MMW

markmurphywrites.com

Category: Flash Fiction

  • Morning Influencer

    Jill rolls out of bed early, even on the days when she doesn’t open the gym.  Fortunately, the owner finally listened to her.  Very few people work out before seven a.m. on weekdays, and even less on weekends.  She persuaded Mike to drop the requirement for two employees to unlock the doors at five, buying her two extra hours of freedom on Thursdays and Saturdays.  Besides, Dan needed the extra cash, even from the meager raise to morning manager. 

    Today, Jill holds a laser-focus on building her fitness influencer presence, and this means creating loads of content.  Thursday morning is her planning session for the week ahead.  She uses a whiteboard acquired during this year’s spring cleaning at the gym.  There are also waves of neon sticky notes involved, each with the desired exercise and rep count to build her eye-catching videos.  Saturday morning is her chance to stage the equipment, clean her dining nook-turned-fitness studio, and most importantly, to practice the meditation she preaches. 

    Jill typically shoots her Reels in the daylight of Sunday mornings, so the Saturday cleaning session ensures a dust-free shine on the floors and walls.  She also wants the space to appear open and airy, using perfect corner camera angles and bright sunshine to make the room appear bigger.  She is blessed to have the vaulted ceilings of the end unit apartment, and a skylight too. 

    She also feels blessed to have trusted her gut and disclosed her dream with one of the morning gym rats, Alex.  Jill is by necessity all baggy sweats, makeup free, and low ponytail at the gym.  It’s hard enough to get her job done without catching the eye of every male in the place.  Her good-natured demeanor and high-energy smile are enough to pass as friendly to the clients, but the clothes help her escape the unwanted attention. 

    But Alex is different.  He’s easy to talk with, and she feels heard.  He not only sees her determination, but he asks meaningful questions which continue to help Jill develop better content.  She’s even shown him a few of the Reels, allowing him in to her secret world as an aspiring fitness influencer.  Alex is probably the only person at the gym who’s seen what’s underneath the sweats.

    Jill finds herself in an unusual daydream this morning. She visualizes asking Alex out on a date, but the fear of rejection and losing his friendship is too risky.  Besides, she thinks, it would only end up hurting us both.

    [Part of the Morning Series; see also “Morning Routine,” “Morning Manager,” and “Morning Rest.”]

  • Unwary Traveler

    He hugged the single rock outcropping with his back while confirming what he already knew to be true. He was stuck on top of the mountain, torrential rain coming down, and continuous flashes of lightning all around. Billy was alone with no clear escape route. 

    ***

    It was a hot and humid Saturday at the base of Mount Harvard, and the trailhead was already crowded before sunrise. Some hikers planned to climb the easier Mount Columbia, some chose the more difficult Mount Harvard, and some, like Billy, were trying to bag them both in one day. 

    Billy was hiking alone, but he stuck with a group of college kids who were making good time up to Columbia. Though older, Billy enjoyed listening to the youngsters regale each other with war stories of last night’s party. Surprisingly, none of them complained about today’s hangover. Their energy was positive, and they seemed to enjoy having Billy tag along. 

    The group stayed together and were the first to summit in under four hours. The winds had started to gust, and sitting or squatting was much easier than standing on the peak of Columbia. Billy was tired because of the increased pace, but now the option of going for Harvard was definitely in play. 

    The college crowd was finished hiking after Columbia.  The winds were worse than forecasted, and puffy clouds were starting to build off in the western horizon. Billy thanked the group, promising to call it quits if the winds or clouds got worse, and he blazed down the mountain toward the trail junction for Harvard. 

    Billy passed less than a dozen hikers returning from the Harvard summit after beginning his second ascent. Each time he passed a new person, they gave a stern warning of the clouds darkening in the western skies. Most were wrapped in windproof jackets, some in windproof pants too. 

    It was less than three miles from the junction to the summit, so Billy did some high-altitude public math and figured he’d be back at the junction in three hours, just passed noon. That would put him well off the exposed trails before the typical afternoon storms. 

    ***

    Billy was hiding under the rocky outcropping that faced south, or so he thought. The boulder field he’d scrambled up moments ago was barely visible. The switchbacks, less than a mile away, were completely out of sight. He was sitting in a cloud. Everything was drenched. Or maybe he was facing the wrong direction? In his scramble to seek any form of shelter from the driving rain and threat of lightning, did he get turned around? 

