The road to the bridge is in need of repair. The potholes are jolting our advance and emphasizing the car’s horrible suspension.
I knew which bridge Steve had in mind. We used to bungee jump from it years ago, before the fad died. A friend of ours really got into it, but he moved away and took the gear with him. During his first jump, we scared him half to death. We had a fake end of bungee line, so when he jumped, the fake line was thrown after him. We all screamed, “Wait! Wait!” Ah, the hilarity of watching him fall, screaming obscenities, only to end up dangling at the bottom of his very secure rope. The victim of a heartless prank, visually reminiscent of the tarot deck’s “Hanged Man.” He didn’t talk to us for a while, but eventually got over it. I can’t say I blame him. He thought he was plummeting to certain death. Steve recorded the ordeal and posted it on the Internet. It generated a fair amount of hits. Later when we searched for it, similar videos popped up. They were amusing, but not as good as ours.
“What are you smiling about?” Steve asked.
“Thinking of bungee jumping.”
“Yeah, that video is still awesome.”
The car continued to bounce along the road.
Steve tossed his finished cigarette out the window. “Now, we’ve got to make sure we hit the river, or we’re going to have to go down and clean up the mess.”
“Who’s doing the drop?”
“We both should, just to have a second opinion. That way there’s no finger-pointing or blaming each other if we screw up.”
“Shouldn’t one of us keep watch?”
“Yeah, I suppose that would be a good idea. But both of us should do the drop. That has to be perfect. I don’t want to go down the ravine.”
Neither do I. Many years ago, a lodge stood near the bottom of the ravine. The owner, a gruff old man named Bill, had a stern exterior, but was a great guy. He sold really nice handmade wood furniture, but everyone knew this place for making incredible wood humidors. Humidors are boxes and cabinets that people store cigars in, so the cigars don’t become dry. Naturally, Bill also sold cigars, which were kept in the beautiful humidors. People would come from all around the world just to buy one of those gorgeous humidors, or commission Bill to specially make one.
We’d spend the entire day at the lodge. Enjoying the cigars and talking with Bill. A few years ago, a landslide wiped out the lodge. Some people died, many were injured, but Bill was never found. He disappeared and is still missing. Since then more landslides followed, which makes it difficult to get to the bottom of the ravine.
Steve drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Okay, I’ll stay in the car and keep an eye out. You find a good spot and get a feel for the bridge. When the coast is clear, I’ll join you with the bag, and we do it.”
“Okay, I don’t want to miss the river.”
“We just have to make sure our aim is deadly accurate.”
The car dipped as pavement changed to bridge. My eyes squinted, searching for traces of the river at the bottom of the ravine.
“Yes! You see that?” Steve shouted. “The river is wider, giving us a larger target to aim for. Must be from all that rain up north.”
We slowed, almost coasted. The unobstructed full moon hung over us. Steve turned off the headlights, plunging us into darkness.
I don’t know why he turned off the lights, but I’m keeping quiet. It is similar to one of those cheap thrills people do when they approach a scary place. The effect usually works on little kids and girls.
When we got to the middle of the bridge, Steve rolled the car to a stop. I opened my door and jumped out. The night’s driving, brisk wind slapped my face. Eyes tearing, I regained my composure as the wind’s savage howls deafened me. I slowly approached the railing and realized I hadn’t heard my door close.
I could swear that I closed my door.
As I peered down toward the ravine, I could see the various trees, marks of landslides, and for a fleeting second, my eyes saw Bill’s old lodge near the side of the ravine. I cleared that thought from my head and focused on the river in the middle of the ravine, gleaming dimly in the moonlight. Up here, it was two feet wide. I wrapped my fingers around the cold steel railing.
The wind is so strong, it will definitely be a factor to consider. However, the width of the river will work to our advantage. The water is moving fast and should be deep. Yes, this will be very do-able. The duffle will hit and probably scatter the contents in the water. All we have to worry about is the wind.
An ice-cold hand grabbed my wrist. The skeletal digits, attached to an arm on the opposite side of the railing, pulled me toward the river below.
I lurched away with a scream. The freezing hand released me.
Holy shit! This is it! Steve has come back from the dead to drag me down into hell with him!
As I hollered, I realized the sound I heard wasn’t my own voice, but someone else’s. I tried to calm down, and confirmed the sound was another person’s screaming.
I eased back to the railing, cautiously peering over the side, ready to jump back once I saw Steve’s dead body or ghost.
Instead, I saw a spindly man in a business suit standing on a small ledge. The man’s hand held a death-grip clench on the bridge’s railing.
I guess he sort of looks like Steve.
The man looked up at me. “You idiot! What are you trying to do, kill me?”
I scared you? You bastard! You scared me! And you’re not even Steve!
The wind must have died down, because I heard Steve’s car door close then his footsteps running toward me.
I punched the steel railing. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” the businessman shouted back. “I’m having a pie-eating contest, you stupid bastard!”
Steve gently put his hand on my shoulder and peered over the bridge.
“What?” I yelled back.
“I’m going to kill myself by jumping off the bridge!”
Steve sighed in disbelief. “Ah, for fuck sake!”
“Don’t you two even try to stop me! I’ll jump, I’m going to do it!”
Steve leaned back on the steel railing and threw his hands up in resignation.
“Hold on a second! If you are trying to kill yourself, then why are you yelling at me for almost killing you?”
The whole world, including the wind, seemed to halt and listen for the reply.
“It’s because I’m not ready to jump. You scared me, you—”
“Hey, you scared me!” I snapped. “You’re the one who grabbed me. What the hell were you trying to do? Take me down with you?”
“I didn’t know you were there! I’m trying to get to the middle of the bridge and jump off! You moron, I almost fell off the bridge!”
“But that doesn’t make any sense! You would have still ended up dead.”
“Don’t lecture me! I want to die when I want to!”
Steve leaned over the rail. “Right, we’ll leave you to it then.” He grabbed the shoulder of my coat. “Let’s go.”
We walked to the car.
“Wait, come back,” the businessman pleaded. “Aren’t you a little curious on why I want to kill myself?”
“Not really,” Steve yelled. “Good luck with that and try not to make a mess.”
When I got in the car I was still very perturbed and slammed the door shut.
Not only are people stupid, but they can be so selfish. And they don’t make sense!
Chapter Six
I Didn't Mean to Kill My Best Friend Page 5