“I can give you some cash instead if you prefer,” Mark said quickly.
“You don’t have to give me anything,” the woman replied, holding up the certificates. “I’ll sell you these certificates for sixty bucks.”
Mark laughed so hard he bent over. When he stood up, the woman wasn’t laughing with him. She hadn’t even cracked a smile. She still held the certificates up in front of Mark’s face.
Mark could afford to buy back his own property, but the principle of the transaction, mixed with his inability to find Uncle Leon had him frustrated. “Wait a minute—you can’t sell me my own gift to you.”
“Did you give these to me?” She shook the certificates in Mark’s face and her eyes widened.
“Yes, but—”
“Then they’re mine. But I can’t use them because the restaurant has banned me, so really you gave me something that you can use, but I can’t. Nice gift, mister.”
Mark’s mouth fell open in an awkward laugh of disbelief. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious. Matter of fact, you made me remember something painful. You made me remember a place where I was thrown out again and again, so you really hurt me tonight, right here,” she said, pointing to her heart. Her eyes went to the ground, but then she snuck a peek at Mark.
“Unbelievable,” Mark said. He shook his head and took cash from his pocket, peeling off three twenties. He handed her the money and she made a flagrant show of handing him the certificates.
§
After wandering the Promenade for another half hour, Mark was tired. He had one more chance to find Uncle Leon as he headed back to his car. He noticed another TV news crew about half a block ahead in front of a shoe store. A camera operator aimed a shoulder-mounted camera at a TV reporter just outside its door. A few shoppers stopped to find out what news the crew was reporting. The reporter said that the location was the last place the most recent victim was seen before disappearing.
Mark paid little attention to the news crew and continued walking. He thought about the uselessness of helping people, how attempts can backfire when exploited by a con. Maybe Todd was right, he thought. After all, his altruism had resulted in nothing but grief this week.
He made a wide arc around the spectators, mostly tourists, who watched the news crew. He side-stepped a few times to avoid collisions. Clear of the crowd, he slowed down to look up at the clear night sky. His eye was drawn to something high and off to his left across the wide Promenade walkway. Something was out of place; he saw the slightest motion where he wouldn’t have expected it. The light of the mall shops below drew a faint outline of a figure—a man up on a rooftop. He wore a long coat and a baseball cap. The bottom of his coat flapped in the breeze. There was no railing to protect him and he was so near the roof’s edge that Mark thought he could see the man’s toes jutting over. The man’s head was tilted down to the crowded sidewalk far beneath him. He stood motionless.
A chill shot through Mark and he stopped walking. A woman who carried shopping bags in both hands had followed Mark too closely and bumped into him. She grumbled something about Mark blocking the foot traffic.
Mark studied the silhouette. His memory of Carlos came flooding back and he felt an urge to take action. He remembered the day before Carlos jumped to his death. At lunch with him, Mark had failed to realize the depth of Carlos’s desperation. Carlos’s suicide tormented Mark because of its preventability. In the following months, Mark had a recurring dream of talking Carlos down from the bridge. In the dream, Mark reminisced aloud about their experiences together. He struggled to keep a running monologue going, but always eventually ran out of memories on which Carlos could focus. It was then, every time, that Carlos jumped. During his fall, his fading scream melded into Mark’s own scream as he sat up in bed, heart pounding. The unchanging outcome of each nightmare haunted Mark.
Now, Mark examined the building on which the silhouette stood. The upper two floors were brick with symmetric windows and blinds pulled shut. The bottom floor was a vintage clothing store named Rona that was dark inside.
Mark weaved his way through pedestrians toward Rona’s front door. He scanned the crowd for a police officer or a security guard. With the recent tension in Santa Monica, security was more visible almost everywhere, yet Mark could not see so much as a security guard anywhere.
He was jogging by the time he reached the front door of the closed store. A scrawled notebook-paper sign in magic marker read, “We’ve Moved!” and gave the clothing store’s new address. Mark yanked the door handle, causing only a loose clank. He saw a chain wrapped around the inside door handles.
