Wabash Avenue, 2009

The sky of the morning’s smallest hours reflected in the Chicago River. She looked down at its dark waters, its cold currents swirling, overlapping each other, drowning the reflections of the stars. From her position atop a phone booth on the Wabash Avenue Bridge, she felt closer to the highest floors of the skyscrapers that surrounded her than to the river below. She knew, though, that this spot was not ideal. She had decided weeks ago how her life would end. Pills and ropes and blades and ledges on buildings all left too much of a mess for her liking. Stepping into traffic would leave a trail of late commuters backed up behind a guilt-ridden peer. The river seemed a far more appealing option, but even from the phone booth, she worried it would not be enough. The Wabash Avenue Bridge was hardly twenty feet above the surface of the water. She probably would not die.
Her attempt to end her life in the manner she had chosen would be most likely marred by the inconvenient Illinois landscape and she could not help but smile. Nothing in her life had favoured her, so why should her death be any different? She shivered – her legs were bare apart from her tights and only a thin scarf covered her shoulders. In front of her appeared a weighty breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, briefly visible in the February night. Her concerns about living did not take away from her hopes of dying, and so she inhaled one final time, preparing to step off and begin her descent. It was then that she heard the whistle. Low and two-toned, it caught her attention. She did not think there would be anyone on the street at such an hour, with the coldest winds of winter racing through the city. She did not turn to see if there was someone there. Surely no one would attempt to hit on a girl that stood, ready to jump into the Chicago River.
“It’d be a shame to let legs like yours go to waste.” His voice was cool and flat, certain syllables weighed down by his local accent. She did not turn, she would not. Some lowlife - who was no doubt attempting to look up the skirt of her dress - would not interrupt her final moments. She shut her eyes and attempted to forget the voice reverberating within her head. “C’mon sweetheart, at least give me a little smile? Whatcha got to lose?”
Her anger and her disbelief fused, overriding her refusal to face him. Turning, she stumbled slightly. “Whoa, hun- you want a hand getting down? Those heels look hard to move in.” She ignored him and carefully dropped each of her shoes onto the sidewalk. The small handle to the door of the phone booth allowed her to climb down with reasonable grace and collect her heels before approaching him. He opened his mouth, but before words formed, her free hand met his cheek.
“How dare you?” she spat, “Who brought you up allowing you to think that it was acceptable to speak to women like that?” He clutched the stinging red mark on his cheek, wincing.
“Holy shit, girl, you’re strong.”
“Don’t ‘girl’ me. I was about to jump off of the god damned bridge and you have the audacity to objectify me, and ask me for a smile because you think I’ve got nothing to lose instead of, I don’t know, offering to help me, telling me to get down - you know, things a decent human being would at least attempt.” He smiled at her, moving his hand from the handprint along his face to stroke his unshaven chin. “And now you’re laughing at me? I’m about to kill myself, and you’re laughing at me, I - ” She shook her head, tears forming in her eyes, “What is wrong with you? Why would you?” Each breath fluttered. With her ring finger, she daintily wiped away a tear and then forced herself to meet his gaze. There was no laughter to be found in his grey eyes, despite the small smile he sported.
“I hit on you because I knew it would work.” He spoke curtly and inclined his head in her direction before walking past her, continuing across the bridge.
“It would work?” She spoke first to herself and then raised her voice, “What do you mean hitting on me would work?” His long strides did not cease. “Hey!” She hobbled after him, her shoes still dangling from the tips of her fingers. Cold asphalt cut at her feet as she caught up to him. “What did you mean back there? About hitting on me because it would work- what did you mean?” They were under the glow of a streetlight and he had stopped walking, allowing her to slip on her shoes and get a better look at him. He was young – not yet thirty. Four or five years her senior. She searched his expression, studied his stance, yet she could not see him as a threat. His words had jarred her, but under the light of the lamppost, she saw neither malice nor predaciousness in him.
“You were going to jump,” his voice was strained. “Telling you not to jump would be like telling you not to feel. I figured you didn’t need to be told that you should feel differently. I figured I should make you feel differently. Make you feel something other than the walls of the cell inside you that hope used to occupy. So I made you mad. I guess I thought if I pissed you off enough, you’d climb down and give me a piece of your mind. I should’ve seen the smack coming. Felt good, right?”
“So you’re saying that you’ve saved my life,” she lingered on every word, “by making comments about my legs?”
“Never said I saved your life, sweetheart. I just wanted you off of that phone booth. And you are now. And at this point I feel like you’ve probably had enough bullshit for one night so you’ll go home, tell Mom and Dad you were at a friend’s place and you’ll keep living for a little while.” Her eyes flashed as he shrugged.
“You think it’s that easy? Getting me off of that phone booth doesn’t take away the fact that I wanna die. I wasn’t just looking for attention or for some hero with nice hair and a pea coat to come along and get me down, because I know that wouldn’t fix me.” Her eyes watered once more. “This feeling doesn’t just go away and I know you think it’s all in my head but I can’t just snap out of it.” His expression softened at this. The girl’s hair swept around her face, battered by the city’s famous winds.
“Hey, of course it’s all in your head. It’s called a mental illness for a reason, right? It’s not your fault you feel like this. It’s not something you can control, I know that. But you gotta keep going, kiddo.” Spoiled makeup mixed with tears, staining her cheeks. She took a few quick and unsteady breaths before managing to exhale a small thank you. “Where are you coming from?” He slipped off his coat and placed it on her shivering, welcoming shoulders.
“God. Another party filled with awful people that do horrible things and remind me that my life is heading nowhere good, far too fast.”
“Where are you headed? Got someone waiting for you?”
“No one.”
“Not even your paren-”
“No one.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Are they- no I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I make no excuses for the way things have gone for me. Like you said, I have a mental illness. Maybe things would be different if I had parents or something. But I don’t. Instead I have this voice in my head that sells me on suicide at every chance it gets. That’s the way this world works, huh?” Concern was fixed in his expression.
“Please don’t kill yourself.” His voice was quiet. He didn’t seem capable of words, save for this request.
“I’m going to want to. It’s not just going to go away.”
“Nah, it won’t. You won’t notice it, anyway. But one day, it’ll all be gone. And that’s worth sticking around for.”
“I can’t just choose to live.” He made no reply, leaving her to wonder if he’d even heard her hushed voice. They stood at the side of the bridge and once again she peered down at the water. It was dark, cold. Hopeless and destructive, perhaps, as it ruined the reflection of each star in turn. But the river kept moving. Its flow was constant, its current strong enough to carry each drop through canyons and valleys, into lakes and oceans. It was filled with garbage and surely scores of dead bodies, abandoned cars, missing wedding rings. It produced life and provided homes. It carried travellers, labourers, and adventurous children on homemade rafts. These waters would run through rapids and ease through shallow swamps. The course was not particularly peaceful, and was surely at times downright unpleasant, but the river continued on its meandering way.
“Can’t you?”
“I’m not okay,” she said, and the night caught her words, forcing them to linger between the faces of strangers for a moment, “that’s okay, right?” He nodded and placed two fingers under her chin, lifting it up slightly.
“We’re gonna try and make you okay, yeah? What do we got to lose?”