No One Cares Anyway

"Hey, there," a calm, friendly voice said right behind me.

I turned away from a breathtaking view of the city and into the stern face of a police officer. He didn't look too happy, either.

"So," he said in that authoritative way all officers have, even though he thought he was being friendly, "What are you doing way up here, so late at night?"

"Oh," I told him, "I'm going to jump."

"Jump," he repeated with that tone of voice that told me he wasn't going to let that happen. "Now, why would you want to do that?"

"Why wouldn't I want to?" I asked him. For a cop, he sure asked stupid questions.

He looked down the sheer cliff nervously, keeping himself back enough so he wouldn't tumble over the protective barrier. "Looks like a long way down."

"You said it," I agreed. From my angle on top of the barrier, it looked even farther down, I'm sure. "Should do the trick, though. Don't you think?"

The cop took another glance down the straight drop and remarked, "You know, suicide is illegal in this county."

"Gee, I wouldn't want to break any laws," I told him. "Tell you what. You can arrest me at the bottom."

"Uh," he said, and I think I took him by surprise there for a second, "That's not how it works, sir."

"Oh," I replied, and I had to think about it for a minute or so. I guess he was right. Once at the bottom, it seemed pointless to make any arrests, and I told him so, but I also said, "I don't suppose you could let me go this one time?"

"No," the cop replied.

"Not even if I promise not to do it again?" I asked.

"I think we both know that'll be a one-way trip," the cop replied.

Well, duh! It wasn't like I could fall UP the cliff, instead! But I kept the sarcasm to myself and just said, "Well, anyway, it's a gorgeous view."

"Won't be with a big bloody splatter down there," the cop remarked with another glance downward.

That was true, too. And, I supposed someone would have to clean up the mess, and I really couldn't do that to anyone else. But I was there for a reason, so I suggested, "Suppose you put down a tarp or something?"

The cop gave a morbid little chuckle then suggested, "Suppose you tell me what's bothering you?"

"Are you a therapist?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"No," he admitted with a shake of his head. "But it beats shooting you."

Yeah, that was funny, and I laughed despite myself. Then, I thought about it and said, "But if you shoot me, that would solve all my problems, too, so what's the difference whether or not I jump?"

"Paperwork's different," he came back with, adding after a bit, "And I might get leave for a while."

"Can't make it too easy on you, then," I replied, and then I thought about that, too. It was like my life. Not one thing was making it easy.

"There's nothing you could do about it, anyway," I told him. "You can't make it any better."

"No," the cop admitted. "I can't. But if you talk about it, it might help you figure things out."

"I thought I already had," I countered, glancing down at the ground that seemed a lot farther away than it had earlier.

"Then, maybe you can come up with another plan," the cop suggested. "Always a good idea to have a Plan B."

"If things had gone as planned," I reminded him, "I wouldn't need a Plan B."

"Are you going to talk?" the cop said, getting exasperated with me. "Or, do I have to shoot?"

I glanced down the cliff again, and wondered if it would hurt. And, I wondered if I would die on impact or if I would suffer before I died. I'd heard somewhere that people died on the way down from sheer fright or something, and I wondered if that would happen to me, or if I would see everything right down to hitting the ground. It was stupid, really, thinking about that when just a minute earlier I hadn't even considered anything like it. Back then, my goal was crystal clear. Now, it was all muddled up. The cop had to arrive and ruin everything.

"I guess I could spare a minute or two," I told him, hastily adding, just so I was clear, "But I'm still jumping!"

"Sorry to hear that," the cop replied, and he didn't really sound all that sorry. It sounded rehearsed, like he'd had a seminar on the subject and that's what they taught him to say. I remembered that tone from when I used to work for a hotel and the manager would give a disgruntled customer the same spiel as she gave the last disgruntled customer. Same tone. Same words. It must be universal or something.

"Yeah," I said, giving him a pass on the lack of sincerity. He was only doing his job, after all. "Things are tough all over."

"Want to talk about them?" he asked again, and I wasn't sure if he remembered asking already or not. I decided that he was giving me another chance to answer, so I cut him some more slack.

"You'll probably think it's stupid," I warned him.

"Let me be the judge of that," he replied, and under normal circumstances, I wouldn't want him judging me like that. But since I was standing precariously on top of a traffic barrier meant to keep cars from plunging to their doom, ready to throw out a useless life, I figured I could let that one pass, too. I was feeling pretty generous that night.

But I had no idea where to start, and the cop must have sensed it because he asked me, "You married? Single?"

"Married," I told him.

"How long?" he asked.

"How long is forever?" I replied, and I admit I was being a little facetious. But only a little.

"That long, huh?" he remarked.

"Yeah," I said, then, to be polite, I asked, "You?"

"Girlfriend," he told me. "Not sure if it's going any further."

His answer surprised me. I didn't think he'd volunteer any personal information at all. I thought he would try to keep it all about me and leave his own happinesses and miseries out of it, but it wasn't looking that way. Unless that was also part of the seminar, and they taught him to give away just enough to make a connection to the jumper to coax them off the edge. I hate it when my brain over-thinks things.

"Take it slow," I advised him. "Don't just jump in blind."

"That what you did?" he asked, and I was surprised by his bluntness.

"Yeah," I admitted. "Thought I knew what I was getting into, until the depression got worse and worse every year. It's wearing me out, you know?"

"We could get you help for that," he offered. "You don't have to suffer alone."

"I don't have time or energy for support groups," I told him. "It's hard enough getting through every day."

"You seen a doctor?" he asked. "How about medication?"