    Billy knew he’d left his compass in the truck, along with assorted other survival items, in an effort to stay light and agile today. Terror began to set in as the flash-to-bang of the lightning was instantaneous. He should’ve just followed the college kids. He should’ve heeded the warnings of those coming off of Harvard. He said a short prayer. Flash bang! 

    When Billy opened his eyes, he could see a red light flashing below. Was someone signaling him? It looks like someone in a heavy poncho with a red-filtered flashlight. Billy decided it was time to move. The signaler was calling him. He stayed crouched, a thunderstorm tip he’d read a year ago when starting his summiting adventures. He moved in the direction of the light and passed a cairn on the descent. Flash bang! 

    Another large boulder provided some relief from the wind, and Billy expected to find his signaler there. He was still alone. Looking downhill, he saw the same figure flashing red in his direction. The person was leading him, and Billy wasn’t complaining. More descent, more cairns, more red flashes. Flash bang! 

    Nearly deaf from the thunder, Billy was rather rapidly approaching tree line. He was going to make it. He could see the poncho’d figure near the trees. Billy made his final move toward the more established trail. The poncho’d figure was no longer moving, and Billy couldn’t wait to thank his savior. He ducked his head from the whipping rain and made the final push toward the trail in the trees. He was there. Alone. The poncho’d figure was nothing more than a tall, burned out stump. 

    Maintaining the trail was easier now, trees blocking much of the wind, and the rain seemed to be easing up. The threat of lightning still loomed, but Billy thought he might just make it down unharmed. No signs of any other person all the way to the bottom. His truck sat alone in the lot. Etched in the muddy rear window, someone had left him a simple message:  Psalm 116:6.

  • The Legend of Chief Kahokee

    In the 1860s, when Kansas was a brand new state, there were nomadic bands of Native Americans scattered across the plains.  One such group was known as the Kahola Tribe, and they roamed sections of Eastern Kansas known as the Flint Hills.  In the late summer, when harvests were plentiful and wild game was abundant, the tribe settled on a big lake, which is known today as Lake Kahola.  

    The Kahola tribe was led by a strong and proud warrior chief named Kahokee.  Native stories say Chief Kahokee was a smart and gentle leader, but the truth got blurred when settlers arrived to set up towns across the Flint Hills.  These settlers regarded Kahokee as a vicious murderer, ready to burn barns and homes with horses and families still inside.  

    The settlers decided it was time to move the Kaholas away from the big lake, so they sent four men on horseback to pay the Chief a small sum in silver and leather to leave.  No one knows for sure what happened to the four men, but one horse made it back to the settlement dragging its rider behind on a noose tied to the saddle horn.  

    And so it was on the evening of a full moon in July the settlers planned an ambush of the Kaholas.  The goal was to capture or kill Chief Kahokee and his warriors, and then force the rest southward toward Indian country.  

    The settlers started on higher ground, and their rifles were far superior to the tribe’s arrows and spears.  It was a massacre, with only a few of the Kahola women and children escaping southward, as planned.  

    Chief Kahokee would not give in. He quietly moved to the flank of the sharp shooters, savagely beheading three men before a bullet slammed into his chest. 

    As the riflemen surrounded Kahokee’s last known location, they heard a splash nearby.  The mighty Chief had made it to open water and was swimming for the middle.  The riflemen opened fire.

    The last anyone saw of Chief Kahokee was his arm raised in the full moon light, slowly sinking beneath the water.  Legend has it that on the full moon in the summertime, you can still hear the cries of the massacred Kahola Tribe. Sometimes, on those same nights, not too far from the bank of the lake, Chief Kahokee raises his arm in the moonlight once more.

  • Mean Old Cat

    The old man staggered out of his house at dawn to view the wreckage.  The tornado had ripped up the fencing and flattened his barn.  Somehow the silo still stood, an ivory tower in the low light.  He couldn’t account for many of the horses or cattle last night in the darkness and rain, but he hadn’t noticed any lifeless bodies amongst the wreckage.  

    ***

    Most city people would say Earl Jones lived a simple life.  He would harvest winter wheat and sow soybeans in the spring, harvest soybeans and sow winter wheat in the fall, and raise cattle all the while.  Entire life cycles happened on the farm each year, year after year.  It wasn’t as simple as they thought, especially in 1999.  

