July 8th was my brother’s birthday. Like all nice Jewish boys with older brothers who went on to become successful lawyers, I pondered what to get the guy. My brain paraded down a shopping mall of possibilities. I could go intellectual and buy him a book. Something with a title like "Ballistic Missile Defense Shields: Star Wars or How To Make Love To A North Korean?" But a book, unless you wrote it, is so generic. I could’ve gone fashion and bought him a pair of thong underwear. But that might have precipitated the following post-birthday conversation:

Me: Wow. I see you’re using my gift.

Brother: Why yes, I am.

Me: I’m glad you can use it. I was worried it would just sit in a drawer somewhere.

Brother: Oh, gosh no. I use it all the time. It’s great around the house.

No, I needed something different. Something that would mark me as the coolest-Jewish-brother-gift-giver this side of a Sony PlayStation. Sky Diving.

What you’ve read so far might seem like a stretch as an intro about my own skydiving experience. But it’s too late. You already read it. Anyway, I ended up giving my brother a note that said to call a 1-800 number if he wanted to go skydiving. I knew he wouldn’t. He’s a lawyer. And in order to go skydiving you have to initial forty pages of legal babble that all start with the phrase, "I hereby waive my right to sue in the event of …" It was the perfect gift. Not only did I reposition myself as the more adventurous, machismo younger brother, I also saved a cool $150 bucks which, as it turns out, is $40 cheaper than it costs to go skydiving at Skydive Atlanta.

Note: From here on out the word Jewish is being used solely as a ploy to create a link between my skydiving experience and the Atlanta Jewish Times. To remind you of this point, anytime the word Jewish appears it will be in boldface type. If, at any time, the word Jewish seems forced or heavy handed, it is.

The first thing I did was see if I could get a date. Being a single, Jewish man in Atlanta, I knew the only other Jewish men out there who would ask a girl to go skydiving on a first date were either in some kinda Jewish organized crime syndicate or had just seen The Real World. Either way, I win.

It just so happens that the new editor of the Atlanta Jewish Times had recently given me the telephone number of a "nice Jewish girl." I always call nice Jewish girls. I call them because every time I talk to my father in Chicago he constantly reminds me that my mother is still having that recurring nightmare about her youngest son marrying an African tribal babe. 

Ever since you had that inter-racial thing your mother hasn’t been able to sleep. The other night she woke up in a cold sweat, he says. She said something about the doorman calling up on the intercom asking her to come downstairs immediately because there was an African woman with naked breasts claiming to be your son’s fiancée. Richard, when will you marry a Jewish girl?

I called.

Hello Devorah? (Note: Devorah is not her real name. Devorah’s real name has been changed to protect the identity of the girl who engaged in sexually explicit acts with me later that night)

Yes?

Hi. My name is Richard. I don’t know you but my editor at the Jewish Times says you’re really nice and I was going skydiving this Sunday and wanted to know if you would join me.

Are you crazy?

No.

I don’t even know you and you want me to jump out of an airplane with you?

Yes.

Sorry. I’m not that kind of Jewish girl.

I understand. How bout’ if we get a bottle of wine, some Thai food, rent a movie and make-out on your couch tonight instead?

OK.
 
 

I had failed to get someone Jewish to go skydiving with me. But I did find someone else. His name is Jeff. Jeff isn’t Jewish. He’s Italian. And because I was hoping this piece would eventually be published in the Jewish Times, I decided to ask Jeff Jewish questions on the way to the skydiving place. 

Me: So, you think anyone Jewish has ever skydived before?

Jeff: What?

Me: (Louder, like in propeller plane) Do you think anyone Jewish has ever skydived before?

Jeff: Sometimes you say really stupid things.

By the time we turned into the airport terminal in tiny Thomaston, Georgia, (Population: 1 Wendy’s) my stomach was churning faster than Nike can make Marion Jones the next Michael Jordan. I was nervous. 

After signing numerous forms pledging to be buried on the spot without a formal funeral, we went outside to watch the previous group land. There were three of us. Jeff, myself and a mother of two who was very excited about jumping out of a plane.

"I’m so excited about jumpin’ outta this plane," she screamed, the blood in her face making a blue vein poke clear through her forehead.

The instructor was trying to tell us something about the landing but I couldn’t pay attention because the aforementioned woman’s vein was now so bright and blue I was certain it was going to pop and splatter the runway with gastrotoxic spew stuff. But she didn’t. And now I didn’t know how to land.

We were ready. As we headed toward the plane, a dark, ominous looking cloud appeared in the distance. Being Jewish, and searching for a way to tie Judaism to skydiving, I wondered if God was trying to send me, as a member of the chosen people, a message. A shot of lightning appeared in the distance. I looked for another sign but couldn’t find it. So instead of waiting for more signs, we went to the Golden Corral for breakfast.

