How High Can You Get?

Level Two: [e]levator ride

47 Plaza Street West – Brooklyn, New York.
50 Meters.

Jumpman woke up with a major headache in a private jet flying the players who had advanced through level one into America.

"Brooklyn, New York," the young man seated next to him said. "Home of hip-hop."

Jumpman tried looking out the window to catch the Manhattan skyline but the sun was too bright and his hangover was too strong. So, instead, he pulled down his neon green stocking cap and went back to sleep.

For a kid from Detroit, New York was a whole other level. A city with a lot more prosperity and opportunity than he would ever have. Jumpman was born in the Renaissance City. Grew up there. Was broken down by it. Like the millions of cars that came and went off the assembly lines, he was also once a sight to behold. Full of promise. And wonder.

Nineteen years later he was nothing but a rust bucket; getting high and sinking into a royal blue microfiber couch at some strange dude's gentrified metro flat when he met Lady. He was doing his usual chasing the night's high. And every night was the same. When he'd think he was on the right level, it was gone. Swooped away. He'd reach up for it. Higher and higher. But higher was never high enough.

"How high can you get?" was the first thing Lady ever said to him.

Right then and there.

In the middle of that very thought.

"Not high enough," he told her, chasing the vapors with his flame and falling further into that strange dude's couch.

The room was somehow suddenly full of people. People that weren't there before. Or maybe they were and he just didn't notice them until Lady showed up.

"Would you like to find out?" she asked.

He felt like he should have told her no. But that wasn't the life of the chase. Plus, she was so damned gorgeous. So, instead, he said:

"Why? Whatchu got?"

"The time of your life if you want it," she told him.

Why the hell wouldn't he want the goddamn time of his life? Before that night, the time of his life was lacing Boston Coolers with crushed Adderall and tripping out at trap house raves. He was a living joke. Human dilapidation.

"Show me."

"You can begin right now if you'd like," she said.

"What?"

"I am Lady and I am at the top level.  If you want to get high then all you have to do is... jump, Man."

Now that. That was his level.

But this New York level, this one was different. When the plane landed every player was stuffed into limos and driven to a warehouse rave party that dipped down somewhere below the heart of the city. They were each handed a bottle of ecstasy pills and told they had exactly one hour after the rave ended to finish the bottle and get to the roof of a flatiron building at 47 Plaza Street West or they'd be disqualified. And that was all the information they received.

As everyone rushed in, Jumpman stood outside on the pavement. He inspected his bottle. He counted fifteen multi-colored tablets with ladders engraved on them. There was no way he could take all fifteen himself. And what were the rules? Just to finish the bottle. Not necessarily alone.

Jumpman smiled.