by A. Sparrow
It pries around my head, rooting out every rationale I need to be convinced. That Mom and Dad won't have to fret anymore about me finding a better job, one that actually paid my rent. That Glen could hire someone to replace me who could show up to work awake and on time. That Gina, my on and off girlfriend, could finally break away and find someone better, someone less fucked in the head. After my funeral, once the dust settled, everyone in my life will be happier.
No worries. There will be no pain, it promises. It’ll all be over in a flash. The exhilaration of flight and then boom. Game over. No time for hurting. Just instant death.
My hand reaches up and latches onto the wire mesh overhang leaning over the sidewalk, the one that's supposed to make jumpers like me think twice. The thing in my head shows me how to climb this unclimbable contraption, pointing out the handholds and footholds I can use to make it happen.
I just need to dangle. Throw one leg up. Hook it over the edge. Pull the rest of me up. Slide over the top. Let gravity take it from there.
My palms are sweaty. It’s getting harder to breathe. I climb up onto the stone wall that supports the original bridge rail. A couple of girls walking by give me a weird look but they keep on walking. Faster.
I have to be quick about it, the thing tells me, so no one can stop me. Unvoiced whispers remind me over and over that it’ll be a snap. Just scramble up the cage, throw my legs over the edge and release. Gravity and bedrock would handle the rest. Some semblance of Nirvana awaits me, but the thing keeps coy about exactly what’s so great about it.
Some guy steps up out of nowhere. “Hey man, I don’t like the way you’re looking at that gorge.”
He’s in his late twenties. Hipsterish, with this weird goatee with geometric flanges. He’s wearing a pea coat, a purple shirt and a black and gray striped knit cap. He comes chest to chest with me, puts a hand on my arm, the one reaching up and clutching the cage. His eyes are large and close and clear and earnest.
Something inside me snaps and releases. Pain shoots across the inside of my skull and rebounds like a low caliber bullet.
“Uh … I wasn’t gonna … I mean … did you think I was gonna jump? I was just … looking at the waterfall.”
“Yeah, right. Let go of it, man. It’s so not worth it. This crap’s always triggered by the little stuff. Give it a day or a week. It’ll be water under the bridge. You’ll feel different. Think different. Hey! You want to talk about it? I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
“Nah. Really. I’m okay. I was just going for lunch and I … I stopped for a look and … uh. I … uh….”
“Listen. We can go and talk about it. I don’t mind. I got the time.”
“No thanks. I’m fine. Really. I wasn’t … I’m not going to jump.”
His eyes bore in on me. “If I let you go, I don’t want to be reading about this in the paper tomorrow. Understand? I couldn’t live with myself.”
“You won’t … I mean, there’ll be nothing to read.” I take a couple steps. “See? I’m going for lunch.”
I turn away. Those eyes. Kind. Caring. For no good reason. I’m anonymous. A stranger. I can feel his gaze boring into my back.
“Hey man, you really need to talk this out. If you don’t have someone you can call, I’m willing.”
“No, you’ve got the wrong idea. Really. I wasn’t gonna do anything.”
He’s still standing there, his eyes drilling into me, his presence almost as strong as the thing that had wormed into my brain. “Listen, whatever bad shit might be happening now, there’s always good things waiting down the road. Always.”
I’m shaking now. Tears are welling. I duck my head. “Thanks,” I say it in a tiny voice, as I wheel and hustle away, my head swirling with bewilderment and pain.
The guy’s still standing there at the middle of the bridge. There’s something weird about his eyes now, but his voice is still strong. “I don’t want to see you coming back here. This is a one-way ticket. And that’s not cool. Not cool at all. You go talk to someone, okay? The suicide prevention hot-line if nothing else.”
***
So I’m in the pizza place, sitting at a window counter facing the street. My hands grip the cold Formica. They tremble, rattling the ice cubes in my lemonade. Two pizza slices droop over paper plates before me. Sausage and olives. Artichokes and mushrooms. Not a nibble is taken from either.
I wonder why I even bothered to buy them. The incident on the bridge left me too shaken and queasy to eat. I watch the cheese cool and congeal. I should probably just get the slices wrapped and go home.
