The Bridge
He glanced at me for a split second,
then out into the dense, cold fog. “Don't touch me,” he warned in
a subdued gasp. “I'm going to do it.”
“I won't,” I said calmly. “I'm
going too.” I rested my elbows on the rough, 80 year old, pigeon
shit covered concrete.
I could tell he didn't believe me. A
derisive hiss issued from his tight lips, and he moved another five
feet away and glanced at my shoes. I involuntarily followed his gaze,
then taking in his hiking boots. He sneered and shook his head.
“What?” I asked softly.
“The people who lived mostly were
wearing shoes like that,” he tilted his head.
I looked back down at my brown dress
shoes, then his. “So, boots are the way to go...to be sure?”
“Whatever.” He inhaled deeply,
coughed as the frigid, saturated air hit his lungs. “Fuck off,
man.”
“Nope. I have some business to
finish.” I looked each direction along the walkway I could see only
one person, on the walkway across the bridge, six lanes away. At 6:30
on Sunday morning, the traffic was light on our side of the bridge,
perhaps a few of the faithful departing their pricey Marin or Tiburon
hideaways for an early mass at exclusive Grace Cathedral on Nob Hill.
I turned my back to the rail and
focused on the drivers who hissed past on the wet surface, well over
the posted 45 mile per hour limit. Most paid no heed to me and my
uncompanionable associate. One middle aged man briefly connected with
my gaze and quickly looked away, not just in the direction of his
travel, but across the bridge, dismissing me as completely as
possible with the back of his head, perhaps fearful of my intent and
his own unwillingness to accept any kind of responsibility for my
potential action. That thought amused me and I chuckled softly.
“What the fuck is your deal, man?!”
My fellow diver had turned to face me, hostility or fear drying his
mouth so I could hear his tongue sticking to his cheeks and the top
of his mouth.
I glanced up and noticed the fog over
our heads had begun to clear as the late September sunrise made its
initial effort to clear the view for all the tourists who would want
to view this beautiful structure, this world famous Golden Gate later
today. The evaporating mist also made for a clear view of our
position for the closest security camera.
As I leaned over the rail and down, the
swirling of the incoming tide was becoming visible. Two hundred and
twenty some feet below, I harbor seal looked up and – like the
driver a moment earlier – turned his head quickly away and was
gone.
“You serious about this then.” I
looked at him without expression, then took a small step forward.
He stumbled as he quickly retreated and
equal distance. He dropped toward the sidewalk surface and grabbed
frantically for the rail. He wasn't even close yet.
He couldn't have been more than 25
years old, reasonably well groomed and tastefully attired as if on
his way to stroll the shops along Fisherman's Wharf. Essentially the
stereotypical Golden Gate jumper. This wasn't a whim, for me anyway.
I knew about those who ventured this path before me. Over 1500
jumpers during the bridges lifetime, about one in fifty survived –
though I found nothing to support the assertion that footwear played
a role in that statistic. I knew the cameras were there as an effort
to deter or thwart terrorist activity, not to interfere with those of
us who simply wanted to take advantage of the bridge's unique
attributes for abetting self destruction. While it's reported that
security personnel ride bicycles and motorcycles across the bridge to
quickly intercede in any nefarious activity, this was one of many
walks – hopefully the last – I'd taken across the nearly mile and
three quarters span during the past six months and I'd yet to see
anyone who seemed to be searching for those in need of emotional a
literal salvation. I learned that more people commit suicide form the
Golden Gate than any other structure in the world, primarily because,
other than climbing over the four foot high rail, there's nothing to
prevent a successful dive to the bay below. I did note that there was
an eight foot high chain link fence near the south end, ironically to
prevent items (not people) from being tossed out onto Fort Point
below.
“Thirty one and thirty two,” I
offhandedly offered.
“What?!” The vocal agitation and
volume was rising. He was getting closer.
“Whichever of us hits first will be
the thirty first this year. The other...” I smiled at him, and
slowly extended my hand.
He shook his head and, almost
childlike, batted my hand away. “You're fucked up, dude.”
“Guess we'd both fall into that
category.” I continued to face him and extended my arms out loosely
at my sides.
He looked me up and down and was
clearly affronted by my composure. “Don't even try...I'm going.”
He lifted his right leg across the railing sat, straddling. Five feet
below, a large steel support beam made a narrow perch, and he looked
to be evaluating the most - safe ? - manner in which to descend to
it. It would happen soon.
He was no longer looking at me. He was
no longer seeing the clearing fog, the orange painted girders or the
angry water. I eased a foot closer, then another foot. The second
motion caught his attention and he began to lift his other leg.