He ran to the business next door, a tattoo shop, and burst through the front door. A skinny, pale guy with a shaved head pulled his buzzing tattoo pen from the back of a shirtless woman who was hunched over, clutching her legs. He looked up at Mark, clearly annoyed.
Mark was winded. “There’s a guy…on the edge of the roof next door and he might jump…somebody call the police. Can I get out back here?” He pointed to the back of the shop and the tattoo artist nodded and aimed his pen the same direction. Everyone in the shop hurried out the front door to see.
Mark ran until he reached the back door. He flung it open and stumbled into the alley. He yanked the handle of what he thought was the rear entrance to the closed Rona Clothing, but it was a stairwell painted in graffiti and it stank of urine. He ran up three flights of stairs and entered a hallway lined with numbered doors. He leaned on his knees to catch his breath and then began to search for roof access—stairs, elevator, attic door on the ceiling—anything. At the end of the long hallway, he saw a large open window. He ran to it and peered out over the alley. Beside the window, a metal fire escape ladder bolted to the building led to the roof. He reached out the window for it, grabbed the ladder, and swung a leg out to the bottom rung. The ladder felt cold to Mark’s already trembling hands and the chilly wind was brisk as it swept across the face of the building.
He climbed fifteen rungs and then peered over the building’s top edge across the roof. He saw the man’s back on the far side still standing motionless, head bowed, and feet far too close to the edge.
Mark’s hands trembled from a combination of cold and nervousness. He swung his leg off the ladder and onto the roof. He burrowed his fists deep into his jacket’s pockets and pressed his teeth together to keep them from chattering. Why wasn’t anyone else up here already? How could all those people down there not see this man?
Mark eased his way across the gritty roof. He tried to step on the tar seams of the roofing material to quiet his footsteps. His heart thumped as he sidestepped some gray waist-high air conditioning units and capped conduit that jetted up through the roof’s surface.
Not wanting to startle the man, Mark stopped halfway to him and called out, “Hello, sir?”
The man did not respond. His features became more visible at this close range. The bill of his ball cap was pulled low on his brow and he had a matted salt-and-pepper beard. His long dark trench coat fell all the way to his ankles. He had a red towel worn as a scarf, tucked in under his collar. His hands were hidden in his coat’s side pockets. The toes of his work boots were flush to the edge of the roof.
“Sir?” Mark said, a bit louder than he had intended to.
The man’s head raised and he looked over his shoulder. His eyes began at Mark’s feet, and then swept up to his face before turning away again. “Police?” the man asked.
“No.”
“Shrink?”
“No.”
“Building manager?”
“No.”
The man gazed down at the sidewalks far below, showing neither disappointment nor relief at Mark’s answers. Mark wondered what answer would have pleased the guy—or would have continued the conversation.
“My name is Mark.”
“Go on back where you came from, Mark,” the man sighed. He remained fixated on the distant ground below.
“Are you going to h
urt yourself?”
The man laughed, forcing a loud puff of air out his nose. He turned to Mark again, chin up high to see under the cap’s bill. “Your power of deduction is spectacular.”
“I’ll pay you to not jump,” Mark said, pulling out his wallet and holding it up. It was a desperate attempt to buy some time.
The man turned the rest of his body to Mark. He smirked in disbelief. “Put your wallet away, go back where you came from,” he said. He adjusted his baseball cap so he could better see Mark’s face from under the bill. The cap’s logo was something shiny but Mark was still too far away to make it out.
Mark stepped closer to the building’s edge, but kept about twenty feet between him and the man. His new position enabled him to see some of the people below. The crowd developed a clot where spectators had now noticed the man and paused to check out a possible jumper.
Mark locked his focus on the man and eased closer.
“You are disobedient,” the man said.
“I’m desperate.”
The corners of the man’s mouth went down and his eyebrows went up—as if he was impressed with Mark’s quick reply. He nodded slowly as he examined Mark again—more carefully this time.
