Jump
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The ledge isn’t as slippery as I thought it’d be.
It’s Monday morning, and I’m turning twenty-five. It’s fiscal year-end again, and the VP Finance is stressed as fuck that we came in almost 12% below projections. I’ve been having this recurring dream where I’m running away from something as hard as I can, but my legs are so heavy I can barely move. I’m holding a CD that has some miraculous spreadsheet add-on that’ll solve all my problems, but I can’t find my goddamn laptop, and whatever is chasing me is getting closer and closer. At the top of the stairs, I see Jenny Wai, who I never even kissed, and she’s laughing at me. It’s humiliating; I can’t even climb up a flight of stairs, and that thing behind me is getting closer. I always wake up sweaty, my heart pounding, feeling sad and ashamed. I fucking hate all of this.
Me and the boys went out for my birthday Saturday night. It was pretty much the same old thing: we went to a bar and got hammered, and then hit a club where we took turns buying rounds and kind of stood around wondering if something unexpected was going to happen.
I’m outside my boss’s window on the fourteenth floor, and it’s a lot colder than it looks up here. The street’s actually a lot closer than I thought it would be. I was expecting, I don’t know, little ant people or something, but I can see them a lot more clearly than that. Oop, look, they’re pointing at me! A couple construction workers, and a bike courier, I think. No corporate types. Suits never look up. I wonder if they think I’m up here just because I want the attention? Like I wouldn’t really do it, I’m just standing on the outside of a building so they’ll look at me for once like I’m really here.
Ha, look at me, I’m on a damn ledge, and I’m still worried about what people are thinking.
We got to the club early to avoid the line. It was pretty empty inside, so we started downing shot after shot to pass the time as the place filled up. No matter how much I drank, I couldn’t forget that I had to go to work that morning, that I was in my mid-twenties, and I’ve never even had a girlfriend. My life was repeating itself every day. If I lived to be fifty, what would really change?
More people are gathering below. Mostly whites, some Blacks, no Asians that I can see. The wind starts blowing harder: it would be really embarrassing if I slipped and fell in front of this crowd. Fuck, whatever the last thing is I’m gonna do, it’s gonna be deliberate. I promise that.
It was around midnight when I noticed her. Black hair, no highlights, tight body with a great smile. She was on her own, off to the side, and I must’ve had a hell of a lot by that point ’cause I thought, “Fuck it, why not?” I moved through the crowd kinda dance-shuffling, and I managed to lock eyes with her. She looked at me for a second and then took a sip of her drink, and I figured it was cool to keep going. I had no idea what I was going to say, but at least I was moving, right?
When I got close enough to talk to her, I was feeling pretty nervous, and I remember thinking, “Hey, it might’ve taken me longer than most, but I’m doing it! I’m gonna pick up at a club tonight!” She took a step toward me and put her free hand up. Her fingertips just touched my chest, and I couldn’t believe she was initiating physical contact! I smiled, and as I was just about to ask if I could buy her a drink, she said, “Look, I don’t like Asian guys, okay?”
Look at that, everyone’s having a grand old time. Everyone around me is always having a grand fucking time. “What the FUCK are you looking at?! You wanna look at me NOW, huh? Twenty-five FUCKING years here and only NOW do you look at me?” Shit, am I crying? I cannot believe I am crying. “FUCK THIS!!! What the fuck is the point, huh? What is the FUCKING POINT?!!” Jesus, my nose is runny. It’s not like I brought Kleenex out here. I’m gonna ruin my sleeve. Damn it this shirt’s my only Boss, too.
I froze. All I got out was a soft “Uhh -” and she turned and walked away. My stomach was twisting, and I was suddenly cold. The alcohol in me seemed to turn sour, and I felt like puking. I got back to my friends and shook my head, and they smiled, clapped me on the back, told me not to worry, and went on feeding me shots. By the time we left, I wasn’t walking quite straight, and my buddies brought me home. I went to the washroom, puked, turned on my computer, and jacked off to white porn as hard as I could.
Wow, the cops are here. Oh man, I think they’re sending in a crisis negotiator! Maybe we can match wits. “What the fuck do you think YOU can say to ME?!” I wonder if they can hear me on the street. Damn it’s cold up here. If this crisis guy looks out the window and sees me shivering, he better figure out it’s because I’m freezing, not because I’m scared. ‘Cause I’m not.
“Steve? Steven Chang?”
The negotiator pops his head out the window. He’s a pretty skinny guy. Glasses. Big nose, kinda goofy. Looks like he could’ve been one of my friends if he was twenty years younger.
“You’re Steve, right?”
“Yeah.”
“My name’s John. John Dougherty. You can call me Johnny.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Johnny,” I say automatically.
“It’s nice to meet you too. How you doin’ out there?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“That’s good. I was wondering -”
“Listen, I’m not really in a talking kind of mode right now, you know?”
“All right, no problem. I can go away. Look, you’ve been out all morning. You hungry? Thirsty? Can I get you a coffee or a sandwich or something?”
“You got dimsum?”
“Uh …”
“Ha, no worries man, I’m just fuckin’ with you.”
“Right … so does this mean we can talk? You can fuck with me some more. Well that’s not … I mean … you know what I mean, son.”
“Do I look like I could be your son?”
“Hey, sorry, figure of speech.”
“Fuck that. If I did I wouldn’t be here.”
“I gotcha. I know. It’s hard -”
“What the fuck do you know? Huh, Johnny? Johnny Dougherty from down the street? What the fuck makes you think you could know anything about me?”
“Hey, I only know what’s in our records: company, school, medical, immigration. I’m not claiming I understand what you’ve been through. I need your help to understand.”
“My help? Did they teach you to talk this way in crisis school? I’m the one on the ledge, and you need my help? Don’t patronize me, Johnny.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be patronizing. You said I don’t get you, and I know that, and I want to try to get where you’re coming from. That’s all. Look, they sent me for a reason. Your family, they’re from Taiwan, right?”
“Yeah. But I’ve never been back.”
“You should go back some time, visit your family, see Ali Shan. It’s beautiful.”
“How do you know?”
“Wo qu guo tai wan, yie dong yi dia’r guo yu. Wo xiang ni yi ding you hen duo qing qi peng you xi wang ke yi zai kan dao ni.”
“How … how did you know how to say that?”
“My wife speaks Mandarin. I learned so her parents wouldn’t … hey, what are you … no, no don’t -”
If I lived to be fifty, what would really change?
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