Bridge building by amber stich
The murky water rushes quickly beneath the rusty metal bridge. The river is swollen from seemingly endless rain we’ve been having. I huddle under my umbrella as I walk towards the bridge. Its faded red paint clings to the cratered surface like late fall leaves to a dying tree. At first, the gray blot on the side of the bridge looks as if it could be a sign or poster, but as I approach it distinguished itself as a human being. His sneakered feet pace the rail. He must have crawled around the handrail to be that close to the edge. As he paces, the rust grinds beneath his feet. How is he even keeping his balance? All of this rain had no doubt made the metal slippery. When he comes more clearly into view, I am surprised at his appearance. Surrounded by all this aging wonder, he seems strangely at home. His graying brunette hair sticks out haphazardly around his balding skull. His clothes mimic the bridges paint, fading and full of holes, yet their design tells they were once very expensive. As I approach the weatherworn supports of the old bridge, I can hear him muttering.
“…not like it would matter. Not one living soul could…” his words are blown away with the intermittent wind. I glance at the people passing. A mother talking loudly on her cell phone and dragging a toddler behind her walks quickly by never turning her head. A biker passes swiftly, and all I can make out of him is his blue and green cycling clothes. After their footsteps fade, there is no one else on the bridge, its wooden slatted floor slick in the rain. I realized I had stopped moving. I turn to the man, and I am close enough now to see the wrinkles on his face and his furrowed brow. I stare at him. What does one say in a situation like this? “Hi, how are you? Please, don’t kill yourself?” I feel the urge to run and go on with my day. How would it affect me anyway? But even as I think that, my gut churns. So I take a deep breath and walk over to him.
“Hey there,” I say hoping to stop his rapid pacing. He looks up at me for a moment, his brown eyes glassy with unshed tears, and then continues pacing. I try again, slightly more urgent this time. “What is your name?”
“Ralf,” he says in a gruff mumble. Hey, it is something, I think.
“Well Ralf, why are you here today?” He looks at me venomously, but I try to stay cheery.
“What’s it to you, lady?” he says harshly.
“Let’s just say seeing someone commit suicide on my way to work is not the way I want to star my day.”
“So then I’ll wait till you’re gone.”
“I’ll still know. It’ll scar me for life.”
“Why the hell is this about you? What about me.”
“Exactly, so tell me about you.” He stops, and his brow furrows again. Before he can realize how I turned it around I continue. “Can you come over on this side? I’ll share my umbrella. Hell, you can even get a coffee out of the deal.” He stares upriver to the new bridge. It’s freshly painted steel struts supporting the much sturdier frame. I remember vaguely reading about the ribbon cutting ceremony a few weeks ago. That was when they turned this into a footbridge and I was able to walk to work. The cars speeding across it look like matchbox cars from here. “Why not that one?” I ask before I realize what I’m doing. His answer surprises me.
“It has already been the death of me. I can’t give them the satisfaction of dying there too. This one is better anyhow.” I look at the aged wood and steel again.
“How so?” I say raising an eyebrow.
“Things aren’t built like they used to be. All this newfangled technology makes more errors. Back in my day, we measured ten times not just twice. The people depended on you. It wasn’t just a bridge; it was people’s lives you held in your hands. You were the one who made the difference between a man coming home in his car or in his coffin.” Goosebumps broke out on my skin, and they weren’t from the cold wind.
“So you built bridges then?”
“Built bridges, yes” he corrected me, “all over the state. Wherever they needed a new bridge, there I was. I built this very one you’re standing on. It was a beauty when it was first built, all done up in red. We were the envy of county, we were.” His hand rests on the rusted steel and his eyes seem to see something many years gone.
“I would like to hear more about it if you’ll tell me.” He looks back at me, stares into me. His eyes are a deep brown, now quite beautiful without the tears. “But you have to come over here to tell me. Maybe just on that bench,” I say pointing to one on the side of the bridge. His grip tightens and then loosens just as suddenly. I watch as he awkwardly maneuvers over the rail. I offer him my umbrella as he sits down and rush to the coffee stand just past the bridge, returning with two steaming cups.
