A Summer sun spectacularly shone against the concrete bathed in divine white. Carefree days spent meandering in the Holy Ghost of its divine glory were common place beneath a sky so blue and radiant, storms dared not contemplate gathering. A new arrival, I ironed my freshly pressed wardrobe of hope and accessorized the ensemble with a smile and a gleam in my eye before bounding through the doors of my building and into the playground, my concrete Garden of Eden. Fortune bestowed the gift of conversational ease upon me and I found myself waving to familiar faces, striking up platitudes with valet's and doormen prior to inquiring about the children's new school year with the barista on a daily basis. This was the Summer of my contentment, and had it been a musical, the actors would freeze on the stage as I swept my arms aside and spun in the middle of Main street for my solo performance.
Night effortlessly coerced the light into portraying the day where the air became electric. Pubs delivered rock bands from their second floor windows while punk rock kids chained smoked on an outdoor patio beneath the rattling glass. In the square across the street, women and men of all ages tripped the light fantastic to the melody of a saxophone street performers finest hour. My neighborhood Cheers, with its corner spot and large pane windows, cast an amber glow on the concrete. I said bye to my new friends and sprung open the wooden doors, letting in all the night knew upon my exit.
The first suicide happened on a Sunday.
The local five and dime chain convenience store sat beneath one of the major loft high-rises down the way. Dependent on its minimum breadth of necessities, I visited daily. One Sunday afternoon, the air hinting a crisp breeze, I dutifully emerged from my high-rise, intent on returning to the pool with more carbonated refreshment within ten minutes time.
The street was barricaded by fire trucks protecting a lineage of police cruisers that gave birth to an ambulance flashing lights so silent the afternoon held its ears in an indiscernible agony. I inched closer, my feet to the fire of expectation, hoping a stolen glimpse of the brave men and women of my Concrete Garden would reveal them ferrying the helpless, emerging from a ravenous fire and down Jacobs' Ladders' parked divinely below their window ledges. All around me others peered with trepidation, bony hands covering their open mouths in frozen gasps as I joined the tip-toe dance.
The door to the store housed the most action. Whatever heroic efforts and operations were underway, they were underway directly around my current intention. Inching my way through the on-lookers, I crossed the street. In front of the bank, I saw steel blue and gray New Balance running shoes, one lace dangling untied edging out of a white blanket quickly overcome with a dark crimson. The same dark crimson pooled near the shoe, caving to gravity's demands forcing its travel down the sidewalk, cresting the curb, and continuing towards a sewer grate.
This man's journey started a beautiful birth, continued into a childhood filled with hope that relinquished its grip to an adolescence crafted by dreams, only to drift across a stained sidewalk and conclude in the overflow drainage system of our congruent bath run-off. Gravity carved the shortest route through Concrete Eden. Fire fighters milled about. Police officers placed their fingers and thumbs against their belts. The paramedics, waiting on the coroner and a CSI team, ensured the stability of a near-by bench as their job ran stolen into the gutter.
Across the street, at the tavern with the rock bands on the second floor, rockabilly women all dolled up hid faces trailing mascara beneath the loving arms of bearded men. Others shook while they fished for their cigarettes, found them, and then fished for them once more. It dawned this happened very recently, while I joked with friends on the deck, the rooftop sun burning our tan bodies darker than our sins. While I ran out of beer, he ran out of steam, save the last effort to hurl himself over the seventh floor railing of parking garage to die instantly on the steps of a glorified Walgreens.
The sight did not shake me, nor stir an overwhelming emotion of unsubstantiated grief. Death's presence is an uninvited guest but certainly no stranger. I've stared deep into those black eyes long enough to understand my future and yours with clarity and poise. It's startling for many to glimpse the reapers scythe after the chores were finished as it hung drying, but I quickly regarded this as another Event defining this unique new life.
Later, the train bells and whistles patiently pierced the silence. I laid in my bed and cried. The man was a stranger to me, maybe a stranger in this town, but there was certainly no loss or remorse. However, the veil rent itself in two beneath Sundays' afternoon sun. This place also had a Man Behind The Curtain, and a darker, seedy side I blissfully chose to ignore. Concrete Eden had weeds deep within the crevices, and that man saw them grow with his own eyes. Perhaps he tried to pull them out one by one and failed doing so. Maybe he bit from The City Tree of Knowledge and discovered such a grim facet, exiting through the fiery gates seemed the only conclusion.
I cried wondering if he glanced over his shoulder on the way down, seeing the Angels sword ablaze, knowing he'd never return. I cried because I came to understand he saw Concrete Eden for its crowning beauty, partook of its carnal knowledge and made a curtain call for the exit. Falling asleep I understood the truth lurking somewhere in this Eden, like its predecessor, a snake coiled in repose lay waiting.
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