*     *     *     *

     The damp breeze-driven fog glides over my body, making me shiver as I zip up the windbreaker and pull down my ball cap snugly.  I continue to saunter through its moving, gray mass for I am in no real hurry.  I’m told this is Advection Fog, which forms when humid air from the Pacific Ocean swoops across the frigid California current flowing parallel to the coast; that’s why it tends to hug the surface. 

     After leaving the O’Farrell Theater I had dashed into the deli just as they were closing, snagged a pint of Jim Beam, then re-crossed the street and hired one of the taxis sitting in front of the strip club.  Later I had the cabby drop me off at Merchant Road just before the Shoreline Highway turn off. Crossing Merchant Road, I slipped behind a row of buildings abeam of the Toll Gates and intercepted Bike Route 95; using the bicyclists’ path to hike up to the Golden Gate Bridge.

     In years past I’ve had the privilege of flying above this amazing “international orange” metal and concrete structure in both helicopters and heavy jets - as well as under it in copters – marveling at its many rapidly changing moods dictated by light and fog.  It spans the narrow Golden Gate Straight – the entrance to San Francisco Bay named during the gold rush of 1849 – and is roughly 1.7 miles in length.

     Because of its beauty and location – and the fact that it’s a 220-foot drop from the pedestrian walkway to the water – the bridge has become a favorite spot for “jumpers.” 

     Since it opened in 1937 there has been an average of two jumpers per month, resulting in more than 1,500 suicide attempts that the authorities are aware of.  Of these attempts merely 26 have survived, and a few of these have shared a rather strange phenomenon.  They claimed that, after falling two-thirds of the way, surprisingly it dawned on them all of their problems were in reality solvable except one: “Jumping off this goddamn bridge!”

     The bridge runs approximately north and south, with two, ten-foot wide, pedestrian walkways along its west and east sides; the west side now being restricted to bicycles.  I’ve chosen the west side, facing out to sea, but it’s after hours – the gates being locked - and I’m required to climb the chainlink fence, tearing my expensive windbreaker on the barbed wire barrier running along its top.  At first I was actually pissed off.  Then reason set it.

     After tonight, dear reader, I’ll have no further use for the jacket.  So why be upset? 

     Now I’m sauntering down the west bike-walkway, well past the bridge’s south tower, sipping bourbon from a crumpled, brown paper bag for warmth and Dutch courage.  I pretty much have the bridge all to myself - there being no other bicycle or foot traffic on either walkway – besides the occasional car or truck that comes rumbling slowly across the bridge this late at night; the poor visibility discouraging any real speed.  I check the time; it’s 2:34 A.M.

     I’m about to execute an exceptionally simple plan: When the bourbon runs out, I will chuck the empty - bag and all - over the side...and then follow it.  Hopefully hurtling myself into oblivion.

     No more “ifs,” dear reader.

     As I methodically place one foot in front of the other, listening to distant foghorns – one at the south tower’s pier and the other at mid-span - echoing throughout San Francisco Bay, I gradually achieve an epiphany.

     Either that...or the booze is at long last kicking in, dear reader.    

     Equivalent to my immediate plan, my epiphany is also elementary: I’m tired.  I’m fifty-nine fucking years old...and I’m extremely tired.  

     Tired of what, dear reader?

     I’m tired of all the schemes of lice, mice and men I’ve had to deal with my entire life in order to keep body and soul together.  Plus I’m chiefly fed up with aviation, and all the bullshit society requires one to wade through in order to obtain another dead-end flying job, risking life and limb in the process for nothing.

     Hence, as I stare into the void of the swirling fog ahead, in the long run I come to appreciate that the pain of carrying all this baggage from past shattered hopes and dreams is at last coming to an end.  Using the fog as a crystal ball, I see the immediate end of my life rapidly approaching...and with it freedom from always being afraid or disappointed.

     This is pretty heavy stuff...especially for a drunk, dear reader.

     In due course, while I’m talking myself into feeling good concerning my impending demise, I all of a sudden run out of bourbon.

     Oh, oh...time to crap or get off the pot, dear reader.

     I stop dead in my tracks.  Looking ahead all I observe is a solid wall of fog, with the HSP roadway lights dissolving into it.  Glancing behind me, from whence I came, I find virtually an identical view in reverse.  So, how far have I come across this damn bridge? 

     Jesus...I don’t really know, dear reader.

