A Morning on the Bridge

e wrenched his old VW beetle into a parking slot in the observation area at the north end of the bridge, bouncing the front wheels off the restraining curb. For an instant he felt foolish though the parking lot was empty and he had arrived before the tourist busses unloaded their passengers to stare, point, and click their cameras at San Francisco across the bay.

After getting out and closing the door, he started to lock it when he again felt foolish. He thought, why bother? Instead, he patted the car goodbye. Sighing wistfully, he wondered which had the most mileage, the old beetle or his young wife. He could always count on the beetle not going down on him unexpectedly. Of course, he mused, his wife had been reliable that way too.

He slouched away from the car and angled for the walkway leading to the bridge. The chill morning wind soon restored his depression. In the distance, bumper-to-bumper commuter traffic flowed down Waldo grade from the mouth of the tunnel at the top of the hill. Sunlight sparkled windshields and chrome, mirroring the whitecaps on the bay. Ignoring the cars, he trudged on.

As he walked toward the first of the two towers supporting the Golden Gate bridge, he heard the dirge droned by the wind as it whipped through the suspension cables. Although he wouldn't change his mind, he went over his options for the last time.

Guns were messy. His doctor would laugh at his request for sleeping pills. If he tried to hang himself, he knew he'd screw it up. He wired himself to the doorbell, waiting for someone to come by. For five hours he sat on a metal chair by the front door, his feet immersed in a bucket of water, but no one visited him. His effort yielded a sore rear, a runny nose, and toes shriveled like cooked shrimp. The bridge would do.

Chaos interrupted Henry's orderly life. His wife liked the house they bought in a subdued section of Corte Madera. Then developers erected a huge mall right behind him. Teens destroyed his tranquillity, driving past his back fence with their radios blasting out the raucous guitars of AC/DC and Motley Crue. Too stubborn to move, he spent thousands soundproofing his house. Even then, bass vibrations rattled dishes in his kitchen and painfully resonated his root-canaled molar, making it impossible for him to write anything funny.

The final straw fell when he returned from a three-week business trip to Hollywood where they didn't buy his script, to find the house empty, the furniture gone to wherever his wife had skipped, the mail box stuffed with dun notices, and his doorway strewn with telegrams demanding payment. Before leaving, she had 'maxed-out' his Visa, Master, and Discover cards, and had created pessimistic concerns at American Express, who cautioned him he had best leave home without it.

Her departure wasn't that unexpected. She was his second, he her third. Twelve years his junior, she enjoyed telling people he had robbed the cradle, but he ended her gloating by pointing out the cradle was well worn.

Someone in his Abandoned Husbands Support Group suggested he get a dog for company. He took in a stray cat instead. In less than a week, it shredded his few sticks of newly acquired used furniture and sprayed every room in the house until it reeked like a two-holer. Bags of garbage pyramided in a kitchen corner, moldy dishes clogged the sink, and carelessly discarded clothing served as a litter box as he wandered the house searching for solace, listening to the echoes of his footsteps in the empty rooms, his unfed cat stalking him.

He considered hanging out in one of the bars in Sausalito to find a lady friend. But he knew he was average looking and would have to sit at the end of the bar, waiting for one of the hags to fall off her stool. The crash would tell him he wouldn't go home alone, but the morning would be embarrassing, deciding which of them suffered the most disappointment.

He felt relieved, almost giddy at having given up. And now with the wind blowing at his back, he stood at the border of Marin County and San Francisco, in the middle of the Golden Gate bridge. Peering out at the bay, he watched the Larkspur Ferry speed past Alcatraz, and wondered how many people on the boat would someday reach the same decision he had. Too bad the prison had closed. He could have provided the inmates a brief diversion.

He wrinkled his nose. The fishy smell from the ocean, punctuated by the stench of carbon monoxide from the speeding cars, interrupted his thoughts. Watching a small group of seagulls swirling among the red-painted cables, Henry spied a small, shabbily dressed man hurrying toward him from the San Francisco end of the bridge. A pity. He thought about how no one's ever truly alone anymore; something or someone always intrudes. He turned away, scowling at the autos, the bridge, the bay.