“Here you go,” I say gently and hand him the cup. I don’t know how ready I am to hear what he has to say.
“Thank ye,” he says graciously and holds the cup between his hands. His clothes are soaked through, and his thin jacket has too many holes to keep him warm.
“Did you want to go get warmed up somewhere? Maybe get some food.” His silence is my answer, and I stare at my feet, waiting until he is ready.
He tells me all about his life. How his dad taught him his trade. How they would work together on jobs. How he had died when he was twenty two. How his wife had died birthing their only child, who died along with her. How he had buried everyone he love and still somehow went on building bridges.
“At fifty,” he said, “I was tired of building bridges. I wanted to burn them all and be alone, but I realized I had none left to burn and that I am already alone.”
With a life so full of tragedy and sadness, it is a wonder he had lasted this long. After he had exhausted words, we just sat in silence.
He turns to me with the ghost of a smile on his face. “Thank you.” I stutter out a jumbled ‘welcome’ but feel odd saying it. “You’re the first person to care in a very long time.”
“I just didn’t think it was right, you know,” I say staring at the ground nervously brushing my hair from my face, “to not have anyone to listen. I think everyone deserves a friend.”
“You’re a good girl,” he says and pats me on the knee. He rises and I stand worriedly. “Don’t worry; I’m not going back that way. I think I’m going to visit my wife’s grave. She was always the best listener.” I am uncomfortable by his morbid attempt at reassurance, but I guess as we age, we all get that way. I watch his tattered figure as he hobbles down the path away from the bridge.
I don’t feel like a hero. I don’t feel like I accomplished a great feat, but my heart feels lighter. And as I turn to walk to work, three hours late, a smile is set firmly on my face.
While drinking my coffee a few days later, I skim the newspaper. It is mostly political garbage, but has a headline about some tragedy out west and the local school’s bake sale. The irony almost makes me laugh aloud. I flip past the stories to the classifieds. My boss told me yesterday it would be wise to start a new job search. Honestly, that in itself was probably a blessing. Never having to see his overweight, too sweaty face is like a dream come true. As I turn the pages, a phrase catches my eye. “…jumping off the South Way Bridge.” My heart beats fast in my chest. I read from the start of the article.
“Ralf Doles, a local area man, committed suicide Tuesday night by jumping off South Way Bridge. Authorities were contacted early Wednesday morning when a jogger identified a body caught in the brush a mile downstream. Experts calculate that the speed of the river and its high levels contributed to the location of the body. The coroner has ruled drowning as the cause of death, with minor injuries sustained from the fall and current. It was also discovered that Doles had stage three pancreatic cancer. Doles was 54 years old.”
I sit in stunned silence. My limbs hung like lead at my side. A suffocating sense of futility washed over me. And then suddenly, I am grabbing my coat and umbrella, heading to the bridge. It is the same as it has always been. I don’t know what I expected, yellow tape, a police barricade? I lean over the railing watching the rain drip from my umbrella to the water below. It is glowing with the setting sun, and I realize the rain has stopped.
Two weeks later the county officials condemned the South Way Bridge and scheduled it for demolition. They had been trying for months to get the “eyesore,” as they called it, torn down and the recent suicide finally won over the officials. Some new moneybag was planning to fund the replacement and, of course, the county will dedicate it in his name. I watched as they tore it down. The fact that they brought it down with a controlled blast made it no less spectacular. I was standing on the riverside and felt the ground shake. The steel groaned in protest as the concussion cast it into the water below, the wooden planks were engulfed in flames as they fell, a plume of smoke rising high into the cloudless sky before they hit the river with a resistant hiss. When the smoke dissipated, only the crumbling concrete was left clinging to the riverside.
I turn slowly, walking away from the smoke and horror of the demolition. I could feel something more than the blast resonating in my chest. I feel the brokenness that I have been trying to ignore, covering it over with layer after layer of forced ignorance. I turn back to the river, shading my eyes as the sun reflects off of its surface, the sightline now uninterrupted. Ralphs last bridge may be broken, but mine doesn’t have to be. I pull out my cell and scroll through the names, co-workers, people I’ve never spoken to more than once, and I realize how alone I have been feeling. What is the use of seven hundred contacts if you never call one? I finally arrive at the M’s. I dial her number and all the sudden I am sixteen again, calling home after being out far too late.
