number 2 written on the lid. You find it about 10 feet away, a small box the size of a shoebox.  You pick up the box and fiddle with the lid, trying to pry it off with shaking hands. You can feel your lungs fighting to retain any last shreds of air, you have to move fast. The lid pops off revealing a brass key inside. You grab the key in a pincer hold, drop the box and turn, not even watching it fall back to the pool’s floor. You kick off, swimming back to your first box. You arrive, and jam the key into the lock. You struggle to twist the key, and finally it pops.

                You open the lid, and there inside is your prize: a red block with the words “5 lbs” written in black across the top. You can feel your lungs crying out, so you grab the block with both hands and prepare to retreat back to the surface. Your feet find the pool bottom, so you squat and push. You feel the water flow against your skin, but you slow too quickly. Water still separates you from the air you need, and so you kick your legs, pushing you forward.

                Your face breaks the surface, and so you gasp for breath with water flowing off your face. But you can’t rest, the platform to place the brick floats 5 feet away. You move your legs still clutching the red block in your hands. Although it may have been a few seconds, it seemed an eternity. You arrive at the floating platform and heave the 5-lb brick up onto the platform. You hear an electronic bong from the poolside. One brick down, four to go.

---

                Almost two years earlier, you were sitting squarely in an uncomfortable chair in front of a wooden desk in an office with small windows on the side wall. Your boss sat in front of you, his hands clasped together on top of his desk. Plaques hung behind his head, exclaiming his excellence in management.

                “As you are aware, we are being forced by upper management to downsize our department. As one of the few at-will employees… I’m sorry about this, but we no longer need your services to this company. You will have until the end of the day to clear out your cubicle.”

                You stared straight ahead at the fake concern smeared across his face unable to force words of indignation to come to your mouth. All you could manage was an open mouth and a few gasps of air like a fish freshly pulled from a lake. After a few minutes of awkward silence, he finally helped you to your feet and out the door.

                Your 10x10 cubicle had been eggshell-white, just like the other 49 that formed the nexus of the business. You sat in your chair, feeling the familiar spring as it moved to your weight. You felt heavier than ever before, the weight of your future pressing down. You had been cueing up your computer for the day’s work before your “interview,” and the screen of your computer was still lit up waiting for use. A red light blinked on the phone to the right of the monitor; there were probably messages from the successes of the previous day.

                You left the phone’s headset sitting in the place where you put it after each day’s work over the previous five years. The mouse to the computer stayed next to the keyboard that was hidden on a sliding shelf that rested below the desk top. After pressing the button to turn off the monitor, you let your hand stray to the 3x5 frame sitting to the left.

                Your young son, Harrison, looks out at you, his face beaming in a smile. You had driven up into the mountains together the previous fall just as the leaves had been changing colors and had snapped a few pictures commemorating the memory. His eyes were filled with hope and yet-to-be-lived dreams. As you gazed at the picture, your own eyes filled with tears. What kind of dream would you be able to live together now?

                Seeing an empty box by the photocopier, you grabbed it to fill with your memories.  A set of pens for five years of service that you had received a year previous; you wanted to uncap them all and draw a modern take on primitive cave drawings all over the cubical walls. A plaque labeled “Optimal Service to the Branch’s Success” from the award banquet held right before Christmas.  You were tempted to throw it away, or even into the smug face of your now ex-manager. But instead, it all went into the forgotten box. You finished the pile off with the framed picture of your son. And just as your ex-coworkers were heading into the break room from their morning coffee, you removed your name tag, slapped it down on to the desk and left the office for the last time.

                A bridge stands a few blocks away from your house where you had lived. Underneath, a river churns its way relentlessly towards the ocean. After leaving your job that day, you stood on the bridge for two hours. You wondered what the bridge would look like covered in police cars, fire trucks and television vans. You wondered what the world would be with one less person living in it.

                Then, you heard the toll of the church bell ringing 12 times. Harrison was counting on you to pick up him from kindergarten. So, you turned your back to the bridge and walked away.

---

                You sit on a wooden bench at a picnic table. The table stands in a grove of trees, their branches shifting in the breeze. Light streams in from above, filtered by the leaves that hang overhead. You wear a jacket, its thin fabric layer forming a barrier from the shade’s chill.

                Two of the contestants had been eliminated the day before. Both had managed to complete the underwater task, but you retrieved the five blocks about 15 seconds than the faster of the two. Of the remaining four players, you had been the slowest at swimming. You make up your mind that you will not place last during this next event.

                Jim sits at the head of the table, explaining the rules of the game. Each contestant will be given a plate of food themed around a picnic. At Jim’s signal, each contestant would then commence eating at the same time and have 15 minutes to eat whatever food you will be given. The only allowed way to kill anything alive would be through crushing of it between your teeth. Any contestant unable to finish eating within the 15 minute time period will be eliminated from the show.

