Barry Pomeroy
I hefted my bundle to my shoulder and turned my back on the river to
begin the climb up the steep bank to what might befall me in the city.
I occasionally looked over my shoulder at the path until it was gone.
A quick glance downriver through the brush and trees confirmed that I
was nearing the famous waterfall that led to the sea. I climbed
steadily onward, past the empty bottles and chip bags, then lawn and
hedge clippings that littered the slope, until I walked out into a
cinder parking lot behind an apartment building. The building was
flanked on either side by houses so I went up its drive until I stood
on the street. A couple walking by with their child flashed me a quick
look. After they passed the child turned to stare until chided by the
father. Other than that, I made little impression. I moved quickly
downstream towards the bridge so I didn't excite too much attention
and soon stood by a pedestrian walkway that led along the high bank to
the bridge itself. Walking along the well-groomed path, I got almost
constant hellos, coupled with quick glances away, for these people, in
their new clothes and shoes, had misgivings about my appearance.
When I stood upon the bridge itself, which few tourists walked across
because of the noise of the falls and the heavy stench blowing up from
the pulp mill on the west bank of the river, I could see why I had
such an uneasy feeling. Heavy rocks, caught in the current, lifted
huge waves that crashed into the thundering mass of water coming down
the broad waterfall. From my vantage, I could see the falls clearly.
The bridge spanned the chasm some two hundred feet above the swirling
whirlpools, and I looked through the hundreds of wheeling gulls,
through the many whirlpools and eddies for a passage to the sea. I was
picking out a route when I was startled by a loud and sudden address.
"It's a rough one, uh?"
"Yes, it is," and I turned to yell in the din to a man who must have
approached me along the walkway. He was in his mid-fifties and a
drinker, if the smell of alcohol he emitted was any indication. As he
spoke, the two-week stubble wobbled on his unsteady chin.
"People come here all the time to see it."
"I can imagine," I said.
"Some throw themselves off. They're from up there, the nuthouse," and
he pointed with a finger that was yellowed with nicotine. "Poor
bastards, their life is bad enough, I guess, and they plant the
nuthouse right by the highest bridge around, where if you go over
that's it. What else you expect them to do?"
Looking at the long, low, eighteenth-century, building I couldn't help
but agree. The thick bars in the tall narrow windows were evident even
from here, and to someone with problems already, the short walk down
the hill would seem tempting.
"One went over the other day. I was here. I'm retired. And some
tourist was watching and dug out his camera, filmed the whole thing.
Right on the rocks. Hard to aim when you're falling, I guess. Didn't
find out if it was going to be on the news though." He finished his
series of nasal, staccato statements with a sigh, and I looked at him
with a sudden eagerness to find out if he was disappointed a
potentially newsworthy item had been ignored or aghast at the
tourist's behaviour.
"Not worth it, though," he continued without satisfying my curiosity.
"You just get about halfway down and then you realize what you should
of done."
"Which is what?" I asked in surprise.
"All you got to do," and here he disconcertingly turned from the falls
spilling below me to look me full in the face, "is do something you're
scared of. If you're going to die anyway then it doesn't matter.
Guarantee you. Go on some big trip, use the credit cards. What're they
going to ask you to do, pay'em back? Or maybe tell off your boss
that's been bugging you, or ditch your wife and go for that woman you
like across the street, or man even, doesn't matter. Debt? Screw it.
Ain't worth it. Being on welfare ain't so bad. No different than me.
Compensation's main man, that's me. Can always commit suicide
afterwards, whereas if you kill yourself, you can't."
I slowly realized that this man who came to the falls every day since
his work-related accident to peer over the brink, was concerned I was
going to jump. He had been horrified, no doubt, by the suicide a few
days ago and resolved, despite my appearance, to make sure I had a
reason to live. As he listed the reasons one might kill themselves
with a growing desperation when my expression did not indicate he'd
found the right one, I frantically tried to think of a way to answer
his concern. Finally I asked, "Do you know anyone around here who is
hiring?" and he was delighted.
"You know, right here in the north end there's a place. Hoyt's
warehouses. Right by the blue church, over there. Warehouse
everything. Used to work there myself. They know me. You could get a
job there easy, you're strong. Tell them Gerry Porter sent you."
Behind his intense relief, I could see a pride he had not only saved a
life, but had also potentially found me a job.
"I will," I said. "Thanks, Gerry," and I left him there on the bridge
happily staring after me while I walked down the sidewalk in the
direction he had indicated. I was driven to the warehouse both by a
wish to make enough money to secure lodging, as well as to make sure
when he told his story the many nights at the bar, he would at least
have the satisfaction of knowing I had tried to ask for a job at his
old workplace. If I didn't get the job, I reflected, he would probably
scour the newspapers for long, worried days making sure I didn't kill
myself, now that he felt responsible for me. The city streets were
clean and bare except for the occasional leaf that flitted in front of
me with the wayward breeze. Children played on the sidewalk. Several
times I had to step around their awkward tottering, as they stood on
one foot and then the other within the familiar lines of hopscotch.
