  "All I see are dark, grey clouds In the distance, moving closer with every hour. So when you ask, 'Is something wrong? ' I think, 'You're damn right there is, But we can't talk about it now. No, we can't talk about it now. ' &nbsp; So one last touch and then you'll go, And we'll pretend that it meant something so much more. But it was vile, it was cheap, And you are beautiful, but you don't mean a thing to me. Yeah, you are beautiful, but you don't mean a thing to me..."~ Tiny Vessels&nbsp; by&nbsp;Death Cab for Cutie &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Think of England It was going to rain.
I could tell. The air always tasted different before a storm. The breezes were humming with an electric tension that sent shivers down my spine-- the clouds hovered over the town in a most ominous manner, granite grey and thick with precipitation. Something about the excitement in the atmosphere appealed to me, so I went out for a little outdoor time. I brought a book and an umbrella with me, thinking to do a little reading in the park before&nbsp;the rain set in. I took a breath and sampled the coppery tang to the air. The streets were sparsely occupied, mostly by those bustling to get indoors before they got wet. The storm was still an hour away at the least, but the portentous, eerie buzz in the air sent many people scurrying inside.
I made my way down the sidewalk against the flow of the tiny throng, umbrella in one hand and a dog-eared copy of The Catcher in the Rye in the other. I headed for the park, but as the winds picked up their pace and began to whisper of prophetic weather, I thought better of it and selected a street-facing bench to do my reading. I had almost made it through four whole chapters before something caught my eye; across the street, at the top of a five story building, stood a young boy. His silhouette was dark against a canvas of overcast sky as he paced the length of the roof, pausing ever so often to peer tentatively over the ledge at the ground below. I looked around me. No one else had recognized the boy's presence looming over them as dark as the rain clouds. It seemed as if that was the way the boy wanted it-- he kept looking down nervously at the populated sidewalk and shaking his head and wringing his hands. I watched him discreetly from behind Salinger's literature, trying not to draw attention to him by giving him my full interest. His skinny, gangly shadow told him to be young, though it was hard to tell because his facial features were almost impossible to discern from a street away. I could easily&nbsp;make out the tension in his stance and steps-- from where I sat, the boy looked just as ominous as the cloud backdrop behind him. Unceremoniously, he stopped and approached the edge of the roof, clamoring onto the ledge and standing rigidly. He stared down hard&nbsp;at the sidewalk, feet spread apart and hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.
The wind blew his shaggy hair around haphazardly, and the electricity in the humid air doubled. I didn't know his name. I didn't know his story. But I knew what he was contemplating. Without a word I ducked my head back into the pages of my book, peeking up at the boy every few paragraphs to see if his position had changed. For a full ten minutes, the boy stood&nbsp;perfectly still. It was as I was finishing Holden's monologue about God and church when a voice cut through the tension between me and the other side of the road.
"Look up there! " A small crowd had gathered below where the boy stood, pointed up with open mouths and looking like a flock of turkeys drowning themselves with rain.&nbsp;If the boy's figure was apprehensive before, it was practically paralyzed with trepidation now. "He's gonna jump! " another voice cried out. There was a chorus of 'oh no's&nbsp;and 'sweet Jesus's.
It was something that to this day I don't understand. Sweet Jesus was obviously doing nothing for the boy if he was leaning over the roof of a five story building. But no one moved to stop him. They simply watched him and mumbled to themselves how horrible it was, fixated on his stiff body,&nbsp;fascinated by someone so desperate as to throw himself away. It was interestingly morbid, something many had only seen on TV and in movies. And here it was, right up front-- live entertainment. Will he or won't he? Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion of 'Someone Else's Life is Crappier than Yours'. The crowd was too busy gawking at the kid with a sucky life that they forgot to call the police. But they didn't forget to call the news. Basically the same thing... right? Now, don't call my hypocritical.
I watched. I'll admit it. I watched and did nothing to stop him. But I also felt I had no right to. Obviously the kid had something going on, and it was enough to drive him to the edge of a fall I had no business in stopping. Not if stopping it meant that the kid would simply go back to what drove him to the fall in the first place. I uncrossed and re-crossed my legs, watching the scene unfold from the safety of my bench across the street.
Television cameras and newscasters scrambled out of white vans. Police cars pulled up soon after with their sirens blaring, and a man with a megaphone began yelling at the boy and shouting at the crowd to move back. Probably afraid someone was going to get spattered when the kid dropped. Actually, I was surprised that the boy hadn't gotten it over with by the time they got there-- but it was obvious no one was making a move to get him down. It was too good a scoop; the public was already eating it up. The wind changed as the boy took a nervous step forward. The toe of his ratty tennis shoe hung over the edge of the roof and into the air. The gathering gasped and the reporters narrated, flowering it up as much as possible. From across the street, I could hear their reports: "The boy hesitates-- no, he's taken a stride forward! Oh, cruel world, to throw such a boy into such a horrendous situation! He's dangling on the edge of the rough ledge, hanging a split-second between life and death--" Even from where I sat, I could hear his muffled sobs. His tears would hit the pavement before the rain, I predicted. Speaking of the weather... The clouds had begun to rumble, a guttural growl rolling over the city. The sky had darkened to a deep charcoal color, and the calm breezes that had caressed my face earlier had turned into angry, whipping winds that whistled along the ground.
It was going to rain.
The people across the street were beginning to jitter nervously, the tension in the air biting at their spines. The boy felt it too-- I could tell. He tilted at a crazy angle, leaning forward with a sharp cry. A woman screamed. With utmost care, I drew myself up off of the bench and collected my things, tucking my book safely under my jacked to protect it from the storm and opening my umbrella. Without looking back, I left as the scent of the air changed again; the boy hit the pavement just as the rain began to fall. &nbsp; &nbsp; The End.
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