Fallen

I am in St. Paul, returning from lunch with my publisher and members of his team. After two pleasant hours — which included my introduction to popovers (air-filled rolls bursting with fragrant steam) — we head back to the office for our afternoon sessions.

We take an old strip of road running alongside the Mississippi River, passing under a series of tall, narrow bridges — what my publisher refers to as “the low road.” Lush greenery surrounds us; overhead, puffy clouds drift in Minnesota’s bright sky.

We round a curve, happening up on what we think, at first, is an accident. The lone car ahead of us slams on its brakes. Perhaps twenty car lengths further down the road, another car does the same; that driver steers his car sideways in the road, blocking the progress of any further traffic.

Straining to look for stalled or battered cars, I take several seconds to see the man lying in the road.

Stretched out in the left-hand lane, he looks completely relaxed: arms lie close to his side, his legs are splayed, his head turns gently to one side. His brown hair is thinning; beneath his high forehead, he has handsome features: a thin nose, full lips, high cheekbones, clear skin. A bright sports shirt covers his slender torso. For a moment, I wonder if he stopped to help, saw something disturbing, and, nauseated, decided to lie down.

Then, as we draw closer, three odd details emerge at once. His khaki slacks are around his ankles, exposing his white jockey shorts and bare legs. Only one shoe is on; the other lies on the pavement some fifteen feet away.

Off to one side, hidden by his body until I’m too close to stop myself from seeing it: a spray of human tissue, fresh, pink, and wet.

I get out of the car and ask the driver closest to the man whether anyone has called 911. The man, white around the mouth, nods. His hands shake. He swallows hard and speaks without looking at me. “He just jumped.”

My head snaps up. A hundred feet above us, a span bridge slices the sky in half. I can hear the distant traffic, a whispering sound, like distant surf.

I trace the route of the dead man’s fall, from the concrete above to the asphalt below. I wonder what drove this decision, what tragedy or series of tragedies pushes someone to take that last step into oblivion. I wonder if, as he fell, a solution occured to him … or if, granted the opportunity, he would have changed his mind.