    Mrs. Earl Jones cooked, cleaned, and raised four children for Mr. Earl Jones on his farm since 1970.  But with the encouragement of Oprah and her new-age therapist, Mrs. Jones watched her last child leave for college in August of 1997, and then she took her possessions and left too.  Earl Jones was left with two hundred and twenty head of cattle, eight chickens, four horses, two dogs, and one mean old cat.  

    Earl Jones was a fighter, though, and he didn’t miss a season of sewing, reaping, or slaughtering.  His clothes started to grow too baggy, and he brought noticeably fewer cattle at auction in the fall of 1998.  His friends and hired help slowly began to disappear as the man sank into fits of anger and drunkenness.  

    By the spring of 1999, Earl Jones was simply boarding his horses, no longer riding.  He let his cattle free range through the freshly burned acreage, unencouraged to plant any crops that year.  The chickens stopped laying, and the dogs fled the farm in search of a reliable food source.  The mean old cat stuck by his side, though, easily dodging whatever Earl Jones threw at him in bursts of rage, and was happy to share the milk when the man sought forgiveness in the morning.  

    It was the first week of June in 1999, and Earl Jones was ready to give up on life.  He wasn’t sure how he’d do it yet, but he knew his days were short.  At four o’clock in the afternoon, Earl Jones was finishing his first fifth of whiskey when the skies turned gray.  Then they turned green, a sure sign of hail.  Then the squall came.  

    Some say you could hear Earl Jones cursing God through the thunder and lightning.  He managed to throw open the barn doors as the tornado warning blasted through his AM/FM radio.  Then he went back to his recliner, grabbed another fifth of whiskey, and chuckled as the mean old cat crawled under his chair.  

    ***

    Earl Jones staggered out of his house the next morning, and he realized that God had spared his life.  The horses and cattle were wandering back toward the collapsed barn in search of breakfast.  As the smell of damp hay blew across his face, Earl Jones knew it was time for a new beginning.  He’d sell most of the land and all of the animals, except for the cat.  He’d settle down in town, find a way to be of service anywhere that would take him, and love his life with that mean old cat sitting in his lap.

  • Shadows on the Prairie

    I open my door wide to fill the truck with fresh prairie air.  A steady westerly wind blows across my skin, and I immediately know I’m home.  The rolling Flint Hills stretch out for miles in front of me, green turning to gold in the late summer season.  The rains have been steady this year, and the grasses look elegant against the pale blue sky.  I let out a chuckle when I realize I can see ten times more cattle than I can trees.  

    “What’s so amusing?” she asks.  

    “I forgot how few trees there are,” I reply.  

    She scans the horizon with a disdainful eye.  “That’s why no one lives here,” she says.

    I refuse to let her cut bother me this time and instead close my door.  I walk to the back of the truck and drop the tailgate, swapping Birkenstocks for my trusty Timberland hiking boots.  Pulling the thick red laces tight through the eyelets, I feel a sensation of strength as I wrap the cords around the top lace hooks and tie off a double knot.  

    She’s finally completed her prep work in the mirror and hops down out of the passenger side, gravel crunching under her running shoes.  

    “This is where you want to hike?” she asks.  

    “Yep.  The sights are already beautiful,” I say, giving her a long look up and down.  

    “Which way?” she asks.  

    “Let’s walk north across this hilltop, and then drop down to the creek bed there,” I say.  

    She starts walking without another word.  I want to remind her of rattlesnakes as we approach the first rocky outcropping, but that would only give her ammo to cut the hike short, retreating to the safety of the truck.  

    The grass grows a little longer near the rocks on top of the hill, and it sways peacefully in the breeze.  The cattle have plenty to graze on down below, no need for them to climb the mountain and pick tall grass out of this rocky patch.  

    We begin the decent toward a tree line in the distance, a sure sign of water on the Kansas plains.  My blissful daydreaming is cut short.  

    “This is lame,” she says.  “Nothing but old grass and burning sun.  No wonder you’re so boring.”  

    For a moment, I contemplate turning around and sprinting to the truck, leaving her in a trail of gravel dust.  But she’d find a way home.  Someone would see her hot pink aura on the highpoint of these hills and give her a lift into town.  That’s why I need to keep her moving into the creek bed.  It’ll be much harder for anyone to find her body down in the shadows. 

  • These Ancient Fields

    We bounced down a gravel road too far outside of town to jump out and walk back.  When the road smoothes out, I can hear the old men in the cab carrying a conversation.  Something about a water shed.  But mostly my cousin and I hold tight to the truck bed and keep our eyes squinted against the dust that catches up when we slow.  