I know what you’re thinking. This is the part where he makes fun of people living in a small town, working dead end jobs to make himself feel more worldly. Yes. 

On this particular Sunday morning, Jeff and I were joined at the Golden Corral by Boy Scout Troop #222 from the state of Florida. This particular troop was led by a man who wore his dark brown socks all the way up to his knees. There’s something about a man with brown socks pulled that high, leading a group of young men into adulthood, that is very, very scary. 

After paying $5.99 for a breakfast buffet that was being dismantled before we could so much as grab the last piece of French toast, Jeff and I sat down to ponder whether we would ever get to jump out of a plane.

Hey guys. I just want you to know that since youall got here when the breakfast buffet was closin’, I don’t care if you sneak up there and hit the luncheon buffet too, said a hot, teenage hostess on break, killing her cigarette, which I saw as a metaphor for her meaningless existence in this wretched place.

Thanks, Jeff said.

After scarfing down a few more sausage links, Jeff and I headed back to the airport hangar. The clouds were gone. Now or never.

When you jump out of a plane for the first time you don’t do it alone. The organization you paid $110 gives you a strong, tattooed, ex-Marine who was kicked out of the service for harassing homosexuals. OK, I don’t know for sure if that’s why my tandem partner, Ferg, short for Ferguson, was doing this. But that’s what went through my mind when he reached out to shake my hand and a stark green tattoo that read "Airborn" screamed from his bicep.

Hi. I’m Ferg. Short for Ferguson. I’ll be your tandem partner today.

Here was a guy my mom could have recurring nightmares about.

For the next 15 minutes I felt like a skinny character on HBO’s prison drama "Oz." Ferg was my master, I his devoted student. Ferg barked commands. Ferg got me dressed. Ferg told me to get undressed. Ferg was the Supreme One.

Looking like a four star TeleTubby, Ferg and I headed toward a blue plane that was on leave from the Smithsonian. Ferg called this THE WALK THROUGH.

OK. When we’re in the plane, I’m gonna connect myself to you with four buckles. I’ll say left bottom connected. Right bottom connected. Left top, connected. Right top, connected. When I’m done I’ll say YOU ARE CONNECTED. If you don’t hear me say that, don’t jump.

Made sense.

Then I want you to get down on one knee. I’m gonna count one, two go. We’re gonna do two flips. I’ll say one, two and then arch. OK?

Got it.

I should say that at this point I was no longer scared. In my mind, I had turned my life over to God. I’m not very religious but I was, for whatever reason, 100 percent sure that God had sent Ferg to watch over me.

When the plane took off and started its ascent, I got scared again. You really don’t know how high 13,500 feet really is until you stare at an altimeter all the way up. Five minutes into our ascent we were only at 2000 feet.

Wow, 2000 feet’s pretty high up there I said.

Ferg sensed anxiety in his young apprentice. Like any good man in a tandem relationship, he knew he had to say something to ease my fear, which by now was manifesting itself in tiny sweat granules racing one another down my hairy, Jewish back.

Yeah. The tallest building in the world is only like 1800 feet.

On this particular jump there was Jeff, the really excited women, myself and 10 other solo jumpers. I guess there’s some sort of fraternity hazing thing that’s supposed to go on between first time tandem jumpers and experienced jumpers. Throughout the plane trip, random solo jumpers in dorky gear attempted to scare us.

Don’t forget to breath or you’ll die.

Just think, if the chute doesn’t open, you won’t have to worry about whether Congress will annul the marriage penalty.

First time huh? Haaaaaaaaa!

But there was one woman who made eye contact with me and understood my pain. With the nurturing characteristics of a Jewish mother, she kept looking at me and mouthing the words Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. The effect, as you might have guessed, freaked me out. I looked to Ferg for support but he was busy tracing the word Airborne on his bicep.

12,000 feet. Time to go.

OK. Turn around, Ferg said. Left bottom connected. Right bottom connected. Left top connected. Right top connected. YOU ARE CONNECTED. YOU ARE THE FIRST JEWISH MAN TO JUMP OUT OF A PLANE CONNECTED TO A MAN NAMED FERG. (he didn’t say that last part)

Walking on our knees from the back of the plane to the door I watched the ten solo jumpers disappear like ants into the abyss. The person who jumped right before me was the lady who had been so concerned about my mental state. As Ferg instructed me to get down on one knee and began his count, I could swear I saw her turn back towards the plane and mouth you’ll be fine.

One.

Two.

Go.