He removed a half-burnt cigarette from his shirt pocket and carefully lit it, making sure to keep his hand steady. He smoked slowly, observing the familiar skyline with detached interest. Even through his rum induced haze, he could clearly remember a time when this view had awed and inspired him. He used to come out to the roof via the lounge, which now sat darkened behind him, politely refusing a game of pool from one of the other residents. He had not come up there to play pool. Sometimes he went up there to write, or to think, or just because it was a beautiful day (or evening). This night, however, he did not intend to think or write. He intended to jump.

   Three years before, Jacob Durning came to New York to pursue a dream, as many people do. He was twenty-five and fresh out of college with a degree in journalism. He decided that Manhattan was the place to go if you wanted to be a writer. His true love was fiction, but that, he figured, would have to come later, when he was financially secure enough to devote his time to something longer than articles and essays. Around the time he graduated from Ohio State University, he was also finishing up his first novel, Megalopolis. It was a gritty combination of science fiction and social commentary, inspired by writers like William Gibson and Philip K. Dick. The day before his train departed for New York, he printed a copy of the manuscript and put it in a leather satchel that he wore nearly every day since his junior year. He figured it couldn’t hurt to have a copy on hand, just in case.

   New York seemed to receive him warmly into her electric streets. He remembered waiting with anticipation as the train neared the city an hour before dawn, watching for the Manhattan skyline to appear in the distance. It never did, though. The train did not stop in Manhattan, but beneath it. He stepped onto the platform and followed the stairs above, into Penn Station proper. It was vast and barren up there, except for the few people who had exited the train with him. Along the walls and pillars, vagrants slept in their dirty sleeping bags, dreaming of high-rise condominiums and bottles of champagne. As he made his way across the station (following two women he hoped were heading to the street), he counted at least ten men who made this underground maze their palace.

   Before long, the women led him to a flight of wide concrete steps that rose to Eighth Avenue. He stepped onto the sidewalk and lit a cigarette. He was immediately charged by the vibe of the place. The air itself seemed electric, almost palatable; something you could taste and absorb.
He called his cousin, Ben, and took a cab to the East Village. For the next couple of months he made the brown leather couch in Ben’s living room his bed.

   He found a night job at Santino’s Pizza a few blocks from the apartment. He found side jobs writing for periodicals and literary journals, and even got an article published in The Village Voice, which gained a small bit of recognition. It was shortly after that when he met Gwen at a Halloween party in Greenwich Village, which he had almost given up on finding due to bad directions. It was held in a small apartment not quite capable of fitting all the guests that had been invited, causing the party to spill out into the narrow hallway. Jacob had to go cheap on the costume. He opted for a wig with an axe protruding from it and a blood stained T-shirt. When funds were short, the murder victim costume was the best way to go. He soon spotted a girl dressed as Rainbow Brite—which she had managed to make very sexy—and vowed he would speak to her as soon as she was done talking to the girl with the pink wig and the cat o’ nine tails. He wandered around for a while, drink in hand, looking for Jim and Donna, the latter of whom had jotted down the questionable directions. After twenty minutes of feeling distinctly out-of-place, he was approached by Ms. Brite.

   “You look lost,” she said, smiling sweetly. She was very beautiful.

   “Oh, just looking for some friends. I don’t think they’re here.”

   “Who?”

   “Jim and Donna.”

   “Oh, they’re late-comers. I’m Gwen. My best friend is throwing the party.” She gestured to Pink Wig.

   They shook hands and spent the rest of the night talking. Jim and Donna never showed. Gwen, it turned out, was just the kind of woman Jacob liked, except he was never sure who that type of woman was until he met her. They quickly became a couple. They shared similar taste in books, movies, and television. She was a very intelligent woman, more intelligent than him, in fact (though he would never admit it). She was a student at NYU, majoring in psychology, and well on her way to graduating with honors. She was also the daughter of an obscenely rich businessman, who doted on her every chance he got and succumbed to her every wish. Her apartment was huge and beautiful and filled with expensive things thanks to him. When Jacob first met her father, the man was kind to him, because Jacob made his daughter happy. But his kindness was a mask that was quickly shed. When Gwen asked Jacob to move in, her father agreed (it was he who paid for it), but with feigned acceptance which Jacob saw through easily.

   Things began to look up after that. He became a contributing writer for The New York Post, which gained him recognition for other publications. He became well liked by the paper’s editor who had a friend in the book publishing business. Before he knew it, he was signing a contract for Megalopolis and his book went into pre-production. For months, he was riding on a cloud. Life was good. By the time Christmas rolled around the thought of proposing crossed his mind, but the prospect of buying a ring was an expense that would take months to save up for. Aside from that, he didn’t want to jump the gun too soon and scare her off. So he began to set aside a little bit of money each month and when he had enough for a nice ring, he would see how things looked relationship-wise. Maybe it would be the right time by then. But things never made it that far. As the months passed, Jacob was finding it harder and harder to keep his head above water. The journalism jobs dried up, leaving only what he made at the pizza place, which was minimal at best. His first royalty payment for Megalopolis was very nice, but living in Manhattan had a way of eating up a New Yorker’s money in no time at all. His funds were dwindling, and he was having trouble paying the bills. Gwen’s father had no problem expressing his irritation about it.

   You need to start bringing in some money for yourself, he would say, I pay the bills for Gwen, not you.