But to get back to that car, I would have to cross the bridge again. It’s parked on the other side. I’m afraid to go anywhere near that gorge now. I have half a mind to leave it parked and take a bus back to Cortland. Else I can hike upstream to where the gorge levels out on the plateau and cross a less dangerous bridge.
But this is silly. I’ve crossed that bridge a hundred times without anything like this happening. My mind tells me that everything will be alright.
My mind? Is it really my brain doing the telling? Why do I feel like someone or something is still tagging along? Why are cold fingers of sweat seeping down my sides? And what Morse code message does the involuntary tremor in my finger tap on the counter top?
A familiar face glides up to the plate glass door. Auburn hair. Chic glasses. Our eyes connect. It’s Rhea, a friend from college. An almost, not quite girlfriend kind of friend. Her smile blooms. She's pleased to see me. I force my grimace into an expression I hope passes for reciprocity.
With Rhea, it was one of those situations where the timing never quite worked out. The right words never got said. She was an opportunity missed, a could have been who was never meant to be, or at least never was.
I want her to be in a rush, to keep on walking by. Instead she comes inside and gives him me of those micro hugs. All clothing. No flesh. An air kiss for bodies.
“Never see you around since you’ve moved out to the boonies,” she says, beaming a little too broadly. “So how’ve you been? I haven't seen you in months.”
“Oh, I’m doing ... pretty good.” I try to speak naturally, but my voice catches in my throat and cracks.
She scrunches her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just had a … a rough morning … at work.”
No way can I tell her what just happened on the bridge. I’m not even sure I can put it into words.
Her eyes are moving all over, studying me for signs. “You still working for that biotech downtown?”
“Yeah. Sharma Labs.”
“Pays well, I hear. Good benefits? Right?”
“Um ... they’re a start-up. So it’s not that great, actually. Better than bagging groceries.”
“At least you have a job,” she says. “That’s more than most of my friends can say.”
“How about you? Any prospects?”
“Oh! I got accepted to med school!”
“Congratulations. Where?”
“Penn.”
I’m kind of still in a daze, so there’s a delay in my response.
“Wow,” I finally say. “That’s great.”
She is staring at me, studying me like she’s getting ready to give me a make-over.
“Dan? You sure you’re okay? You look all pale. You’re shaking.”
I sense the presence still inside me, lurking, waiting for an opportunity.
“I don’t know. Must be coming down with something. Hope it’s not catchy.” I wave my hand over the pizza slices. “Want some? I haven’t touched ‘em.”
Her gaze rebounds quickly off the cold slices. “Um, no thanks.” Her brow crinkles.
Something relaxes inside me, lets the hunger pangs through to my brain. I pick up a slice without even thinking.
I take a bite. Halfway through my swallow, an odd tickle erupts in my throat, and makes me inhale deeply. What the fuck?
A chunk of sausage and cheese lodges firm in my throat. My esopha
gus seals shut. I stay calm, determined not to make a scene. I cough, close-mouthed, trying gently to expel it, but it won’t budge. I can’t breathe. Panic builds.
“Dan? Are you okay?”
I nod too emphatically, still trying to be cool and pretend I’m alright. A powerful gag reflex kicks in. I belch out the sausage and a dangling wad of cheese onto the other slice.
Rhea grimaces, rips some napkins out of a dispenser and shoves them into my hands.
“I was … choking.” I accept the wad of napkins and daub at my lips. “Sorry. That was gross.” I swig some lemonade.
“Gosh, maybe you should go see a doctor.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
A fire truck and an ambulance scream up the hill and stop in the middle of the College Avenue Bridge.
My attention flies to the bridge rail. There's a black and gray striped cap hung up on the fencing. People are staring down into the gorge.
“Holy crap!”
“What’s wrong?”
It’s like a valve opens and all my anxiety gushes out. The bridge is just a bridge again. The predator or whatever had invaded my brain has released me from its claws. It has found alternative prey.
“That guy!” A chill slices down my spine. I barge out the restaurant and run towards the bridge.
“Dan, wait!”
Rhea rushes after me.
