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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “Ancient Colors” Down in the Dirt, v148 (the August 2017 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the issue book Random Thoughts the Down in the Dirt July-Dec. 2016 collection book		get the 418 page May-August 2017 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

A Viable Option

Jack Moody

    It’s a common misconception that during free-fall, the human body will give out and go unconscious before the inevitable impact. Most often than not, you will be painfully aware of every second until the body connects with the water and crumbles, breaking every major bone, snapping the neck and spine, leaving the incapacitated victim to slowly drown in the forty degree harbor if you’re not one of the few lucky enough to simply die upon collision with the beautiful, blue death that a mere four seconds ago waited dutifully at 250 feet below you before taking the 75 mile an hour plunge into black certainty. There had been 1,600 before him since the Golden Gate Bridge’s opening in 1937, not including the handful that decided they had made a terrible mistake mid-flight and somehow survived to become paraplegics, or at the least, just as fucked up as they had always been before their ill-fated and miscalculated jump into the San Francisco Bay. That’s not to say that many of the other 1,600 dead didn’t also decide they had made a terrible mistake mid-flight, but of course they didn’t stick around to let anyone know that.
    These were among the scattered thoughts floating through his head as he hung unmercilessly over the red guardrail at three in the afternoon on a Saturday, flirting with his palpable fear of heights. The cool sea air smelled of sweet salt and urban decay as it gently rocked him back and forth on his unsteady perch every time the breeze came in again. The rumbling of passing vehicles, ignorant to his pre-meditated misdeed, softly shook the thick metal underneath his feet every few moments, but he told himself he didn’t mind the attention or lack thereof; it only brought him back into focus of why he was willingly at the edge of the plank that day. He had planned on it for weeks, but it had been characteristically cloudy for a long while, and he wished to look into the sun as he did it. Truly, it was a beautiful day out, and he saw no better way to spend the afternoon.
    Passersby would walk past obliviously or shoot an uncomfortable glance at him, wondering what this disheveled young man was doing in such a dangerous place, before dismissing him as if he had already been cemented into his fate. Part of him was still uncertain, and wished for nothing more than to be stopped before he resigned to his plans. His heart would jump and skip a beat with every set of eyes that made contact with his, as he secretly hoped for someone to save him from his childish decision, but none did. This only really proved to be more of a reason to do it, and with each passerby that ignored him, the fire under his ass would grow and burn with a stubborn intensity, screaming at him through the spitting flames to be cooled by the deep body of freezing water that stared back at him from below. He spit over the side and watched the wad of saliva slowly fly down into the murky depths, counting the seconds with Mississippis. It came out to more than four seconds until contact. This worried him. He had read it took four. Maybe a human body would drop faster; maybe it was just the wind.
    He had tried drinking himself to death for the past two years but it was taking too long. Knives were too sharp and messy, guns were too expensive, and no doctor in his right mind would prescribe him anything that he could overdose on. He had cried wolf so many times at this point that no one took him seriously anymore. He had crashed the family car into a tree three months earlier, but survived after rolling three times into a ditch and played it off as an innocent mistake in order to avoid going to a treatment facility, and thus have to face his problems directly.
    The wind was picking up and the clouds were moving overhead at a quick pace; big, fluffy cumulus clouds that perforated the perfect light blue of the sky. The sun hung overhead and lit up every scar and freckle on his pale, exposed skin with an orange glow. His eyes fixed on a colony of sea lions lying about on a dock about a half-mile out from the bridge. Two were happily barking and diving in and out of the water together near the rest of the group. A young couple walked past behind him as he watched the animals far below.
    “Hey, fella!”
    He turned around to meet the noise, spat out by the young man as his girlfriend hung onto his arm.
    “Hey, fella! If you’re gonna do it, do it! I’m sure it’ll work out just fine!”
    The young man’s girlfriend stifled an embarrassed laugh and half-seriously scolded him before hurrying him forward. “Howard, that’s not nice! Leave him alone.”
    That’s it? That’s all she had to say? Did no one care about a human life anymore? Was it overpopulation, lack of empathy brought on by the anti-social, computer-age mindset, reality television? What had happened to people? This interaction proved to be incredibly embarrassing. He had expected someone, anyone to care that he was about to end his own life in broad daylight. Where was the attention he craved before his last moments? Where was the regret in that young man’s voice, in his eyes? Did he really not care? This whole plan was beginning to feel quite lackluster and anticlimactic.
