That time I jumped off the roof of a bar

There is such a thing as that perfect drunk, when someone suggests you do something crazy and for a moment you think, “yeah, I’m totally gonna do that.”

I’ve always been the sensible one. The one that never did anything too crazy and always tried to drink a glass of water between drinks at the bar (or at least always planned on it). And in 2014, I wanted to be someone different. I wanted to be exciting and interesting – I wanted my own stories to tell.

I blame the boy--the boy that was more than a boy. He was the first person I had ever met that made me see the world in a different way. He showed me there was so much living left to do and so many ridiculous stories to be told. And when he told me his stories, he made me wish I had stories of my own (because until this point, I had only the stories of others to share).

It was a warm night in the summer and I’d convinced him to cab up to my house in the hood for dinner (no really, the hood--the “stabby” neighborhood). After eating, we headed to the local watering hole for a few PRBs, because obviously, it was going to be that kind of night.

We headed up to the roof and leaned against the wood railing of the bar, sipping from our tall boys. I looked out over the houses and down the crowded street. There were some guys loitering in front of the liquor store below, smoking and talking too loud. The bar behind me was a loud murmur compared to the traffic on a Saturday night.

“I feel like I never do anything daring,” I confided. “I’ve never talked myself out of a ticket in a language I didn’t speak or smuggled an emu into my friend’s backyard. Or run from the cops after stealing lumber from a construction yard. Or done anything worth telling anyone about.” (He had, of course, done all of those things.)

“You just have to do stuff,” he said. “What if, right now, you just jumped off this roof?”

“Here?” I looked down over the railing. There was a small ledge, only a single story tall. A number of buildings connected down the block. It wasn’t that high. “I could probably make it.”

“Do it.”

“In front of all these people? I’d like to come back to this bar at some point.”

“Then don’t get caught.” He grinned and we clinked cans. And I stared out over the railing again. We sat quietly and I sipped my beer.

But he wasn’t wrong. It would be a great story. It would be stupid and probably hurt. I could get really, really hurt. Or, I might not.

Then, something happened. I think, for once, I just turned my brain off. I was at that perfect drunk where thinking was too loud so I just shut it off. I didn’t want to think. On my second or third PRB tallboy of the night, I wanted to do. And I wanted to jump.

“Go downstairs,” I said.

“What?”

I had my back to the railing and pushed myself up so I was sitting on it. “Go downstairs.” I looked at him and grinned. His eyes were wide, but he turned and headed toward the stairs.

In one motion, I turned on the railing, threw my legs over and slid off.

My mind only took a second to register: I was on the ledge of the bar. Then, I ran.

I ran across the connected roofs of the other buildings to the end of the strip. I leaped across the blacktops and felt the wind in my hair. I was running as fast as I could and my lungs were starting to ache. Adrenaline pumped through me as I sprinted through the night.

I didn’t turn to look behind me to see if anyone at the bar had seen. I just ran, the blacktop of the roofs underfoot and the night sky against my  back.

When I reached the end of the row of buildings, I peered over the edge and saw another shorter building just below me. I didn’t ask myself, “Should I do this?” Instead, leaping forward, I thought mid-air, “This could hurt.”

But my feet found solid ground as they hit the structure and nothing important gave. Quickly, I dropped to the grass and found myself confronted by a chain link fence. Go over? Or find away around?

No gate, no exit. I had to go over.

I slipped one foot in and took hold, but the fence was poorly attached to the support poles and it gave, but I climbed and jumped over, catching my shirt and hearing a satisfying rip as I bounded over the fence.

Again, solid ground, and freedom. I looked around for the boy and saw the cars waiting at the stoplight. Cops. That, I hadn’t expected.

Whether they saw me or not, I couldn’t take that chance. I bolted down the back alley of the building I’d just scaled, sprinting the length of the buildings yet again, and came out the other side.

My heart pounded, but I didn't want to look guilty and draw attention to myself, or my ripped shirt. I was just in front of the bar again, the same one I’d jumped out of.

Act cool, I told myself.

I saw the men loitering in front of the liquor store, pointing to the roof and trying to get a better look. They weren’t sure what they had just seen. A girl sprint across a roof? For what purpose? Why?

Because I could.

I met up with the boy a block away.

“Your shirt’s torn,” he said.

“I know.”

“I guess you’ve got a story now.”

“I guess I do.”

Later that night, we danced wildly without regard, rode a single city bike across town, and played soccer on a street corner with some local kids. I hope someday he tells someone about that time I jumped off the roof of a bar.