He grabbed the railing, intending to climb it, but it was icy cold. Jerking his hands back, he shoved them in his pockets to warm them. The man drew closer. Henry shivered, not from the cold wind, but from the anxiety in his chest, which made breathing difficult. Unable to move or think, Henry stood immobile. He prayed that if he held still, the man might not see him.

Suddenly the man stopped right in front of him. The stranger gawked at Henry. Henry crimped his lips, and remained quiet.

"What're you doing here?" the man asked, gaping at Henry as if he had caught him doing something naughty.

Blinking, Henry waved his hands as if to roil the man's hostility. Stammering, he murmured, "Standing here."

"Well, don't get in my way."

"I'm not in your way," Henry snapped, retreating from the man's abrassiveness.

"You better not try to stop me either."

"Hey mister," Henry said. "I'm just standing here minding my own business. I don't give a rat's ass what you do."

"Good, because I'm a leaper. I'm going to jump off this damned bridge, and neither you nor anyone else can stop me," the stranger said, his jaw set. Henry's nervous titters made the man glare at him even more intently. "I'm serious, buster," the man added, but less brusquely.

Henry felt a surge of relief, as if he had dropped a great weight - he wouldn't have to jump - this guy would do it for him. Briefly marveling at how glad he felt to have the focus off himself, he sucked a breath, ready to duel. "I suppose you are serious, but let me ask you a question," Henry said, waving a hand toward the sleepy-eyed commuters staring straight ahead. "Aren't you worried you might cause an accident when you climb the railing and stand there looking down at where you're going to land?"

"Screw those rich Marin County bastards," the man said, spurning the commuters with a flick of his hand. "Why should I give a damn about them? They don't care about me."

"Oh, I expect they'll care when they see you standing on the railing, trying to decide if you're going to jump or not."

"What are you talking about? I've already decided to jump. Just don't try to stop me."

"Gee, mister. Be my guest," Henry said, waving a hand toward the railing and stepping back, shrugging indifferently. "I'll stand here and watch all the commotion you're going to cause. It might even be funny." He felt better and better.

"What the hell's funny about suicide?"

"Look at how fast they're going," Henry said, pointing at the commuters, his eyes widening. "The speed limit's forty-five, but they're doing sixty. Can't you imagine the number of them that'll crash into each other when one of them hits his brakes so he can watch you? He's goint to want to brag around the office about watching some fool jump. One after another they'll pile up. It'll sure be funny, standing here, watching it all. I'm glad I'm not the one who'll be responsible for that."

"You're crazy mister...."

"Henry's my name, Henry Timkins." He extended his hand to the stranger as if being introduced by a mutual friend.

The man hesitated before giving him a limp hand, resignedly saying, "Joe. Call me Joe."

"Well, Joe, I'm pleased to meet you," Henry said, laughing; then added between chuckles, "even if it's only for the moment."

"You making fun of me?" Joe asked, his hands curling into fists.

"No, Joe, not at all. I'm laughing at the brevity of our acquaintance. I mean, any second now you'll jump, and I'll be alone, which is why I got here so early."

"Well, I'm not going to jump right this minute," Joe said, rising on his toes to peek over the railing. "I mean, I'm going to jump, but in a little bit."

"Don't apologize, Joe," Henry said, noticing that Joe's tone lightened in proportion to his dwindling rancor. "I don't care when you jump. I'll just hang around and watch. I might even get up close so I can watch you twist and turn on the way down. I'll probably count to see if I can guess how long it takes before you splatter yourself on the waves." Henry imagined all this in a script scene - how the details were important. "I'll have to listen for the splash though to know when you've hit the water." He leaned over the railing as far as he could and said, "I don't think I can see straight down, the walkway sticks out too far. But if you jump way out, I might be able to follow you all the way down."

"You're a strange duck," Joe said, frowning.

"Yes, you could say that," Henry agreed. Shaking his head, Henry turned back to look quizzically at Joe, and continued, "The question I'll ask myself the rest of my life is: 'What did he think about on the way down?'"

