An Innocent Fashion

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With all the tall buildings everywhere, you’d think it would be easier to kill yourself in New York City. The trouble was, to get to the top of one of them you’d have to live in it, or know someone who did. This seemed to be the trouble more generally: to get to the top of anything was just so difficult, and my biggest fear in growing up was that it would only become more difficult until it became impossible.

Everywhere all those horrible, record-breaking high-rises; I could zigzag all around them and blink at them from below and even chat up their friendly doormen, but at the end of the day, when all I wanted was to jump off some gratuitous altitude, it was, “Hey, kid, who you here to see?”

I finally understood why rich people paid a premium to live on a penthouse floor, adding another unfair advantage to the list that in my mind grew longer every day: if you could afford it, you got to kill yourself without a fuss. It made more sense to me than paying to see “the view” of New York City every day; I mean, if I was rich I’d pay not to see the view, with all those skyscrapers jutting up like a bed of nails.

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