JIMMIE BARLOW'S
BlOG
She was waiting for me halfway across the pedestrian walkway of the Golden Gate Bridge. Smiling a secret little smile to herself while throwing torn pieces of sourdough bread at the gulls spiraling overhead. Those gulls were having a hell of a good time that day, soaring through the thermals lifting from the Pacific Ocean...
Chapter One
Anyway, it takes four seconds and then you hit the water. Here's the thing though, the impact doesn't always kill you. The Coast Guard watches for jumpers night and day. You pop up--all mangled, but not quite dead yet--and a rescue boat yanks you out of the freezing water.
Am I the only one who thinks that's damn dumb? I mean, it's not like a kid falling down a well. It's deliberate, right? You change your mind about becoming a suicide, you should save yourself, that's the way I see it. You want to know more? Buy the damn book! I could use the scrilla. Catch you later.
My dog Elmore and I had trudged up the bridge's pedestrian path from the south side. I didn't want anyone to recognize me, so I'd put on my grungy Lakers cap and pulled it over my eyes. I remember the water below was white-capped and cruel, and the whole time I'd been thinking about the week before, when a teenage boy about my age suicide-jumped.
Did he change his mind at the last moment? I would have. I would have kicked and screamed all the way down. Somebody jumps about every week from the Golden Gate Bridge; it's the most popular place in the world to self-terminate. The newspapers say that's because the bridge is so romantic, which I don't get at all. What's romantic about suicide?
