My kitchen windows open up to the rooftops of Queens. On the streets below, the corners are busy, the cross streets full with the work-a-day shifters moving toward the sounds of screeching trains, some running to catch the last express. I watch the hurried passersby at sunrise, busying themselves with cups of coffee, ties flying, holding up armfuls of dry-cleaned, pressed shirts and suits, their briefcases full of what I imagine to be important. Today, we all believe, the contents of those bags and briefcases will somehow make an impact.
When the rush-hour workers return, they break out and weave single-file heading to the gym or yoga class, streamline into bars, for their homes and the comforts of family, or the white noise of television. In the evenings, I wander through the outdoor markets and watch the strategic action of efficient workers. Movements are fraught, but always calculated and determined. I have been caught dangerously between the supermarket carts of shoppers armed with the threat of their wristwatches.
Freelance work, and writing particularly, can be a lonely occupation. Some have resorted to the creation of artificial offices where writers, designers, programmers and other freelancers can show up and labor. Forcing a schedule and forging the illusory bonds of co-work, they build their own cubicle walls and design an unencumbered space for production and the sense of belonging in a world they could just as successfully inhabit alone.
Friday, mid-morning, I paused to breathe and sip the last cup of coffee I would have, at least until 4 o’clock, when I would tire of my apartment. Any afternoon break would have already been extended or lost in a nap, and I would slip back into the degradation of participating in online social network sites, Microsoft Word macros and processing, or the flicker of an afternoon newsflash … the doldrums of my one-bedroom and white-screened laptop. In a trance, my fingers would begin to dance over the keys and my eyes scroll the distance of the seemingly endless page.
My thoughts then, were interrupted, penetrated by a new kind of passerby outside my window. Shuffling across the stark island of the rooftop next-door, there was an elderly man, wearing a robe and slippers. He had pushed through the heavy door of the access entrance and braced himself against the wind without a hat or gloves. His trek was solitary, along the ice-patched trail he walked and I had the brief sensation of human-contact, even the exposure to a commute.
His head was tilted downward, the plastered floor reflecting against his glasses. With a short, but quickening gait, he moved with purpose towards the edge, only briefly and narrowly distracted by darting pigeons from greater heights. When he reached the margins, he climbed up and stood up on the lip of the building, five stories up, and looked down at the concrete below. I felt sick, but did not know how to respond. If he jumped now, there was nothing I could do.
I thought about the failing economy and job loss, an eradicated pension, divorce, a battle with alcohol and depression, his family obligations, and an unyielding sense of loneliness in the city…all of his reasons not to go on living. Then, he pulled out something white from his pocket, which I knew, could only be a suicide note, enumerating each loss and his descent in quality of life.
The note waved wistfully from his hands. Since I was the only one watching, I desperately sought to think of a defense:
“It’s not worth it!” I would cry. “Don’t do it!”
I could dial 911. I reached for my phone, but knew it would only be too late.
What words could save him?
“Do you want to come over for coffee?”
“I know a really good psychotherapist on 7th and 10th!”
Resounding through the alley: “I understand! I work from home!”
I imagined his body, toppling slowly over the edge, free falling head-first, hitting the balconies, bending the frames of the aged wrought ironed fire escapes and finally collapsing into a tiny pile next to the children’s bikes and flower pots stacked below. The sound was dull and final. I would have to call the police and file a witness report. I would have to explain to the neighbors what I saw. The crowd would gather and I would never be able to forget this image, being left with lingering questions of my defeat.
It was then that I opened the window and leaned out, taking a deep breath, trying to quickly reduce my thoughts into a single expression. Before I could speak, he brought the white fabric closer to his face and held it with both hands against the wind, blew his nose, wiped his face firmly and cleanly, and returned the handkerchief to his pocket.
After glancing once more at the ground below, he looked back up at the sky. I think he may have smiled, or squinted his eyes against the sun. Then, he turned away from the edge and began to shuffle in retreat across the long, white rooftop. A quiet disappointment grew, when I realized the death of my fantasy—the fantasy, that on this day, my script would have had an impact. For a moment, he would have needed me to be exactly where I was.
I closed my windows and watched as he disappeared, behind the heavy door and into the building. I considered the importance of rush hour, of flailing ties and the comforts in holding a briefcase.