“Hello,” a tired voice answers.
“Mom..” I choke the words out timidly.
“Ann Marie Johnson, I haven’t heard from you for two years. Not one call, one card..”
I listen to her voice with a smile. I expected the scolding, but feel deep satisfaction in hearing her voice again, knowing that though I cut her off years ago, she never burnt our bridge.
“Ann are you listening to me?”
“Yes, mom. I finally am,” I chuckle.
“Well, good. It’s about time. I love you, dear. Why don’t you come home for a while? Your father misses you too, ya know.”
I turn my back on the river and walk towards my apartment.
“You know, mom, I think I will.”
“Hey there,” I say hoping to stop his rapid pacing. He looks up at me for a moment, his brown eyes glassy with unshed tears, and then continues pacing. I try again, slightly more urgent this time. “What is your name?”
“Ralf,” he says in a gruff mumble. Hey, it is something, I think.
“Well Ralf, why are you here today?” He looks at me venomously, but I try to stay cheery.
“What’s it to you, lady?” he says harshly.
“Let’s just say seeing someone commit suicide on my way to work is not the way I want to star my day.”
“So then I’ll wait till you’re gone.”
“I’ll still know. It’ll scar me for life.”
“Why the hell is this about you? What about me.”
“Exactly, so tell me about you.” He stops, and his brow furrows again. Before he can realize how I turned it around I continue. “Can you come over on this side? I’ll share my umbrella. Hell, you can even get a coffee out of the deal.” He stares upriver to the new bridge. It’s freshly painted steel struts supporting the much sturdier frame. I remember vaguely reading about the ribbon cutting ceremony a few weeks ago. That was when they turned this into a footbridge and I was able to walk to work. The cars speeding across it look like matchbox cars from here. “Why not that one?” I ask before I realize what I’m doing. His answer surprises me.
“It has already been the death of me. I can’t give them the satisfaction of dying there too. This one is better anyhow.” I look at the aged wood and steel again.
“How so?” I say raising an eyebrow.
“Things aren’t built like they used to be. All this newfangled technology makes more errors. Back in my day, we measured ten times not just twice. The people depended on you. It wasn’t just a bridge; it was people’s lives you held in your hands. You were the one who made the difference between a man coming home in his car or in his coffin.” Goosebumps broke out on my skin, and they weren’t from the cold wind.
“So you built bridges then?”
“Built bridges, yes” he corrected me, “all over the state. Wherever they needed a new bridge, there I was. I built this very one you’re standing on. It was a beauty when it was first built, all done up in red. We were the envy of county, we were.” His hand rests on the rusted steel and his eyes seem to see something many years gone.
“I would like to hear more about it if you’ll tell me.” He looks back at me, stares into me. His eyes are a deep brown, now quite beautiful without the tears. “But you have to come over here to tell me. Maybe just on that bench,” I say pointing to one on the side of the bridge. His grip tightens and then loosens just as suddenly. I watch as he awkwardly maneuvers over the rail. I offer him my umbrella as he sits down and rush to the coffee stand just past the bridge, returning with two steaming cups.
“Here you go,” I say gently and hand him the cup. I don’t know how ready I am to hear what he has to say.
“Thank ye,” he says graciously and holds the cup between his hands. His clothes are soaked through, and his thin jacket has too many holes to keep him warm.
“Did you want to go get warmed up somewhere? Maybe get some food.” His silence is my answer, and I stare at my feet, waiting until he is ready.
He tells me all about his life. How his dad taught him his trade. How they would work together on jobs. How he had died when he was twenty two. How his wife had died birthing their only child, who died along with her. How he had buried everyone he love and still somehow went on building bridges.
“At fifty,” he said, “I was tired of building bridges. I wanted to burn them all and be alone, but I realized I had none left to burn and that I am already alone.”
With a life so full of tragedy and sadness, it is a wonder he had lasted this long. After he had exhausted words, we just sat in silence.
