In "A Poison Tree", the poet William Blake once wrote that "I was angry with my friend I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe I told it not, my wrath did grow." I was driven to rescue and fix people, never intending to actually save a life. I was just 17 or 18 years old. "Fixing" people often meant helping them see the best in themselves. It was, for the most part, a self-serving avocation. But at the time, when I "saved" Jerry, I had no idea. That August night, I just happened to be around. It was my night off from waitressing at an all-night diner. It was a hot night and air conditioning was best at the local supermarket. But when the doors swung open to the market, I saw Jerry slumped over in the phone booth - an antiquated contraption with telephone gadgetry in a glass closet. For some stupid reason, probably because actual suicide-in-progress was too remote for me to instantly grasp, I thought he was, well, tired...
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