Midnight Ribeye

YOU BALANCE READILY AT THE RIFT’S EDGE, toes of your climbing shoes hanging above the misty abyss. Before the world split open (and surprise, it was flat all along), climbing generally meant one direction. You adopted the downclimber lifestyle during the planetary shit-storm. You’re one of the lucky ones—you have something to cling to, literally, while society splintered under rioting, religious radicalism, and wealth rendered useless in seconds. On the other hand, the global landscape was always fractured and fearsome. If you were being honest, you’d thank Sam for getting you hooked on the unexplored crags. But you told Sam you never wanted to speak to them again.

Your muscles are warm from your preparatory stretches. The adrenaline doesn’t quite smother the writhing guilt in your lower ribs like expecting to hear the sounds of LA instead of hollow silence. But you get used to it.

A crispwind rises over the cliff carrying a savory fragrance. A newly-discovered fungus grows out of the concoction of moisture, sewage, and the Earth’s exposed crust; it smells like an All-American BBQ. You brush aside your tousled hair slick with a week’s worth of grease from the hike through the Altadena ruins. The Eastern side of the Rift ran through downtown. The epicenter of stardom and influencers had vanished into the foggy depths in seconds. In the distance, you hear the roar of the Atlantic Falls on the other side. Scientists say it’s only a matter of time before all the ocean water in the world cascades out of existence— though it’d been years and sea levels kept rising so who knows anymore.

You note the oncoming dawn—an itch to get down the Wall needs scratching. You check your supplies: your satellite phone, water and supplement capsules, a micro portaledge, and other essentials packed tightly into a small backpack (the doomsday prepping industry saw a surge of bleeding-edge innovation). Your harness clips to an anchor you set with Sam over the years. You’ve already tossed two hundred feet of rope below with another two hanging heavily off your hips. A small pouch holds powdered chalk. You dip your roughened fingers, rub your palms dry, and lower yourself onto all fours at the new edge of the world. Perhaps you can resurface as the first person to find the bottom.

Sam picked the project: a section of the Rift called the San Andreas crags were the inverted Himalayas. Except, no one saw any thrills in going down, probably because the downward direction, literally or figuratively, ranged in connotations from hell to failure. Fighting gravity to reach a summit had a heroic spin, a clear distinction between opposing forces. Downclimbing required cooperation with physics—a delicate dance between giving and receiving. It’s a grayer allegory that doesn’t fly well in the apocalypse and no sponsor is going to let a pro climberlike you or Sam fuck with their already fucked stock prices. But the crowning jewel of the San Andreas crags was a wall of rosy granite descending God-knows-how-deep, and you both decided to ditch existential panic for an adventure. And once you two make the first descent, you’ll name that Wall. Put it on themap and in the history books (if any) to come. At least, that was the original idea.

You’re mostly indifferent to things not going according to plan. The way you figure, it’s better to downclimb alone than not at all.

***

Ironically, a heart attack in the middle of the apocalypse set you straight as the violently upending world tossed a global populations-worth of therapy, self-help reading, and hustler mentality down the drain. While the Rift swallowed millions, you fought for breath on your mother’s basement sofa, unable to see over your belly taunt with a lifetime of anxiety binging and depression drinking while hot Cheeto dust clogged your arteries. Your father, a retired EMT, resuscitated you from your poor life choices when he should’ve been supporting the strained emergency services.

A switch flipped. You managed a ding-dong ditch your reckoning on your Maker’s doorstep. After surgery, you went to a gym for the first time in your life, or the only one left standing within a hundred miles. Sam was coaching lessons on the indoor climbing wall, but no one showed up. You met side-by-side, gazing up at the lobby TV showing commercial airliners tumbling out of the sky and the broken steps of the Lincoln Memorial.

You wanna harness up? Sam had asked.

You said yes, unsure of what you agreed to—but did it matter?

***

You’d lost the two hundred pounds to carry a hefty eighty on your back. You now have lean, flexible muscles to replace the fat which once crushed your lungs, and you could hang by your fingertips all day if need be. You like feeling strong. You like liking yourself for once, even if you were the only one.

The first pitch or rope length is difficult. Not so much physically as there are plenty of footholds in the rubble, but you and Sam agreed the headspace was tricky. As you two gathered intel over the years, learning a route down bit by bit, comparing which moves to use in which cracks, it should’ve been naturalto avoid any reference to life beyond the rosy Wall.

