The Other Side of the Bridge

by Camron Wright

  Silence.

  I know that I need to say something soon or let a man die, but I can’t do it on my own. I simply can’t. I ask again.

  “Dad, you helped save twenty-eight men on this bridge. I need you to help me with just one more. Just one more, and then I’ll move on with my life—I’ll do better. Please, Dad, help me now to know what to tell this man in order to give him a second chance. Dad, I want to give him hope.”

  I wait again, and again in the darkness nothing happens. No words come, no images flash into my mind, nothing. I’m confused and helpless, and except for a man standing just yards away—a man who has no idea that I’m even here—I feel so very alone.

  That’s when an extraordinary and inexplicable thing happens. I say extraordinary because it wasn’t what I’d asked for. It wasn’t what I’d hoped would happen. It wasn’t what I’d expected. I don’t know if it was an answer or an accident, and if I explain it to others later, I’m sure they’ll think I’ve been spending too much time alone in the fog on the bridge. But it does happen. At the exact moment when I’m going to slip back into the darkness, just as I’m about to slink away and leave the stranger all alone to fend for himself—

  I sneeze.

  His body tensed at the sound. He swung around; instinctively, his fists tightened and his senses sharpened. Whoever it was had been so close, so hidden. He readied for the attack that was certain to come.

  It didn’t.

  As he peered into the fog, he spied a woman standing directly in front of him. She didn’t move, didn’t say a word; for a moment, she looked as startled as he. How long had she been there spying? He turned his back toward her. A spectator was the last thing he needed right now. He just wanted to be alone.

  Though he tried to ignore her, she inched forward—and then she spoke.

  “My dad worked on this bridge. He loved it—thought it was a terrific place. I mean, some people will say it’s just a bridge, and at times, I guess I’d certainly agree. But then there are other times, times like tonight, when it feels like there’s more going on here—times when it seems like there might be something else happening in the universe, like someone is watching over us—too much magic, if that’s the right word, to have this be a normal place. Does that make sense?”

  Dave was speechless. In the middle of the fog and drizzle on a wretched night when it didn’t seem possible for his life to get any worse, a crazy woman now stepped out of the fog to ramble on about the bridge. Was she on drugs, delusional, a wayward tour guide? She’d asked him if she made sense, and then she had waited as if he was supposed to answer. She made no sense; he felt no need to address her.

  She continued to babble. “It was important to my dad because he saved the lives of twenty-eight people here. Because the bridge meant so much to him, I learned to love it as well. I apologize for rambling like this. I was just out on the bridge tonight walking around, thinking about him, thinking about how important he was to me, thinking about the lives that he saved. Then I noticed you, and even though you’re a stranger and you didn’t know my father, I wanted to tell someone, you know, let someone else know what he did for them . . . and what he did for me.”

  She paused again. Dave didn’t speak; he had nothing to say. Instead he stepped to his bike, grabbed the handlebars, and threw his leg over the wet seat. He pushed a step forward, stopped, and stared at her again. She seemed sincere, friendly. Tonight, however, he was simply too tired and confused to care.

  He’d been having thoughts—dark, terrible thoughts—at least she had interrupted those. He wished he could stay, perhaps help this woman, listen to her problems. It was great for her that she was in love with this place, but to him it felt utterly miserable, the cold steel and dismal fog unrelenting, unforgiving. He was starting to shiver; it was time to leave.

  Before he could start his bike, she spoke again.

  “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to interrupt your thoughts. I know you were busy. I just wanted to tell someone about my father, and I happened to see you. Thanks for listening. I appreciate it. Sorry again for the bother.”

  When she finished, he whispered something to her, though he guessed she wasn’t close enough to hear. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t help her, certainly not now. Drenched and miserable, he’d decided to finish what he had come here to do.

  Dave didn’t look at her again. Instead, he started up his bike and, in the last handful of minutes remaining on the Fourth of July, he finished his ride across the bridge to the south, then returned back the way he’d come from the north.

  He rode on into the darkness . . . away from the towers, away from the cables, away from the lights and the fog—away from hope.

  I’m sure my sneeze startled me more than it did him. He was a bit tense at first. Of course, what else could be expected when I just kept rambling on? He must have thought I was the crazy one. As I look back on the experience, I’m surprised that he didn’t pick me up and toss me off the bridge just to shut me up. I didn’t have a clue what to say, so I just tried to be myself. I told him about my father, about the selfless man that he was; I told him about the bridge.

  I can’t say that I helped him. I’ll admit he appeared tired and lost even after I finished. But when he got on his bike and rode away, I’d like to think that he took at least a small glimmer of hope. In thinking back, I guess I should have asked how I could help. I should have asked for his name and given him mine. I should have done more than just talk. I should have listened. Life is often like that—a lot of time spent wishing we’d done things differently.

  Mostly, I can’t help but wonder about the sneeze. If it hadn’t happened, I don’t think I’d have had the courage to stay. It’s just so strange that it would happen when it did. I know that some will think me a foolish and naive girl, but I think that my dad may have been there after all.

