High Wire

In São Paulo, it's easy to find yourself walking a thin line of safety. Most people try to avoid these situations.

I'm here in town for a brief few moments between USA trips. My co-workers Brian and Laura are also visiting. 

This afternoon, Brian and I went to the mall for a quick errand. As we walked back, we crossed the bridge a block from my house that spans over the bustling Avenida Vente Tres de Maio.

"Woah," I said, interrupting a story Brian was telling me, "watch this."

In front of us, rising above the heads of the other sidewalk pedestrians, a man appeared. His clothes were a mess. His face a little dirty. A short cigarette hung from his lips. His feet were perched on top of the bridge's hand railing--the railing that separates the safety of the sidewalk from the traffic that swooshes some 50 feet below.

He loosened his grip and slowly straightened his torso. He stood tall and upright. Passersby came to a stop.

The man turned from the highway and focused his attention on the handrail under his soles. He put one foot in front of the other and walked toward us, along the rail, toward the center of the bridge. His pace was jarringly normal. His demeanor, calm.

This particular handrail is maybe two or three inches wide.

Brian and I passed him, eye level with his shins. We stopped to watch with some others. This all happened in a handful of seconds so surreal and unpredicted that I turned to Brian and nonchalantly said one of the most horrible things a person can say, "Well, do you wanna watch this guy fall to his death or do you want to just go home?"

Everyone around us could not believe what was happening. We chuckled intermittently to break the tension. Anything to divert us from the glaring reality that we were about to watch a man lose his life and possibly take a few innocent motorists with him.

I squatted behind a concrete barrier. From my vantage, I could see the man and his feet, but nothing below that.

I vividly remember in my final year of college driving around a corner just as a drunk driver in front of me lost control of his vehicle. He sped recklessly into a ditch. I saw the telephone pole in front of him. I diverted my eyes. Later, I realized this reaction was my body telling me, "Don't watch this man die." Today, instinctually, I felt myself doing this again.

Another few seconds passed and the man's nimble feet took him all the way across to the other side. He hopped down to safety and took a few victorious puffs on his cigarette. As we turned to walk home, he turned in the opposite direction and continued down a path I'll never understand.

Brian and I needed a while to decompress afterwards. I thought about how different things could have been. He could have fallen, yes, but what if he fell just as we were passing him? What if one of the eye witnesses got it wrong and said we had pushed him? That's not a position either of us want to be in as English-speaking foreigners.

When we returned home, I poured us a few necessary cocktails. We told Daniela and Laura the story. We sent work e-mails and made wedding phone calls. Washed dishes. Set the table for dinner. Another hour and the moment was past. There was no way of telling where he was by then. Life, like him, walked on.