Couldn’t Last

I lose balance and wobble a little bit. My feet fidget at the edge of the rail on top of the bridge twenty feet above the quiet water. A cute girl walks by with her dog just as I regain my balance. Fuck.

What must she be thinking? The sun set minutes ago. A demon crescent moon is eyeing the world from halfway up the sky. It’s a windy fall day in a tiny town that’s just a part of another equally unimpressive town in one of the bottom ten states in the country. And here’s this fucking guy, this adult, standing on top of a narrow rail on a bridge in tennis shorts and a workout shirt.

It’s nine fifteen on a Thursday night. My 41st Thursday of the year. During forty of which I wanted to quit my job. The same job I’m trying my hardest to convince myself to quit right now. On top of this bridge. Every time my brain tries to shove the fear down by telling me to relax, or take a second to think about it, or that it took sixteen months of hell applying to jobs to get it, or that they pay me more money than I know what to do with, I reach deep with a mental ladle and scoop that fear right back up to the top. I shiver. I hate this.

Fuck decisions. Especially hard ones. I don’t even know what I’d do after quitting. I barely got this job; how would I find something else? And I like the money. I haven’t spent much, but I like not worrying. I can buy stuff, or drinks, or food, or travel with people or to see people and I don’t have to worry. I’ll make it back in a week. But I hate all the other moments.

Sitting in my car in traffic tired, heading somewhere I don’t want to be, doing work that doesn’t matter for a company who barely knows I exist. And then after 8 hours it’s back in the car for more traffic only to get home and be too tired to live the life I was working in order to have. Even coffee breaks with work friends have lost their charm. I don’t want to be there. Somehow even bringing coffee in a to go cup which I used to love, I don’t know why it always made things seem better, is just annoying now. These nine months, nine fucking months, have sucked my soul from my body and I’m going to get out. To do what, I don’t know, but something. To get away. To live.

But the cute girl with her snack dog doesn’t know any of that. She also doesn’t know that I’m listening to the song. My song. At least for the last few days. The one that acts as the background to my thoughts, to my work, to my life. The song about losing control, moving too quickly and sliding forward until suddenly everything stops. Or maybe to her I’m a weirdo. That makes me smile. It would be hard not to be when I take most of a year to finally make a decision by standing on a bridge at night staring at the water listening to a single song on repeat.

I let the breeze run over me. My body tries to flow with it. I take deep breaths like someone about to jump into a pool for the first time thinking I’ll never get a breath again.

She must think I’m suicidal. Two kids were washed away after jumping off this bridge. From a lower spot even. The tides pulled them out and ate them whole. To her credit, I’m looking down watching the water. I wouldn’t be surprised if I jumped. Should I?

Nah.

My phone would get wet.

I have apple care.

But it doesn’t cover water damage.

Poo.

But it’s the IPhone 12, it’s water resistant.

The apple guy said he wouldn’t test it.

Not jumping then.

If I did it’d feel like the end of a successful movie. I got the confidence to quit my job, jump in the water and flash to me getting married, or with a great job, or happy.

I like being near the water and watching the horizon. I’m not sure why. I don’t like swimming much. But I love being close to the vastness of the waves.

Quit. Do it. We can. It’s just a job.

I want to be happy. I want to find where I belong.

It’s not here. Not in this town, or this state, or any of this. I’m not me here.

Here, I wear button downs and have a limited bandwidth, laugh about how shitty my company’s product is while I pay people to sell it to people who have no choice but to buy it, happy hours are filled with complaining about the people who make what would be an unfulfilling job stressful.

But they like me. They think I’m worth something. My boss is nice. He took a chance on me. He helped me, taught me, mentored me, protected me. He laughed with me. Made me feel like I belonged. He’s so kind. He seems to actually care. My whole team does. They help me, back me up in meetings and support me. It’s like a family I love and care for and like being around, but don’t want to be a part of because it’s not where I should be. They aren’t my people.

But they could be.

Oh it’d be so easy. Sooooooo easy. Like trading a kid candy in exchange for their healthy dinner. I’d climb the ranks making more money doing nothing of consequence for a company that can’t fail, and won’t change because why take risks when everything functions. I’d find an apartment. A nice one. In a good city. I’d meet more people, probably start wearing sweater vests (ew vests. I hate vests). I’d be near my family. I’d be close to my best friend. My life would be simple.

I’d start reading 85-92% of the front-page stories in the Wall Street Journal and New York Times. Maybe venturing to the books or arts section if I’m feeling spicy one day. I’d hate my job, and my commute and carrying that stupid pass to get in, and walking through the front doors and paying $10 for sub average lunch and making small talk with people in the elevators and sitting in my cubicle with the name tag I had to make myself because they spelled my name wrong and logging in on that laptop and checking my email just for people to complain about issues from before I started working there, issues related to them not giving me the right information or issues that were because their bosses didn’t seem to communicate with them, and organizing work drinks, or events because a bagel a month was about as much culture as the place had, but otherwise my life would be a breeze. My retirement fund would only grow. I’d get so very into wine I bet. Maybe join a softball team. Mingle with the up-and-coming elites of the North East. But that’s not who I want to be.

Who do you want to be? What do you want?

Not this. None of this.

No say it. Say what you want.

I don’t know.

Yes you do. So fucking say it. The cute girls gone. You don’t have to worry.

Water carries sound well.

Who cares.

It’s late.

Wake the fuckers up. We’re getting out of here.

That’s not nice.

Say the words. Say the fucking words. Make it so you can’t take them back. Start the next adventure.

Where are we going?

Anywhere. Somewhere. To find where we belong. But first you have to tell our future you’re coming for it.

I’m going to quit.

Louder.

No.

Yes.

I’m going to fucking quit.