Mark stepped closer to the edge and a camera flash lit them both up. He turned and held his palms to the crowd, motioning for them wait—to not take photos. He held up his index finger, asking for a minute.
The man stared at Mark, but said nothing. Mark saw that the man’s face was dirty with a smear under his eye where he had wiped his face.
“I’m done. I’m all done,” the man said. He shook his head, turned toward the edge of the roof ledge again, and gazed down at the crowd.
“Listen, sir, this jump may not do it,” Mark said. “It’s only about thirty-five feet. If you jump, there’s a good chance you’ll survive in physical agony.”
The man pivoted his entire body to face Mark again, one foot still only an inch from the edge. He reached up and unwound his red scarf, revealing a white hangman’s noose around his neck snug to his throat. He opened his long coat wide. The rope traveled straight down the front of his body, turned at his scuffed black boots, and snaked its way a few yards where it was tied to a rusty steel I-beam that protruded through the roof.
“The sidewalk is thirty-four and a half feet below us. My rope is twenty-five feet,” he said. “I’m so tired of the humiliation.” His voice quivered. “They’re going to remember this.”
He turned back to the crowd. More camera flashes hit them and Mark yelled at the crowd to stop.
“Let them,” the man said as he pointed at his audience. “This is new for me. They usually hate to see me. The sight of me hurts their eyes. Look, now I mesmerize them.” He waved his arm over the crowd like a celebrity acknowledging his fans and camera flashes suddenly multiplied, popping on his tired face like a frenzy of lightning. Mark saw people in the crowd covering their mouths with one hand as they pointed up with the other.
Three teenage boys carrying skateboards began to chant, “Jump, jump, jump…” A woman standing beside them smacked the nearest of them with the back of her hand and pointed in a direction away from the building. Mark saw the back of her head bobbing in reprimand very close to the boys’ faces. They obeyed her outstretched arm by stepping away far enough to appease her. Then they playfully shoved each other, deflecting blame, all while snickering.
Two police officers pedaled bicycles through the crowd, blasting handlebar buzzers at anyone in their way. They jumped from their bikes letting them fall to the ground, and ran toward the front door of Rona Clothing. One officer tripped and fell because he was staring up at the two men on the roof. He cussed and bent over to examine his knee before his partner hollered for him to hurry.
Cold wind drifted over the roof, flapping the bottom of the man’s coat. Mark wasn’t sure what to say next, and since the man hadn’t jumped, he waited, thinking, choosing his next words carefully while hoping the police would appear soon. He crossed his arms and buried his hands under his armpits for warmth.
The man re-tucked his scarf over his noose and then concealed both under his jacket. He leaned out over the edge of the building and watched the officers fail to open the front door to the clothing store. When they ran next door into the tattoo shop he turned to Mark and said, “Here they come, but they’ll be too late.”
The words jolted Mark, making him forget the cold. He estimated that the officers would be on the rooftop in less than a minute. If only he could take two steps closer to the man, he would consider tackling him. The man looked about 5’ 10”, and although his long coat was thick, his narrow face and the glimpse Mark got when he opened his coat hinted at a thin body frame. Mark decided the risk was too great to rush him. They could both fall if he did something stupid.
“Please tell me your name,” Mark said.
The man nodded at him. “Excellent. Build rapport, establish my trust, take me downstairs, and cut me loose so my humiliation can begin anew. Ahh, it doesn’t matter. You are too late to help me. My name is Al,” he said. He turned back to the crowd and continued to address Mark. “And you’re an okay kid. I figured there might be one more decent person in the world. Too bad we didn’t meet before I made this little commitment.” Al pointed to his neck. “If you’ve developed feelings for me in the last two minutes, then you won’t want to see what is about to happen. You should leave now. I’ll give you time.” Al reached under his coat and snapped the rope at his waist. A hump of rope sailed across the roof until it was snuffed by the rusty I-beam to which it was tied. He turned back to face the edge of the building.
