"...Eight-hundred-fifty feet below me, a line of squad cars had accumulated, blocking off the main roadways. Behind them, a thin but defined line of obnoxiously bright yellow plastic—-freshly melted and compiled by your local, non-environmentally friendly resource mill—-contained the masses, their curiosity peaked by the sketchy fellow with the kind face, perched up on top of the GE building. Although, the only true purpose of the neon police line was to make the uniform-cop standing in front of it look powerful, so he could position himself all wide-legged and such, with his arms folded, while he belches out pre-packaged pieces of dialogue, like, “There’s nothing here to see,” and “Everybody, get back to what you’re doing.” Meanwhile, the reality of the situation is he’s some rookie cop who signed up for the squad under the impression that he’d catch some action, but ended up stuck in the middle of the sad truth; his job consists of sitting in the station all day. When he’s not filling out paper work, he’s getting coffee for his divisions supervisor, and he does it all for a paycheck that not even the hobo who sits across the street in his own piss would agree to work on.

There is no such thing as authority, but rather a commonly-held fear that we seem to hold as a civilization towards people whose vocations consist of putting on a pretty badge.

In front of the squad cars sits an unorganized cluster of civilian vehicles with flashing (but muted) sirens attached to their roofs, right above the driver’s side, somehow coming together to form a coherent wall. These were the economy cars that belonged to the detectives of the NYPD’s special suicide and standoff unit. These were the white-collared guys, dressing in cheap suits with a loose neck-tie, driving in the “people’s car”.

These were the guys driving the Ford Taurus.

The Saturn Ion.

The Honda Civic.

The Chevy… whatever.

With the gun secured in the palm of my hand, and my fingers wrapped around it, I stand there; blankly staring down at the crowd packed together below me. Some of them chanting “Jump, jump, jump!” and others just whispering to their neighbors, “I knew him… He was such a kind young man,” as if I had already passed. The cold winter winds breeze through my jacket, and slide across my smoothly shaven head, and a slight gasp of surprise bypasses my chapped lips.

From the front of the crowd, a pudgy little man of no more than four-feet and eleven-inches had submerged, with his cheap, beige trench coat draped over his tacky suit and loose tie. He looked like every made-for-television detective with a case up his ass, and male-pattern baldness. His hand firmly grasped something… a megaphone.

This could go no place but down.

“This is detective Jack Randolph, NYPD, suicide unit,” he yelled through the megaphone, his voice all scratchy and distorted through the piece of equipment that threw his voice at me. He followed the introduction up by flashing a badge, as if I could see it from eight-hundred-fifty feet up in the air. “Son, I’m just going to ask kindly for you to come down,” he explained, grasping his megaphone all white-knuckled. He held it so tightly, his head even looked red from all the way down below. He continued, “Certainly whatever you’re doing this for isn’t worth the trouble!”

What was I doing this for? World peace?

No. I don’t dabble in impossibilities.

I didn’t want to save the rainforest. I didn’t want to bring nonperishable items to starving children in third-world nations. I didn’t want to save the whales. I didn’t want to help support our troops. Here I was at the defining moment of my life, and it all seemed so pointless. It was nonsensical.

All I can do from this point is imagine all the little children who would show up at work, at Coney Island. Each one of them so happy, and care free. Not a single worry or doubt in their mind. They could care less what life even meant. All of them, so overjoyed to be in the park. They line up, the excitement practically leaking from their pores like the sweat that just trickles down the anxious foreheads of adults as they lay awake all night worrying about their jobs and their bank accounts. The kiddies get on their favorite ride, and go round and round, and then it’s over. There is no sense to be made of it, but for some reason, their world just makes sense.

That’s more than I can say for their adult counterparts…

You wake up.

Eat breakfast.

Some people take a shower.

Go to work.

Go home.

Watch television.

Make a microwavable TV dinner.

Masturbate.

Go to sleep.

And, repeat.

It’s all so droning and repetitive. It doesn’t make sense, but there is nothing you can do… You look back at high school as a disappointment, and if you went to college, you probably regret not having the courage to go into that dream major of yours, studying film or musical study. Now you sit in a cubicle all day, signing papers and reading memos, if you’re so lucky to even work a job that provides more than minimum wage. The entire situation lacks any direction or logic, but it is the supposed “American Dream”. It is what you were brought up to do by your mothers and fathers who lived a similar life, only maybe without the masturbation..."