Contents of the Dead Man’s Pocket by Jack Finney At the little living - room desk, Tom Benecke rolled two sheets of thin flimsy paper and a heavier top sheet, with carbon paper between them, into his portable typewriter. The top sheet was headed Interoffice Memo, and he typed tomorrow’s date below it. Then he glanced at the creased yellow sheet beside the typewriter, covered with his own handwriting. “This paper means a lot to me,” he thought, staring at it. “Hot in here,” he muttered. From the sh ort hallway behind him came the muffled clang of wire coat hangers in the bedroom closet. At this reminder of what his wife was doing, he thought: guilty conscience. He stood up, shoved his hands into the back pockets of his gray wash slacks, and stepped to the living - room window beside the desk. He breathed on the glass, watching the mist spread, then stared down through the autumn night at Lexington Avenue eleven sto ries below. He was tall, lean, dark - haired, wearing a pullover sweater — he looked like someone who had played basketball in college. He pressed his palms against the top edge of the lower window frame and shoved upward. The window stuck, as usual. He had to push harder to jolt it open a few inches. He dusted his hands, muttering. Still, he didn’t start working. He crossed to the hallway entrance, leaned against the doorjamb with hands in his pockets again, and called, “Clare?” When she answered, he said, “Sure you don’t mind going alone?” “No.” Her voice was muffled — her head and shoulders were in the closet. Then came the tap of her high heels. She appeared at the end of the hallway in a slip, clipping on an earring with both hands. She smiled at him — a slender, very pretty girl with light b rown, almost blond hair. Her warm nature made her even prettier. “I just hate that you’re missing this movie. You wanted to see it too.” “Yeah, I know.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Got to finish this.” She nodded and glanced at his desk. “You work too much, Tom — and too hard.” He smiled. “You won’t mind when the money rolls in and they call me the Boy Wizard of Wholesale Groceries, will you?” “I guess not.” She smiled and went back to the bedroom. Tom sat down again and lit a cigarette. A few minutes later, when Clare came out dressed and ready, he set it on the ashtray rim. “It’s just after seven,” she said. “I can catch the start of the first feature.” He helped her with her coat at the front closet. He kissed her, held her close for a moment, breathing in her perfume. For an instant he wanted to go with her. He didn’t really have to work tonight — this was his own project, not yet shown at the office, and it could wait. But they won’t see it until Monday, he thought. If I give it to the boss tomorrow, he might read it over the weekend... “Have a good time,” he said aloud. He gave her a playful swat and opened the door. Warm air from the hallway drifted past his face. He watched her walk down the hall. She waved; he waved back. As he closed the door, it stuck for a second. Warm air rushed in faster through the narrow gap. Behind him curtains slapped the wall, papers fluttered from the desk. He pushed the door shut. Turning, he saw a white sheet drifting down in arcs and the yellow sheet flying toward the window. It hit the bottom edge, stuck for a moment against glass and wood, then dropped to the ledge and slid out of sight as the air calmed. He ran to the window, pulled it open, and looked out. The yellow sheet lay dimly on the decorative ledge a yard below. It was moving slowly, scraping along, pushed by the steady breeze. He opened the window wide with a bang, but the paper was out of reach. Leaning out, he watched it glide south along the ledge, half stuck to the wall. Above the distant traffic noise, he heard its dry scrape, like a leaf on pavement. The next apartment’s living room jutted out farther toward the street, so the Beneckes paid less rent. The yellow sheet slid along and stopped at the projecting blank wall, lying still in the corner — five yards away, pressed firmly against the ornate ledge ornament by the wind. He knelt and stared at it for a full minute, hoping it would fall so he could pick it up from the street. But it stayed caught between the corner projection and the ledge. He thought of the fireplace poker, the broom, the mop — nothing was long enough. He couldn’t believe he had to leave it. He cursed softly. Why this paper? He had spent four Saturdays counting people in supermarkets, read trade magazines in stolen half - hours, spent lunch breaks and evenings at the library adding notes. All