The bridge is blocked by an ambulance, a fire truck and two police cars. A crowd gathers. There's yellow police tape going up. Nothing and no one is allowed to cross, not even pedestrians.
Rhea sighs. “Not another. That makes three this year. It’s just terrible.”
“Someone … jumped?”
“Well, yeah,” she says. “Ithaca is gorges. Don’t you know?” Her voice drips with snark.
“My car. It’s … on the other side.”
I’m trembling again. A muscle twitches in the back of my neck. The presence. It’s back, creeping down my vertebrae like a spider.
“So’s my next class,” says Rhea. “There’s a foot bridge up the creek a ways. I’ll walk with you. ‘Kay?”
“Is it … high?”
“The bridge? Not really. Why? You afraid of heights?”
Fingers creep under my skin, and across my back ribs. I slap at them.
“Dan?”
“No! I don’t like heights!” I snap.
Rhea’s eyes crinkle and she takes my hand.
We slip through a gaggle of onlookers and veer down Oak Avenue to the footpath. Hemlocks screen the rain-swollen creek from view but its roar grows and muffles the chatter of gathering students.
The thing inside me wiggles past my kidneys. Hyperventilating, I claw at my side.
“You’re not looking so good, Dan,” she says. “You really need to see a doctor.”
I’m staring into space. Rhea stares into my eyes from two inches away.
“Dan?”
I stand still, waiting for the thing lurking inside me to make its next move.
“Dan? Say something!”
“Uh. I don’t feel so good.”
“Are you dizzy? Maybe you’d better sit.”
“No. Let’s go,” I say, grimacing. Determined. “Get across.”
We near the footbridge. The rail is not even chest high on me. The gorge is much shallower here. A fall might even be survivable, except that the creek runs deep and turbulent from the recent deluge. I would be swept over the Giant’s Staircase and even Cascadilla Falls.
I hang back. Tingles erupt in alarming and unexpected places, in my groin, my rectum, in the large muscles of my legs, urging me on.
“You’re shaking,” says Rhea, squeezing my arm. “Are you … scared?”
I nod almost imperceptibly.
“It’s okay, Dan,” says Rhea. “Just close your eyes. I’ll guide you across.” She presses her palm against the small of my back. The thing inside me recoils from her touch. It strums the nerves in my side like a harp.
“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” she says, retracting her hand.
“It wasn’t … you.”
Rhea hooks her arm around mine, and clasps my forearm with the other.
“You take a nice deep breath, and we’re just going to walk really fast. Okay? We’ll be over in a jiff.”
I take a breath and hold it. I lurch forward, taking Rhea by surprise. She stumbles trying to keep up. My mind swirls with competing urges. I slam one foot down after the other.
“Whoa! Take it easy!” says Rhea.
“Are we over?” I ask, clenching my eyes tight.
“We’re not even on the bridge yet, Dan.”
It’s obvious when we reach the foot bridge. Our footsteps resonate. The empty air below the decking beckons. The surging creek sings to him like a coven of sirens.
I veer towards the rail.
“You’re … tugging me,” says Rhea. “Walk straight. Straight now. Pretend we’re dancing. Follow my lead.”
The rail draws me nearer. My hip brushes and sticks as if bound by magnetism. I shift my weight against it and start to climb.
“Dan? What the heck? You’re acting all weird.” Rhea’s voice quavers.
I lean over the rail. Open my eyes to a dizzying swirl of water the shade of chocolate milk. The gorge drops only ten feet here, but the water is plenty deep. Downstream, below the College Avenue Bridge, I see firemen with orange ropes and yellow raincoats belaying a paramedic who is attempting to retrieve a body hung up on fallen tree.
Students have gathered on the foot bridge to watch the recovery, but most now stare at me. Several lay hands on me, coaxing, tugging, and tearing me away from the force urging me over the rail.
“What the hell’s wrong with him?”
“Did he know the person who jumped?”
“He’s just … sick,” says Rhea. “He’s not … right ... in the head.”
Hands press against my back and shoulders. Strong arms haul me along; deliver me to the other side, up some stairs, into a parking lot.