   Gwen slowly became more distant and less affectionate towards Jacob. He attributed this to pressure from Daddy to “get rid of the loser” (or so he imagined him saying.). He came to understand that her father had a significant influence on the decisions she made. His generosity and affection for his daughter was genuine, Jacob had no doubt of that, but he was very domineering, a trait that seemed to motivate everything he did. They got into many fights over that, and Jacob soon realized that she refused to see just how controlling her father was. He knew the best thing to do was move out. He didn’t want to break it off with her, not at all, but his living there put a big strain on their relationship. It would actually be better for them if they lived in separate places. The problem was that he couldn’t afford to move anywhere. He had already dipped into the ring fund, which had only bloomed to about one thousand dollars.

   The weeks rolled on and the distance between the couple became greater. Jacob took up a second job, which he hoped would improve things. He was making a greater contribution to the bills which he figured would relieve some of the pressure her father was putting on them, easing their relationship back to what it once was, but things continued to worsen and Jacob began to frequent a local pub more and more often. The alcohol helped to relieve some of his anxiety, but ultimately made things worse. Before long, coming home drunk became a regularity.

   One night, a month later, Jacob got an e-mail from his publisher that his book had gone out of print. Apparently, sales had started off strong, but had been steadily dropping since Christmas. He left for the bar before Gwen got in. He came home in the middle of the night to find his things piled in the hallway. Gwen told him it was over and that she wanted him to leave. He did so, but not before calling her every filthy name he could think of before storming out. He found a hotel to stay at, but his drinking became steadily worse. After he got fired from Santino’s for being frequently late, he got a job as a dishwasher at a steak restaurant. Three weeks later he was sent home for coming to work inebriated. He was told not to come back. Eventually, work became impossible to find due to his deteriorating condition and the money dried up. By the end of the year he found himself wandering the streets, often in an alcoholic haze. He slept in Penn Station often--one more resident in the palace of broken dreams. When he was out of money, he would panhandle for change to get the next bottle. He found himself in jail more than a few times and became a regular visitor to the nearest mission or shelter for his daily meal. It occurred to him in brief moments of clarity that, to coin a phrase his mother often used, he had fallen far beyond the grace of God. She had used that phrase often in regard to Rock and Roll, that promiscuous Sandra girl from down the street and just about anything that didn’t involve Jesus in some way. His mother’s voice would echo in his ears, especially lately, like a lost memory that had just been rediscovered.

   It had been three years since he came to New York with a Journalism Degree and an Honor Society certificate. This is not where he pictured himself at twenty-seven – a vagrant roaming the streets of Manhattan, looking for the next bottle in which to drown his sorrows. He was a wretch, and he knew it.
Earlier that night, before he made his way to the rooftop, Jacob was deciding how to acquire the next bottle when he happened upon a crumpled up fifty dollar bill beside the curb. He snatched it up, a smile spreading across his face, and headed for the nearest liquor store. He decided upon a bottle of Captain Morgan for the evening, found a dark alley where he wouldn’t be hassled, and refueled.

   Once he was well into the bottle and sufficiently drunk, he stumbled onto the sidewalk and headed south. He eventually found his way to Rector Street, to the high rise where Gwen lived. He had decided, in some kind of drunken logic, that he would win her back. He staggered across the street and through the glass doors, which should have been locked. As he entered the foyer, he realized two things: the first was that he could no longer just waltz in and greet the doorman with a cheerful “Hey, Steve” before proceeding to the elevators. The second thing was that Steve was not in his usual spot behind the desk. There was no one at all in the foyer. This filled him with greater confidence, convincing him that fate was on his side.

   Gwen was not home, nor did the apartment seem to be her home any longer. On the door was a Christmas wreath. Gwen was Jewish.

   Fate, it seemed, had led him to the roof instead.

   He leaned over the rail, wanting to vomit but producing nothing but dry heaves. His cheeks were streamed with tears as he coughed and gagged.

   When the man came through the lounge door, making no attempt to be quiet, Jacob didn’t notice at all. Until he spoke.

   “Do you plan to jump?” the man asked. “If you are, I would advise against it.” His voice was deep and oddly soothing.

   Jacob turned his head, both hands still clasping the rail.

   “Why?” he asked.

   “It’s a very long fall. Long enough to consider why you are ending your life, long enough for doubt to creep into your mind. You may realize that you want to live, but the time for self-reflection will have come and gone. Then you will strike the pavement and your body will burst open. ‘Too bad,’ people will say, ‘he might have made something of his life if he hadn’t pissed it all away on booze.’”

   “Go to Hell. You dunnow shit about me.”

   “I know what I see right now, and I can help you.”

   “How canya do that?”

   The man reached into the inner pocket of his coat and produced a business card. He tossed it on the glass patio table between them.

   Jacob released the railing and gazed at the card. “Whassat?”

   “That’s an opportunity.”

   “To do what?”

   “To get back on your feet and continue what you came here for. To be a writer again.”

   Jacob looked at the man, unsure how to respond. Then something else held his tongue. It was at that moment that he saw the man clearly for the first time since the conversation began. He was an astonishingly handsome man. His features were smooth and flawless. He had a presence about him that seemed to exude strength and wisdom. He stood there silently, expressing no obvious emotion, like a statue of a Greek god. He wore a black overcoat, a black suit and a navy blue tie. His long, dark hair was straight and smooth, and came to rest on his shoulders. He wore leather gloves on his hands, which were folded over his mid section. His thumbs were pressed together so that they formed the shape of an inverted V.

   “Take it” he said with a single nod towards the business card.

   Jacob picked it up. The card was white with simple block lettering:

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