the facts, qu otes, and figures were on that sheet. Without them, his new display idea was just an opinion. And now it all lay out there — countless hours of work. For a long moment he thought he could just leave it. The work could be redone in two months. But he needed to present the idea now for spring displays. He hit the ledge with his fist. Then shrugged. Even if they liked it, no immediate raise or promotion. But these projects would set him apart from the other young men in the company. They were the way to become more than a name on the payroll — to get noticed by the bosses. They were the first steps on the long climb to the top. And he knew he would go out on that ledge to get the yellow sheet. He laughed at the idea — it was ridiculous. He pictured telling the story at work; it would make his memo more interesting. Getting the paper would take less than two minutes. The ledge was as wide as his shoe, flat. Every fifth brick row had a half - inch indent for fingers. If it were only a yard above ground, he could walk it forever. On impulse, he grabbed an old tweed jacket from the closet — it would be cold outside. He put it on and walked quickly to the window. In his mind he told himself: don’t think too much, just do it. At the window, he didn’t hesitate. He swung one leg over the sill, found the ledge a yard below with his foot, ducked under the frame, and brought out his other leg. He stood up carefully, gripping the frame tightly. He shifted his hands to the bricks. The first sideways step was hard — fear twisted in his stomach — but he moved without thinking. His chest, stomach, and left cheek pressed against the cold rough brick. The lighted apartment vanished behind him. It was much darker out here than he expected. He kept going — right foot, left foot — shuffling slowly, soles scraping the stone, fingers sliding along the brick edges. He moved on the balls of his feet, heels slightly raised. The ledge was narrower than he thought, but by leaning inward and pressing agai nst the wall, he stayed balanced. His jacket buttons scraped the bricks, catching lightly at each mortar line. He refused to look down, though the urge never left him. He didn’t let himself think. Mechanically — right, left, right, left — he shuffled sideways, watching the projecting wall come closer. He reached the corner. He had already decided how to grab the paper. He lifted his right foot and placed it carefully on the ledge of the projecting wall. Now he stood in the corner, one foot on each ledge, one hand on each wall’s shoulder - high indent. His forehead pressed against the cold bricks. Slowly he lowered his hands, one after the other, about a foot down to the next row. Very slowly, sliding his forehead down the brick corner and bending his knees, he lowered himself toward the paper between his feet. He lowered his hands another foot, bent his knees more, thigh muscles tight. His forehead slid and bumped down the V of the bricks. Half - squatting now, he dropped his left hand to the next indent and reached with his right toward the paper. He couldn’t quite reach it — his knees were pressed against the wall. But by ducking his head another inch, the top of his head against the bricks, he lowered his right shoulder and grabbed the corner, pulling it free. At that exact moment, he looked down betwe en his legs and saw Lexington Avenue stretching miles below. He saw the Loew’s theater sign blocks away, green traffic lights, car headlights, neon signs, tiny moving black dots of people. A violent explosion of pure terror roared through him. For a frozen instant he saw himself — bent double, balanced on the narrow l edge, half his body hanging over the street far below — and he began to tremble violently. Panic surged through his mind and muscles; he felt the blood drain from his skin. In the split second before horror froze him, as he stared down at that terrible drop, a piece of his mind jerked his body upright again. But the movement was so violent his head scraped hard against the wall, bounced off, and his body swayed outward to the knife - edge of balance. He almost plunged backward. Then he pressed himself deep into the corner again, squeezing his face, chest, and stomach against the bricks, back arched; his fingertips clung desperately to the shoulder - high half - inch indent. He was beyond trembling now — his whole body shook uncontrollably. His eyes were squeezed shut so tight it hurt, though he barely noticed. His teeth were bared in a frozen grimace. Strength drained from his knees and calves like water. He knew he might faint , slump down the