“Al, please don’t,” Mark felt the nightmare of Carlos squeezing down on his stomach. He glanced to the far side of the roof. Where were the cops? From below, a fat man holding a half-eaten hot dog yelled, “Don’t do it! It’s not worth it, pal!” This outburst triggered others to begin shouting up at the rooftop. Most encouraged Al to come down safely while a few yelled, “Jump.”
“Listen to them, Al. These people don’t want you to die.” Mark repeated some of the phrases shouted by the pro-life spectators. Al said nothing. Then he squatted for a moment and suddenly thrust his arms straight out behind him. There was a collective gasp and the crowd went silent. A few people in the crowd yelled, “No!” Al then jumped straight up. People screamed and cameras flashed. Al came straight back down with a thud of both boots onto the roof’s edge. After a quiet moment of shock, the hum of the murmuring crowd returned.
Al laughed while pointing a mocking finger at the crowd. His laughter turned into sobbing. His shoulders shook and his head bowed.
Mark’s mouth fell open. For a moment, he was paralyzed. He scanned the opposite side of the roof again. Where were the damned police? He licked his lips. “Al, is there anything I can do—”
“Back off!” Al screamed.
Mark’s arms flew up in defense and he stepped back.
“Not you, kid.” Al turned and yelled at the closest air conditioning unit about twenty feet away. “Cop, back off or I’m jumping now,” Al said, slowing his words for emphasis.
Their cover blown, two officers stood up from behind separate air conditioning units and took a few steps back. “Sir, take it easy, we just want to talk,” the closer officer said.
“Well fancy that!” Al said. “I’m the most popular person on the Promenade tonight. Why don’t I host a talk show? My cameras are ready.” He pointed to a spot in the crowd. The nearby news crew had set up for an impromptu spot on Al. Two men scurried to aim spotlights at the rooftop. At any moment now, Mark and Al would be lit up like a Broadway stage.
“You’re still too close. Back off!” Al yelled at the officer.
The officer put his hands out and said, “Sir, we are only here to help and we—”
“DAMMIT you don’t listen!” Al screamed. He pointed at Mark and said, “He is doing fine. He is helping me. You are ruining all his progress.”
The officer stopped, but did not
retreat. Below, more police officers gathered and pressed the crowd back from the building with an arc of yellow police tape. Sirens whined in the distance mixed with the unmistakable blasts of fire truck horns.
“What’s your name, cop?” Al demanded.
“My name is Officer Reynolds, what’s yours?”
“I recognize you. You’re the one who ‘relocated’ me to improve the local scenery a while back.” Al air-quoted the word “relocated.”
“I don’t remember that,” Officer Reynolds said, holding up his hand as if swearing.
“Well, you did, and you won’t again. Tonight I’m evicting myself.”
“No sir, listen. Here’s what I need you to do, partner—”
Al turned back to the crowd, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “There is a police officer named Reynolds harassing me up here!” The crowd hushed to hear Al. “Officer Reynolds is not being patient with me.”
The crowd booed until Al hushed them with his hands. He pointed down to the television camera aimed at him. Floodlights on either side of it popped on, and Al and Mark whitened along with the entire face of the building. Mark squinted in its brightness and then turned his head from it.
“I want this news crew to report to the world that Officer Reynolds of the Santa Monica Police Department is pressuring me to jump and I was reconsidering before he showed up.” Al turned his back to the light and glared at Reynolds, who backed into an air conditioner.
“He will talk to me,” Al said, pointing at Mark. The officers stepped back again to appease Al. “Come closer,” Al said to Mark, pointing five feet from him. Mark approached.
“Come on, Al, let’s just walk down. Please don’t do this…”
Al lowered his voice and leaned toward Mark so neither the officers nor the crowd could hear him. “Have you ever been so humiliated and so repulsive that even death tried to evade you?”
Mark was silent for a moment. “Yes, but I can’t say I’ve felt the way you seem to.”
A hint of a smile crept across Al’s face. “Honesty—amazing,” he said. “I want you to do something in exchange for my life.”
Dire Means Page 12