    Our grandfather needs help tending to one of his fields, and I presume it’s more corn.  He promises to feed us and take us fishing afterwards.  There is rarely an exchange of money, but usually a hot meal.  Grandpa has six siblings, and they lived through events called dust bowl and depression.  Grandchildren are expected to help work the land with joy in their hearts.

    Working on pasture land feels good.  Pulling steel cables of barbed wire, cutting with metal shears, and towing fallen trees out of the creek.  I feel the raw strength in my developing muscles, shoring up fence line and handling heavy tools.  The sun is always beating down, but you can count on a breeze across the Kansas plains.  

    Working corn fields is a different experience.  The sun still beats down, but the stalks are high, and the fields usually sit low, closer to water.  The breeze doesn’t reach your sun-soaked body.  God made corn stalks tough too.  They need to stand up to the elements and insects, protecting the beautiful sweet corn inside each husk.  Sharp edges will cut right through your soft skin, so long pants and long sleeves are highly encouraged.  A handkerchief around the neck and leather gloves will also save you from lingering pain.  

    We turn off the gravel, settle into a soft dirt trail, and roll to a stop.  I duck and cover in the bed while the dust settles around us.  Grandpa is the first to emerge from the cab.  He chuckles to himself while walking to the tailgate, completely in his element among these ancient fields.  

    “Today, we need to clear a few rows closest to the river,” he says.  

    There’s a sideways glance between cousins.  We’re definitely down in the corn.  Grandpa uses his voice to make clearing a few rows sound simple.  In reality, my cousin and I will be bent over pulling bindweed and thistle from several acres of land.  The old men will walk through the field, speculating on the harvest still months away, and determining what sections of the pasture might need worked over again.  Once satisfied, they’ll retreat to the cab to sip hot coffee and cold water.  

    Grandpa drops the tailgate while we stretch our backs and legs.  I jump down onto the soft brown soil.  It smells familiar and welcoming, like being at home.  We’ll work all morning pulling weeds, cursing occasionally under our breath, but never complaining once to the man who brought us here.  We do it because it’s what we’re expected to do.  We do it because we respect our families who’ve done the same thing for generations before.  We do it because we love the earth and we love the man who brought us out to work these ancient fields.  

  • The Choice at High Camp

    An unsettling fog rolled over the mountains at night, turning tree branches into crystal chandeliers and freezing my windowpanes shut.  At least the snow had subsided.  I put on boots and stepped outside to check for an unobstructed flue, the fog chilling my bare legs and chest.  Clear flue, cleared to add fuel to the stove.  I wondered if even the smoke would be able to penetrate this fog?  

    I’d set out for my high camp on a mild and breezy Wednesday afternoon. The snow drifts and narrow trails were impassable this time of year with all but a snowmobile, and mine had been in pieces in the garage for the better part of two years now.  I liked snowshoeing into camp though, cold air filling my lungs, testing my legs on the winding ascent.  Besides, machines are unreliable in the freezing temperatures and wet snow.  

    A hair over three miles later and the A-frame was in site.  Plenty of game tracks on my way in, but nothing too close to the cabin.  Squirrels had nestled into the firewood shelter when they couldn’t break into the cabin.  No sign of humans tampering with the place or trying to run off with the split wood.  The start of a great long weekend.  

    As happens in the Rocky Mountain high country, a twenty-five percent chance for snow turned into a three-day dump.  I can’t say that I minded too much.  This was meant to be a retreat from the grind of work and the busy streets in town.  Hiking, reading, writing, and quiet.  The hiking mostly got replaced by shoveling, keeping a path cleared for the necessities:  The flue, the outhouse, and the firewood.  

    Now it’s a foggy Sunday morning.  I have enough rations to make the hike back down to the trailhead today, but if I stay another night, I’ll just go hungry in the morning.  The fire in the old stove is burning bright, the A-frame warm and cozy.  Choices, choices. Pack it up and set out for home at noon?  Stay stripped up here, fasting, listening for words of wisdom?  I don’t feel like getting dressed yet.  

  • Why We Go North

    I followed him down the stairs, watching his hunched shoulders and lowered head express more than words could say.  We both scanned the main floor for accessories he might have left behind.  I checked the outlets for a random cord and swept my boot under the couch, fishing for a stray magazine.  Nothing turned up, so it’s time to hit the road.  

