Gonna Jump

Don Newman looked out the back window of his trailer. He'd seen death first hand at Normandy, and at his age he did not want to see another young one throw their self carelessly into death. That bearded young man, slovenly dressed in his dirty white t-shirt and blue jeans with frayed cuffs, had been sitting there next to the overpass over Highway 50 for a half hour now.

Another jumper. Damn it.

Don knew the look of a man with no hope. He had seen it in Normandy. He saw it in his wife when she was dying of cancer. Heck, he even saw it in himself when he looked in the mirror.

It was the gaze of someone who was lost. Not in place, not in time, but lost in there, inside the head. No thoughts had any meaning, nor could they lift you out of the hell hole you were in. In fact thinking only made things worse when you were lost. The only way out was to not think. The only way to not think was to die.

There had been another jumper a few years back. Sat there just the same as the bearded young man. Then up he went, up the overpass, and crawled on the side of the overpass fence facing the freeway, like that Spiderman fellow from the comics.

Then it was one, two, three and splat. Kinda like that poem from that beatnik comic:

Frozen pond

Stupid frog

Splat!

But not today. Don Newman, buck sergeant at Normandy, would not let another one go down without any hope. There was only one thing to do.

Don watched the bearded young man sit there, some strange rosary looking thing in his hand. Hah, so much for your God. If your God was so great, why in the world would you want to jump? Or better yet, jump! That's it, jump! You'll go to heaven anyway, right? So jump and get to those pearly gates!

But Don couldn't bring himself to say anything. The young bearded man just sat there with his rosary, and Don just stood there, peeking out his back window, watching.

Don was glad he had led a full life. Stormed the beaches at Normandy; married with five kids, and both girls and three boys graduated from college; put his wife in the grave, put up college trusts for his grandkids; owned his own business, then another , then another. There was plenty of life to have and live when you were young and wanted it badly enough.

Finally, the police came. Sacramento's finest, in the black and white car, blue and red lights flashing. Two officers approached the bearded young man in the dirty white t-shirt. They talked, and Don could hear every word.

"Someone called, said you were going to jump."

"Me? Nah. I'm just sitting here, resting after a long walk."

"Well it makes people around here nervous - and us to. Would you mind walking someplace else?"

"That's fine."

The bearded young man still sits there. Then he talks again.

"Oh, you mean move right now?"

"That's the idea."

"Sorry! Stay safe!"

And away goes the dirty white t-shirt and the beard with it. The police drive off in the opposite direction.

Don watched the empty space behind his trailer. There was no one there, no one to save. That boy was not going to jump after all, unless he was a good liar. Don could spot a liar a mile away.

Don Stewart, buck sergeant at Normandy, looked at himself in the mirror. His dress uniform, the one he bought at the Army Navy Surplus store, was pressed. He had found all the patches, put them all on right. His hat was cocked just so, nice enough for the ladies of his day.

There was no one to save, now that the bearded young man was gone. He did his best helping his wife pass on from cancer. His kids graduated, had families, and all of them moved away and rarely called to say hello. Everyone he knew at Normandy was dead. Don was all alone. He was lost.

He put the .45 to his mouth.