Monday, 10/18/10 - A View From The Bridge (part 3)

A View From The Bridge

Part 3: Contemplation

John left is apartment at 1105 5th Street North at exactly 5:11 AM on Friday, November 11, wearing a long charcoal grey wool overcoat and a pair of black leather boots. Had anyone been walking down the street and noticed him passing, they would have seen nothing unusual. There was nothing alarming in the slightly hunched way he walked through the darkened streets bracing himself against cold gusts of wind rising off of the river a few blocks down.

Smoky tendrils of breath blew from behind the turned up collar hiding his face. He moved with the same determination as anyone out walking in the pre-dawn November cold. But on this morning, there was no one else out walking. The streets in this forgotten part of town were lined with run down factories and abandoned warehouses. No cars came or went. John moved along, a shadow bleeding into the blackness.

The clicking of his heels on the pavement was sharp and crisp; an even, measured rhythm that moved down Fifth then across on Bay to First.

Bridge Park sits on the corner of Bay and First. John moved through the park toward the foot of the bridge without hesitation. From under the bandshell, an old man watched and wondered who this stranger might be. Had the light been better the old man might have recognized the stranger as the man who often came down to the alley on Fifth Street to give him a dollar or a sandwich or, on cold nights like this, a container of hot soup or a warm blanket. No matter, the stranger was walking away and posed no threat. The old man pulled his blanket tighter around himself and drifted back into an uneasy sleep.

Having planned this for months, John knew that the only access to the bridge was by the roadway. The areas surrounding the bridge were fenced off - at taxpayers' expense - to keep vagrants from roosting in the concrete enclaves under the bridge. He made his way toward the street and stopped for a moment to check for traffic.

Cars coming over the bridge would be seen in enough time for him to hide. Cars approaching from the park area could be coming from any one of five streets that passed by or ended at the bridge. Any one could reach him before he had a chance to hide.

He waited, listening, until he was sure that no one was approaching. He then removed his overcoat and boots and walked naked onto the roadway leading up to the bridge.



John had run over this scenario in his head many times. Should he remain clothed until he was at the top or should he disrobe here, in the park, and leave his clothes where he knew that someone would find them and make good use of them? He always came to the same conclusion: leave the clothes for someone else to use.

He wanted to leave the bridge from the apex but, if someone drove by he was willing to walk off at whatever point he was at. He knew that it was not the height that was going to kill him, it was the hypothermia. By the time anyone could get to him, he would already be gone.

Without clothing, his skin bristled with goose-flesh and his muscles contracted. Fighting back the shivers that shook his body and squeezed the breath from his chest, John forced himself to walk slowly, deliberately forward, upward.

By the time he reached the top, his body was numb. His frozen feet were bloody from jagged pieces of glass. He wondered if he would be able to coordinate his muscles enough to be able to get to the edge.

But he was here, at the top. All he needed now was to climb over the guardrail and climb the cement abutment. On step from that point and he was free.

The cement which had looked so easy turned out to be quite difficult. His numb feet would not cooperate. his ankles would buckle under him as if his legs were asleep. He would crawl over the edge if he had to. At this point there was no turning back. He had come too far.

As with any well thought out plan, he had made contingencies. Ir there had been any activity on the bridge he would have gone back home and tried again on another day. He had hoped for November eleventh but was prepared to make changes if necessary. But here he was with only a few feet left to go.

Finally, he crawled up on the concrete on his hands and knees and forced himself into a standing position at the top.

Looking down at the river below, lights reflecting on its greasy surface, John realizes that he need only take one final step. The wind whipping around him threatens to push him from his perch. He steadies himself.

It is not time yet. He wants to take a final look around. He wants to say goodbye. He wants to do this on his own. The wind pushes him harder and his arms pinwheel as he leans forward with his face and chest out over the open...

Regaining his balance, he inches down the incline and braces his back against a girder and tries to calm his mind. I will do this, he thinks. As soon as I get a grip on myself I will just lean forward and take the next step in my journey.

For some reason, the thought of dying in a panicked state bothers him. He is making this choice and it shouldn't be upsetting to him. He is logical. He is rational. He is in control. He is not afraid.

He leans back harder against the girder as vertigo grasps him and pitches him toward the edge. His fingers claw the rusting steel and a large piece falls free and bounces onto the concrete then over...

He watches it fall in slow motion, end over end, until it disappears into the darkness.

Unconsciously counting, he listens for the splash, ...2, ...3, ...4, that he knows will never come. The sound of the wind and the sounds of the city will not allow it.

"Hey, Buddy, ..."

His body is wracked with chills and he fights to still himself. Some time ago he started crying but he doesn't remember when. Hot tears turn icy on his face. He tries to stop but feels himself slipping beyond the point where he has control over his actions. His body is no longer his. One step...

"Hey, ..."

Only one step and no more cold...

One step and no more tears...

One step and no more darkness...

No more politicians...

No more drugs...

No more crime...

No more Shelly...

"... Buddy ..."

... no more ...

"Hey, ..."

... no more ...

One step...

At 5:47 on the morning of November 11, John, cold, naked and bleeding, takes a final step and begins falling...