The Book of Joe

teens into sexual maturity. After a few minutes sitting in the cold, stinging spray of the falls, I decide it’s time to move to higher ground for a more encompassing perspective.
    I drive a little farther up the main road, past the Porter’s campus, and turn onto the well-worn dirt lane that leads through the woods to the top of the waterfalls, a single path barely one car width, whose alliterative nomenclature has included such assignations as Randy Road, Skank Street, Titty Turnpike, Poontang Parkway, and no doubt a slew of others ascribed in more recent years. When I can drive no farther, I leave my car and walk the last twenty yards or so to the rusted guardrail that overlooks the waterfalls. Beyond this rail is a rounded outcropping of large rocks upon which the more reckless teens would often sit, drinking their illegally purchased beer and tossing their empties directly into the cascading waterfalls descending a scant ten feet in front of them.
    It is from this place as well that the legendary few who have gone over the falls did so. I climb over the guardrail and cautiously inch my way out onto the rock, scraping along on my ass as I go, until I’ve reached a relatively flat section, where I stand up with exaggerated care as in front of me the water rages furiously in its descent to the river below. This is spitting distance, as close to the falls as one can humanly get without being in them, and the combination of their deafening noise and residual spray, instantly covering me with a layer of cold moisture, is disorienting, making me feel unbalanced even as I steady myself. It’s both frightening and exhilarating to stand in such proximity to this powerful force of nature, and it’s also surprisingly soothing to be perched on this high promontory, in solitary communion with the falls.
    “Hey, Goffman.” The voice alone, so unexpected, is enough to cause me to lose my balance, and for the briefest instant I feel my center of gravity slide precariously forward before I right myself by jerking back slightly while lightly flailing with my arms for counterbalance. “Hey, Sean,” I say. “What brings you here?”
    He’s leaning casually against the guardrail, dressed in his leather coat and black jeans, finishing off a cigarette. His presence here is startling, to say the least, and for the briefest instant I find myself entertaining the unlikely notion of a coincidence. “I was driving by and I saw your car turn off the main road.”
    “You saw me turn off,” I repeat skeptically.
    “Looked like you were coming to relive old times, so I figured, who better to relive them with than me?”
    “Have you been following me, Sean?”
    “Maybe.” He takes a last drag on his cigarette butt and flicks it expertly past me, where it vanishes instantly against the backdrop of the falls. He moves off the railing and steps out onto the rock, grinning and shaking his head incredulously. “You’re some piece of work, Goffman. I tell you to get out of town, and the next thing I know, you’re on TV, hanging from the roof of the high school. For a guy who’s supposed to be gone, you sure have some funny ideas about how to keep a low profile.”
    “And believe it or not, I’ve been trying to do just that,” I say, uneasily watching his approach, torn between my desire to play it cool and my instinct to bolt for the safety of the rail before he gets too far away from it. I take an uneasy step or two in his direction, but he’s moving faster and more comfortably along the rock’s pitched, craggy surface, and within seconds he’s reached me, looking over my shoulders at the waterfalls. “Look at that,” he says. “Pretty amazing, huh?”
    I half turn to look out over the falls with him, thinking it probably pays to humor him with conversation, and choose my moment to make a run for the guardrail. I just need one step on him, two at the most, and I’ll be home free. “This is where your friend Sammy bought it, huh?” Sean says over the din of the falls. I remain steadfastly silent, looking into the thrashing water, unable to see the bottom from my vantage point. “Your mother too, if I’m not mistaken. What is it about you that makes so many folks in your life choose death by drowning?” He stares at me, waiting to see if I can be baited. “You might want to think about that.”
    “It’s certainly food for thought,” I say, feeling my legs go weak as I peer over the edge of the falls. It’s