My apologies to great questions for small answers

“I’M GOING TO JUMP ANYWAY!” says the man. A strong wind blows in his gray face. His glasses hang crooked over his nose, his gray hair dances on his wet bald head. Both hands hold the railing. His body leans forward. Below him roars the dark river water.

Clouds slide like lumbering freighters across a merciless sky. With my hands deep in my jacket pockets and my hood pulled tight over my anxious head, I try to make contact with the desperate man. His back is turned to me. Only when I stand next to him, and his face is turned towards me, do we manage to have some kind of dialogue. But he makes that clear. He has absolutely no need for that at the moment. I just stare motionless at the back of his overcoat.

“LEAVE ME ALONE,” he shouts all of a sudden. I see that his lips are bleeding. Snot and tears are blown from his nose and eyes. I move a little closer. Can I touch him? Or will this be the reason to jump? Because he does not want any interference?

I look around to see if I can expect help. But the spot on the bridge is too remote to hope that someone is out and about in this bad weather. To walk a dog. Or to run. If someone is running, it will be to get home as quickly as possible. On to the fireplace.

This thought occurs to me. If only I had stayed home. If only I hadn't felt that indefinable urge to go outside at the beginning of the evening. To go for a walk. Because the confinement of home and hearth made me feel oppressed, anguished. In order not to suffocate, I had to breathe in fresh air. I had to let my thoughts run free before my own bleak introspections would strangle me.

So, I had to get out. I could no longer find peace in all those Christmas songs, decorations, hot drinks, and sweet films. Where people are supposed to come to rest, to contemplate around this time of year, I feel unrest, panic, and confusion. The only thing that helps is to find space. And then it does not matter whether it rains, storms or hails. The desire to go outside is simply too strong.

The suicidal man abruptly starts coughing. He barks like a sick dog. And he keeps coughing. Instinctively he turns around, staggers on a narrow concrete ledge, takes a deep breath and tries to stop the wild coughing. He looks at me even more desperately. His chin drops to his chest, his mouth is wide open. He keeps sounding like a wild animal that is getting sicker and sicker.

“I HAVE SWEETS!” I say. Now it is my turn to shout. “MAYBE THAT WILL HELP TO STOP YOUR COUGHING?”

He makes a defensive gesture. But when he seems to choke on the coughing fit, he turns to me and reaches out a trembling hand. Is this the moment I should grab him? That I should pull him towards me so he can’t jump anymore? And – as a result - I save his life?

I search my trouser pocket for the little bag of throat lozenges. I myself have been suffering from a tickly cough lately. I put two sweets in his wet hand. In order to eat the lozenges, he has to turn around. Leaning against the railing with his belly, he stuffs the sweets into his bloody mouth. Swallowing is difficult. He closes his eyes, presses his torn lips together. It helps. The barking stops.

Apparently, his desire to die isn’t that great after all, it flashes through my mind. Whether you die by drowning or by suffocation, the end result is the same. But I am not going to get into this quasi-intellectual discussion with him now. With his face turned towards me at this right moment, I notice how mercilessly the rain beats against his cheeks, his forehead, his skull, his eyes. He looks like a secret prisoner who is being tortured for a long time.

“IT’S NOT NECESSARILY THESE DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS!” the man says. “I CAN LIVE WITH THAT. THE COMMERCIALITY, THE SUPERFICIALITY, THE CHEAP EMOTIONS! I HAVE EVEN ACCEPTED BEING ALONE! BUT NOW THAT I’M GETTING OLDER, I WONDER: WHAT IS THE ALTERNATIVE TO THIS CHEAP LIFE? THE LIGHT MUSIC, THE EXPENSIVE FOOD, THE GIFTS? IS EXISTENCE JUST ONLY ABOUT SUPERFICIALITY?”

His throat grows hoarse from shouting. Even now that I am next to him, I can barely hear him. The storm wind presses, collides, and pushes on our thin bodies. The rain pelts down on the asphalt. As if someone is dropping a gigantic number of nails from the sky.

“EVEN THOUGH LIFE OFTEN SEEMS MEANINGLESS,” says the victim, “I HAVE ALWAYS ENJOYED MY JOB!”

He falls silent. We look at each other like two musicians who no longer know which part to play. My head is pounding. As if I had drunk far too much last night. I realize that I have no time to lose. One wrong word and there is no salvation possible.

“WHAT KIND OF JOB DO YOU DO?” I want to know. I make a last-ditch effort to rise above the sound of the storm wind.

“I WORK IN THE ADVERTISING BUSINESS,” he roars. “I WRITE TEXTS FOR CAMPAIGNS. I COME UP WITH CONCEPTS FOR NEW SERVICES AND PRODUCTS. I GIVE DEPTH AND VALUE TO ORDINARY WORDS!”

A whole speech follows. His throat becomes hoarser and hoarser. But I let him talk, shout, scream, argue. As long as he is speaking, there is life. From the snippets I catch, I understand that large parts of his current work have been taken over by Chat GPT-like systems this year. At a fraction of the previous costs, communication agencies can now reproduce texts, wordings, and content.

“IT IS ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE I WILL BE THANKED FOR THE HONOR. I WILL BE DISCHARGED. LIKE A DEFECTIVE COMPUTER,” he says.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a freighter approaching. Colorful lights hang from the side of the boat. Can I indicate from my position on the bridge to the skipper that I have a man with me who is about to commit suicide? Should I wave? Jump?

Through the rain and the mist, I read the name of the ship. Freedom. The string of led lights reflects on the rough water. A sign that there is still hope in this dark and gray world? Is that the message I have to tell the poor man on this bleak, mean December evening?

“THERE IS NO FUTURE FOR ME ANYMORE!” concludes the disappointed fellow. “I HAVE BECOME REDUNDANT!”

This happens to me more often. Although I am naturally optimistic person and want the world to believe that I am a real trooper, my gullible nature is just a thin layer. In many cases, I realize all too quickly that the pessimists are right when it comes to the facts, the events. Much of our existence is pointless, futile, stupid.

Despite the idea that I should know better, I am infected by the man's negativity. It is as if he opens a room in which the gloomy, the pale, the melancholy can be admired. And before I know it, I am standing next to him and want to jump too. What do I have to live for? What monsters sleep under my bed? The threat of war, the famines, the environmental disasters, the confusion in international politics, starvation, rape, air pollution, poverty, corruption?

“WE ARE PURPOSELESS DUST ON THE SKIRT OF THE UNIVERSE,” says the man. “IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT WE THINK, WHAT WE WANT, WHAT WE DO. WE ARE NOT HEARD, NOT SEEN, NOT BELIEVED, NOT ADMIRED.”

Then it is up to me to also put my two cents in when it comes to listing miserable things. “I BAKED CHRISTMAS COOKIES THIS AFTERNOON. AT LEAST THAT’S WHAT I WANTED TO. I DIDN’T SET THE OVEN CORRECTLY. WITH THE RESULT, THE COOKIES ARE TOO DARK, TOO BURNT.”

“THOSE COOKIES, DO YOU STILL HAVE THEM? OR DID YOU THROW THEM AWAY?” he wants to know. I look at him in surprise. For the first time I notice a faint smile on his face.

He turns around and climbs over the railing like a fanatic gymnast. He pulls on my coat so that I have to make the same movement. He explains that his mother was an extremely bad cook. At Christmas, her cookies always failed. Too dark, too burnt. But he has fond memories of them. He would really like to taste those cookies again, before he jumps. After which we walk down the bridge, arm in arm. Against the wind, against life. Into the future.