  I used to imagine that when my father talked people down from the bridge, the right words would pop into his head—that he would always have the perfect solution. I’m guessing now that it wasn’t that way at all. I’m guessing that, like me, he often felt confused and alone, that he didn’t always have answers. I’m guessing that, instead, he just tried to be himself. I’m thinking that perhaps what my father said to the people on the bridge wasn’t as important as the fact that he was there to say it. I think he was just trying his best.

  I remember him telling me from time to time about the people he had saved. His only regret was that, out of the twenty-eight, not a single one had ever come back to express any gratitude. And yet, he still kept going out, still kept saving everyone he could.

  I don’t know if the man I met on the bridge would have actually jumped. Perhaps he doesn’t even know. It’s just that if my father was really there, if he was helping me, then it seems like such a fitting end. You see, after the man in the black leather jacket climbed onto his bike, just before he rode off into the darkness across the bridge, he whispered two words that my father would have appreciated.

  The man on the bridge looked up at me and said, “Thank you.”

  chapter forty

  Dave didn’t stop—didn’t look back. The dark feelings were like a demon, and he wanted to create as much distance as he possibly could. Ten miles past the memories, he approached a dimly lit sign: Golden Tower Motel—Vacancy. It was sleazy, but for tonight it would do. He was too tired and wet to continue—and where was he to go? He was on a journey now with no destination, no end.

  He steered his bike into the parking lot and stopped near the office. When he pushed open the door, the lobby was empty. The place reeked of rancid smoke and mildew. What looked to be a secondhand shower curtain hung between the front office and a back room. A TV blared behind the curtain.

  Dave pressed the bell on the counter and waited. Within a few seconds the curtain parted, and a heavyset woman, dressed in a nurse’s uniform, waddled through the opening. Her make
up was thick and her voice low—almost the tone of a man. With steely eyes she surveyed Dave and the trail of water he’d tracked through the door. Next, she glanced toward his bike waiting in the rain.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I need a room, please.”

  She moved close to the counter, her eyes reading the stranger.

  “All I have left is two double beds.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  “It’s $145 plus tax.”

  The price was ridiculous for the run-down dump, but Dave was too tired to argue. “I’ll take it.”

  She pushed a guest sheet fastened to a clipboard in his direction. “Fill this out.”

  Her tone was demanding, and under other circumstances he would have turned and walked out the door. Tonight he took the clipboard, scribbled in the information, and pushed it back to her.

  “Here you go.”

  She scanned the scrawled answers. “How do you want to pay?”

  Dave reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet. It was soaked completely through—the bills were matted and pressed together into one lump. Rather than create a spectacle by separating them now, he pulled out his American Express Gold card and dropped it in front of the woman.

  She snatched it from the counter, her eyes darting from the name on the card to the sheet that Dave had filled out. She then studied the picture of the man on the card. It had been taken two years earlier. It showed a smiling man with short hair, a clean-shaven face, and an expensive suit. She compared it to the biker standing before her—dirty, long hair, stubbled beard, and bloodshot eyes. She looked suspicious; he didn’t care.

  She moved to the machine and swiped the card. Her forehead lifted in surprise when the approval flashed onto the screen. She scribbled the number on a pad and then reached under the counter and into a box of keys.

  “I don’t want any problems,” she said as she slapped a key onto the counter and slid it over. “Room 107, around the corner. You’ve only paid for a single, so no one else is allowed in the room—no other bikers.”

  Too exhausted to respond to the mistrusting woman, Dave grabbed the key and headed out the door. He pulled his bike around the corner in the direction that she had pointed and found Room 107 on the lower floor. He shoved his key into the lock and then pushed himself inside. When he clicked the light switch, nothing happened. In the darkness, he moved to the outline of a lamp on the desk near the bed and fumbled for the knob. As it turned, the light flickered on.

  The room was cleaner than he had expected, though the furniture was certainly dated. He slumped onto the nearest bed and pulled off his boots and socks. His feet were red and swollen. He walked barefoot to the bathroom and twisted on the shower before moving back to the bed to peel off the rest of his saturated clothing. Since there were two double beds, he sat down on the one closest to the door—the one where he’d left his wet boots and socks. It didn’t matter if the bedspread got soaked through with his wet clothing, he reasoned—he would sleep in the other bed. It would serve them right for overcharging customers.

  He pulled off his jacket and draped it over the chair near the space heater on the wall. He turned the temperature dial to the hottest setting—the fan kicked on. Next he stripped off his shirt and undershirt and tossed them beside his boots.

  A wave of exhaustion was rolling over him—not just physical, but mental and emotional fatigue as well. He sagged onto the edge of the bed, thoughts of Megan still resonating. He pushed them away . . . not now, no more pain today.

  Steam billowed from the bathroom door. He didn’t care—there would be plenty of hot water, it would wait. He started to undo his belt and felt his wallet in his back pocket. He pulled it out from his pants and removed its saturated contents. Too exhausted to consider otherwise, he peeled apart the wet bills and credit cards and laid them across the bedspread to dry.