    Dan stopped through my little backwoods hometown on his way north.  He and I had been friends for more than a decade now.  Meeting in college, egging each other into and out of bad decisions, roasting each other, laughing at our tragic relationships.  That’s partly what brought Dan here.  He was moving to Minnesota for reasons only he understood.  The air was better, the lakes were plentiful, he needed a change, he needed an adventure.  There was tragedy under it all.  

    Dan had been dating Jamie for several months, and it all seemed to be going well.  He talked about her perfectly shaped hands, manicured nails, soft touch.  I naturally laughed at his sensitivity.  It wasn’t long before he was talking about sharing his apartment.  It was in a better location, situated on a large park, an easy commute for them both.  All the practical reasons on the table, but Dan too afraid of my teasing to just say he was falling for her.  Then there was talk of engagement when it happened.  A traffic accident, and she was gone.  I went for the funeral and fled soon after.  My gut told me to spend more time with him, but my mind was too afraid of sharing the intimacy.  I just left.  

    And so Dan decided to go north.  Finding a tech job in Minneapolis was no different than finding a tech job in Dallas he said.  Air, lakes, change, and adventure were all positive and plausible alibis, though I’d argue smog and traffic in Minneapolis-Saint Paul wasn’t any better than smog and traffic in Dallas-Fort Worth.  But the process raised his shoulders and lifted his head again.  For a little while.  Until this morning.  

    Despite my general negativity and sarcastic view of life, Dan chose to come here.  He surrounded himself with my friends and family, and he received love.  My mom and sister were kind and attentive, talking with him or at him for hours. I took Dan out running and began to understand his heartache.  No part of my old self wanted to go north.  I didn’t care for long drives, and I didn’t want to take time off of work right now.  Me me me.  But then Dan came.  He showed his heart.  He accepted our support.  He was vulnerable.  He chose me.  

    I grabbed Dan by the shoulder and followed him out of the house.  It smelled of wet oak leaves as I locked the front door, and suddenly I was struck by how beautiful this day would be.  I swallowed hard and refused a tear.  As Dan started the car, I finally understood why we were going north.  

  • The Wrong Room

    The train rushes along with back-rattling turns, surfacing from Philly’s underground up to the overhead tracks of the Frankford Line.  I must ride through the gentrified suburbs of Northern Liberties and Fishtown before reaching Kensington.  I’m unfamiliar with parts this far north, at least from what I can remember.  There were plenty of nights I woke up in a parked train car, overhead lights at full tilt, sliding doors wide open, and the conductor calling, “End of the line!”

    My meetings aren’t court ordered, at least not yet.  I’m still trying to settle a DUI accusation, and the lawyer advised me to do a little voluntary AA time to smooth out the plea deal.  

    “It’s not impossible to work a deal as is.  But if you could attend a few meetings, and maybe see a counselor.  It would show good faith to the DA.”

    “I’ll do anything,” I say.

    “Listen, you have to stay completely off the police radar, too,” he says.

    “Not a problem,” I say.

    “If you keep showing up to court and providing information as soon as I ask for it, we’ll get this all worked out,” he says.

    “I just want to be done with the waiting and get on with the punishment,” I say.

    “Look bud, with your background and a little good faith, I think we can get the DA to plea down.  No promises,” he says.

    “Thank you,” I say, not really knowing what plea down means.

    The car screams to a halt, an acrid smell ever present.  It’s better than the smell during afternoon rush.  Sweat-soaked workers baked by the mid-day heat crowding each car.  Junkies slouched in the corner seats precariously guarding jars of unknown substances.  Three more stops.

    The platforms look decent up here, surrounded by buildings with modern facades.  Brightly lit restaurants and salons.  But lurching away from each station, the city tells a different tale.  Abandoned lots, boarded windows, and a rusty film covering everything in sight.

    I’ve got an address on my phone and vague directions from the AA online directory.  When meetings are in church basements or dedicated meeting halls, finding the room is usually easy.  Look for a group of smokers.  Always use the side entrance.  Don’t bother anyone not attending the meeting.  Finding a room in the city is a different story. We’re charity cases, the broken masses, and we need to stay as hidden as possible. Anonymous.  Regardless, I’m grateful for the hospitality of so many unknown people.