wall, face scraping, and drop backward into nothing. To stay alive, he focused on staying conscious, breathing deep, cold air into his lungs, fighting to keep his mind clear. He knew he wouldn’t faint, but he couldn’t stop shaking or open his eyes. He stood frozen, breathing deeply, trying to push away the terror of that glimpse below. He realized his mistake — he should have looked down earlier to get used to it. He couldn’t wal k back. He simply couldn’t move. His legs had no strength; his numb, cold, rigid hands had lost all skill. One wrong step and he’d stumble and fall. Seconds passed. The cold wind pressed against his face. Below, traffic noise rose and fell — sometimes almost silent, then signals clicked and cars roared again. In a quiet moment, he shouted “Help!” so loud it hurt his throat. But the wind snatched his voic e, making it sound distant and directionless. He remembered how he himself ignored night shouts in New York. No one heard. He knew he had to move — there was nothing else. Eyes shut, scenes flashed in his mind like movie clips — he couldn’t stop them. He saw himself stumbling sideways on the ledge, upper body swinging out, arms flailing. He saw a shoelace catch between ledge and shoe, jerking his foot, throwing his balance. He saw himself falling at terrible speed, body spinning, knees to chest, eyes shut, moaning. He could see himself lying smashed and still on the sidewalk below. Out of pure necessity, he forced his mind to focus only on moving. With slow, fear - soaked steps, he slid his left foot an inch toward his distant window. Then his left fingers followed. He couldn’t lift his right foot at first; then he did, hearing his har sh breath — he was panting. As his right hand slid along the brick, he felt the yellow paper pressed beneath his stiff fingers. He let out a sharp bark — maybe a laugh, maybe a moan — and took the paper in his teeth, pulling it free. By pure concentration — left foot, left hand, right foot, right hand — he moved almost imperceptibly, trembling steadily, nearly without thought. But he felt the horror waiting just behind the thin mental barrier he had built; if it broke, he’d lose control co mpletely. In one slow step he tried closing his eyes — it felt safer, blocking out the reality. But dizziness hit suddenly, and he had to open them wide, staring sideways at the rough brick and mortar lines, cheek pressed tight to the wall. He kept his eyes open after that; if he looked at the lighted windows across the street even for a second, he’d be lost. He didn’t know how many tiny steps he took, chest, belly, and face pressed to the wall. But he knew his fragile hold on mind and body was breaking. He pictured his apartment on the other side — warm, bright, safe. He saw himself striding through it, lying on the floor, arms wide, soaking in security. The impossible distance between that safety and where he stood was unbearable. The barrier shattered, and fear of the height flooded his nerves and muscles. A piece of his mind knew he would fall. He took rapid, blind steps, fingers clawing the brick, braced for the backward pull and swift drop. Then his left hand slid into empty air — an impossible gap in the wall — and he stumbled. His right foot smashed into his left ankle; he staggered sideways, falling. His hand clawed at glass and wood, slid down, fingertips pressing hard on the puttyless edge of his window. His right hand groped beside it as he dropped to his knees. Under his fu ll weight, the open window slammed shut in its frame, jarring his wrists off the sill. For a single moment he knelt on the very edge, knees on stone, body swaying, touching nothing else, fighting for balance. Then he lost it — shoulders plunging backward. He flung his arms forward; hands smashed against the window casing on both sides. As his body fell backward, his fingers caught the narrow wood stripping of the upper pane. For an instant he hung between balance and falling, fingertips pressed to the quarter - inch strips. Then, with total focus, he increased the strain on his fingertips. Elbows slowly bent as he pulled his upper body forward. He knew if his fingers slipped, he ’d plunge backward. Sweat poured from his forehead in sudden drops. Then the strain ended — his chest touched the sill, and he was kneeling on the ledge, forehead against the closed glass. He dropped his palms to the sill and stared into his living room — the red - brown davenport, the magazine he’d left there, pictures on the walls, gray rug, hallway entrance, his papers, typewriter, and desk just two feet away. A curl of blue smoke rose from t