Man on a Bridge
Andrea Boll The traffic on the bridge is a slow snarl this morning. Police cars and orange cones block the entire right lane, and I have come to a standstill in the middle of its cables and cantilevers. Usually, my commute across it is against traffic: the smooth and quick side— a few moments where I marvel at the magnificent blur of sky and human ingenuity before an otherwise lackluster day. Not today. Today, against the sky of dingy grey, both directions of vehicles inch along the drab, concrete mass of the bridge, the faces of the drivers pinched in annoyance. I call school to say I will be late. Our secretary says not to worry, that half the staff is stuck on the bridge, including the principal. When I finally arrive 20 minutes later, I discover why. The resource officer shows me his live feed where a man on the bridge appears to be deciding whether he should jump 300 feet into the water below or turn himself in to the cops who we all know will most likely kill him. Why? Because the man on the bridge shot a cop the night before, an off-duty officer who was most likely just trying to be a good samaritan when he interrupted a domestic dispute between the man on the bridge and his wife who carried another man’s baby in her belly. The man on the bridge had shot his wife and the cop, killing them both. To make it all worse, the man on the bridge is black and the cop was white. How could it possibly end well? The bell rings, so I head to my classroom on the second floor. Unlike the other teachers, I keep the blinds of my windows open to the expansive view of the bridge. I don’t mind when the students stare out, day-dreaming instead of paying attention. I search for the man on the bridge even though I know he is on the side I cannot see. None of the students know anything about it and are not impressed when I tell them. “He’s screwed,” they say dismissively. They don’t care about much beyond the tight horizons of their own difficult lives, so I go ahead with the day’s Spanish lesson: how there are two different forms of “to be,” one permanent and one temporary. They don’t understand. During my third period prep, I sit with resource officer, watching the live feed where the man is now pacing along the ledge between two of the piers while on the road above him, the police are waiting. Most have guns out, but one lay on his stomach a little over the edge, seemingly trying to talk to the man through a megaphone. Sometimes the man stops and sinks to his knees, placing his head between his hands; other times he stops pacing to look over the edge to the water, ready to take him home in a watery grave. I know he is a murderer, but I feel a deep sorrow for him and wonder how his life had unravelled to this terrible moment. I understand though. Once the woman I had loved betrayed me. I too would have liked to kill her and also die. I did neither; although I guess in my own way, I tried to die but using more acceptable methods: drinking, drugs, sex with strangers, vicious fights, and unnecessary risks. It took almost five years, but eventually I stopped trying and got over her. Or did I? Because a few days ago, that woman emailed me, saying she would be in town for a conference this weekend and did I want to meet? I hadn’t spoken to her for over seven years, not since the day she returned my engagement ring, and yet, immediately after reading the email, I reminisced on how happy she once made me. The principal comes to tell us the police are going to shut down the bridge by 3pm and that we will be closing school immediately. Parents and buses are being notified. I was free to go. Originally, we had agreed to meet for breakfast on Saturday, but with my afternoon suddenly free and her hotel right off the bridge, it feels ordained to see her today. I text her that my school is being dismissed early and ask if she would be willing to meet up later. Her response is an immediate yes. With the closing of the bridge, the city becomes completely gridlocked. By 5pm, all the freeways, detours, and side streets are clogged. People have no idea they can’t get home the way they always have. Most have no idea there is a man on the bridge contemplating life and death. They are consumed with the tragedies of their own lives, questioning the choices that have left them stuck once again in traffic. What else is there to do? Luckily, I am not one of them. I made it off the bridge before it closed and sit with the woman in the bar of her hotel. I drink whiskey while she explains that cheating on me was the biggest mistake of her life, that she is divorced now. She is more beautiful than I remember, and the jagged pain her betrayal caused me returns, twisting up my insides. How could I forget? I check the news on my phone to see the status of the man on the bridge. He has neither jumped nor turned himself in. Later, he will surprise us all with a third option. He will pull out a gun and shoot himself in the head. |
|
About the Author:
Andrea Boll is the author of the novella, The Parade Goes on Without You (NOLAFugges Press, 2009). She has also been featured in Eye Rhyme, YAWP Magazine, the Rio Grande Review, the New Orleans Review, Year Zero: A Year of Reporting From Post-Katrina New Orleans, and most recently in the anthology, Monday Nights: Stories from the Creative Writing Workshop at the University of New Orleans. She lives in New Orleans with her daughter.
Andrea Boll is the author of the novella, The Parade Goes on Without You (NOLAFugges Press, 2009). She has also been featured in Eye Rhyme, YAWP Magazine, the Rio Grande Review, the New Orleans Review, Year Zero: A Year of Reporting From Post-Katrina New Orleans, and most recently in the anthology, Monday Nights: Stories from the Creative Writing Workshop at the University of New Orleans. She lives in New Orleans with her daughter.