Bridges to Bradford

Two young gay men journey to the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco with intentions to end their lives, but end up discovering love and new lives in each other instead.

Part One:

75 MPH. That was roughly the speed at which Patrick anticipated his body would hit the

water just seconds after leaping from the Golden Gate Bridge. The force of his body slamming against

the water's surface should prove efficient enough to kill him on impact, but he knew there was a fair

chance that he might not be so lucky. If death was not instantaneous, (and given his usual luck it wouldn't be), then he could expect to

find himself paralyzed in agonizing pain as he was sucked down into the murky, muddy depths.

Recovery of his remains was unlikely. Of the thousands who had leaped to their deaths from the bridge

before him, many had never been found.

That was assuming that anyone had ever thought to search for them there in the first place. He

imagined that there very well could be untold numbers of poor missing souls trapped in their muddy

graves deep beneath the water's surface. Meanwhile their loved ones were forever none the wiser, probably holding onto some shred of hope that they would be found alive someday. Patrick had taken precautions to prevent such maddening turmoil from infecting his friends and

family after he was gone. Fortunately, he didn't have many of the former, and he was close enough to

being estranged from the latter to ensure that no one would stand in the way of his plans.

He had spent weeks writing draft after draft of rambling suicide letters, none of them close to

being worthy of being his final words to the world.

It seemed the more words he used to try to explain his final actions, the less sense it all made.

He refused to run the risk of sounding like a melodramatic, melancholy teenage poet to those left

behind. He had spent his entire life not being taken seriously. A tone deaf goodbye letter would only

ensure that he would suffer the same treatment in death.

He hadn't traveled much in his lifetime, but that didn't bother him much. What he had managed

to see of the world mostly from the window of his television screen was enough to dampen his once

adventurous journeyman spirit. Get on a plan, grandma blows you and the rest of the unsuspecting

Christian passengers up. Go to the big city and get mugged and beaten to death on the subway. Go

knock on the neighbors door asking for sugar and get your head blown off your shoulders for

trespassing while black.

He knew he was fixating on the worst of scenarios the news stations broadcast day after day, but in this

world one could never be too cautious. Besides, if he anyone was going to end his life it was going to

be him.

He had only arrived in San Francisco the day before and had already found the culture shock

somewhat jarring. What with hailing from a small middle of nowhere town called Lizard Lick, North

Carolina, he had rarely ever seen so many people all jumbled together in one place. For all the people

rushing about in the sunny streets towards their likely uninspiring destinations, very few of them

bothered to offer him even a passing glance, let alone nod a friendly hello.

In fact about the only real human interaction he did see was between apparent families with

small children, some dreamy lovers still in their honeymoon phase, and loudly ranting disheveled

homeless people who appeared unaware that they were talking to nobody but themselves.

He shuddered at the thought of becoming one of them someday if he allowed himself to stick around

for the natural duration of his lifetime.

After all, the groundwork was already there. Diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, chronic

depression, and often nearly debilitating anxiety, there weren't many avenues for someone of his mental

and emotional discord to venture down ultimately. At least in the past when he had spent days talking aloud to himself alone in his apartment he had down

it in the privacy of his own home. That was no longer an option as of one week earlier, however. Unbeknownst to his family, he had fallen way behind on rent, and dug himself into a grave of credit

debt that only full-blown bankruptcy could possibly rescue him from.

He had considered that option, of course, but ultimately didn't see the use. Instead, he decided to move

all of his possessions into a storage unit back home in North Carolina, rented a car with the one credit

card he had that still worked, and drove across the country to sunny California.

He could admit that his method of transportation had not been he most practical, but hell, when

was he ever going to get another opportunity to take in the scenic beauty of the land of the red, white,

and blue?

Quite honestly, he hadn't seen much of interest on his route westward. Somehow all of the

endless highways and byways had seemed to render much of the American landscapes indecipherable

from one city to the next. He had stopped only once to get some sleep in his car in the parking lot of a

24-hour Walmart in what appeared to a nice enough community to avoid suspicion under the cover of

nighttime.

He hit the gas pedal right at sunrise, however, not wanting to push his luck. One anonymous 911

call to the cops about a suspicious young black man loitering in his rented lime green Ford Fiesta

hatchback would almost certainly throw off his whole plan. Keeping a low profile was a must.

It was easy enough to do. He had spent most of his life trying to bring as little attention to

himself as possible. Then one day it dawned on him, rather harshly, that no one was the least bit

interested in him in the first place. His self-imposed isolation had rendered him a sort of social leper, one who could disappear for a couple of weeks without triggering any alarm or concerns about his

whereabouts or well-being.

That was all the time he needed to set his plan into action and finally follow through with it.

He had to admit that it was with both a sense of melancholy and relief that he at last watched

the monstrous red bridge come into view. He had parked his car several miles away and opted to hike

to rest of the way to the bridge. He had intended to carry a backpack full of snacks, his journal, and cell

phone with him along the way, but somehow at the very last minute it had all felt unnecessary. So onward he walked through the bustling streets of San Fran with nothing but the shirt on his

back, and a pocket full of his favorite blueberry chewing gum. He savored the sweetness of each piece

as walked along, spitting it out after the flavor was gone and then replacing it.

By the time he reached the edge of the bright red bridge walkway he was down to less than half

a pack.

That should be enough to get my by, he thought. After all, in thirty minutes he would be dead,

and dead men don't chew gum.

Author's Note

Part Two is to come soon!