"What the hell do you do for a living?" Joe queried. "You got a job?"

"Oh yes, I work. Sometimes well, other times, not so well," Henry confessed. "I write comedy."

"You mean you tell jokes? I've always had to work hard for a living, busting my ass on the docks."

"No, no. It takes a special talent to tell a joke. I write comedy material, but lately I can't think of anything funny. I used to be good at it - writing funny stuff, but life just isn't funny anymore. I can't get anything down on paper, but your jumping might inspire me to get back to work. I think the whole situation's funny."

"Don't make fun of me," Joe growled, his face darkening, "or I'll bust you in the mouth. I don't like for people to laugh at me."

Holding up his hands defensively, Henry said, "I wouldn't think of making fun of you. It's the situation I think is odd. I can imagine the wonder on the commuter's faces as they stop to stare at you standing on the railing. In fact, if you climb up, and wait until they get their crashing over with, I'll bet I can stir up a cheering section for you. You might as well go out in style."

"What ... what are you talking about? A cheering section?" Joe asked, rolling his eyes.

"I'll tell them your name's Joe, and we can cheer you on, so you won't be too afraid to jump. We can yell something like: 'Tumble, Joe, tumble. Twist and turn, topsy turvey, twitching like a turkey.'"

"That's not funny," Joe stated, dully.

"See, I told you I've had trouble lately."

"Well, I don't like it."

"Suggest something else. It won't be nice for us, standing around, nervously fidgeting from one foot to the other, waiting for you to jump. In fact, if you wait too long up there," Henry said, jerking a thumb toward the railing, "someone might get impatient and give you an encouraging push so they can get on to work. Then, all the way down you'd be angry because you didn't have the courage to do it yourself." Yes, that's the way I'd write it, Henry thought.

"I can do it," Joe claimed, but without much enthusiasm. "I'm sure you can. Tell me though, do you want to jump for a particular reason, or just on general principles? In fact, I'm curious about several things. Did you leave your car by the toll plaza? What kind is it? Maybe I could have it, since you won't need it anymore, or do you want me to give it to someone? You got any money on you? I could use it for a cup of coffee to celebrate your departure." Pulling out a pen and note pad, Henry added, "Is there anyone you'd like to write a goodbye note to, or say a final 'kiss-ass' to? Anything like that?" For Henry, all sorts of possibilities came up that he hadn't seen before.

"You're a first class nut, Henry, but I kinda like you," Joe said, his eyes twinkling. "You sound like you've got balls."

Sighing, Henry quipped, "They're not very large ones I'm afraid."

"Now Joe grinned at him. "Remember, it's not the size ..."

"Yeah yeah, I know," Henry anticipated, shivering again, wishing he had worn a sweater. "Listen, Joe, this wind's damned cold. Could you hurry up? I'm afraid my ass'll freeze before yours gets over the railing."

"See how you are, Henry? There you go again, making fun of me. I told you I didn't like people to make fun of me. It's happened all my life. Even my kids laugh at me, and they're both mindless from sniffing glue."

"Damn it, Joe, I'm not making fun of you. It's just the way I am. But if you don't get a move on, I'm going back to my car where it's warm."

"Well piss on you. I'll wait until you leave." Poking Henry's chest with a finger, emphasizing each word, Joe added, "You'll just have to miss all the fun you thought you was going to have."

"I might change my mind," Henry began, jutting his chin out, "and wait here until you jump."

"Huh? Up yours. I'll come back tomorrow when the bridge is less crowded." Dismissing Henry with a disparaging wave, Joe turned away and began walking back to the San Francisco end of the bridge.

Henry watched him for a moment, looked at the sign announcing the border of Marin County, and started slowly back to his car. After a few steps, he turned back to shout, "Hey Joe." "Now what the hell do you want?"

"Why don't you come with me? I'll buy you a cup of coffee. We can talk about what was, what should have been, and what we can make different."

Joe blinked, hesitated a moment, then shrugged. "Why not. I got nothing else to do."