The Balloon

October 9, 2007, 11:00 am; posted by
Filed under Articles, Job  | No Comments

Best of Job, July 2006.
Based on a true story.

I knew a guy once with the worst broken heart I’ve ever seen, a sullen, moping, sleepless affair that went on — by my recollection — over a year. He was inconsolable, and no matter how hard we tried to cheer the lad up, or divert his attention, it all failed.

He had this box, see, with all “her” stuff in it. Notes, gifts, tickets to the fair. And he’d pull that dang box out and go through it, picking at that scab. His eyes would get puffy, and his night would melt away into a spiral of despair.

The worst item in the box was the balloon.

It was his birthday party. She’d blown up a bunch of balloons and he’d kept them.

She dumped him the next day.

The string holding the balloons got stuck in his fan and pulled them in, popping them one by one. He awoke with a fright, saw what was happening, and pounced on that poor fan like it were a sentient being. He ripped the cord from the socket and — freeing the tangled mess — tossed it violently against the dresser.

One balloon remained.

It was most precious, you see, because it was her breath inside that latex. Air, “from when she still loved me.” The most precious carbon dioxide on the planet. But the balloon was getting smaller and smaller, as the love air escaped. He was beside himself — he Googled it, he asked science professors roundabout questions. It was an unholy obsession.

He finally decided to place the balloon inside a Ziploc bag, “the best money could buy, with the color-seal guarantee and all that,” then pop it from the outside, containing her breath that way. My friends and I thought about stealing the balloon, popping it right in front of him and just letting the poison bleed out . . . letting him get on with things.

But we wouldn’t have to.

I was there when he put on a pair of gloves and carefully plucked the dimpled, misshapen, somber-looking old balloon from off the desk. He was breathing heavily — enough to fill a thousand balloons. I was holding the best Ziploc bag money could buy, a real humdinger, a double-sealed NASA-looking thing. My breathing was somewhat labored as well.

Carefully, so carefully, he lowered the balloon down inside with both hands.

He stopped.

“What is it?,” I whispered.

“Shhhh,” he said, his face suddenly choked with concern.

His hands moved slightly. It was a tight fit, and he gulped. Pushing it further or removing his hands would require slightly depressing the balloon. He gulped again and looked at me.

He whispered now. “Cut it off.”

“Cut what off?”

“The bag! Abort, abort! Cut the bag loose, it’s gonna pop.”

“Are you sure??”

“Yes!” His eyes flashed. “Do it now,” he snarled.

I grabbed the scissors from his desk and began to cut the bag from around his wrist.

Hiiissssssssssssssssssssss…..

He fell to his knees and I watched the most horrific sight of my life, as he wildly, frantically sucked the air from the breach and then — tears pouring down his cheeks — stuffed the husk of the balloon into his mouth . . . sucking the last air from it.

He crumpled into a heap, sobbing uncontrollably, his shoulders heaving rhythmically into his desk chair.

I could do nothing. I just left him there to mourn in quiet.

Her love — her love had lost its lungs.


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