“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Fresh.”
“I do not want to, I’m doing it because she won’t trust you if you try to tell her what’s going on.”
“Trust me? But I’m a cop.”
“Seriously? You did not just say that to a black man.” The Mint One disconnected.
Crisis Center. What is your name, please?”
“Kevin.”
“Hi Kevin. I’m Lily. Where are you calling from, Kevin?”
“I’m on the Golden Gate Bridge. I’m going to jump.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Nope. Not going to happen. Not on my watch.”
Now he was going to tell her his story. Lily liked to watch French movies with subtitles on her tablet while listening to the story. The stories were usually pretty similar, or at least it seemed that way, because they were always calling from the same chapter. The chapter where someone is thinking about jumping off a big orange bridge or walking in front of a train.
Kevin told her his story. It sounded sad. But not as sad as what poor Audrey Tautou was going through on the screen. Lily knew there would be sad French accordion music and she tried to work an earbud from her tablet under her phone headset ear so she could feel the full weight of poor Audrey’s despair . . .
Kevin paused. Lily paused her movie.
“Don’t do it,” she said. “There’s stuff to live for. Have you tried that cereal with the chocolate inside? Not on it, inside the actual cereal. How about pizza under a flaming dome? That shit is tasty insanity. Fuck, Kevin, you kill yourself without trying that, you’ll hate yourself even more than you do now. I’m a trained chef, Kevin. I know.”
“At least it will be over.”
“Oh, hell no, it won’t be over. You could hit the water, blow out an eardrum, shatter a bunch of vertebrae, die cold and in excruciating pain, and then, like five minutes later, you’re a squirrel in a top hat and tap shoes, fighting a pigeon with a spork over a used donut. I have seen things, Kevin, terrible, dark, disturbing things. You do not want to go there.”
“Really, a spork?”
“Yeah, Kevin, the fucking detail you want to grasp on to is the spork. That was the point of the story. Not that you’ll be a squirrel in tap shoes, fighting a pigeon over a donut? That’s a custard donut, Kevin. Custard is running out of the donut onto the pavement. There are ants on your donut, Kevin.”
“Whoa, ants?”
“Ants are still not the important part, Kevin, you douche waffle.”
“Hey, I don’t even like custard donuts.”
“Jump, Kevin. Over you go.”
“What?”
“Geronimo! Let loose a long trailing scream as you go—warn any boaters or windsurfers to look the fuck out. No sense dragging someone along with your dumb ass.”
“Hey?”
“Take the leap, Kevin. Into the maelstrom of suffering that will open for you.”
“At least it will be different.”
“Yeah, different in that it will be worse. Since when did a two-hundred foot drop into icy waves full of sharks spell hope to you, huh? You think you’re depressed now? You think you’re hopeless now? Wait until you’re reincarnated as a crazed, scurrying little creature, desperate, afraid of everything, wearing stupid outfits. I’ve seen them, Kevin. I’ll show you. You take a look at them, see what you’ll become, and if you still want to jump, I’ll drive you back there and push you off. Deal?”
“You’re lying.”