[Emily]: 252.The Lady's Coat

It was windy with clouds muffling the sun, but not all too bad. I've been through worse, with nothing but a thin jacket and a foot of snow to sleep in. I was sitting by my post next to the bridge, the most beautiful view of the city. It looked decent at this angle, with the library behind me and the bridge and man-made lake before me, buildings rising high on the horizon.

It was about midday. I wasn't doing much, not asking for money or bothering people. That wasn't much my style. If someone wanted to give something to me they could just drop it in my lap. I was often coherent but my bum money still went to booze to numb the pain. I can't tell how many times I'd been told to get a job or clean up or go find relatives for help. I guess people should ask before assuming, because my family's been dead for over ten years now. What's the point of a job or money if you don't have a family to support?

The booze is the numbing serum. I never touched a drink except on holidays before it all fell down. I'm still not sure how it happened. One day I had everything, the next I had nothing, and then the next I really had nothing. It was hard at first. Couldn't even afford a cheap hooker on Sprague, and the lust was building because the loneliness was swelling.

Anyway, this young thing came walking towards the bridge, wearing this expensive white coat and a real nice black and red dress beneath it. Her black shoes clacked against the cement, a sound I missed and loved. A perfect rhythm.

She stopped in the small alcove area overlooking the water. A popular place for tourists to take pictures when the day is right. She wasn't looking at the sky but at the water, intently.

I'd seen that look before. I can't count with both hands and feet how many people had gotten up on the bridge and jumped the last few years. I watched it from my post, across the water. The police always make a scene; flashing lights, closing off the bridge, using those loud voice-throwers to get their attention.

People about to commit suicide are like rabbits. Scare them and they may just run the wrong direction. Get a crowd and it scares them worse. There's no point in telling them they have all the world to live for; they aren't listening. They can't even hear you. All they're hearing is the wind, the waves, and their hearts beating in their chest. Sometimes they can hear their own conscience telling them to stop! don't! you can't!, or do it, what is the point? you're worthless, just do it.

Their hands get cold when they touch the metal and their feet feel unsteady and slippery, and their knees feel like they are about to buckle. Vomit rises but stops, leaving that unpleasant, burning taste in the back of their throat. Their bowels move. The wind, if it blows too hard, will knock them into the water. They ask themselves, 'Do I really want to jump?'

Some of them realize they are about to die and have no idea what's going to happen to them. It's usually at this point they either leap or step down. The ones who step down feel relieved. The anxiety fades and the adrenaline floods through and out. They say they need help and go to counseling and some live their lives better. Some return to the bridge and don't hesitate the second time. Most times the police can't even get there in time to yell at them.

The ones who leap... who knows what goes through their minds. Part of them asking why the hell they did that: Why are they leaping? Why do they want to stop living? It's too late now. Dead. Maybe they are finally happy with a decision they made. Either way, I don't know, and I don't care to know.

None of them even consider the other people in their lives. Wives, children, friends, family. Fuck 'em. They'll get over it, they'll survive somehow, or they'll take the same route daddy did.

Well, this girl, she wasn't crying like most of the girls do. Just looking, the wind knocking about her strawberry blond hair. She was pretty but she was miserable, even with all the makeup on her face. She was looking at the bridge like she knew, which she probably did. The rail was real beneath her hands, which were gripping it with white knuckles. The cement wasn't real.

I was looking at her, sitting all docile and wondering if she'd do it. I'd never been this close to a basket case.

She must have heard my thoughts 'cause she looked at me with her big doe eyes. I wondered if she'd lived long enough to lose her virginity. She started to unbutton her coat with unsteady hands, sliding it off her shoulders and tossing it towards me. It touched the ground, which was a shame because it was a beautiful coat, almost as pretty as she was.

It was warm and smelled like soap and lotion and expensive shampoo. I watched her get on the railing, gripping tight and looking back at me with a resolute expression.

Before you know it, she was gone. Not even a scream on the way down. No one saw her. I took the coat and looked for her wallet, taking out the wad of cash stuffed in there. I figured I'd buy the expensive vodka and maybe some jack, but I'd leave the coat on the railing so maybe someone will find her floating down there if the current didn't get to her first.