Something was askew about the conversation, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it just then. But still, I plunged forward, saying, "It helps, the medication. And she sees a therapist monthly, but she's always telling me that she has nothing to say to the man and she's always making me think that I have to write her notes for her, and then, when she decided that the meds were making her fat and she didn't want to take them anymore, then things got worse, and -"

I realized right then that I was probably saying too much, or saying it too fast, or something, because the cop had a confused expression, so I let him catch up if he could. After a bit, he knit his brows together in thought and said, "Are you in any therapy or on meds, yourself?"

"No," I told him. "Why would I need that? I'm perfectly sane!"

As soon as I said it, I knew it was the wrong thing to say. I felt awful implying that my wife wasn't sane, especially after years of constantly telling her that she wasn't crazy, and that she wasn't just making it all up to get attention. I had to clear the air, at least with this one man, so I said, "I didn't mean that! I guess I could have used some, though."

He didn't agree or disagree. But he did say, "You take care of your wife, then?"

"Yeah," I told him. "She can't do a thing for herself. I can't even get her to clean up after herself. It's like she doesn't care how dirty the house gets. But then, she doesn't spend any time there, anyway."

I didn't mean to sound bitter, and the cop caught onto it. I could tell by the way he asked, "She spends a lot of time away?"

I thought about it before I said it. There was no reason not to say it, since I expected to be gone from the world in a few minutes, anyway, so I told him, "She spends most of her time working out at the gym and running errands. Anywhere but at home, I guess. I think she thinks the house is just some hotel room she stays at, and I'm the maid service."

"And you don't like that," he ventured in that way that prompts people to talk more. I didn't want him to think that he's fooled me with it, but then, what difference did it make, anyway? So, I answered.

"I wouldn't mind so much if she would just lift a finger to help," I told him. Then, I realized I wasn't being entirely fair, so I added, "Well, besides just doing a load of laundry once in a while."

"Have you thought about telling this to someone?" he suggested.

I knew where he was going, and so, I said, "Like my own therapist? Not really. I'm not the type. Besides, my time is pretty much never my own."

"Because you take care of your wife?" he probed.

"That," I said, "And I was working on a novel."

"You're a writer?" he asked, and he sounded a little impressed.

"I write," I corrected. Bitterly, I have to admit. "But it isn't going too well."

I didn't give him the chance to ask, but he looked like he was going to, so I told him, "Between keeping the house clean from three puking cats and a wife too medicated to care, and a yard that's winning the battle of returning to prairie, I have maybe an hour or two a day to write, but it's probably not worth it."

"Why?" he asked. I knew he wasn't really interested, and that he was probably just keeping me busy until back-up arrived, but I didn't care at that point. It felt good to get some things off my chest before the plunge.

"It feels like I started too late," I told him honestly. It was a hard thought to face, but I had already wrestled with it before. Still, it felt weird to say it aloud. "I don't know. I used to write a lot, and I had a lot of stories to show for it. But I was a kid, then, and the real world interfered. Then, I worked in a hotel for decades, and after that a department store, and in all that time, I still wanted to write but I couldn't ever find the time or the energy for it, and now that I can write whenever I want, it's like I'm so rusty at it that it's a constant struggle. I hate what I write, and when I do like something, later on I hate it. Then, I see all those writers so much younger than me, getting published and on their hundredth book, and I have to wonder what happened to me, where's my shot at it? But then, I'll never get published, anyway. I'm not that good."

I had to stop. That had nothing to do with my decision to end it all. Right? I thought about it for a bit, and suddenly, I wasn't so sure anymore.

"I guess I can't help you with that," the cop admitted. Then, he was quiet for a while, and I guess he had to think for a bit. I thought he was running out of ideas, but then he said, "But you won't figure it out if you're a red blotch on the ground."

He had a point, I guessed, and then he hit me with a real zinger. "And, who'll take care of your wife when you're gone?"

Yeah, I hadn't thought of that. And since he mentioned it, it sounded very selfish of me to be there, pondering ending it all. I wanted to be selfish, though. For a few seconds, I wanted to get my way for a change. For years, my wife always got her way. I went along with everything she wanted to do, and I never complained. I didn't even yell whenever she messed up the house the instant I had it clean again, or when she ate something I was saving for myself. What could I do, really? The alternative was to send her into a depression cycle that was more work than just putting up with her crap in the first place. So, yeah, I wanted something for myself, outside of her and the house, and the writing struggle, but I suddenly knew that jumping wasn't it. The nice officer was right. Who would take care of her? Her mother, the source of about two-thirds of her anxiety? I couldn't do that to her.

Then, I felt really guilty, when I realized that just my being there, attempting to jump, was going to give her enough anxiety alone, and I didn't want to do that to her, either. I looked at the cop and said, "If I come down, what happens to me?"

"Not going to lie," he told me frankly but not harshly. "I'm going to have to cuff you, and take you to the station where someone's going to examine you and figure out where you belong and what kind of help you need. You'll be booked and processed, but you'll likely spend time in the hospital rather than jail. They'll contact your wife, of course, and let her know you're okay. It isn't going to be pleasant for a while, but it's likely going to get better."

I mulled it over, then told him, "That sounds nice. What are they serving tonight?"

"I think you missed supper," the cop told me.

"Breakfast, then," I replied.

"You want to come down and find out?" he invited me.

"Do cuffs hurt?" I asked.

"Probably," he replied. "I've never been cuffed before."

"Me, neither," I told him. "Well, that's one thing we got."

"You coming down, or not?" he asked.

I looked down at him and said, "Stand back. I'm taking the fast route."