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“Something’s happening,” Charlie said. “I need to talk to someone else in the business.”
Mike Sullivan had worked as a painter on the Golden Gate Bridge for twelve years when he encountered his first jumper.
“Stand back or I’ll jump,” said the kid.
He wasn’t a kid, really. He looked to be about the same age as Mike, early thirties, but the way he was clinging to the rail made him seem unsure and less grownup. Also, he was wearing a gold cardigan that was two sizes too small for him. He looked as if his grandmother had dressed him. In the dark.
Mike had been on the bridge when there had been jumpers before. They lost about one every two weeks, on average, and he’d even seen, or more frighteningly, heard a couple hit the water, but they usually went over by the pedestrian rails at the road level, not up here on top of one of the towers. This was Mike’s first face-to-face, and he was trying to remember what they had taught them during the seminar.
“Wait,” Mike said. “Let’s talk about this.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Especially not with you. What are you, a bridge painter?”
“Yeah,” said Mike, defensively. It was a good job. Orangey, often cold, but good.
“I don’t want to talk about my life with a guy who paints a bridge orange. All the time, over and over. What could you possibly say that would give me hope? You should be on this side of the rail with me.”
“Fine, then. Maybe you can call one of those hotlines.”
“I don’t have a phone.”
Who goes out without a phone? This guy was a complete loser. Still, if he could get closer, maybe Mike could grab him. Pull him back over the rail. He unhooked the safety line from the left side, rehooked it over the upright, then unhooked his right cable and did the same thing. They had two safety lines with big stainless-steel carabineers on the ends so one was always clipped to the bridge. Now he was within the last few feet of the top of the tower. He could walk up the cable and reach the guy in the stupid sweater. One of the guys on the crew had reached over the pedestrian railing and caught a jumper, dragged her by the collar to safety. The Parks Service had given him a medal.
“You can use my phone,” Mike said. He patted his mobile, which was in a pouch attached to his belt.
“Don’t touch the radio,” said the sweater guy.
The maintenance crew used the radios to keep in touch, and Mike should have called in the jumper before he’d engaged him, but he’d been walking up the cable more or less on autopilot, not looking, and didn’t notice the kid until
he was almost to the top.
“No, no, just the phone,” said Mike. He took off his leather work glove and drew the cell phone from its canvas pouch. “Look, I already have the number.” He really hoped he had the number. The supervisor had made them all put the suicide hotline number in their phones one morning before shift, but that had been two years ago. Mike wasn’t even sure if it was still there.
It was. He pushed the call button. “Hang on, buddy. Just hang on.”
“Stay back,” said the sweater guy. He let go of the rail with one hand and leaned out.
Hundreds of feet below, pedestrians were looking out over the bay, strolling, pointing, taking pictures. Hundreds of feet below that, a container ship as long as two football fields cruised under the bridge.
“Wait!” said Mike.
“Why?”
“Uh, because it hurts. They don’t tell you that. It’s seven hundred and fifty feet from here to the water. Believe me, I think about it every day. You hit at a hundred and seventy-five miles an hour, but it doesn’t always kill you. You feel it. It hurts like hell. You’re all broken up, in the cold water. I mean, I’m not sure, but—”
“Crisis hotline. This is Lily. What’s your name?”
Mike held up a finger to signal for the kid to wait just a second. “I’m Mike. Sorry, they were supposed to connect me with the suicide hotline.”
“Yeah, that’s us. But we don’t call it that because it’s depressing. What can I do for you?”
“I’m not calling for me, I’m calling for this guy who needs some help. He’s over the rail on the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“My specialty,” said Lily. “Put him on.”
“Stay back,” said tiny sweater guy. He let go with one hand again. Mike noticed that the kid’s hands were turning purple. It was a nice day, but up here, in the wind, it was cold, and hanging on to cold steel made it worse. All the guys on the crew wore long johns under their coveralls, and gloves, even on the warmest days.
“What’s his name?” asked Lily.
