Sunday, 10/17/10 - A View From The Bridge (part 2)

NOTE: I have always wondered why movies are "based on a true story" and not true representations of actual events. If a story is worth telling, why not tell it correctly?

What you are about to read is as disturbing as it is disturbed. It is based on a true story and a note that I have a copy of.

This is the most difficult piece that I have ever written and in writing it I answered my own question. We sometimes deviate from actual events out of respect. And, out of respect, there will be no picture with this post.



A View From The Bridge

Part 2: The Bridge

Friday, November 11, 2011

By now you've realized that I am not coming back. Perhaps they've found me, or what remains of me. Or maybe the rent is overdue and you have an eviction notice for me. Whichever. It is not important. I will not be returning and that is all that matters now.

So that you don't think I am crazy, I will tell you why I have done things the way that I have. This was not a spontaneous act fueled by a manic mind. No, this was a well thought out, well executed act. Inevitable in a way that you will appreciate, I am sure.

Before you start shaking your head and lowering your eyes in a mournful way, let me remind you that where I am is where you will one day be. The only difference is that I had the presence of mind to choose the day and you, for whatever reason, continue.

You are probably asking why. Why would someone do this to themselves? Why in this way? Why? Why? Why? I will answer all of your questions in due time but first let me answer, why today?

Today is November 11. The eleventh day of the eleventh month in the eleventh year. For me, a day pregnant with symbolism. Look at the number eleven. Here, I'll print it for you to look at.


11

The number eleven consists of two ones. Individuals. Side by side. Parallel. Never destined to intersect. Close, but alone. Separate by design. Now, think of yourself. You came into this world alone and throughout your life you attempt to intersect with someone. Anyone. But, like eleven, you are destined to run parallel. Forever.

Oh, sure, you can meet someone. You can intertwine your life with theirs. You can force your flesh inside their flesh or open yourself to them. In the end, no matter how far inside of them you get, you are still alone. Still an individual. Still separate. Unary. Single. Alone.

But what about love, you ask. Go to the window and look out. Now, show me love. It's a big city out there. Where is the love? Down in the alley there is an old beggar with a bad liver. Is he love? Up on the Avenue are shops filled with expensive furs. Are they love? At the corner of Fifth and Eighth is a dandy black woman who'll do it for ten. Five if she is really bad off. Is she love? You can see the steeple of St. Andrews around the corner. Is that love? Crime. Filth. Apathy. Greed. Are these love?

So, then, what is love? Love is the smile that cloaks the gun that shoots us in the back. Love is the lies we tell ourselves to make the filthy truths easier to live with. Love is a contract with just the right amount of escape clauses, an easily manufactured remote-control situation with surround sound and payments that don't start for a year. Go ahead, flick it on, flick it off. Get bored? Don't worry, trade it in on a new model. Admit it, love is just a way to sell cheap cologne and lite beer.

But, love isn't why I jumped. That would be too dramatic. Too Hollywood.

No, I am a realist. Ask Shelly, my ex-wife, she knows how level-headed I am. When she wanted to divorce me to marry that young Italian guy, I didn't try to stop her. I never asked her to stay, never cried or moaned. If she wanted out then no amount of whining on my part was going to change her mind. We got close for a while. We pounded flesh then we separated. Married eleven years (symbolic, huh?). And when we split, we remained friends, good friends. We didn't hate each other, we just couldn't live together anymore. No problem. Like I said, I am a realist.

So, why did I choose to leave this life the way I did? I could have taken several other roads out of here. Why walk off a bridge? The news media will say that I jumped but don't be confused, I did not jump. I walked. Calmly. One step beyond the point where others would have stopped.

For me, walking holds the same symbolic value as November eleventh. Walking is something we do alone. We do it every day. We get up in the morning and we walk. We walk around our apartments, down the stairs, to the subway, onto the train, up to ground level, to our workplaces. We walk around and around getting nowhere. There are signs telling us where to walk, when to walk and how to walk. Walk. Don't walk. Walk to the left. Pedestrians keep right. And we walk within the guidelines laid out for us. Rarely do we walk anyplace new. We are afraid to take a step beyond our neatly marked crosswalks.

