Crooked City

Good air is being wasted with every breath, the man told himself as he zipped up his jacket.

A thick fog had rolled into the bay late in the afternoon, slowing the San Franciscan commute. A sea of bright red lights lit up the span of the Golden Gate Bridge, forcing the man to bide his time until traffic thinned. The upside was visibility. It had been reduced to roughly twenty-five feet. He couldn’t ask for better.

The throngs of tourists crossing the bridge that day had dissipated when the fog appeared—no pictures for Instagram—though there were always a few who toughed it out. As the man walked, he passed several groups of people and even more couples walking hand in hand. Seeing them reminded him of his ex-girlfriend. Sometimes they had held hands when they walked, but it wasn’t often. She would always shake her hand loose shortly after he had grabbed hold of it. She’d become deft at keeping something in her hand, usually her cell phone, to prevent him from even trying. No matter which side of her he had walked on, her hand was always occupied by something other than his.

It took roughly an hour to walk the almost two mile length of the bridge. The eastern side of the bridge, facing the bay, was reserved for pedestrians and afforded beautiful views of the city skyline. Bicyclists used the western side of the bridge, facing the Pacific Ocean.

He stopped at the halfway point and pretended to look at the city lights, dim through the fog. The wind blew stronger than normal that night, whistling loudly through the railings. He rubbed his hands together for warmth. It was 8 p.m.

The sidewalks on the bridge would officially close in an hour. Automatic gates at either end of the bridge would shut at that time, but the bridge was still accessible on foot through the roadway.

The security cameras on the bridge were focused on the towers—to deter people from climbing them—and on the entranceway. There were security patrols across the bridge—GGB officers on motorized scooters—but the bridge was far too long for them to be everywhere. The man wasn’t worried about any of these barriers. Pushing a person off the bridge took only seconds.

His cell phone chimed, and a notification appeared on the screen. He cleared it and pocketed his phone. He checked his watch again. He wanted to be off the bridge before the gates closed. He turned around and started the walk back to the San Francisco side. 

Up ahead, a woman came into view. She was alone, her back to him and her head hanging down. She walked slowly, and her arms appeared to be crossed over her chest. As he neared, he saw that she wore blue jeans and a black pea coat. Her long, dark hair flowed from her beanie. He checked his phone once more. Then he looked behind him. No one was near him. Cars were still zooming past, but he couldn’t control that. No matter—he would be quick.

He watched as the woman pulled out her cell phone from her jacket, glanced at it, and then tucked it away. She stopped and leaned against the railing, staring off into the gray mist. He kept his head down as he approached. His heart beat harder. His arms tingled. It was going to happen. 

She was twenty feet away. 

He flexed his hands, repeatedly, tightening them into balled fists to keep them limber despite the damp chill.

Fifteen feet away, he looked behind him once more. They were still alone.

Ten feet away, he paid extra attention to his steps. No shuffling. She continued to stare into the void.

Five feet away, he removed his hands from the pockets of his jacket. She still hadn’t noticed him.

Three steps away.

He clenched his jaw.

Two steps away.

He drew a deep breath.

One step away.

Lift and throw. Lift and throw.