Kill Yourself

KILL YOURSELF Eric Hall

First Place, Fiction Competition Cochise Community Creative Writing Celebration, 2015

The bridge that cuts across the bay of the city is an international symbol. It’ s on post cards. Every movie that takes place here always shows a wide shot of the bridge. Everyone knows it, even if they were never here. There are always tourists stopping along it to snap photos of the suspension towers or the skyline of the city or a nice group photo of everyone in their pack. People will walk across just so they can turn around at the other end and head back to their car. Just to say they ’ ve been there. I was there, man.

The night lights of the city breathe life into it. They reflect off the surface of the water and make a pattern of something you ’d see in a modern art gallery. Little ripples of orange and blue and yellow breaking and forming a thousand at a time then dying out seconds later and replaced by the constant ocean surf that is there.

The bridge was completed in 1937 and was the longest suspension bridge in the world until some ambitious engineers in New York built a longer one in 1964. The main span is 4200 feet long, and the two suspension towers stand at exactly 746 feet. And as it’ s a suspension bridge, the deck that pedestrians use is held up by massive steel cables. If one were to break, the extra stress it would put on the other cables could potentially cause them to snap one after the other. The whole bridge would collapse into the bay like a marionette with the strings cut.

It’ s six lanes across the deck. The people in charge of running the bridge, the bridge people, also change the lane markers during peak traffic hours. So instead of three lanes going south and three going north, four go south into the city during the morning hours when everyone is heading to work, and four go north in the evening when everyone is racing out to get home. That’ s clever. The bridge people who thought of that should be proud.

The paint they use on the bridge is called “International Orange, ” and they are always painting it. They use a special kind of paint that helps the bridge resist corrosion and rust. Special order

62

63 bridge paint, probably by the barrel. They start at both ends and work inward, and by the time they finish it, they have to start painting it again. So many layers of paint. “International Orange ” paint. They picked the color because it’ s easier to see in foggy weather. The fog can be so thick that you see nothing but more fog.

The distance from the deck to the water is between 230 and 245 feet, dependent on the tide. The bridge is a popular spot for jumpers, people committing suicide by going to the bridge and letting go of it.

It takes just about four seconds to hit the water.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Impact. The ocean water is cold, so cold it alone could kill you in minutes, even during the hot summer months. The shock of hitting icy cold water from 240 feet up is suffered by all jumpers. Most of them probably gasp in horror or pain and inhale water into their lungs. This is the drowning part.

The bridge now has a reputation for jumpers. Everyone who walks across it has the thought of jumpers in their head, even if it’ s just a quick little reminder that “ people jump off of this. How about that?” Everyone knows it. The local newspapers don ’t even bother covering them anymore—unless someone jumps and lives. It’ s partly because they don ’t want to encourage people who are thinking of doing it, but it’ s also because people just don ’t care about reading about them after decades of it going on nonstop. The average is a jumper every twelve days.

The most popular location for jumpers is right in the middle of the bridge, lamp post 69. Right in the middle. The middle spot just feels right. Symmetry is nice. It’ s pleasing to see something match up perfectly. It wouldn ’t feel right to jump at a point that wasn ’t symmetrically placed. It’ s inelegant. It’ s ugly. No one wants to jump off some crooked spot. Symmetry is nice.

The local government is embarrassed about the reputation.

They put up fences and guardrails to try to stop jumpers. They have signs posted telling you you ’ll will regret it, that people love you, that there is a better way. They have phones set up that you can use to talk to someone while a security guard races to their spot to talk you down or tackle you from the banister. Cameras originally meant to add security in a world of terrorism also watch for jumpers. They try to monitor and watch anyone who looks like they might jump. That’ s because of the signs.

They recognize these signs. Anyone walking alone and looking somber is a jumper. Anyone who ’ s dawdling around for too long or shuffling back and forth is a jumper. Anyone who ’ s remained in the same spot and stared down at the water multiple times is a jumper. Very few are actually crying or in tears before they jump.

Most happen during the day, not at night like many would think. It’ s in that mid-afternoon period between lunch and dinner. Most jump during mild weather. Very few occur during inclement weather, especially strong rainstorms. No one wants to have to walk in the rain. Most jumpers are men. Three-quarters are men. Women are a different breed when it comes to killing themselves. They prefer ways that are looked at as being less painful. Drug overdose. Idling the car in the garage. Men go for methods with more assurance of success. Jumping off a tall structure. Guns. Shotguns are popular. Buckshot moves faster than you can think.

The average jumper is forty-one years old. Right in that mid-life crisis bracket. A lot are going through a depression. Maybe a depression of circumstance, like they lost their job or their wife left them, or one of their children died unfortunately and unexpectedly. Or it’ s a depression of the self. Everyone knows those types. The ones who are on pills and therapy their whole lives and never, ever get better, no matter how many great things happen to them. Those people are naturally doomed. And a few are only old and feeble and have nothing left to live for, so they jump. Not terminal, just tired. Some of them have no next of kin, and so nobody identifies them, or mourns them. Like they never even happened.

There are many people who travel to the city just to jump. They

64

65 fly in. Probably save on not having to check any luggage. Some take cabs to the bridge, get out, and walk to their favorite spot so they can jump. A lot of the local cab companies now will no longer take passengers there, because most jumpers stiff their drivers on the fare. Some won ’t even take people near it, especially if they ’ re traveling alone and have no luggage. Other jumpers buy rental cars and leave them in the bridge ’ s parking lot while they head up to the walkway and jump. This is another sign the bridge people use to keep track of jumpers who were not witnessed by anyone. Ninetyfive percent of them die on impact. Another three percent later die of drowning, sharks, boat propellers, whatever.