     Then for some inexplicable reason – ostensibly because I have nothing better to do – I raise my eyes directly above me and discover one of the two orange, three-foot thick, suspension cables looming out of the fog overhead.  It’s in the process of descending to its lowest point at the middle of the bridge.  Judging by its present altitude, I’d estimate I must be nearly halfway between the south tower and mid-span.

     This ought to do it, dear reader. With any luck the current here should take my remains far out to sea where the genuinely huge critters will polish me off quickly, instead of washing my carcass up on a beach as a crab buffet.

     I approach the 4.5-foot barrier, lean over its clammy-wet metal railing, look straight down and release the empty bottle inside the paper bag.  It falls...and falls...and falls...before vanishing into the moving fog illuminated by the bridge’s roadway lights.  The fog hides the surface of the channel.  I hold my breath...listening to the foghorns...while waiting for the telltale splash. 

     Guess what, dear reader, there isn’t any.  This is one bitching long drop!

     I’ve been told a drop of more than 200 feet to water is comparable to hitting concrete.  Hopefully it’ll knock me out, if not kill me, and hypothermia will finish the job.

     A chill crawls up my spine...I take several deep breathes and prepare to follow the bottle.  However, my ingrain pilot’s training takes control...stopping me.  I have to go through a checklist.  One always has to run a checklist before takeoff.

     Either it’s my pilot’s training, or I’m just flat-assed anal.  You decide, dear reader.

     Okay...so is there anyway that I can get a decent flying job that will pay for my operation and chemotherapy, postponing the inevitable?

     Well, let me cogitate, dear reader.  I’m pushing 60 with a brain tumor.  Perchance a drug cartel will snap me up to fly their cocaine and heroin...not a lot of longevity there.  I’ll either get killed immediately on the job, or die subsequently in prison.

     Could I get a loan or borrow the money from my friends?

     What bank is going to touch a dying 59-year-old washed-up pilot, dear reader?  As for my pals, they’re as broke as I am.  I’ve never run with the “right” crowd.

     Let’s say I go ahead and jump; will I suddenly realize that these problems were solvable?

     Sure...but only if angels and the tooth fairy really exist.  Now quit farting around and get on with the program!

     I heave a big sigh and retrieve the PARC 55 notepad and pen from the deep, left-inside pocket of my jacket.  Except as I do this, an incredible light appears from underneath the bridge...growing magically in intensity. My heart stops as I gasp.

     Sweet bleeding Christ, dear reader!  Maybe it’s angels and the tooth fairy coming to save me!  With a calypso band!

     Because at this stage I’m hearing the faint, intermittent strains of calypso music with Caribbean steel drums, as the sharp, hazy bow of a “love boat” slides out from under the bridge well off to my right side.

     Ultimately, while the rest of the ship passes, it evolves into a bizarre, lighted carnival procession on its way out to sea.

     Every blessed light on that boat is illuminated, dear reader!  Holy guacamole...what an electric bill!

     Then I detect the rushing sound of the ship’s hull displacing the water’s surface. 

     Later the fog rapidly swallows it up; in the end, reducing the luxury liner to merely a ghostly glow, moving away in the distance.

     I wonder where it’s headed.  Mexico?  Hawaii?  The Caribbean?  God...how I wish I was on it, dear reader.

     Eventually it altogether vanishes, leaving me behind in its wake with all my troubles.

     Okay, wise guy, so let’s wrap up all these cares and woes and put an end to them.

     I turn slightly to my left, so a roadway lamp can reflect off the PARC 55 notepad, and write “Room 1405” under the logo at the top of the pad.  Below this I write: “16 October 2001.  Due to poor health, I’ve decided to take my life.”  I then sign my name above the hotel’s address and phone number at the bottom of the pad.

     As an afterthought I check my fake Rolex Submariner.  It’s 2:47 A.M., making the actual date October 17^th.  Should I tear up the note and rewrite it?

     No asshole...quit stalling.  

     I rip my suicide note from the pad, and begin to fold it, with the intention of placing it inside my wallet along with an expired California Driver’s License, fifty-four dollars in cash and an almost maxed-out VISA Card.  For I plan on leaving my sneakers behind on the bridge, with the wallet inside my right shoe; making the leap in my stocking feet.

     While I’m folding my note...the strangest sensation envelops me.

     I’m certain at one point or another you’ve experienced this identical feeling, dear reader.  You know...as if someone were watching you intently; raising the hairs on the back of your neck.

