Here’s this week’s story. What say you?
By Laura McHale Holland
Letting go is like trying to peel your skin off, Jeffrey thought, his hands gripping the slender ledge at the bottom of the overpass, his feet dangling above a freeway ominously empty at 8 a.m.
“I know it hurts, son, but you’ve gotta hold on,” said an old man in the 49ers cap. He had called 911 and brought the morning commute to a standstill. “Hold on, and it’ll get better. I swear.”
The old man was leaning over the rail stretching down, but his hands were about a foot shy of Jeffrey’s wrists. Jeffrey grunted. His arms ached. His fingers and ears itched. Tears rolled down his face. It was supposed to have been over long before the sunrise, the TV news coverage, the traffic jams, the negotiator striding up to the old man, ordering him to step away.
A helicopter hovered overhead. The old man straightened up and stepped back. The negotiator cleared his throat. Jeffrey loosened his grip, looking up at the helicopter’s blades slicing the clear blue sky as he fell backward, unaware that a net stretched below him just in time to break his fall, just in time to force him into another day.
The old man ripped off his cap, pulled a pen from his front pocket, scratched his phone number on the bill. He lunged back to the rail and tossed the cap over the edge. It floated down and landed on Jeffrey’s stomach as he bounced, disappointed, in the net.