The Ledge By Michael P Guido

The Ledge By Michael P. Guido Prompt: Pessimism to Optimism

Rain trickles down my sullen face. It’s hard to tell which droplets are rain and which are tears. I look up to the heavens. The golden gates are just behind the dark, gloomy clouds, and today… it seems there will be no silver lining on this cloud. 

My hand is spidering with veins as it’s wrapped tightly around the light-colored concrete post. I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to give up. I don’t want to die, please, God, I’m too young to die now… I’m answered by a thundering boom followed by a bright white flash of light three miles away. I learned that, counting the seconds that pass between the flash and the boom trick from my seventh-grade science teacher, Mrs. Suggs. Thank you. Pushing my weight forward, I am now leaning over the ledge of the Golden Gate Bridge with one arm stretched back behind me. Looking down, I watch as the waves rise and calm. They open, waiting for me to follow through on something in life because I’m a failure. The wind gives me a little push back and forth, taunting me to do it. Nobody likes me, not even me. I have nothing left to live for.

So I let go...

14 hours Earlier

Walking down the street, I see everything: from the soft, evenly spaced willow trees, and the cars that are lining both sides of the street next to parking meters ready to expire, to the rain which patters down onto a sea of black umbrellas carried by those who are going to work.

Everybody does the same thing; they put their heads down and trod on their way to work, school or home, regardless of the weather. I am not special or anything, so I follow along and do the same until I reach the corner of the street where I have to wait for a fluorescent green crossing man to flash on the box. I look both ways and stick to the crowd, never diverging because to do so would mean being unique and different. Looking down at the pavement I think to myself, I am not different. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something bright that stands out. No, it’s someone across the street whom I hate.

There she is again. Every day on my way to and from DeMonte High School, I see this… woman. She has a motherly figure, with unkempt frizzy dark brown hair, and a mole the size of a dime growing on her left cheek. 

Who the hell does that black woman think she is? She is not wearing the usual attire that everyone else wears: suit and tie, followed by a black leather briefcase and an umbrella. No. She dares to wear a long, flowing, yellow and white-flowered, sundress in the rain without an umbrella. There it is again, that idiotic look on her face; her lips couldn’t stretch outwards more if she tried. And her tempo, I mean, she may as well be skipping and singing Ring Around the Rosie through the fucking streets in the pouring rain!

Why is she so happy, and why do I feel… empty? 

I barely managed to make it to school by focusing my head on the ground, tracing the path of splashing water where feet have already been. It was hard enough to see all of us, suit and tie uniform with black umbrellas huddled together like a flock of geese, and then her, by herself, with her head held high and without a care in the world.

The bells sound off and I, like everyone else take my seat in a hard, cold, metal chair. The class starts with a balding old man, Mr. Henry, telling us that there is a test on Friday before Christmas break, as he hands back our previous test which we took last Wednesday. Everyone, including me, is groaning. I struggle with school. I mean, all of the material is jammed down our throats for nine periods a day for five days a week, and within the next three days, we are expected to be able to regurgitate it back up on a test; what kind of learning is that? I grab the coarse papers back from Mr. Henry’s wrinkled shaking hands and lay the stapled stack on my desk.

I see him hand out Jamie's paper holding a solid green 98%. Wow. She’s the class brainiac who looks like she hasn't slept in 4 days from her sunken in eyes. Scottie’s paper holds a brown 71%; it's pretty bad, but he seems happy enough to have passed. 

He proceeds to hand out more and more papers until 23 students are holding their grades with pleasing looks. I believe it was only one other kid, Joseph who has yet to take the US History test? Yea, he isn’t the brightest kid in the class either.

Looking down at the papers on my desk, I see a big, fat, 63% slathered in the top right-hand corner written in red ink, broadcasting to me and to anyone else who saw my paper being handed to me that I have yet again, failed.

He mutters something only I can hear, “failure.”

I snatch my briefcase and bolt out of the classroom with tears streaking down my face.

I’m a failure… That’s all I’ll ever be.

I put my head down and continue with the rest of my day. I skipped lunch and just wait for my shift at 7-Eleven to start at 4 pm; I’m hungry, but I've lost my appetite. I bet that other kid's mothers would have forced them to eat something for their health. I was orphaned from birth, so I had to learn how to grow up on my own, without a mother or father. Now I’m a white male, 18-year-old, 6’3, 140-pound loser with no friends or social life who must try to make ends meet.

The clock in machine makes a loud clunking noise as I slide my time card in, initialing the date, time and name, George Taylor, the failure.

Things are going smoothly so far: The donuts, stacked, the paper filters, filled, the boss, happy. Well... Not for long. I see a group of teenagers from my school catch my gaze from behind the counter. There is a scrawny kid named Chip, a buff fellow who goes by the name of Ronny Jr., there’s Sammy Sonsworth, and their leader, Jack Ryan Mitchells. He runs the school with his gold-digging friends whom he knows are after his daddy’s money, but he doesn’t care, and I shouldn’t be jealous of him having at least someone to talk to. I talk to myself a lot; it’s the one person I can count on who will always give me advice even though it comes back with mainly negative thoughts.

Ronny Jr. watches me for a moment then with a grin on his pale face, he tips over the half-full Icee cup that he was filling up at the slushie machine. It spills blue all over the dirty ground, it probably helps clean it anyways, and he knows very well that I will have to wash it since I’m new here.

“OOPS.”

“Hey! What was that for?” I shout.

“Nothing, fuckboy!” a large grin gives the impression that he’s happy.

My manager, Hank, who is fat and bald, walks out from the bathroom whistling and pats his hands dry on the khakis his mother ironed for him this morning, leaving markings where water prints of fingers touched.

I’m here cleaning up the blue mess with a rag. It doesn’t do any better than if I were to attempt at scooping up the slushie with my bare hands.