                As Jim explains the rules, you stare at the other contestants sitting at the table. You wonder if your face is as pale as theirs.

                Taking a cue from the producers, Jim pulls a large basket from underneath the table. The horrid stench you have smelled since you sat down intensifies. You hold a gag in your throat. Jim makes a face as he reaches inside the basket to pull out the first item.

                A cardboard carton with the logo, “Daredevil’s Finest Fried Chicken.” The bottom of the carton is darkened with moisture and you watch as a small white grub-like thing squirms its way between the cracks. In a horrific moment of epiphany, you realize what the little grub is just as Jim announces the dish.

                “Maggot covered Fried Chicken. Enjoy.”

                Someone to the right of you gags audibly, dry heaving.

                Jim has reached back into the basket and is preparing to pull out the next item that will surely torture your insides. It is long and cylindrical and covered in aluminum foil. He pulls out four others, and you realize there will be one for each of you. His eyes brim with glee as he unwraps the foil to show the contents.

                “And what is fried chicken without a side of corn-on-the cob?”

                The yellow corn kernels are covered in more grubs, this time in colors of red and green. They are thinner and slightly longer than their maggoty counterparts.

                “And those are waxworms.”

                More gagging from your right. Jim seems unperturbed as he reaches into the basket one last time. He brings out a smaller basket, this one filled with what seems like biscuits. However, you notice small legs sticking out helter-skelter from each one.

                “And finally, we have cockroach biscuits.”

                The gagging to your right continues. You look over just in time to see the contestant reach up to his mouth, swivel in his seat and run off into the woods. Seconds later, you hear the thick splatter of bile against the trunk of a tree.

                “It appears that we are already down a player. Okay, Daredevils, will you be able to brave the depths of food fears or will the bugs find themselves conquerors of your resolve? We will begin in…  Three…”

                You look at the maggots that are now wriggling out of every possible exit of the cardboard chicken container.

                “Two…”

                You stare down at a waxworm that has reared at you defiantly.

                “One…”

                You look at the biscuits and wonder if it’s just the breeze that is making the legs of the cockroaches twitch.

                “Go!”

                You lean in to the table, grabbing for whatever is closest to you. A biscuit. You close your eyes and lift your hands to your mouth. Saying a silent prayer, you clamp down and start to chew.

---

                It had been over a year and a half since your dismissal. In order to maintain custody over Harrison, you had taken up a job working the lunch shifts at a local fast food place. You had traded ironed shirts and day-old coffee for a baseball hat and grease stains.

                It was mid-afternoon and you had just gotten home from your shift. You lived in a new neighborhood, an apartment complex with rooms that were almost too small to live in. You were expecting Harrison to be home soon; his new school had a bus that would drop him off in front of the complex.

                The door opens and closes behind you and you hear his small footsteps on the fake tile. You grab a grease-stained white paper bag that you had sitting in front of you on the table. He takes it from you, giving you a hug on your side as he passes.

                “Thanks for the Happy Meal. Is there a cool toy in there today?”

                You shrug, but give him a smile. You picked this one out yourself.

                He smiles, and then sits next to you at the table.

                Within a few bites, the fries and burger were placed to the side and a purple car with orange painted flames was zooming across the table. Within moments, the car had bumped against the stack of envelops on its way around the table. The top one falls off the stack, revealing the eviction warning from the apartment managers. You shuffle the letters quickly, hoping Harrison hadn’t noticed the bright red letters. The car was still making its way around the table, Harrison making the sound of screeching tires against the wooden asphalt.

                He suddenly looks up. “My show’s on!”

                He runs over to the TV searching for the remote. He anxiously searches while you pick yourself off the chair and move over to the couch. Sitting down, you feel hard plastic and pull the remote out from the crack between the cushions.

                You press the power button.

                “Channel 4. It’s going to start soon!”

                You decide to play with his emotions and press the 7 button instead.

                “Ugh, I said channel 4! This is just dumb grown-up news!”

                You chuckle. You move to turn it to his show, when you stop yourself.

                On the screen, there is an advertisement.

                “From the producers of the hit game shows Show Me the Money and Walk out of Here with some Serious Cash: Do you have the guts to run into a burning building? Could you face a pit full of rats? We are searching for contestants for the first season of a new reality show where other people’s fears are just a walk in the park. Apply now for a chance to be on this new show and for the shot at the $100,000 prize! Prove to the world the Daredevil that you are!”

                A website was flashing at the bottom of the screen.

                “Come on, turn it to 4! Hydroman was teaming up with the Human Shark against the Evil Eel!!”