he desk — his cigarette, left burning minutes ago, was still going. His head moved; in the glass reflection he saw the yellow paper clenched in his teeth. He lifted a hand, took it from his mouth — the wet corner peeled away — and spat it out. For a moment, in the room’s light, he stared at the yellow sheet in wonder, then stuffed it into his jacket pocket. He couldn’t open the window. It wasn’t fully closed, but its lower edge was below the outside sill — no room for fingers. The gap between upper and lower sashes was too narrow. The upper panel was frozen shut with old paint — he’d never been able to move it. Carefully keeping balance, left fingertips hooked to the narrow stripping, he drew back his right hand, palm facing the glass, and struck with his heel. His arm bounced back, body swaying. He knew he couldn’t hit harder. But now, safe with only glass between him and the room, he smiled. There had to be a way through. He narrowed his eyes, thought for a moment — nothing came. Yet he stayed calm; the trembling had stopped. In the back of his mind he knew that once inside, he’d release everything — lie on the floor, roll around, grip the rug, run across the room, jump, revel in safety. The longing was intense; he knew he had to keep it under control. He took a half dollar from his pocket and tapped the pane — knowing it wouldn’t break. Then he pulled his leg up, untied his shoelace, slipped off the shoe, held it by the instep, drew back his arm, and struck with the heel. The glass rattled but held. His f oot was cold; he slipped the shoe back on. He shouted again — nothing. He realized he might have to wait until Clare returned. For a moment it seemed funny. He pictured her opening the door, taking out her key, closing it, then looking up and seeing him crouched outside. She’d rush across the room, face shocked and frightened , and he’d yell, “Never mind how I got here! Just open the wind — ” But she couldn’t open it — she’d never been able to. She’d have to call the building superintendent or a neighbor. “You’re frightening me,” she would say, her voice trembling with worry. He couldn’t wait four hours. Clare had gone to see two features — she’d left in time for the first. She wouldn’t be home for hours. He imagined kneeling here, fingertips hooked to the stripping, while one movie played out — credits, story, climax, ending — then newsreel, cartoon, coming attractions, then another full film — all while he hung outside in the night. He might stand up, but he was afraid to try. His legs were cramped, thigh muscles tired; knees ached, feet numb, hands stiff. He couldn’t last four hours. Long before that, he’d have to shift — clumsily, weakly — and fall. He knew it realistically: no one coul d stay on this ledge that long. Across the street, a dozen windows were lit. Over his shoulder he saw a man’s head behind a newspaper; another window flickered with TV light. Only twenty yards away were dozens of people. If just one looked out... He stared over his shoulder at the glowing rectangles, waiting. No one came. The man turned a page and kept reading. A figure passed another window and vanished. In his jacket’s inside pocket he found a few papers. He pulled one out — an old letter, address in purple ink on a label. He gripped one end in his teeth and twisted it into a tight curl. From his shirt pocket he took a matchbook . Holding the frame with one hand, he opened the matchbook with the other, bent a match in half without tearing it, red tip against the striker. He rubbed hard. Again, again — harder each time — the match flared, burning his thumb. He cupped it, shielding the flame with his body. He held it to the paper twist until it caught. Then he snuffed the match, put the book away. He held the burning twist flame - down, watching the flame crawl up, then held it out over the street, swinging it side to side, watching over his shoulder as it flickered in the wind. He had three letters in his pocket — he lit each one, held it until the flame touched his hand, then dropped it below. While the last one burned, he saw the man across the street lower his paper, stand up — even seeming to glance toward his window. But the man only walked across the room and disappeared. He had a dozen coins in his pocket and dropped them, three or four at a time. No one noticed or looked up. His arms were trembling from the constant strain of holding on. He didn’t know what to do now and was terrified. Holding the stripping with one hand, he searched his pockets again. But his wallet was at home — only the yellow sheet remained. He realized irre levantly that his