We should consider what to do if we find survivors, Sam had said.

You both knew you weren’t going to find survivors. The most you saw was the odd Adidas sneaker dangling off a broken pipe or a pair of Chanel sunglasses miraculously wedged between chunks of asphalt. Maybe a snatched wig.

What you both meant was how to cope with the ghosts as you cling for your lives against the side of the world. Best to block it all out—the downclimb demanded utter devotion in body and mind.

You rest for an hour between pitches, watching the Sun ascend over the hole in the Earth. You constantly chalk your skin against the midday sweat. The smell of cooked meat intensifies: hot dog-ish. You check your ropes and lower yourself until your arms are fully extended, your toes delicately feeling for the foothold Sam marked several attempts ago. Seems their ghost has chosen its haunt.

***

By day’s end, you’re worked to the bone but so stoked—though not quite so far in the zone you’d forgotten about the squirming guilt. Night falls outside your portaledge, but a faint light illuminates the Rift from below. The cot gently rises and falls with the updrafts. Water and food capsules godown too easily. You pace yourself. Normally you’d converse with Sam; instead, dinner wraps up unceremoniously. Now it’s just you and the Wall. You watch a condor circling the abyss, its nest likely nearby.

If Sam were here, you’d rehash everything that makes the Wall worth the risk and effort. Because where else would you rather be? In an office? On a deserted island? In a bunker? In a body you despise? Another gust from below that, when hitting the right angles against the Wall, alternates a whistling tune or a mournful howl. The loneliness is as chilling as the wind.

Were you scared? Less so than you expected pre-heart attack. Unlike you, Sam grew up on walls, wry and calculating and shy, dreaming of the next adventure frontier. Sam never judged you for how you looked your first day in the climbing gym, huffing and sweating buckets of self-loathing. When Sam asked you to be their partner, you glanced over your shoulder for a person behind you. You followed up with a very reasonable “why” to which Sam said because you’re putting in the effort. Climbing, preferably downwards, made sense from then on.

Conquering the rose-colored Wall became an obsession that was tons healthier than becoming some Mad Max marauder(which several of your cousins discovered a knack for). Together you practiced strength, flexibility, and creative intuition. You liked finding ways to control the risk or perhaps your impending demise. Sam empathized, but their reasons burned with a spirit of wonder and awe. I want to reach the bottom to see what’s down there. 

 I just want to see if I can, you responded. Neither answer required a partner.

***

The next ten days make you uncomfortable, if slightly off-kilter. Your footwork isn’t nearly as precise and you’ve slipped off a couple of times (saved by your rope and anchors). Thirty pitches down and you’re still covering routes you and Sam had previously explored. Past the last city remains, the Wall gets smoother, revealing layers of fossil beds and ancient sea floors running through sections of the shelf. Sunlight is faint while the Rift’s glow remains constant. Sometimes you hear the odd whale song as one of the creatures plummets over the falls, sound waves echoing off the Wall. The fungus smell is akin to bacon. You’d argued with Sam who swore it was smoked ham instead.

Pitch forty-five marks the unknown. You are determined to make peace with your mental demons once you are onyour own, beyond Sam’s expertise. From there you can stake out your territory, prove your worth. You earned the right to conquer the most treacherous downclimb on the planet. Sure, you had guidance, but no one else’s arms and legs were doing the work.

You plan to start the new pitch on day twelve. A rest day is sorely needed beforehand. You’ve yet to accustom to the nights alone. You and Sam started spooning out of necessity inside the frigid portaledge. Closeness became exponentially comfortable and exploratory. But in the morning you’d act as if nothing happened. You don’t want to be seen unclothed in daylight—a triple bypass scar marking where your ribs were cracked open to expose your vulnerabilities and flaws. You’d talk past Sam, who made efforts to unpack the night’s events. Downclimbing partners, remember?

You set out the next morning (or what your phone says is morning). Progress is gradual—you dial-in. Your limbs navigate razor-thin holds, searching for solid anchor sites. You fall. A lot. Each slip is a gamble on whether your rope is as secure as you think. It takes fourteen hours to complete pitch forty-five. You turn in for the day.

