Life is filled with coincidences. Whether we notice them or not is merely a matter of the attention paid to ourselves, and our lives. Some of these moments may be small and easy to brush aside as if there were nothing significant: feeling depressed, but then noticing something once unnoticeably, like a small nest built in the corner of the aluminum roofing to the porch, hosting a family of birds, igniting some flicker of hope that life goes on.

Others are hard to ignore. They’re moments, at times, that are too straightforward to comprehend in the initial moment of experiencing them. Only by looking backwards can we see that it all occurred during a specific time, one of need, coincidentally.

For a few months, I tended bar in Federal Hill. The typical clientele was middle-aged couples looking for a place to grab decent food and a drink away from the madness of the younger, recent college graduates, who had yet moved beyond the party-phase of their lives. This, of course, is what Fed Hill was known as—the area of town where the younger generation goes to blackout.

It was a Wednesday night. Christmas had just past, and the New Year was on the horizon. Money, for me, had been tight. Out of the numerous jobs I’d applied for over the months since I’d started bartending, I’d either heard nothing of a follow-up, or had fallen short in the interview process. My inability to write anything more than a few sentences, or to hold focus on any book, added to the amount of weight my situation generated. Though it may not seem such a desperate thing, we all suffer in our own ways. By this time, I had slipped into another depression. I’d turned to drinking to keep it at a distance; this is, of course, a futile tactic to pull against the oppression of depression.

It was almost 11PM—probably close to 10:45PM. There had not been a single person in the bar for about two hours or so, aside from the employees who were enjoying their day off at one of the booths in the far, back corner of the room. The manager had told me, so long as no one else enters within the span of given time, that we can lock the doors in fifteen minutes.

With that, I started breaking down the only open well I had at the bar. With only five minutes to go, I washed out the shaker tins, the mixing glasses, and poured myself a beer before plugging up the drafts. I picked up the bus-pan filled with bar-tools when a man entered the bar.

He wore a thick, woolen beanie pulled down over his eyebrows, and a dark, puffed-up jacket that made him as a full man.

I told him that we were closing up, but he insisted that he was only having one drink. From the far end of the bar, my manager told him that we could do one drink for him. Reluctantly, I put down the bus-pan and approached him.

At this point, I think it’s worth noting that I was irritated with the man, as many in the food service industry may understandably be. Yet, it didn’t stem from that; having to remain in the bar, not earning more than couple of dollars. No. I was irritated simply by his presence. You see, when he walked into the bar, upon hearing that he could have one drink, he began loudly cheering to himself over the decision. His long, sullen face had brightened, and a uneasy smile had formed along his lips. More simply, I wanted to be unbothered, to sulk, to ruminate on how low I was, and had been, feeling. There were dark thoughts floating in and out of my mind, and I wanted, for reasons beyond my current state of mind, to engage with them. With his intrusion, I was unable to do so.

What happened next only added to the irritation he caused me.

After asking about which vodkas we carry (“We’ve Tito’s, Rocktown, Ketel One, and Wheatley. That’s about it.”), he ordered a martini. The first, which I stirred, was not what he wanted. He lectured on about how I should ask whether they wanted shaken or stirred, tired to explain what occurs as the vodka is bruised, then began telling me about his travels to Italy, and to France, where he had some of the best cocktails in his life. At the time of his talking, he seemed jovial. While I was unenthused and annoyed, somehow, despite my inability to mask such emotions from my expression, he didn’t notice.

By my third attempt at a martini—the first two I tossed out due to them being unsatisfactory to his pallet—he was pleased. He sipped it, loudly yelled a cheer, and praised the taste; I picked up the bus-pan and started moving towards the kitchen, where the dishwasher was.

Before I could get too far, he called me back over. Against my protestation, he insisted. Told me that he had to tell me something.

When I was close, he quieted down, leaned slightly towards me, and told me:

“I’m going to kill myself tonight.”

Without thinking, I laughed. It was an impulsive reaction to his statement,

“I’m serious,” he said. “I’m going to kill myself tonight. Once I leave here.” He took a drink from the martini. “This will most likely be my last drink.”

Given my mental state at the time, I didn’t know what to make of what was occurring. From what I can recall, my mind was blank. At that time, I, too, had such thoughts.

What could I say to someone who only openly voiced what was swelling in the dark recesses of my mind?

I asked him why, and he told me, simply, that life was bad; there was nothing good left for him. He explained that he had money, but that didn’t bring him joy. He’d traveled, but traveling no longer did it for him. As he explained these bits of his life, a far too brief explanation to understand who he truly was, I understood, best I could, his struggle. He, to me, was lost. He was afflicted by loneliness. He didn’t know where else to turn. Although, this may be projections of myself, it seemed to align with him as he sat, haunched over the martini, staring into the glass.

And for a few minutes, we talked about suicide, openly. He talked about the ways he considered doing it. I told him the thoughts I had on the matter. Eventually, when he announced, again, that he was going to do it tonight, three words fell from my mouth: “No you’re not.”

The manner in which I spoke those words had such a confidence to them, that even I was taken aback by them. The man looked at me, asked me why he shouldn’t. I didn’t have a reason for him.

So I gave him my reason for living: Suicide was too easy.

It may not be the best reason for living, but the difficulty in living is, at times, what brings about that warmth of joy. When we overcome some great obstacle, there is no other feeling like it. If I was dead, then Id not be able to enjoy the struggle for life. Outside of that, I couldn’t imagine leaving anyone else with the mess of my life that I may leave behind. This was the gist of my argument I put forth, in so many words.

It was, for the first time, that I had an open dialogue with a stranger about suicide, and all that it amounts to. I found myself deeply uncomfortable with his talk of it, and with my talk of it, yet I knew it was necessary. Sometimes, we just need to listen. Other times, we need to speak up. That particular time, for his sake and mine, both were necessary. It made me understand more clearly the issues we face when discussion suicide, and the emotions that may lead to it. That discomfort felt could be a means to silence those who should be heard. None should be afraid to speak out, to seek help, and we should not be afraid to help, to listen, no matter how uncomfortable it may be on all fronts.

The man paid his tab, thanked me for listening, then left. I wish I could say it turned out well for him, but if I’m being honest, I heard nothing more about him. He had told me his name, which I, regretfully, forgotten by now. Much has happened over the couple of weeks since this encounter. The week following his visit, I tried searching the obituaries for him—I retained his name then—but found nothing. I can only hope that our talked helped him. I know that it helped me.