Hands release. My helpers fan around me. A wall of Good Samaritans. Two jocks in sweats. A girl in a black beret. Rhea.
“Thanks,” I say, chin quivering, brow moist.
“You okay?” says the girl in the beret.
“Yeah. I just got dizzy for a sec. Lost my balance.”
I sit on the stone steps. The strangers disperse. Rhea stays with me. I sneak a peek into the gorge and my gaze lingers a little too long. Rhea sees me stare. Makes me rise. Steers me into the parking lot.
“You need to see a doctor,” she says. “But you really shouldn’t be driving.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say. Every step through the lot, away from the sound of rushing water, dials down the tension coiled in my torso.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I’m okay.”
“Well, your color’s back,” she says. “Promise me you’ll go straight to the clinic.”
I shake my head. “Nah. I'm okay now.”
“Call your girlfriend. Have her come get you.” Rhea’s eyes wander and flutter. “Or … I … I can take you.”
“No thanks, Rhea. Really. I’m fine.”
We reach a sidewalk and stop.
“Well. My car’s in the next lot over. Thanks a lot … for helping.”
Rhea is shaking just a little bit. “Dan. What was it that happened to you just then?”
I shrug. “I don’t exactly know.”
I take a step and wobble like a drunk before catching my balance. Rhea clings to a light pole, watching me go.
“Dan? Take care.” There is a plaintive tone to her voice, a haunting blankness in her eyes that suggests she were now the one possessed. I stop and shudder.
“Hey Rhea. That bridge. Stay away from it. Okay? Go straight to class. Promise?”
*****
The Latch Key League
A lady is sprawled across the sidewalk. She’s just lying there with her arms flung wide like someone slumbering in a soft bed on a steamy night. Bloo
d smears her cheek where it had scraped against the concrete.
She looks to be in her sixties. She has a glossy, curly perm gone mostly gray. Dominican, I’m guessing. Somebody’s grandmother.
I skid to a kneeling position beside her and check her vital signs. She has a knot developing on her forehead, but otherwise seems stable. I find her phone. Dial 911. Give the dispatcher her condition and location. I don’t mention the gang that cold-cocked her. Those guys are our business.
Yaritza Munoz is the name on her green card. She comes to and catches me rifling through her purse. She screams and slaps at me with open palms. She thinks I’m the one who struck her down, that I’m some mugger. But I’m just checking to see if she has insurance. Her Blue Cross will cover the ambulance ride but there will be forty-dollar co-pay at the ER.
I slip three twenties into her hand, whisper a few apologies and hustle away, ducking behind a parked van to watch and wait for the kids who did the deed to gain some distance.
I can hear all nine of them laughing their heads off. Mimicking the squeak Mrs. Munoz had made when the string bean with the bony elbows lunged after her and caught her square with his fist. They are mocking the way her eyes went all googly the moment she was struck, marveling at the way her head had bounced off the sidewalk.
The kids got three city blocks from the scene of the crime, all the way to 128th Street, before I heard the first sirens. Cyrus texted us, predicting that they were headed for 137th and the #1 train. These were a mixed bunch, mostly Yonkers kids, come down to the city on a Friday after school. Some asshole decided it would be great yucks to play something they called: “point-em-out, knock-em-out.” The knock-out game. Basically, they would pick out random strangers and try to knock them out with sucker punches.
Last weekend they had claimed five victims ranging in age from 13 to 82, putting two of them in the hospital with serious concussions. So far tonight, they have made three hits and are gunning for more as they head homeward.
Brax and Mink, our enforcers, are hot on hooking up with this little band of evil gits and administering a little vigilante justice. Doc and Noreen are against, but the rest of us voted yes, including me. Though, now I am starting to regret it. They are just a bunch of misguided kids. I don’t want to hurt them. I just want them to stop hitting people.
They are nine in all, a melting pot of ethnicities, amped up with youth and whatever controlled substances they had been able to score. Their victims are random, fitting no discernible pattern.
A panhandler in a snorkel coat. A middle-aged college professor carrying a baguette and a bottle of wine. The grandmotherly Latina they had just struck down on 125th Street.