But not me, I am not afraid to take that one additional step. A single step beyond.

Sure, I could have slit my wrists but that's messy. I like things to be neat. Orderly.

Overdose is too imprecise. Get it wrong and you just get your stomach pumped and a ticket to see the shrink. Besides, I don't drink or smoke. I exercise and eat well. There is no way that I am checking out with some sludgy chemicals holding me down.

Gunshot? Any fop can suck on a bullet. Big deal. The really funny part about that is there are too many that don't succeed. Poor fucks try to buy out and they just end up too hurt to even get a second crack at it.

For me, it's something simple. Something natural. Something fool proof. For me, it's as easy as walking.

So now you know the when and the how but you are probably still wondering why.

The answer is simple: it's time. Yeah, that's it. It is time for me to exit. I'm sorry if you were looking for some sappy excuse like I have nothing to live for. Get real, no one has ever had anything to live for other than satisfying their own ego. Look at my life. It's a regular life. Nothing fancy, but I am not starving either. I have a job, a decent place to live, food on the table, money in the bank. What more could you ask for, right?

That's the whole problem, you see? Those are the lines that we walk within. Does he have a good job? Does he have a nice house? Does he have a nice wife? Kids? Cell phone? Mercedes? Rolex? And on and on and on. We get sucked into this materialistic world and we work and work and work to achieve things. Things that measure us. Things that we weigh ourselves against. The more things I have the better I am, right?

Wrong! It's wrong because you have no say in how you are measured. As soon as you get close to achieving, they change the rules. Last year's car isn't fast enough. Last month's beer isn't light enough. Yesterday's wife isn't social enough. Who decides this shit? What machinery is churning out all of these new goals day after day? And why, what difference does it make?

And we buy into it. We buy the new, improved product. We buy the environmentally safe version. We buy the hype, the lies, the glitz. For what? Where does it get us?

There is an urban legend that Walt Disney had himself cryogenically suspended so that when they find a cure for his illness they can bring him back to life. Why would he want to do that? Wasn't the first time around enough? Hadn't he amassed enough? What more does he want?

I saw an old lady being wheeled through the park last night. This bitch had on some serious jewels. Big rocks on her fingers and around her neck. She had a private duty nurse pushing her and an oxygen tube stuffed up her nose. There was spittle running down her chin and dripping onto her blouse and all them pretty diamonds. Hey, Grandma, call it quits, OK? Give it up already!

And then you have all these kids. Nobody wants them but they are too stupid to stop fucking long enough to realize that they even have them. Kids having kids. More kids than they have fingers to count them on.

What's really funny is the planned family crowd. Oh, you know them. They have their children at predefined intervals. They teach them to say please and thank you then they put them out in the world with thousands of street kids and wonder why they get creamed. One planned kid for every fifty bastards, they never had a chance. And what were the parents thinking? That just because they had a kid that the world was going to change overnight into something wonderful?

And it's not just here in this city. Oh no, it's in the small towns. It's everywhere. In fact, it's worse in most of the rest of the world. All these dumb, dirty people making more dumb, dirty people. For what?

The real crime isn't the small, stupid people. The real crime is the government. Our elected officials. What a crock. I wipe my ass with overpriced, recycled, bio-degradable paper while these guys print tons of propaganda on high-grade, virgin stock glossy. Then they whine about the ozone layer and the rain forests. I'll bet they all have nice redwood decks to sit on while they write speeches about how we all have to pitch in and help. They raise flags about their war on drugs then turn around and make deals that flood poor neighborhoods with tons of crack cocaine. Mr. Politico's only interest is his own interest. But, we vote for him anyway.

Old Walt has a big surprise waiting for him when he finally wakes up.

Me, I've had enough. I ain't waiting around hoping that it will get better. It won't. The filth of the earth has risen to the top and choked out all of the life.

The end of the world isn't coming. Things couldn't be that simple or that easy. Even Jesus could only take thirty years on this planet before he opted out. I already have him beat by sixteen years.

Why wait?

Sincerely,

JBS