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From the Torre Latinoamericana
by
There was this man who wanted to jump. He’d given his wallet to the elevator boy, his car keys to the janitor. He said, “Estoy cansado.” I'm tired, that's all he kept saying, I'm tired. He had hair the color of champagne, a double-breasted jacket, an alligator skin belt — and we wanted to help him, we really did. He kept taking in deep breaths, as if he were swallowing something enormous, and, as he held it over the ledge, shaking one ankle. A crowd gathered below, humming, humming. Somewhere in the distance there was a siren, but it was going, not coming. The office manager leaned out on his elbows. “Think of your children,” he said, and things like that. The man said nothing. He tossed out his watch. It flashed like a small coin. And then it looked like what it was.
[A modified version of this piece was previously published in Permafrost, No. 22, and in Dinty W. Moore, Sudden Stories (Mammoth Books, 2003).]
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