The Jumper - Part 1

The morning I realized I could endure the pain no longer, there was a woman coming out of the office as I entered it. I have been wary of such incidents since the day at the height of the spite feminism movement when I opened a door for a woman who refused to walk through until I let go of it, explaining, “Women can open their own doors, asshole.” On the morning in question, I wasn’t sure, because I’d come so far already, whether I should cross the threshold and then reach back to hold the door open for her, the risk being her thinking that I was being rude by traversing the threshold first.

In the end, it worked out, though. She not only didn’t call me an asshole, but even murmured, “Thanks.” I got myself my traditional cup of tea and set immediately to work on the animated banners I’d hoped to have finished before I ended it all. I worked with my customary efficiency, and was ready before 11 to transmit my work to the dour, taste-challenged little Italian woman to whom I, you know, reported. But as usual she was apparently downstairs enjoying a cigarette break in front of the building, so I apparently wouldn’t have the satisfaction of one last approval from her.

I made my way up to the 37th floor, where it was said — correctly, as it turned out — that there were two vacant offices, and there used the locksmith skills I’d acquired by careful study of online tutorials to get into the one whose front windows overlooked E. 34th Street. Maybe the Buddhists are on to something; the moment that you give up entirely on the world is that at which everything starts going your way. In this case, I was able to pry open one of the windows, presumably one a careless window cleaner had neglected to re-lock, and to step out onto the narrow ledge.

It took a while, but when a couple of pedestrians far below finally noticed, it was only a moment before dozens more were stopped in their tracks and gazing up at me, many making visors of their hands in deference to the harsh morning sunshine. In a moment, there didn’t seem to be a single person between 7th and 8th Avenues not transfixed by the spectacle of my imminent dive. I thought I could learn to like this!

Sirens began screaming in the distance. I dared imagine they were for me, and by golly they were! Two police cars and a fire engine soon appeared below me. E. 34th Street between 7th and 8th Avenues was closed to traffic! This was going to cause city-wide chaos. I felt so…important! Television news teams arrived. God, they were fast! And a helicopter! I was a star again, just as in my twenties, but a much bigger one this time!

The NYPD's Earl Cohen — he held his badge out the window for me to read — was pleading with me now. “Listen, pal,” he said, “this is tough for me, heights, I mean. I been a-scared of them since I was little. Don’t ask me why. I should be leaning out and trying to make eye contact with you. That’s standard. But we’re too high up. Normally, for anything above the sixth floor, they’d have sent one of my colleagues, but one’s in Barbados with the wife and the other one called in sick this morning. Hungover’s probably a lot more like it.

“But that’s all neither here or there. The important thing is that whatever your gripe is, hey, we can figure something out. I’m sure you’re a terrific guy. Hey, who doesn’t feel like ending it all sometimes? Somebody from Social Services’ll be here any second.”

Continues tomorrow!