***

The sport was more than physical. You had to analyze terrain, create maps of the Wall, study other climbers even if they only went up. Sam invited you to stay at their condo between trips to the Rift. You’d brew coffee for them and occasionally peek out the blinds to shake your head at the neighbor’s burning car or the missionaries going door-to-door. You’d get back to your project, working shoulder-to-shoulder late into the night.

Around midnight, you were both hungry. Sam offered to thaw a steak from the freezer. You’d sworn off meat as part of your lifestyle change, but the cravings never really went away.

I can make something else, Sam shrugged, never pressuring you. But then a siren would scream or a baby would wail and you’d resigned yourself.

 Sure, you’d love a ribeye.

You ate together, splitting a damn-good dinner to where it was a crying shame that, out of the whole world, you’d discovered a piece of serenity.

***

You reach pitch forty-eight on day fifteen. Progress is agonizing. You’re gassed, huddling in your portaledge, cocooned in a sleeping bag. The rose Wall has effectively shredded the skin on your hands. You wait two days to heal, bathing in the Rift’s glow that you decide is a green-blue light and listening to the crooning updrafts. Enormous lightning bugs the size of saucers cluster together on the granite, making you even more acutely aware of your aloneness.

***

You and Sam were expected to make another trip to the Rift when they asked to take a break. You weren’t certain what they meant, and maybe still aren’t.

 I wanna reevaluate that I’m going down the Wall for the right reasons, Sam said.

What the hell does that mean?

Making sure this is the right experience we’re looking for.

You scoff. What does it matter? The military overthrew the government that morning. Rumors of mass-suicides. You’re running low on blood thinners.

It means something to care, Sam insists.

What does “a break” look like?

Maybe you should stay with your parents for a while.

Fuck you then.

You’re too extreme.

Because I have a goal?

Our goal?

 Not if you have to stop to think about it.

It’s not only about you.

Then don’t speak to me again.

Sam did what you asked, never pressuring you to reconsider.

***

It’s your third week on the Wall. You’re spanning your body as far as possible between moves, searching for your neutral balance point even though when you do find it, freezing your muscles into position depletes your energy back to zero. You’re frustrated. You know you’re strong enough—in theory. You grit your teeth, suck it up.

Your grip slips continuously on the fungus, now as pink as the granite at this depth. A pterodactyl swooshes past, and the air thrums with vapor and heat. A ribbon of magma follows the crack system guiding you through this pitch.

You push downward.

Until…your feet smear across nothing. No footholds.

You can’t breathe. It’s just like last time. The harness is cutting into your flesh. Was the rope secure? You can’t see the last anchor through the gloom and your blurring vision. You’re alone on the Wall. Because you wanted it that way.

Suspended over the mystifying depths, your racing mind flies through the scenarios. If you fell, how long before reaching the bottom? Or would you plummet forever? You can’t help looking down. The Rift glow is blinding now, rising onswirling mists. Your fingers are on fire. You might as well have a morbidly obese stomach and thighs threatening to drag you to your doom.

You stretch a leg to the left, then gingerly to the right. Nothing. Nothing.

No father to administer CPR and no Sam to give direction. You wanted this. Right?

Oddly, you’re aware of the fungus smell which quietens your death-spiraling thoughts. It’s buttery and smokey—fragrant. Transportive.

Your lungs inflate, nerves calming. Your feet, still exploring the smooth Wall, find a notch directly belowthat you’d missed in the throes of panic. Both feet easily latch on. You can practically stand—thumbs reinforcing your grip. The rope is fine. Breathingstabilizes, fully inhaling the enticing odor.

You secure the ropes. The Wall looms both above and below. You’re a speck on this granite expanse and still, there’s light from both ends. Your satellite phone dials Sam’s number. The line cuts in and out.

Hello?

You pause. There are dinosaurs down here, Sam.

A chuckle. And what else?

You check the phone screen, numbers bouncing out of control. I think the magnetic fields are flipping.

Soundspar for the course.

What time is it?

Just after midnight.

Wow, you’ve seriously lost track of your days. You’ve been going for three weeks? Maybe four?

Smells like ribeye now. You inhale. Can I apologize?

Say it to my face.

Right. You hang up, flex your fingers, and begin to climb.