From 84 On the Floor:
A particularly annoying radio commercial was in progress: “Are you living an alternative lifestyle?” an authoritarian male voice queried. “Do you wish you were?” a suggestive female voice returned. With a groan, Cheryl turned it off. “He was in a really bad diving accident in college,” she said.
“What kind of diving?” Sally asked.
“Muff diving!” Cheryl snapped, “whadya think?”
“Well,” Sally said, defending herself, “there’s like scuba diving and like diving board diving—”
“Also, cliff diving,” I added, reading what was scrawled in (presumably) No. 2 pencil on the inventory slip Tim had given me: Mike, give a call and we can hang out sometime! And then a phone number.
“Sky diving…” Sally offered.
“Free diving,” I chimed in, “when they like hold their breath and swim to the bottom of the ocean—"
“Sponge diving!” Sally teased.
“Okay,” Cheryl huffed admitting defeat, “like, high diving and stuff—off of platforms and into pools. Olympic level shit. He was supposed to go next year.”
Sally sighed. “That’s so sad. So, like, how badly is he paralyzed?”
Cheryl of course knew almost all the details. But I didn’t want to hear them from her. If I heard them from anyone, it would be Tim. I tuned out the conversation in the front seat, instead, imagining Tim diving high into the air from an Acapulco cliff, executing a perfect front-four-and-a-half and slipping silently between two perfect white-caps bobbing on a sapphire sea.
A particularly annoying radio commercial was in progress: “Are you living an alternative lifestyle?” an authoritarian male voice queried. “Do you wish you were?” a suggestive female voice returned. With a groan, Cheryl turned it off. “He was in a really bad diving accident in college,” she said.
“What kind of diving?” Sally asked.
“Muff diving!” Cheryl snapped, “whadya think?”
“Well,” Sally said, defending herself, “there’s like scuba diving and like diving board diving—”
“Also, cliff diving,” I added, reading what was scrawled in (presumably) No. 2 pencil on the inventory slip Tim had given me: Mike, give a call and we can hang out sometime! And then a phone number.
“Sky diving…” Sally offered.
“Free diving,” I chimed in, “when they like hold their breath and swim to the bottom of the ocean—"
“Sponge diving!” Sally teased.
“Okay,” Cheryl huffed admitting defeat, “like, high diving and stuff—off of platforms and into pools. Olympic level shit. He was supposed to go next year.”
Sally sighed. “That’s so sad. So, like, how badly is he paralyzed?”
Cheryl of course knew almost all the details. But I didn’t want to hear them from her. If I heard them from anyone, it would be Tim. I tuned out the conversation in the front seat, instead, imagining Tim diving high into the air from an Acapulco cliff, executing a perfect front-four-and-a-half and slipping silently between two perfect white-caps bobbing on a sapphire sea.
84 On the Floor is currently available from the Kindle E-Book store and is forthcoming in paperback. Available on Amazon. Here's a link:
www.amazon.com/84-Floor-Christopher-Reidy-ebook/dp/B0FY46ZF1F/ref=sr_1_1?dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.whPF0W18xPUkjFfOIgOr8wV376iqyPATAzVqP_-cx_vGjHj071QN20LucGBJIEps.LKqR0uHQCNVhB9s1EYTl46ffINbqgPQbyZBtM4ykD8g&dib_tag=se&qid=1762657894&refinements=p_27%3AChristopher+Reidy&s=digital-text&sr=1-1&text=Christopher+Reidy
CFR 11/6/25