    He leaned back against the metal guardrail and reached into his breast pocket for his last cigarette, reached into his jeans pocket for his lighter, lit up. Well, it seemed he had all the time in the world to make his decision. He figured it would be a lot easier. Things change when you find yourself looking into its face; death’s face. He was going to do it, sure he was. He just needed to step back and breathe, get himself prepared. A car rushed by and shook the bridge underneath, knocking him off his footing momentarily. The blue Bic lighter shook loose from his hand and plummeted into the bay. Five seconds. The sea lions had all jumped into the water and swam to a different area of the harbor where he couldn’t see. White puffs of smoke disappeared into the gusts of wind overhead as he crossed his eyes to focus on the red cherry at the end of the Marlboro just below his crooked nose. He couldn’t remember how long he had been hanging on the edge of the bridge. 1,600 people, 75 miles an hour upon impact; four second drop, maybe five. He repeated the facts over and over in his head as he sucked down the last of the cigarette hanging between his lips at an angle. Okay, just do it. Listen to that asshole, just do it. You’re ready, okay, now do it. He shuffled uncertainly towards the edge of the bridge until his toes were hanging over the bay, his arms wrapped around the guardrail behind him to maintain his balance. He spit out the butt of the burnt out cigarette and took in a deep breath, closing his eyes as he took in the scent of the sweet salt air one last time. He wished he could see the sea lions. Okay, okay, one...two...three...
    “Hey, whoa man! Are you crazy? What the hell are you doing?”
    A sharp voice echoed inside his closed eyes as a large hand firmly grabbed onto the back of his shirt and yanked him backwards.
    “Hey, are you listening? I said what in the hell are you doing?”
    This caught him off guard, as he wasn’t expecting someone to so directly intervene, especially at the moment of truth. He spun around, still in the firm grasp of the unfamiliar man behind him. He was an older man, skin worn and wrinkled like thick leather. A pair of circular glasses sat at the edge of his nose, and long brown hair hung down around his shoulders in a way that he found almost feminine, but from him emanated a powerful air of unmistakable masculinity. His eyes were large and acutely aware, focused squarely on him with an urgency that for some reason struck a fear into him, causing him to feel shameful of being caught in such a compromising position.
    “Well, I was planning on jumping.”
    A jolt of surprise surged through his body, uncertain of why he had just been so honest with this stranger when he could have played it off like he had so many times before when he lost the nerve to follow through.
    “Jumping? Now, why would you go and do that?”
    The man showed no sign of anger or surprise, instead appearing to be genuinely interested why. His lips formed a crooked smile as he spoke, his eyes full of warmth. His hand still grasped firmly onto his shirt, letting him know fully well that he wasn’t going anywhere until he provided an answer. But the truth was, he didn’t have one.
    “It just...seemed like a good idea.”
    He immediately felt sheepish because of his lack of a decent explanation. He could have come up with something, some excuse that he had used in the past to justify his suicidal tendencies, but something about this old man clinging onto him almost lovingly made him unable to lie.
    “A good idea?” The man laughed, not in a mocking way, but more so as an attempt to lighten the mood.
    He couldn’t help but crack a stiff smile at the old man’s unorthodox reaction to hearing that someone was just about to kill himself. The metal underneath his feet shook as a green Sedan drove past. The man’s grip on his shirt eased up a bit.
    “What did you think was gonna happen?”
    After four seconds of free-fall, the human body will make impact at 75 miles an hour, shattering major bones and severing the spinal chord, leaving the incapacitated victim to drown to death in the forty-degree harbor.
    “I’d go for a swim.”
    The old man threw his head back and exploded with laughter. He smiled warmly and eased up on his grip.
    “Right, lovely day for a swim. I was thinking about that myself. And then what?”
    “And then what, what?”
    “And then what, after you’re dead.”
    A second couple strolled past the pair, completely ignoring their exchange at the edge of the guardrail. He paused for a moment and looked at the old man in his warm eyes.
    “Well, I hadn’t really thought about it.”
    The old man widened his grin.
    “I suppose that would make it easier.”
    “Are you gonna let go of me?”
    “Hold on a minute.”
    He had gotten the attention he craved so much, and he was quickly beginning to regret it. An uncomfortable wave rushed over him as his blood ran cold. He wasn’t sure why. The old man appeared to be taking some sort of pleasure out of this. He continued.
