"Don't be stupid. It's only the third floor."

It's funny to think that such simple words, delivered in a casual, offhand manner, could save a life. But they did. Mine.

We were in college, and I was having one of "those days" - one of many, to tell the truth - when everything is wrong, and it all hurts so deeply, and it's so frustrating to see no way out of it. And I said (not for the first time - or the last), "I've had it; if one more thing goes wrong, I'm gonna go right through that window."

And he laid his hand on my shoulder - calm, gentle, strong - and he said, "Don't be stupid. It's only the third floor. You'll most likely just break a few bones and have to spend a couple months eating hospital food - yecchh - and then you'll be right back here again, and nothing will have changed."

When he put it that way, we could laugh about the impulse, at least, and let the moment pass. If it had been the guy I was dating in the room, he'd have said something like, "Don't leave me; I need you!" And I'd have thrown him first, and then jumped. Which, come to think of it, would have been even more stupid, because he'd have broken my fall.

But it wasn't sweet, dense Gary. It was my best friend Bill. I often joke about that episode, but he really did save my life that day, and many time since, though I doubt he knows it. So many times I've heard his voice in my head: "Don't be stupid; it's only the third floor (or a Honda, or whatever)". That memory of his voice is like a calm, steady, strong hand helping me once again lash down the wildly flailing tiller of my storm-tossed soul.

Bill is one of those guys who make it all look so easy. You know the sort; everyone knows at least one guy like this. He's tall and slim, so handsome with his black hair and deep blue eyes. Especially when we were young, he was a right knockout, and still pretty fine, some two dozen years later. He's got that casual grace; moves like a cat, utterly at home in his body and well aware of the effect he has on people. Everyone wanted to have him, or to be him, or both. Tangled creature that I am, I fell into that last category.

I always felt a bond with him, and half a memory of us in a past life (circa Robin Hood), hunting with hawks and bows, sparring with swords. I spent awhile in the first few years I knew him wishing that we were lovers, and trying to make it so. It just never worked that way. Eventually, I came to accept that we're brothers in spirit, and things got a bit easier. We'd hang out together, talking about whatever, helping each other through our various troubles.

One of our little rituals had to do with matches. We each kept a box of those big wooden matches in our quarters, and sometimes on our persons. When we were angry and frustrated by life, and couldn't think of a way to fix whatever it was, one of us would get out the matches. We'd sit there taking turns striking matches, watching them burn away our anger and frustration one small flame at a time.

We've been in and out of touch since college. I remember our surprise when we discovered that we had made our separate ways across the country to the same general area. But even when we're out of touch, I still hear his voice when I need to be reminded:

"Don't be stupid; it's only the third floor."