Stop and Watch

He was going to jump. That poor, sad man, holding on to the bumpy brick wall which held him securely on the line between life and death. It was an episode. Yeah, I was supposed to meet my girlfriend for coffee, but I mean when a guy is about to commit suicide, isn’t it polite to stop and watch?

I’m not sure whether or not he was crying, but obviously he wasn’t feeling too great. That day was pretty warm. I hadn’t yet begun to transition to my more anti-cold wear, so I looked a bit silly in a light pink polo and a pair of thin slacks. He was wearing a jacket - Why does it seems like everyone who’s about to jump off a building is wearing a jacket? Anyway, he was conveniently placed at an area high enough to kill him, but low enough so we could send him messages through a megaphone. People were gathering around, some were taking pictures, but no one bothered to call 911 until a few minutes later. There were scattered “don’t jump”s from the crowd, and I noticed how everyone made a nice circle around his landing spot, so we could stand clear of the mess if he jumped.

I turned around, observing the startled reactions of the crowd, and I saw a street cop hand a megaphone to a tall man, thin, with blonde hair. He had on a scarf which I thought was really nice, but when I looked up a few inches, I saw his face, red, with tears in his eyes.

 “Hey man, this is not the way to go. I was like you once…” he started.

Then he shared his story. “I was on crack...I had low self-esteem...life seemed like it cheated me...my dog died when I was four…” Blah blah blah he went. I’m not a bad person, but I can’t empathize with every tale of crack and cancer. Call me a psychopath; though I’d rather you call me a therapist.

The suicidal man buried his head in his chest, violently shook his head, and beat his fists against the wall. He was a rollercoaster of emotion! Powerful! Riveting! Lost! Broken!  These are adjectives that I took from the murmurs amongst the audience. They all seemed to fall for his show, his mesmeric display of pure shame, frustration, hopelessness. I thought he wanted to have his hour and a half of fame.

And you know what?

I did too.

I was having a pretty decent day, I wasn’t suicidal, and so you know what? Why not talk to this man? After the man with the megaphone gave up (he ended his charade by falling to his knees and praying the rosary loudly), I politely asked the street cop to hand the megaphone over to me.

One thing I noticed was that when the Rosary Man was talking, he didn’t mention Suicidal Man once. He was really finding an excuse to share his story of loss and redemption.

“Hi. My name is Todd. Um….how are you?”

Okay, so that wasn’t the best question to start with.         

“What’s your name?”

I could feel his hesitation.

“Anthony Wilson,” he shouted down to us.

“Hi, Anthony,” I said back. And I don’t know why, but the crowd repeated “Hi, Anthony” too, like we were at an AA meeting. Or more like an SA meeting. Either way, their involvement helped me.

“So, Anthony, You’re not really gonna kill yourself, and you know that.”

“Yes, I am!”

This startled everyone, because the way he said it, it sounded like he was trying to prove something everyone had been denying forever.

“No, Anthony, I’m sensing that you feel that no one loves you because you feel alone.”

That pulled some heartstrings, cuz’ this old lady behind me burst into tears. And the man too, I could feel it. He wasn’t going to do it.