     I stop folding the note and glance to my right.

     He stands more or less ten feet away from me.  How he managed to reach that position, without me being aware of his approach, frightens me.

     Startled?  No.  Shit my pants?  Yes!  Where the hell did he come from, dear reader?

     He’s five-foot-nine and leanly built, wearing a white sailor’s cap - rakishly tilted at an angle; the sides curled down – with both hands inside the deep pockets of a navy peacoat over wool bell-bottomed naval trousers.  Obviously he’s some type of sailor either in the navy or merchant marine.

     Where things nautical are concerned, dear reader, I’m a total landlubber, thus my uncertainty.

     His lean face is handsome, but weathered and lined, making it difficult to estimate his exact age – perhaps late thirties to early forties.  It’s his eyes though that arrests me – cobalt blue with a slight squint. 

     Those eyes are gazing clean the fuck through me, dear reader.  Giving me the uncomfortable impression they comprehend everything about me!  Who is this guy?

     Which brings me to the next thing that disturbs me regarding this sailor: He strikes an incredibly distant, familiar chord.  I know this man; except at present the how and where of it completely eludes me.

     After we study each other for an exceedingly long moment, the sailor pulls out a soft pack of Camel cigarettes from his peacoat, the identical brand my dad used to smoke back in the 1940's and ‘50's. 

     He pulls a cigarette from the pack and sticks it in a corner of his mouth.  It has no filter tip; it’s old-fashioned, similar to this sailor’s uniform.  They go together...and this disturbs me even more.

     Okay...settle down.  He’s probably come from a costume party.  After all, Halloween is immediately round the corner; enough with the paranoia.

     Finally the sailor breaks the ice, saying, “Hey, buddy, ya got a light?”

     “S-Sorry,” I reply, “I don’t smoke.”

     The sailor grimaces, looks down at the pack in his hand, then shakes his head, and says, “Sonofabitch...it’s just as well.  These damned coffin nails are gonna kill me.”  He laughs as if a joke has been played on him.

     Goddammit, dear reader!  I know that laugh...only from where?

     Taking the cigarette from his mouth, he slips it and the pack into his peacoat, as the sailor says, “My name’s Holman...Machinist Mate First Class Holman.  But you can call me Jake if you want.  What’s your handle?”

     “Pete Chisholm,” I respond, as I stick out my hand reluctantly.

     Christ on a cracker, dear reader!  This is all I need right now!  How am I going to get rid of this swabby?

     For an instant Jake keeps both hands in his coat’s pockets.  Then, also reluctantly, he takes out his right hand, turns it palm up and studies it.  Looking up at me he grins sheepishly, as he slips his hand back into the pocket, and says, “Sorry, I picked up a bit of a rash on the Yangtze...might be a good idea if we don’t shake hands.”

      God Almighty this is driving me nuts, dear reader!  The laugh, the mannerisms, and the voice...from where in the bowels of my constipated memory banks have I met this guy!

     “I apologize for bargin’ in on your little party tonight,” Jake adds.

     “Uh...what p-party?” I ask, caught somewhat off-guard.

     “Your birthday party,” Jake replies.

     How the hell was he aware of that, dear reader?  I’m speechless.

     “But, shipmate, I’m bettin’ a month’s pay you’re steerin’ a course you’re gonna regret,” Jake observes.

     “What the fuck are you t-talking about,” I snap angrily.

     “I’m talkin’ about you jumpin’ off this bridge,” Jake states flatly.

     Once again this “sailor” takes the wind out of my sails, dear reader. 

     Not able to respond, I look away from him and commence to study the cold steel barrier...barring my way to oblivion.

     “In my opinion,” Jake continues, “that’s not at all what ya really crave.”

     This guy is seriously pissing me off, dear reader.

     I glance over at Jake, and defiantly fire back, “Oh yeah?  So what in the rat-crap do you think I r-really want?”

     “Not much,” Jake responds objectively, “you simply desire a nickel’s worth of minutes with your old man.”

     Previously I had never fully admitted it to myself, even though it was always lurking there in my subconscious.  Nevertheless, being diagnosed with this brain tumor had awakened this unreasonable desire to spend five minutes with my dad. 

     I turn away from Jake, grip the wet, clammy railing of the barrier, and stare hard into the fog as my eyes burn and fill with tears.

     Jake had opened me up like a can of peas, dear reader...spilling out long buried emotions from the very core of my soul.