I lunged forward and caught him around
the chest, one arm in my grasp, the other free. He struck out at me
and leaned far back along the rail. I held tight, my belly creeping
onto the railing. He alternately struck out wildly at me and grasped
for a hold on the railing with his free hand. I felt his body weight
making an effort to drop back to the walkway.
“Not the plan!” I hissed angrily,
tightening my bear hug and rolling outward toward the abyss.
“Hey, hey..!” his frantic plea
spewed across the bridge.
I heard a car making a hurried stop a
hundred feet past us, I held tight. A car door slammed, hurried
steps.
“No!” I yelled, “Don't do it,
don't jump!”
“Jesus Christ...holy shit...what the
fuck!” He fought my grip with renewed, frenzied strength.
“Hold on!” The driver was making a
valiant effort to gain our position.
With a final, all-out effort I pulled,
twisted and held tight as we tumbled over the rail, bounced painfully
off the beam and drifted out into nothing.
_____________________________________
“Mrs. Allen. I'm detective sergeant
Mallone, SFPD,” he held out his badge case. “This is detective
Aubrey. May we come in?”
Without a word, Victoria Allen stepped
aside, her face a mask of ashen foreboding. She lead the detectives
into the living room and silently motioned to a leather couch, then
sat on the front edge of an fabric covered recliner, near a fireplace
that burned at a low, flickering flame.
“I've never been visited by the
police,” her voice was soft and even. “Has something happened in
our neighborhood?”
The detectives glanced at one another
and the sergeant spoke clearly. “Is your husband Larry
Allen...um,” he flipped open his notebook and read, “Lawrence
Chistopher Allen, 54 years old?”
“Yes...” is something wrong? She
felt her stomach lurch and her jaw tighten.
“I'm afraid that I have to tell you
your husband tried to save a man today and suffered fatal injuries in
the process. Your husband is dead, Mrs. Allen.”
Her breath caught. The room became a
flat colorless photograph with two pleading faces the only things in
focus.
“Larry's...dead?” Her eyes searched
theirs.
“Yes ma'am. His body has been taken
to the Marin County Morgue.” He looked over to his partner.
Detective Aubrey was an attractive young woman, perhaps 40 years old.
“We'll need you to identify the body in the not too distant future,
ma'am.”
“Why Marin? We live in San
Francisco...” her voice trailed off as she recognized the absurd
nature of her comment.
“Well, the Marin County coroner is in
charge of all...” Detective Aubrey continued, but Victoria's brain
had disconnected.
She remembered the day, nearly 31 years
ago, that Larry proposed to her. She could see the brilliant colors
of the huge dahlias as they paused in the garden of Golden Gate Park
on that hot August afternoon. She could feel the intense thrill as
they made love on a pile of blankets strewn across the floor the
first night in their own house. A darkly forlorn moment caused her to
tilt her head in distress and groan softly remembering when the
doctor told her she could never conceive a child.
“Mrs. Allen?” She looked into
detective Aubrey's sincere, brilliant green eyes as tears filled her
own.
“Mrs. Allen, I'm so sorry about
husband's death. I can tell you died a true hero, trying to save a
young man's life on the Golden Gate bridge. Bridge security personnel
saw it all on video monitors,” She paused briefly, “During
Larry's effort to save the other man, they both fell from the bridge
and died immediately on impact. He didn't suffer, ma'am.”
“There're some things that need to be
done before you'll have to ID his remains, autopsy and...” The
sergeant's voice trailed off. “Is there anyone we can call to be
with you tonight, Mrs. Allen...family, close friend...?”
“No...thank you. I'll be OK.” The
last syllable caught in her throat and the tears poured.
After several minutes, after two more
declined offers to call someone to provide support, the detectives
slowly made their way out and to their unmarked car double parked at
the curb.
So many plans. They had so many plans.
But they didn't plan for that...nobody plans for that. She slowly
walked to a drawer in a lamp stand and withdrew a small spiral
notepad. She flipped it open, thumbed through the dozens of pages of
notes she'd made about treatments, interventions, long term care
facilities.
Near the back of the notepad was a
list, written in Larry's neat, tiny printing. There were life, home
and car insurance companies and agents' names. He had heavily
underlines Accidental Life Insurance. She
scanned bank and credit union account numbers and balances,
explanations of how to submit certified death
certificates...everything in perfect order. She would be financially
secure.
“Now it's just me, sweetie. Now it's
just me. I'll always miss you.”
She tore out the final page, folded and
secreted it under her chair cushion and tossed the notepad into the
fire.
