The Game Bridge (An article from the Addy Times, Herald, Daily Bugle, Press and Examiner)

Yesterday the grapevine was in full bloom. Report after report made it from one idiot to the next and finally to me. It seems the town’s meth dealer and self-appointed mayor, Shandra Donothing, has initiated one of her withdrawal-induced projects in the microlopolis of Addy, Wa. Now, one has to be careful not to take news leads too seriously when they come from the drug, and booze addled lips of Addyites. But when all ten of my trusted informants report some strange going’s on, that means a good fifty people, which is the entire town’s population, has witnessed said occurrence. So, yours truly springs into action insuring you get the real story.

After picking up a six pack of Kokane talls to chase the Hornitos tequila I carried in my day pack, I came upon Ms. Shandra , who was giving directions to a concrete truck driver. They were busy cementing four telephone, or power line sized polls, into the ground on either side of Highway 395, just north of the Old Schoolhouse and Rip-off Convenience Store. When asked what she was up to, she informed me she was building a game bridge. I told her I agreed one is needed, as if one were to walk or drive said stretch of the deadly highway, one would have to circumnavigate no fewer than ten road killed deer. She shot me an inquisitive look as if she had no idea what I was talking about. I sat down on a rock to sip at my Hornitos and have a few beers while taking notes as I watched the progress. It wasn’t long before I toppled off my perch into slumber.

The following morning, I found the poles set, a half inch steel braded cable strung across the road from the two poles on the west side of the road to the two on the east. The poles on either side of the highway stood about four of five feet apart. I found it a bit disconcerting that the cables had been tautly strung to poles just set in concrete the day before. That’s when I noticed several quarts of assorted hard liquor, copious amounts of empty beer cans, and the wrappers of numerous convenience store burritos lying about my general vicinity. It could have been several days since my last moment of coherent consciousness. I thought it might be a good time to return home before my wife ruined another skillet and the lumps returned to my skull.

While I was not exactly welcomed home, after two days on the couch with little interaction with the lovely Janice, I felt it was time to return to town to check up on the progress of Miss Donothing’s latest pet project. Arriving on scene, I found the Addy Quilters affixing two by twelve planks to the cables with yarn. I couldn’t help but think this type off construction wouldn’t hold up long given the weight of deer, moose, and elk which might utilize the bridge to avoid the bumpers of passing traffic, not to mention the damage from the elements. I, I mean we, the we being town’s folk and interested passersby who stopped to inquire about the goings on, watched the less than enthralling construction. Most sat viewing the progress while imbibing margaritas supplied by yours truly via his solar powered blender. I would surely hear about this expense by both my wife and my accountant.

Between margaritas, maybe the sixth or seventh, I extrapolated that Miss Donothing had either stopped imbibing the product she sold, or the crank freaks and meth-heads were on a tear. One of the suppositions would explain why Miss Donothing could afford the expenses incurred by such a monumental undertaking.

As I sat in Margarita Ville, flip-flops intact, I watched the Quilters exit the scene and Shandra and her sidekick hang prefabbed rope ladders from the posts on either side of the highway. One could only surmise the ropes had been constructed by either the quilters or Fatass Mcgirk’s rag tag batch of Boy Scouts. I had to wonder how anything larger than a squirrel, a chipmunk, or possibly a nimble handed raccoon was going to utilize the bridge. I watched as Miss Donothing’s assistant, Jenny Loafer, tossed black, plastic garbage bags containing who knows what to the receiving Shandra. Shandra carried the bags to the center of the bridge and returned to the ladder dropping the empty bags to Jenny. After several minutes in the center of the bridge, Shandra returned to its edge and the rope ladder, exclaiming, “It’s done!” She called to me, “C’mon up!”

I downed the dregs of my margarita, kicked off my flip-flops and stepped up to the rope ladder. Now, if you’ve never climbed a rope ladder, trust me, it’s no cake walk. Especially after god knows how many Margaritas. There was nothing solid about the contraption and it swayed, bucked and did everything in its power to thwart my ascent. With much trepidation and an equal amount of effort, I finally reached the first plank of the bridge. Again, my mind was concerned for the elk, deer and moose who might be using the thing to safely cross the highway. Having reached the precariously attached planks of the bridge, I attempted to massage the lactic acid from my arms and calves, while gasping for breath as each margarita had been accompanied by no less than two cigarettes.

Shandra pulled a tiny zip-lock baggie from a pocket, dipped a finger inside, and pulled it out. She snuffed off the contents she retrieved from said baggie from the underside of her yellowed fingernail. She did the, lather, rinse, and repeat actions one would read on his or her shampoo bottle when showering, but such instructions were missing from the little bank of crank. I suppose those abusing the drug just know you’re supposed to repeat the action on the other nostril, which she did. She extended her hand to me. I declined. After all, one all-consuming vice is just about as much as I can handle.

“Pick your poison!” she said.

I gazed across the bridge. Two metal stakes protruded from planks spaced about forty feet apart, a set of horseshoes sitting at the foot of the first stake. Between them, still wrapped in cellophane, lay boxes containing Risk, Monopoly, Life, Candyland, Pictionary, Scrabble, and several other board games. I shook my head, saying, “Fuck me. A game bridge!”