A Short Story

Earlier I had mentioned an idea for a short story - about the man who jumped off the Empire State Building last week. Here is the rough draft. The story is told backwards - each paragragh is a section of time, beginning with his death. It's also in first person POV. I guess I needed a challenge.



“I read the news today. Oh, boy.”


I can see the concrete coming clos. . . .

Falling is freeing. Wind rushing by me. Windows rushing by me. Pressure of the air. Hard to breathe.
I had always thought it would take just an instant but it’s longer than that. Ground coming closer.
Sitting on the edge of the fence, both feet dangling over the side, the edge cuts into me. But it won’t be long until it’s all over anyway. Windy. I hadn’t thought about the wind. The wind could take me before . . .before what? I’ve already made up my mind. Funny that no one is paying any attention to me. I’m sitting here about to leap off into space, but no one seems to care. Am I surprised at that? No one shouts. No one asks what I’m doing, sitting on the edge of a security fence. No one reaches to drag me down. No one even calls a security guard. No one. No one cares that soon I will be sailing out over the sidewalk.
I walk out of the elevator and onto the observation deck. I look around at the other people. A couple, older, in their fifties walking around looking at the tops of the buildings. A younger couple and their children – young children, little children – rush past me. Too bad. They will not have a pleasant memory of today. But that’s not my problem. It’s theirs. All the problems are theirs. I’ve abdicated all concerns, all problems. I leave them all to you in my will, I think. I walk around the narrow area and decide upon just the right spot – the easiest spot for me to crawl up on the fence – as far away as possible from the others. See? I can still be considerate. Even now at the last few moments, I’m still thinking of others. Maybe that’s what has brought me here to this finality.
Someone, the younger woman, is wearing a cheap perfume. I can feel the astringency of it. My nose is very sensitive to smells, like a dog’s. I can smell their bodies, huddled up against me in the elevator. The two couples and the younger couples’ kids – little kids, the kind that whine in restaurants and fuss. I hope that they don’t fuss today. Don’t fuss, sweeties, and I promise up something spectacular will happen – a free show. Watch the flying man sail off the Empire State Building. I almost giggle at it. I really do hate kids but still would not want them see me throw myself off into air. Nightmares – I will be the cause of their nightmares for the rest of their lives. So be it. One is now whining about when are we going to get to the top. It’s a long ride, stupid, I want to say. Many, many floors to go up. Many, many floors to fall down.
The lobby is busy – full of people moving back and forth. Busy. Very busy people. No one looks at me – I’m just another face. No One Important. No One at all. That’s been my entire life. Faces looking past me. No one. No one at all. I walk through the lobby of the building, taking my time. Time means nothing to me any longer – nothing. I admire the workmanship – the fine art of the 1930’s that went into its construction. This building that represents the biggest and the best of mankind. Now the tallest building in the city. Funny, that. I smile, thinking just how funny it is. This building, standing for more than seventy years is once again the tallest in the city; the others brought down by terrorists, by madman. But aren’t I a madman? Maybe more mad than the men who flew the planes into the towers. More mad because I’m not dying for a cause. Why am I dying? I’ve almost forgotten. I’m dying because there are no more choices. I’ve no place left to go. No place but up and then . . . I smile again at the thought. The first real decision, the first real step, the first real accomplishment in many months. The beginning of the end. I walk over to the bank of elevators and wait.
I wander down the street, people pass me and I want to shout out. I’m a dying man. You’re walking by a dying man. I have just a few more minutes to live. Do you care? I walk slowly down the sidewalk and wonder, How does one walk to his death? I’ve seen movies of the prisoner on death row walking between a guard and a priest (always a priest – I find that funny –as if Hollywood thought we were all Catholics). The prisoner is crying, dragging his feet, guards have to help him up, help him walk the last mile to the chair, the chamber or, now, the stretcher. How does a deadman walk? Like I’m walking. I finally get to the revolving door that’s the entrance into the building.
I’m paying the cab driver, trying to decide on a tip. But why worry? I no longer have the need for money. I push the wad of cash into his hand – I think it must be at least 200 – and he stares at me – but for only a second until he shoves the money into his pants pocket and grins at me. His “thank you” is thickly accented. Pakistani? Iraqi? One of those. I don’t know and don’t care. I’m not even aware of the cab driving off. I look down the street and find the building.
I sit in the cab and watch the passing buildings as the driver maneuvers through the city. He is a reckless driver, but I don’t care. Dying in a car accident would not be my decision. But it would solve the problem. I have made my choice. I will follow it through.
I stand on the corner, Jameson and Third, in Queens and hail a cab. I must go into the city. Today is the day, is the day, is the day, is the day. The thought of the day fills me with more satisfaction than anything else ever has – satisfaction. . .I can’t get no . . . I’m humming when the cab pulls up. The driver is dark with very white teeth – not African dark, Arab dark. Somehow that gives me peace. I smile and get in. I give him the address and he says, ”You work there.” No, I tell him. I want to say, “I die there.” But I don’t. I leave Queens behind.
I walk down the stairs of my apartment building. Standing in the foyer in front of a row of mailboxes, I slip an envelope into the super’s. Inside is a note telling him to sell or junk everything in the apartment. I’m leaving town. I laugh. I’m flying away. Free, finally free. Making this decision has been the most freeing thing of my life. Life. Death. A little word association as I step to the corner and look for an oncoming cab. And then I think, “Why not a bus?” No. Not a bus. I want to fly. I want to fly before I die. I will fly from the tallest building. Fly now, die now. I giggle.
Standing in the shower, letting the warm water beat on my back, I think it somehow odd. Here I am, taking a shower, my best suit laid out on the bed. My best shoes shined to a gleaming black. It’s as if I’m going to a job interview. Maybe I am. I scrub my back with a brush. Job interview? Hmmm? The last one.
The coffee is bitter but hot. My last cup of coffee. No breakfast. No smoke – gave it up – bad for my health. As if flying off a building is good for my health. Well, maybe good for the health of others. I rinse the cup out in the sink, empty the coffee grounds and rinse the coffee pot. Everything will be left neatly. I walk out of my kitchen for the last time. I need to shower and shave before I leave.
It’s midnight. I sit at the open window – November night air blows in. I finally have a plan. I know what I will do. I feel better now that the decision is made. I crawl into bed and pull the covers over me. Finally darkness.