death on the sidewalk below would be a mystery: the window closed — how had he fallen? No one would identify his body right away. The thought made his fear worse. All they’d find in his pockets was the yellow sheet. Contents of the dead man ’s pockets, he thought — one sheet of paper with penciled notes, incomprehensible. He knew he might actually die; his arms, holding his balance, were shaking steadily. Then came a revelation: if he fell, this would be all he’d ever have from life. Nothing more could be added — no new experience, no pleasure. He wished he hadn’t let Clare g o alone tonight — and on so many similar nights. He regretted all the evenings spent away from her, working. He thought of his fierce ambition, the direction his life had taken, the hours he’d spent alone filling that yellow sheet. “Nothing is worth this,” h e thought with sudden fierce anger — a wasted life. He wasn’t going to cling here until he slipped and fell. There was one last thing he could try; he’d known about it for a while but refused to think of it. Now he faced it. Kneeling on the ledge, fingertips of one hand on the narrow wood stripping, he coul d draw his other hand back a yard, fist clenched tight, moving slowly until he felt the edge of balance. Then, as hard as he could from that distance, he could drive his fist forward against the glass. If it broke, he’d be safe — he might cut himself badly, but his arm would be inside the room. If it didn’t break, the rebound would fling his arm back and topple him off the ledge. He was certain of that. He tested the plan. Left fingers clawlike on the stripping, he drew back his right fist until his body began to teeter backward. But there was no leverage — the swing would be weak. He moved his fist slowly forward until he rocked forward on his knees and fe lt the greatest force. Glancing down, he saw the distance from fist to glass was less than two feet. He thought he could raise his arm overhead to strike down. But in slow motion he knew it would be an awkward blow without enough force to break the glass. Facing the window, he had to drive the blow from the shoulder at less than two feet. He didn’t know if it would break through the heavy glass. It might — he could feel it in his arm. Or it might not — he could feel his fist strike and be instantly flung back b y the unbreakable pane, his other fingers slipping, nails scraping along the casing as he fell. He waited, arm drawn back, fist balled, in no hurry to strike. This pause might extend his life. Living even a few more seconds here in the night was infinitely better than dying sooner. His arm grew tired; he lowered it and rested. Then he knew the time had come. He couldn’t kneel here hesitating forever, losing courage, waiting to slip off the ledge. Again he drew back his arm, knowing this time he would strike. His elbow protruded over Lexington Avenue far below, the fingers of his other hand pressed bloodlessly tight against the narrow stripping. He waited, feeling the sick tension and terrible excitement build. It swelled toward the moment of action, nerves taut. He thought of Clare — just a wordless longing — and drew his arm back a bit more, fist so tight his fingers hurt, knowing he was going to do it. Then, with full power, every last bit of strength he had, he shot his arm forward toward the glass and cried out, “Clare!” He heard the sound, felt the blow, felt himself falling forward. His hand closed on the living - room curtains as shards and fragments of glass showered onto the floor. Kneeling on the ledge, arm thrust into the room up to the shoulder, he began picking away protruding slivers and wedges of glass from the frame, tossing them onto the rug. Grasping the edges of the empty window frame, he climbed into his home, grinning in triumph. He didn’t lie on the floor or run through the apartment as he had promised himself; even in the first moments it felt natural to be back. He simply turned to his desk, pulled the crumpled yellow sheet from his pocket, and laid it down where it had been, sm oothing it out. He absently placed a pencil across it to weight it down. He shook his head in wonder and walked toward the closet. There he took out his topcoat and hat. Without putting them on, he opened the front door and stepped out to find his wife. As he pulled the door closed, warm air from the hall rushed through the narrow opening again. The yellow paper and pencil were scoope d off the desk by the wind and, unimpeded by the glassless window, sailed out into the night and out of his life. Tom Benecke burst into laughter and closed the door behind him.