                $100,000? You felt in that moment that the number was a godsend. You quickly memorized the site’s address (www.Daredevilshow.com). You pressed the 4 button and the sounds of fanfare soon filled the living room. You looked at Harrison as he bounced up and down in a sitting position, his eyes glued to the screen in front of him. Could you be a hero from him too?

                That night after putting him to bed, you booted up your old laptop and opened up the internet. After filling in the address, you waited for a minute as the computer hummed away. The page loaded, and there, right in the middle, was a button labeled, ‘Apply Here.’ Without a second thought, you clicked.

---

                You stand at the base of a trio of towers. The night air feels cool against your naked arms. You rub your hands together, warming them in preparation for the final task.

                Only you and one other contestant, Marcus, remain. The third contestant made it five minutes into the previous task before throwing up all over her side of the table. For yourself, you only stand here because your bile came up your throat after time had been called. It had never felt so good to expunge your stomach of its contents.

                Jim stands in front of you, his yellow polo shirt catching a faint breeze. He has just finished explaining the procedure of the event; this final stunt would define the winner.

                It seems simple enough. The three towers stand in the shape of a squashed a triangle. You and Marcus stand at the base of the two outer towers which you both will climb concurrently. After a 100 foot climb, you will both then traverse a thin plank that stretches between the outer towers and the third tower. Whoever crosses the 75 foot gap to the top of the center tower first and hits the red button in the middle will win, earning accolades and the final prize money.

                “So, are you ready to show the kind of Daredevil you are?”

                Both you and Marcus nod your heads. Jim motions you to take your positions at the base of the towers. You feel your heart racing as you realize that your goal is so close. The production crew comes to your side, doing a final check on the harness that will keep you attached to the safety lines mounted around the set.

                You worry that Marcus is going to be a formidable opponent. His arms of steel pulled him through the water to have the fastest time in the first task. His will of iron helped him force down the bug-infested food without a single gag. And now, there he stands, the final obstacle between you and the prize. Him, and this enormous tower looming above you.

                The production crew backs off, giving the thumbs up sign to the cameramen and Jim. At that moment, a faint mist begins to spray down from a hose suspended hundreds of feet in the air.

                “Okay, Daredevils, this is it! We are ready to go in … Three…”

                You look over to Marcus. He is staring straight up at the tower in front of him. His legs quiver beneath him.

                “Two…”

                You focus on your own tower. The top seems high up, and as you stare, it begins to fade out of focus.

                “One…”

                You tense your legs, priming them to push you heavenwards.

                “Go!”

                You grab hold of the closest rung on the tower and pull yourself upwards. You can hear Jim yelling and screaming, but you tune him out as you stretch your arms and legs upwards. Rung after rung you climb, feeling the bars grow even wetter as you gain height. You refuse to look over at the other contestant; instead you reserve every bit of energy into completing the task.

                Halfway up, your right hand slips off the rung. Your arm swings down smashing into a rung below. Your elbow immediately flares up in pain. You yelp, but you know that you have no time to stop. So, refusing to listen to your arm, you stretch it forward again and again.

                Finally, you reach the top. The mist was originally a slow mist is now a steady drizzle and the water splashes onto your head. You aren’t sure what has made you wetter, the sweat from the exertion or the man-made rain cloud above. You look down, seeing the lights of the cameras below. The production crews scurry around, positioning themselves to find the best angle to capture the action. And in the middle, with his arms folded across his chest, Jim stands, head cocked to the side in bored anticipation.

                The world below begins to swirl and twist in your vision. You close your eyes, trying to slow your pounding heart. A few seconds later into finding your focus, you look up and approach the plank that spans the gap to victory. You breathe in deeply, and then step out over the void. The wood is slick beneath your feet and it takes every ounce of will to put your next foot forward. You hold out your arms, thinking about all the shows of circuses that you have seen. The pain in your elbow intensifies from the stretch, so you grunt and groan to keep up your resolve.

                Another few footsteps forward. You look forward, not down. You can see Marcus through the drizzle; he is a few steps onto the plank himself. He seems to be slowly shuffling, his legs wobbling. You hope that your determination is as strong as the determination you can see across his face.

                You struggle to lengthen your shambling stride and you manage a few more steps forward. You can feel the wood bowing slightly beneath your weight. You search your soul for any reservoirs of energy. Finding a final drop of power, you use it to quicken your pace, hoping that the board isn’t going to break beneath you.

                Before you know it, you find yourself on the firmer footing of the central tower. You see the button in the middle on a raised platform; if you can just get to it first. Marcus sees this too, and he begins to lunge forward, being only a few footsteps from the tower. You stretch out your arms one final time, working against the throb in your elbow. Your extending fingers find the red plastic cover and so you press down with all your might.