He turns to me with the ghost of a smile on his face. “Thank you.” I stutter out a jumbled ‘welcome’ but feel odd saying it. “You’re the first person to care in a very long time.”
“I just didn’t think it was right, you know,” I say staring at the ground nervously brushing my hair from my face, “to not have anyone to listen. I think everyone deserves a friend.”
“You’re a good girl,” he says and pats me on the knee. He rises and I stand worriedly. “Don’t worry; I’m not going back that way. I think I’m going to visit my wife’s grave. She was always the best listener.” I am uncomfortable by his morbid attempt at reassurance, but I guess as we age, we all get that way. I watch his tattered figure as he hobbles down the path away from the bridge.
I don’t feel like a hero. I don’t feel like I accomplished a great feat, but my heart feels lighter. And as I turn to walk to work, three hours late, a smile is set firmly on my face.
While drinking my coffee a few days later, I skim the newspaper. It is mostly political garbage, but has a headline about some tragedy out west and the local school’s bake sale. The irony almost makes me laugh aloud. I flip past the stories to the classifieds. My boss told me yesterday it would be wise to start a new job search. Honestly, that in itself was probably a blessing. Never having to see his overweight, too sweaty face is like a dream come true. As I turn the pages, a phrase catches my eye. “…jumping off the South Way Bridge.” My heart beats fast in my chest. I read from the start of the article.
“Ralf Doles, a local area man, committed suicide Tuesday night by jumping off South Way Bridge. Authorities were contacted early Wednesday morning when a jogger identified a body caught in the brush a mile downstream. Experts calculate that the speed of the river and its high levels contributed to the location of the body. The coroner has ruled drowning as the cause of death, with minor injuries sustained from the fall and current. It was also discovered that Doles had stage three pancreatic cancer. Doles was 54 years old.”
I sit in stunned silence. My limbs hung like lead at my side. A suffocating sense of futility washed over me. And then suddenly, I am grabbing my coat and umbrella, heading to the bridge. It is the same as it has always been. I don’t know what I expected, yellow tape, a police barricade? I lean over the railing watching the rain drip from my umbrella to the water below. It is glowing with the setting sun, and I realize the rain has stopped.
Two weeks later the county officials condemned the South Way Bridge and scheduled it for demolition. They had been trying for months to get the “eyesore,” as they called it, torn down and the recent suicide finally won over the officials. Some new moneybag was planning to fund the replacement and, of course, the county will dedicate it in his name. I watched as they tore it down. The fact that they brought it down with a controlled blast made it no less spectacular. I was standing on the riverside and felt the ground shake. The steel groaned in protest as the concussion cast it into the water below, the wooden planks were engulfed in flames as they fell, a plume of smoke rising high into the cloudless sky before they hit the river with a resistant hiss. When the smoke dissipated, only the crumbling concrete was left clinging to the riverside.
I turn slowly, walking away from the smoke and horror of the demolition. I could feel something more than the blast resonating in my chest. I feel the brokenness that I have been trying to ignore, covering it over with layer after layer of forced ignorance. I turn back to the river, shading my eyes as the sun reflects off of its surface, the sightline now uninterrupted. Ralphs last bridge may be broken, but mine doesn’t have to be. I pull out my cell and scroll through the names, co-workers, people I’ve never spoken to more than once, and I realize how alone I have been feeling. What is the use of seven hundred contacts if you never call one? I finally arrive at the M’s. I dial her number and all the sudden I am sixteen again, calling home after being out far too late.
“Hello,” a tired voice answers.
“Mom..” I choke the words out timidly.
“Ann Marie Johnson, I haven’t heard from you for two years. Not one call, one card..”
I listen to her voice with a smile. I expected the scolding, but feel deep satisfaction in hearing her voice again, knowing that though I cut her off years ago, she never burnt our bridge.
“Ann are you listening to me?”
“Yes, mom. I finally am,” I chuckle.
“Well, good. It’s about time. I love you, dear. Why don’t you come home for a while? Your father misses you too, ya know.”
I turn my back on the river and walk towards my apartment.
“You know, mom, I think I will.”