So two percent live. That would be one in fifty jumps. They ’ ve recorded 1,690 known jumpers, and thirty-four survivors. They ’ re always seriously injured. Broken legs. Collapsed lungs. Cracked vertebrae. Whatever body part hits the water first is the part that is the most damaged. The ones that hit head first are the ones that never survive. You need your head to live.

The survivors always regret it. Or they are supposed to. They get interviewed by local stations and lament how “ once my feet left the barrier, I wished I hadn ’t jumped” to a polite lady journalist doing a human interest story. It must also be true of the people who jumped and died as well. Imagine the last four seconds of that life: The water quickly rushing to meet them and saying, “Hello, ” and then they realize how awesome life is. They have an epiphany. They want to live and love and laugh. Impact. Dead.

It’ s not an actual jump. It’ s a letting go. It’ s a fall. But “jumper ” is an easier term over “faller. ”

The best way to track them is the bodies. Merchant or Coast Guard vessels report any bodies they find. If they can, they ’ll scoop them out. Fisherman sometimes take bets on who ’ll find the most carcasses. They call them Bobs. This is because of the way the human body floats and bobs up and down in the rough ocean current.

“Got another Bob out here ” they call into their radios. Male, female, young, old. After scooping enough bloated corpses out of the water, they stop being Mike or Mary or Susan or Jacob and they

just become Bob.

I didn ’t fly into the city, and I didn ’t take a cab or rent a car to get to the bridge. I don ’t remember getting to the city. I was just there. I slept that night on a park bench with my hoodie folded into a nice pillow. A dog barked at me that morning, and I was back in the Presidio.

I was given the President’ s Knowledge Award in fifth grade. Everyone told me I was such a bright kid. “You ’ re going to go places, kid. ” I wonder if they knew that “ going to go places ” included jumping from a metal bannister.

I went to the beach and watched the waves break in and out. I dug a hole in the sand long enough to fit me and laid in it. Normal people wouldn ’t want their sneakers or jeans wet and sandy, but it didn ’t matter to me. My stomach grumbled throughout the day. No one bothered to tell my stomach where it would be by the end of the day. You need food, even if you are dying.

You ’ re not supposed to want to do this. You are supposed to want to live. Tell yourself a thousand times, and it still means nothing. And as the sun was closing in on the horizon, I made my way directly to the bridge. You want this to happen. I want this to happen.

You love your parents for what they did for you. You hate them for what they did to you.

It’ s such a beautiful bridge. I like the color. International Orange. It matches the setting sun. Everything was coming together just perfectly.

And then it pops up next to you, lamp post 69. The symmetry is so nice. And the 6 and 9 are rotations of each other. That’ s two kinds of symmetry. Just perfect. I used to be afraid of heights when I was little. Go to your death willingly, and the fears are all gone, especially the logical ones. We ’ re afraid of heights because we could die from it. No one could rightfully blame you if you had a fear of heights. It’ s dangerous.

A beautiful couple passed by me as I looked out into the bay and the city lights slowly began to fill in the water. They smiled at

66

67 me and said hello, and I smiled back and nodded to them. But their happiness only reflected my emptiness, and I lost that final bit of resistance. People who show their happiness openly are the worst. Keep it to yourself for the sake of others.

This is not crazy. This is a normal reaction to everything around you. Going on, that would be crazy. This is just you doing the right thing. Now let go. Let go. Look out over the water and give up any control of anything, and all things will be right in the end.

One last exhale of air. A tussle of the beard, cracking of the back. All in preparation of the thing to come. Preparation for nonexistence. It makes no sense, but you do it anyway. Climb over the bannister, peer down at the blue-gray wall beneath you, and let

go.

The first second is the shock. That sense of weightlessness. Falling is a downward float. Everything goes away. After that first second, you adapt, and it becomes nothing but wind. You are supposed to regret doing this by now. But you don ’t. All you need to do is close your eyes so the wind doesn ’t burn into them.

The seconds don ’t drag on for eternities. Life doesn ’t flash before your eyes. There are no epiphanies. Nothing but that dry pain of the air rushing into your eyes. Don ’t brace for impact, it’ s not going to matter. Everything is going so well.

A quick thought about what could have been if some little variable had changed. Maybe if I got more hugs. Maybe if I was or wasn ’t breastfed. Maybe everything would be completely different if I never wore a green shirt. I should have studied harder. Never smoked weed. Been a team player. Stayed away from cottage cheese.

Impact.

And then everything becomes murky and dark and wet. When you ’ re concussed, you ’ re not sure if you ’ re looking at the sunset through the water surface or the stained glass windows of some artful church canopy. The salty brine seeps into every little crack and swallows you whole. The toxic sting of pain that starts from the legs finds the brain, and it quickly becomes impossible to think. And that means there is nothing else.

I couldn ’t feel the water moving over my arms and head, up my nose and into my ears. I couldn ’t sense the coldness or pressure. I couldn ’t tell if I was sinking, or what my name was. I couldn ’t count to ten. I couldn ’t even figure out the blackness. Even the blackness goes away from you, and then nothingness fades in.

I could smell movie-theater popcorn for one last moment. And then nothing. Then I was Bob.

68