  The slamming knock at the door startled him. He didn’t move. Again, several loud raps rattled the door.

  Most motel rooms had a small viewer that allowed the person on the inside to see who was standing on the outside. This one didn’t. Dave shot a glance at the security door chain that dangled loosely against the doorjamb. It had not been set. He moved to the door and touched the knob. He listened intently, not sure if it was safe to open.

  The door rattled with knocks again—this time he heard voices.

  “Open up the door, now. This is the police!”

  • • •

  Dave twisted the knob and pulled the door open a crack. Outside a drawn firearm was aimed at his head.

  “Down on the ground, now!” the officer yelled.

  He obeyed and dropped to the floor.

  “What’s going on?” Dave grunted as his arms were twisted behind him and a pair of handcuffs tightened into place around his wrists. “Look, there’s been a mistake, you have the wrong guy.”

  A second officer entered the room, his weapon drawn, to sweep the place for additional suspects. He dashed toward the steaming bathroom and burst inside.

  The first officer held his gun in place and began to read Dave his rights.

  “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. Should you choose not to—”

  “I told you this is a mistake. You have the wrong person,” Dave interrupted. “I just checked in—ask the lady at the front desk.”

  The policeman, unfazed by the interruption, continued his monologue.

  “ . . . Knowing and understanding your rights as I have explained them to you, are you willing to answer questions without an attorney present?”

  “Of course, but like I told you . . .” Dave turned his head to see the office lady standing outside the open motel room door, watching the events unfold. Upon hearing the commotion, half a dozen other spectators had exited their rooms and were gawking as well.

  The second policeman returned from the bathroom, his gun now replaced in his holster.

  “The place is empty. He’s alone—at least for now.” Then he noticed the rows of neatly laid out bills and credit cards spread incriminatingly across the bed. He moved closer and picked a card up, the same one that Dave had shown the motel clerk.

  “My, oh, my, what do we have here?”

  Dave, with his face against the floor and hands cuffed behind his back, remained confused. “Please,” he pleaded, “what’s this all about?” He arched his head to meet the policeman’s glance.

  “Crackdown on fraud and burglary,” the man in blue replied. “Seems we’ve had a bit of a problem with bikers running an identity theft ring—and this neighborhood has been ground zero. So, it begs the question, when are your friends arriving?”

  “Friends? I’m alone. I promise. I’m not involved!”

  The man studied the photo and then glanced to Dave on the floor. “Of course not,” he said, his words sopping with sarcasm.

  To Dave it was becoming clear: the nervous glances when he was checking in, the comparison of the pictures.

  “Look, those credit cards are mine. I swear.”

  “Really? Will you pinky swear?” His tone mocked.

  “I promise I—”

  The man cut Dave’s sentence in half, didn’t give him time to continue. The closer he leaned, the more aggravated he became. “Look, buddy, I’ve been on shift for ten hours now, and I just can’t listen to any more of this crap. I don’t know where you come from, but stealing credit cards is a crime in California.” He turned to his partner with disgust. “Nick, load him in the car!”

  Dave was jerked to his feet and herded out of the door.

  “Let me at least get dressed,” he pleaded, still barefoot and with no shirt.

  While the first officer stuffed Dave into the backseat of the squad car, the second snatched Dave’s shirt from the bed, his wet boots from the floor, and the leather jacket from the
chair. He rolled them into a bundle and then tossed them into the back of the waiting squad car.

  • • •

  Dave arrived with the officers at the Corte Madera Police Station on Doherty Drive, north of San Francisco. The thought of putting back on the wet shirt was repulsive, but once his handcuffs had been removed so they could fingerprint him, he stretched it back onto his body. He was cuffed again, his mug shots were taken, his statement was noted, his record filed. He tried again to plead his case with the intake sergeant but found him even less caring than the two officers who had brought him in.

  After the booking was complete, he was led by two more men down a long, narrow hall and past two security checkpoints. At each one, an armed policeman behind thick Plexiglas buzzed them through self-locking steel doors.

  Once inside, they approached a row of holding cells. All held at least one accused perpetrator, some two. A steel-barred door opened with a buzz and a clank at the same time that Dave’s handcuffs were released. He was escorted inside, and the door locked behind him.

  “How long will I be here?” he asked as the escorting officers retreated from the direction they had come.

  “You’ll be the first to know,” one guard replied to the other, rather than addressing Dave. “The first to know.” Both laughed at the comment, then vanished behind the locked steel door.

  • • •

  The man lying on the cot was big. Dave presumed he was sleeping, but once the officers had disappeared, he rolled over and sat up on the edge of the bed. His eyes were cold and bloodshot, his stare icy.

  Dave stared back, not sure how to respond or what to say. Only the man’s eyes moved, sizing Dave up, like a wild animal assessing the fight in its prey.

  Without saying a word, Dave backed to the cot on the opposite side of the cell and sat down. He kept his eye on the man, who was still staring, perhaps still deciding what move to make next.