Some lost soul should be playing sad jazz riffs down by the bridge, the street softly wet to reflect neon reds and the yellow of streetlamps. But tonight is none of these, it is cold, cold enough to wear animal skins and those hats with the furry ear muffs.

He stands instead in black trousers and white unbuttoned shirt, standing with hands spread on the bridge rail, contemplating the dirty water hidden by nights black mirror. His eyes stare into the space his life once filled and maybe, just maybe some neat parabola into this freezing puddle might create meaning.

I watch, not with disdain for such maddened choices, or compassion for the tortuous route that may have led him here, more of silence and wondering of what may happen next. I move toward him, holding my inner calm safe in the presence of this imbalance.

“Are you o.k?” from such asinine questions are futures built, destroyed, created and burnt over again…

The snivelling starts, tales of lost and unrequited love, women who betray, men who take what is not theirs, men who should be comrades in arms who instead infiltrate only to help themselves or some other who holds deeper allegiance.

I had heard these and others tell of the same stories before; I would hear others again. All portray the signifier in some sad, lost, misguided through higher motives, morality, naivete, whatever… always cheated robbed, denied, a not belonging anymore in the world self pitying way.

I wanted to shake him, point out the beauty that lay before him, behind him, surrounding, but my words would make no difference. I had pointed out to others the reality of the jump: A long drop where regret had time to take hold, how I had heard the final screams to suggest that notion, how the impact of water would be like concrete, not enough to kill outright but enough to shatter bones, how death would be by drowning, powerless to claw at the water filling lungs, unable to move, except to sink slowly to the bottom, conscious enough to hear blood rushing and the sound of killing.

This one looked too far-gone to hear, his babble reached a crescendo then lay still. He was finished.

He had outlined his grief, his faulty reasonings to end and I stood unmoved by pleas to his uncaring god, world and loves that could not, would not meet his needs. I could see the goose bumps of cold rising across his pale flesh, could hear his speech stutter with frost as his teeth chattered beyond control. He was trying to reach me again, trying to tell me more of his plaints against the world. I smiled and this infuriated further, his voice rose against the sharpening wind: how could I smile? How could I like others not care? How could I be so inconsiderate when he was about to die so horribly?

He went on, my coat wrapped me in its warm cocoon, when would he get on with it?

My home called me; I wanted this vigil over, completed, there were others to attend to, others who may have chosen a more hospitable way to complete their cycle, others who had brought thought and discipline to their actions. Others who were making these decisions over time and with respect for those left behind, to clear up, call the authorities and with more respect to how their bodies would look afterward. This one was sloppy, much as his life had been, the only pain in the world was his, others would he was sure not care, not even the boatman who would fish his cold lung filled, bloated white jelly carcass merited a single regretful thought.

I wanted to move on now, move on to those who brought style to these final acts.

How I could help him decide more quickly filled my thoughts, he was talking again, needing a last cigarette, to tell a last tale of the one he loved, she who was making him do this. I envisioned her now with legs wrapped around some newer lover, pale and uninteresting in some dim watted aura from cheap light bulbs and stale cigarette smoke.

How could I tell him of this and that she would feel no emotion past a momentary sadness that may be used later to fuel some drinking binge, she would really be feeling her own loss, not of him, but that she did not have the strength to own loss of herself. They had been a good match, both so tightly wrapped in self that neither had known the other, how else could she be there and he be here?

He had raised a coldbitten stiff leg over the rail, telling me he was going to do it when we both heard a cry to stop.

Some liberal do gooder was running toward us, crying, “stop! there has to be another way!” These guys really upset me, this had been almost complete, over, I could have gone onto others who needed me.

Now the story would begin again, only this time my indifference would be regarded by another who would recognise the only true emotions that should fill worlds were those similar to his own.

I no longer needed these thought fascists. I reconsidered my pledge to stay until this bitter end; to be choked by goodwill could be worse than anything that lay below.

Already he had arms around the would be jumper, urging him to come off the rail, offering ears to hear, smiles to comfort, warms words to encourage life: ‘the only option’

How limiting.

This needer to ‘do for others’ staring at me, wondering what my part here could be, not being able to see that there were other options available here, rightness and doing good, the biggest sins that Jehovah forgot to trace in stone.

Suspicion was beginning to form upon his unlined cherubic face, he began to ask how I could stand idly by and watch another in so much pain? I could ask whether he meant himself or our would-be unfloating friend but he was so deep into the mire that is higher morality that he would not understand the question. Those from a moral position interpret all as attack, but you already knew this, he couldn’t with spectacles set on pink.

Something happened, I’m not sure what but our mutual victim wrestled away, perhaps the stench of righteousness, he twisted and dived.

A perfect ten pointer swan, graceful and curving out into the void.

Only, there was no splash, instead, a dull thud and then a scream of deep pain. I raced along the bridge, down the steps, counting their numbers under my breath, I could hear the soft ‘pastie’ shoe shuffle of my pink cheeked non-friend behind me, his murmured litany ‘please be o.k. Please be o.k.’

We arrived at the water’s edge. There lay our friend. The water had frozen. He lay whimpering; holding his head and heaving up the alcohol contents of his stomach. The do gooder began to edge out onto the ice. I watched transfixed, hearing fresh ice groans, thinking of how alcohol and ice don’t mix, when it happened. He reached out a hand, the jumper grabbed, the ice cracked, tilted, they slid. The ice righted and they were gone.

The wind was keening now, nagging at my wrists and ankles. I stood, silently said my own prayer and left.

Wondering just where i might find a ‘phone.

Neil Benbow

©neilbenbow