THE BRIDGE

Dew glistened on the weeds lining the trail.

“I don’t know how you do it, working two jobs,” Lachlan said. The still, cold air welcomed conversation.

Cole jogged beside him. Work wasn’t what had him down; down was the only mood his brain offered. “You worked all the way through college; that’s basically two jobs.”

“That’s not even comparable. I was working for my uncle. It seems like your supervisor hates you, and, at your restaurant job, your coworker literally slandered you.”

Cole couldn’t dispute that. His boss did hate him. Twice, she had asked his opinion, and he had told her the truth. Thrice, he had corrected her sloppy work. So, she retaliated, looking for any loophole to avoid giving him hours. He couldn’t do anything about it; he was stuck there until he finished his apprenticeship. That’s why he had to work at the restaurant as well. There his coworkers mistook his silence for judgment. Nonetheless, Cole was content. Things weren’t ideal at work, granted, but he was getting through his apprenticeship, and he was making enough to support himself and his mom.

Lachlan asked, “What are you going to do about it?”

“At the restaurant? Nothing. I won’t be there long. At TrueSpark…” Cole panted up a steep section of the trail. “…I talked to my higher-ups. They’re going to handle my performance reviews, so that’s good.”

“But you still have to work under Rosy? What stinks about your situation is that you don’t have any camaraderie.”

“What good is camaraderie?” Cole muttered. Would it help his depression? He doubted it; he had learned to distrust his imbalanced emotions and the distorted thoughts that they inspired. The body was a machine. Just as people often had to follow special diets to deal with allergies and deficiencies, they had to make special efforts to deal with the idiosyncrasies of their brains. Cole conceptualized his depression as a separate spring of thoughts. Though he knew that image wasn’t psychologically accurate, it helped him separate his self-concept from his depression and prompted him check his thoughts against what he knew to be true.

He broke the quiet. “I appreciate you meeting me out here each week.”

“No, thank you for inviting me,” Lachlan said. “I needed a kick in the pants to start exercising.”

They were breathing heavily now, but they pressed on until they reached the bridge. This was where they would turn around. Cole sat down on the side of the bridge, catching his breath. He looked out over the small woodland. There was no sign of the urban sprawl only a few miles up the road. He looked down at the dry, rocky riverbed below.

Major depressive disorder filled his head with a lot of twisted ideas: jumping off this bridge for one. Every time he came here, he found himself wondering on what conditions he would take his own life. This depressive episode had been going strong for six weeks now. Another twisted idea said that he would never feel any other way. Still another said that each episode would only get worse.

He wouldn’t jump, of course, no matter how terrible he felt; it would be too hurtful to his mom and to Lachlan. Love for others made it impossible. Assuming the act itself did not cause permanent damage to others, I could only jump if it were the only good deed in my power. Even if there were only one tiny thing I could do, it would always be worth doing that first.

“It’s a beautiful morning,” Lachlan said, stepping up to the bridge’s side. He had downed one of his water bottles.

Cole agreed. Turning his attention to the songbirds and fall leaves, he smiled. He didn’t have to feel happy to be content. Twisted ideas couldn’t stop him from taking note of what was good.

Lachlan took a picture with his phone, no doubt to send to Charity, and asked, “What are you thinking about?”

Should I answer that? Cole didn’t know where the conversation would go, but he decided that his friend could handle the truth. “Jumping.”

“Like… to your death?”

Cole nodded.

“Why?”

“Because depression. That’s how it kills people: it makes death seem like the only way to get relief.” He had tried antidepressants and suffered through every side-effect in the book.

“You mentioned dealing with depression, but you never seem depressed. Do you feel that bad?”

“Sometimes.” Cole stood and stepped away from the edge to reassure his friend.

“What does it feel like?”

“You must have felt a bit depressed before. Amplify that to the point that you would actually throw yourself off this bridge.”

They started back down the trail, jogging but at a leisurely pace.

“I can’t imagine that,” Lachlan replied, shaking his head. “I don’t think I’d ever do that.”

“You would.”

“You don’t know that.”

“But I do.” Cole stated it like a basic fact. “I’ve seen your level of self-control—”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Cole kept talking through the interruption: “…maybe about 30, which is pretty good but not quite good enough to survive this.”

“What is 30?”

“The average cumulative pressure you can withstand. Pressure can be anything pushing you away from your convictions: emotions, fatigue, social expectations, anything. It’s an average. I know you could withstand almost any pressure to act unethically in your workplace, yet you crumble under the social pressure to appear ‘nice.’ ”

“That’s not true… I don’t think,” Lachlan retorted halfheartedly. “What number would you give yourself?”

“I’ve told you all that would be useful to you.”

“What!” The refusal seemed condescending. Lachlan nudged the shorter man. “Oh, come on. How do you know what would be useful to me?”

“I don’t. I’m just making an educated guess.”

“If you’re guessing, then you have to admit that it might be useful.”

“Sure, but I have to follow my conscience.”

“Please?”

Cole changed the topic: “How’s Charity? You saw her yesterday, right?”

Lachlan sighed but let it go. He knew he would never force an answer out of Cole. “She’s good but having a rough go of it at work—long hours. We had a nice evening, though. I took her to Benji’s. You’ve been there, right?”

“Yeah, I introduced you. I always get their Monte Cristo.”

A mischievous grin streaked across Lachlan’s face. “What number would you give Charity? That’d be useful for me to know, right? I am planning to marry her.”

Cole rolled his eyes but considered it. “I don’t know her that well. I will say this: you gravitate to people strong enough to resist social pressure. You crumble under that pressure, so you like people who don’t place it upon you.”

Lachlan raised his bushy eyebrows but didn’t respond right away. “I guess that makes sense, actually.”

“Did the engagement ring arrive?”

“Not yet. It should be here on Monday.”

The trail narrowed through a set of steep switchbacks. Coming up next to Cole again, Lachlan asked, “So, how should I deal with social pressure?"

“You need better objectives. Instead of trying to be liked and accepted, prioritize honesty or positive influence.”

“That makes sense.” Lachlan nodded approvingly. “Are those your objectives?”

“No.”

Cole had tried to say it with finality, but Lachlan still asked, “Well, what are yours?”

“They amount to something like philanthropic manipulation. Before you ask, I am not going to explain what that entails.”