    Walking down the stairs onto Frankford Av, the first thing I notice is how the locals are moving.  Some are dressed to hustle, wearing high-shined knock-offs, looking for wandering outsiders like me.  But the majority are stooped, eyes fixed on their next step, covered in layers of overcoats and various head-coverings, shuffling by unnoticed.  I want to look confident, but without sticking out.  Too late.  I knew polished leather boots and crisp jeans were bad ideas.  I catch a lot of second glances, and a few thirds.

    I’m trying to keep cool while frantically scanning for addresses on doors and storefronts.  Peeling window stickers are hard to read, and every brick and concrete wall seems to have ten entrances.  2828 Frankford Avenue.  My GPS says to enter the building on the left.  I look up and spy some AA-looking dudes heading into an alcoved doorway on the left, where my phone assures me I’ll find sobriety.  I decide to follow them in.  

    There are no working lights inside.  Only the sun, which snakes through the overhead tracks, is shining through the front window.  No sign of flooring, just dusty concrete.  A cleared off countertop that could have been an old checkout to the left, a man standing behind it staring at me.  People sitting on the floor.  I don’t know what to do.  I begin making a move for the opening toward the back, which seems to lead toward a room filled with more people. Are they all lying on the floor?  My mind is spinning.  The smell is so foreign to me that I’m speechless.

    “Hey pal, what are you looking for?” the man behind the counter asks.

    “I’m here for the meeting,” I reply.

    “Not here,” he says and begins walking right at me.  I break into a heavy sweat.  “Follow me.”

    I immediately move back out into the street, where the man is leading me a couple doors down.  I can already smell the welcoming scent of burnt coffee.

    “This is the meeting room.  Don’t go back where we were.  I might not be there next time,” he says, already walking away.

    “Thank you,” I say.  I doubt the words reach him.  

    Time to regroup, take a deep breath of fresh city air.  I need to get into the room before the chairperson calls the meeting to order.  There are more unwritten rules of AA than of baseball, and walking into a meeting late is grounds for unwanted attention.  If only I could stop sweating.  

  • Push on Three

    Push push push!  Oh no.  The bar’s coming down.  Okay, try bouncing it back up with your chest.  Use the momentum.  Push push push.  Shoot.  Okay, quick rest.  Is there anybody in here who can help me?  I haven’t seen anyone in a while.  Let me just rest and try it again.  

    Stupid.  Why did you lift heavy tonight?  Why didn’t you call Brooks to come too?  Okay, that’s enough rest.  Let’s try again.  On three, push hard, like a liftoff from the rack.  Careful to keep it over my chest.  Deep breaths.  One… two… three!  Huhunnnn.  Bounce it.  Psshh.  Shoot.

    Okay, think.  “A little help.”  Maybe someone came in.  Maybe they’re around the corner.  Could they hear that?  “A little help!”  I don’t see anyone.  Don’t hear anyone.  Shoot.  Two ninety-five on the Smith machine.  No need for the rack guards.  It’s the Smith machine.  You wouldn’t ever bench this without a spotter.  Shoot!  It’s slipping toward my neck.

    Hold the bar!  Push a little.  Not too much.  You need to rest.  Only push with the left hand for now.  Breath.  Breath.  Just breath.  Options.  Lift it up.  One more try.  Or try sliding off the bench.  Move fast and maybe you can beat the bar down before it catches your neck.  Or wait.  Someone will come.  I’m not the only one who uses the gym at night.  What time do the apartment people clean this place?  Push with the right, rest the left.  “A little help!”

    I’m alone.  No one is coming.  Shoot!  The bar slid again.  Dude!  Focus.  You have to hold this thing away from your neck!  Must!  You are running out of options to push it up at this angle.  Oh man, the bar isn’t slipping, I’m sliding down the bench.  Brace my feet!  Maybe I can push and slide out before it crushes my neck?

    “Help!”  Louder, dude.  “Help!  HELP!”  Okay.  Wait a few.  Did anyone hear that?  “HELP!”  That’s not helping your grip.  Push more with your feet!  “HELP!”  I can’t hold this much longer.  Breath.  Breath.  Think.  Okay, dude.  Decision time.  Nobody’s coming.  We’re going to have to try and slide off the bench.  One big push, everything you’ve got at an upward angle.  Legs and arms.  The force will hold the bar against the machine.  You’ll quickly turn your head left and bail to the left, push hard as hell with your right arm.  

    Take a few quick breaths.  On three, push hard on the right, bail left.  Hard right push bail left.  One shot!  You’ve got this!  YOU’VE GOT THIS!  One… two… THREE!