    “Let’s say there’s a hell, and you end up there. What then?”
    He felt a condescending tone when the old man asked that.
    “Well, I guess I’d have a few questions for the devil.”
    “And what if you go to God?”
    “Him too.”
    “What if there’s nothing at all?”
    “Then I wouldn’t have any questions.”
    He found it odd that the old man was yet to ask him to step back over the guardrail. He stood on the other side, nearly motionless, holding onto the front of his shirt with a firm but steadily loosening grasp.
    “Do you think anything will change once you jump? For the world, for anyone else but you?” The old man asked.
    “Nothing has changed from me existing in this world. I hardly doubt jumping would suddenly change much either,” he responded.
    “So I ask again, why do you need to go and do a thing like this?”
    “I guess it just seemed like...a viable option.”
    “As opposed to what?” The old man asked again, loosening his grip rather noticeably on the younger man’s shirt.
    “Sticking around. Driving a car, going to work, pretending to like people. Pretending to like myself.”
    A passing minivan rumbled the guardrail and forced him to grab onto the old man’s shoulder for support.
    “You know what I think?” Said the old man, as the afternoon sun shone and glinted off the top of his glasses. “I think you want attention. I think you’re scared to die.”
    “I never said I wasn’t scared.”
    “Then do it.”
    “Let go of me.”
    He was becoming increasingly frightened of this longhaired, spectral figure, and wished nothing more than to be released from his grip and take off back down the bridge where he came from. The anxiety was reaching too high of a level for him to pretend to be suicidal anymore. He was scared for his life. The old man looked directly into his eyes with growing malice and spoke with an intense growl.
    “If you want to jump so badly, then jump. You’ve gotten the attention you wanted, you’ve got an audience. I’m right here. So jump...Jump.”
    The old man released his grip entirely; letting him slip backwards towards the beautiful, blue death below. He screamed and grabbed onto the old man’s shirt to keep from meeting his fate. The old man lurched forward under his weight but held onto the guardrail, saving the both of them.
    “Don’t let go of me! Help me up, I don’t want this, I don’t want to die!” He screamed aloud finally as he hung over the edge of the Golden Gate Bridge, barely supported by the shirt collar of the old man. There was no one on the bridge to hear his desperate pleas for mercy. He was alone again.
    “You need to let go,” said the old man. “You’re tearing my shirt.”
    “FUCK YOUR SHIRT!” He screamed as they struggled together on either side of the red guardrail. “I DON’T WANT TO DIE!”
    “WHY?” The old man yelled back. “WHY DON’T YOU WANT TO DIE? WE ALL DO IT.”
    “BECAUSE MAYBE IT’LL GET BETTER!”
    Because maybe it’ll get better. This answer seemed to satisfy the old man. He smiled again and laughed softly for the both of them, reaching out his hand for the would-be jumper to finally take hold of.
    “Please help me up. I want to go home.”
    “Take my hand, kid.”
    He let go of the old man’s shirt collar with his right hand, reached out and grabbed his outstretched open palm, then let go with his left. His hand felt like rough tree bark from a centuries-old Redwood.
    “Okay, pull me up.”
    The old man stood there with the would-be jumper’s shaking hand in his, smiling warmly.
    “Hey! Okay, pull me up!”
    The old man was silent, his long brown hair swaying in the soft ocean breeze that encompassed them so fully. He could feel the heat of the afternoon sun’s rays on his back. He took a moment to look down into the bay. The colony of sea lions had returned, and were swimming around in circles just beneath him. They were so beautiful. He turned back around to the old man.
    “What are you doing? I’m ready. I’m ready.”
    “I know you are,” the old man whispered into the breeze.
    For a moment, life stood still. The cars passing by stopped in their paths, the birds in the air were stuck in their act of flight, the sea below ceased to undulate and flow. The sea lions waited together patiently in place. And for a moment, life was incredibly beautiful.
    The old man looked into his eyes, smiled once more, and in one slick motion, released him from his grip, letting him careen down with his back to the water. The sun looked down upon him, and he looked up upon it as his body impacted with cold, blue death. The old man didn’t stay to watch; he had left the moment he let go of him. He died on impact. It took four seconds; he counted. The sea lions formed around him and they floated together. He didn’t die alone. That was the least he could have asked for.

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