My ear is pinched, then yanks me upwards as he yells, “What the fuck did you do this time!? Did you not hear me the last time? One more mess and your ass are fired! Pick your sorry ass up and walk the fuck out of my store you useless piece of shit!”

I grab my hat and sulk out through the sliding doors and into the smog-filled streets of San Francisco.

Nothing seems to be going my way. I trod on my way to my crummy apartment as there is nothing left for me to do but to now worry about how I’ll even pay rent.

The rain proceeds to egg me on about my terrible life.

“Hey, loser!” 

Turning my head slightly to the left. A large styrofoam cup hits me with a muffled thump. Looking down at my red and black 7-Eleven uniform, I see a large blue splotch of an Icee drink sliding down slowly and then falling onto the dirty pavement leaving a big blue mess for someone to clean up.

They burst out laughing and continue to fly past me. Speeding away in their muscle car they yell, “Later, faggot!” followed by more laughter and the roar of the engine.

Stooping down to the sidewalk, I grab the cup and turn it around. It is just a big polar bear with shades smiling right at me. A tear falls onto the face of that once happy bear. He’s still smiling… and I’m not. I’m never happy.

Looking around me, it seems that everyone else is so… happy. They are walking and talking to their friends and family down the street and right past me. That’s it… I’m done. I take a step onto the ledge of the Golden Gate Bridge and I wait.

Present time

I anticipate the feeling of terminal velocity, as I plummet 220 feet down until I hit the rock hard waters. Something, No. Someone Grabs my wrist with the grip of a thousand men, halting me in place. Before I can even turn to get a look at who is holding me, I see the gray, gloomy sky rush swiftly past my face as I’m yanked up and over the ledge and am thrown onto the wet pavement.

“What the fuck were you thinking!? Are you out of your goddamn mind, son? You could have killed yourself! Do you have any fucking idea how many people I see take their life by jumping over this bridge like God didn’t make them for some purpose in life?” 

Before I can even respond to the questions I feel something wet dripping down my face. Reaching my hand to my mouth I feel something other than rain, it’s much thicker than water, blood. And when I finally look up to see who is talking to me tears swell up in my eyes. I put my head down, and I’m curled up on the ground crying in agony. I have been standing over the ledge of this bridge for 30 minutes now. I saw the group of the suit and tie salesman and sales-women with their black umbrellas pass by, and not one person from that group or any car or pedestrian from anywhere had stopped to ask me if I was okay.

“Too many to fucking count! But I know damn well that for as long as I am on this Earth, you will not be taking your life! Where are your parents?! “

I wallow around on the ground nearly rolling into oncoming traffic.

“Boy! Pick your head up! There ain’t nothing waiting for you down there so just go ahead and stop that ya hear? Where are your parents?”

I look up to her with tears in my eyes. That was the only response she needed to hear.

“Oh, honey…”

Her black arms scoop me up in a hug that binds me to her.

She hushes my sobs, “It’s ok… It’s ok…”

Is this… what love feels like?

My blood gets on her nice yellow dress. Brushing my black hair to the side, and then wiping off my cheek with her sundress she holds me through the rain.

“Come on now. You can stay with me alright?” 

I nod and she holds me up so that I can walk back to her car. She opens the glove box to find a rag and hands them to me so I can stop the blood from pouring any more. I look up to the rain falling from the sky, thankful. We drove in silence to her home. 

 It’s a little suburban home two miles down the road. It’s white and flourished with greenery on both sides, and there’s a beautifully kept little garden out front with a freshly swept driveway, and the windows are polished as well as the oak brown doors and wow… My breath is taken away. This is the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen.

Inside, she sets me down to the kitchen table with a view of the stovetop. As you can expect this is shiny new as well.

“You must be hungry now aren’t ya?”

I nod.

“Want anything special?”

“No,” it comes out more like a whimper than a voice.

“That’s ok, I know just what to make. Seasoned rice with chicken, my mother's favorite.”

She begins to cook the meal and I ask, “Why are you always so happy… in the streets?” I'm shocked to have these words slip from my bloody mouth.

“Hm? Oh. What do you mean? I’m always happy.”

“It’s just when I see you your not with anyone else, and you're not wearing a suit or a tie, not even an umbrella for the rain. How could you possibly be happy?”

She sets the ladle down hard enough on the edge of the pot so it makes a dink noise.

“You know why I stopped you? From jumping over that bridge?”

She doesn’t look in my direction but I can feel her begin to cry. I can hear the pain in her voice. 

“It’s because when I saw you… Out there… On that ledge...” Her voice is trembling now. “I remembered when my son took his life on that same bridge, and how I wasn’t there to have stopped him. So when I saw you… all I saw was my 14-year-old Tommy, my little boy.”

“Thank you… I’m sorry for your loss.” I look down at my plate and stir around the food.

We ate in silence occasionally glancing at each other. She took our plates then showed me to a room.

“I don’t know where you live, but if your trying to kill yourself it must not be that great of an environment, so here, you can have the guest bedroom for as long as you want.” 

“Thank you.” 

She kisses the scar on my cheek where the blood was coming from and gives me a quick hug and tells me goodnight.

“Thank you.”

I wake up in a king-sized bed with royal blue silk sheets. This is the nicest room I’ve ever been in. My apartment is filled with 7-Eleven hot dog wrappers and the cot is a twin with rugged cotton sheets. I even notice myself wiping a smidge of drool from my lips. There are three soft knocks on the door before it swings open slowly so as not to disturb my rest. 

“Helloooo, and good morning on this Tuesday morning. How are you?” she chimes.

Still groggy from my slumber I roll over on my side and say, “I feel… Loved....”

We both grin so wide that our lips couldn’t stretch outward anymore if we would try.