The Bridge

Jason stumbled to the bridge, each step a struggle, his body heavy with grief, his mind fuddled by alcohol. He wasn’t sure what day it was, where he’d been earlier. Oh, yeah. The bar. They’d tossed him out, eighty-sixed him just as happy hour was ending and said, “No more, Buddy.” He wasn’t that drunk, though—and certainly not belligerent. Just crying into his martini, weeping like a five-year-old—the salt of his tears mixing with the drink, indistinguishable from the juice of the plump olives impaled within the glass, dead. 

He stepped under the lone light that lit one side of the bridge. It cast his flat, dark ghost onto the pavement.

“Just a bit more,” he said as his step faltered, the words slightly slurred, his breath hard. 

He drew the back of his hand across his mouth and stubbled cheek, shaving not having been a big concern for the last two days. He reached the rail of the bridge, the one that kids liked to hang over and spit. Steadying himself, he stared at the water some thirty feet below as it slowly churned in the dark, moonlight bouncing off the surface to create flashes of silver—hypnotic, enticing, a beckoning morse code that called to him.

Jason! Jason!

He breathed deeply, then put one foot on the lower part of the rail, wobbled a bit, and clutched at the top support. The cold metal stung his skin, reminding him that he was alive, flesh and blood, beating heart. He ignored the feeling in his hands.

“You can do this,” he muttered. 

A light late-October breeze pushed past the aspen grove he’d just passed. The rustling sound reached his ears as a sylvan Greek chorus. Like the river, it spoke to him.

Jason! Jason!

The slightest of chills enveloped him, but he paid no attention. Soon he wouldn’t have to worry about temperature of any kind—he wouldn’t have to worry about anything at all. It could snow for all he cared. Before he could lift his other foot, another sound called to him.

“Meow.”

He looked down, squinting at the small figure just below and to his right. It was a gray and white tabby, a bit scrawny—not unlike him in both hair color and physique—and it peered at him with iridescent feline eyes. 

“Meow,” it repeated. 

“Where’d you come from?” he growled in response. 

The cat sat there, tail twisting in the night, its gaze locked on him. 

“Come here to watch?” His mouth twitched into a smirk, and he grunted. 

“Meow.” 

It remained motionless, save for the occasional sweep of its tail. The cat studied him—or so he thought—gauging him, considering his actions. He imagined it asking, “What are you doing up there?” He could make out its ribs, see the rhythmic breathing beneath them. Moonlight bounced back from its preternatural green eyes. 

“What do you want?” 

The cat glanced at the river then looked back at him.

“Meow.”

He looked over the edge again, the water inky black except for the shimmering moonlight. He wasn’t sure how deep it was, but knew it was full of large rocks, smoothed by the liquid passage of time, rounded and waiting for a decaying tree trunk to thump into them—or a human head. Slowly, he removed his foot from the rail and brought it to the paved path below. Again, he swayed but clung to the rail to keep himself upright. 

“What are you doing out here all alone? Don’t you belong to someone?”

Looking at him, the cat tilted its head. He heard a low purr and then it stood, padded the short distance to him, and nuzzled his pant leg. 

“Is there something you need?” 

The cat brushed its body up against him, moved lithely between his legs, then turned and came back through. It sat again, gazing up at him. He slowly lowered himself until he was seated on the hard, cold pavement, his back resting against the rail. 

“Came to see what I was up to, did you?”

“Meow.”

“Well, if you’re here to stop me, I don’t see why. I have nothing to offer.”

The cat lifted its paw and rested it on his outstretched leg. He leaned in and examined its neck.

“No collar,” he said. “What? Homeless?” 

“Meow.”

“I can relate. Well, I’m not homeless. I mean, I have a house. It’s just empty. Only me.” He sniffed. “Might as well be homeless.”

The cat removed its paw, crouched, and then rested its chin on his leg. He reached out and stroked its head. It emitted a loud purr.

“Don’t know how it got to this,” he continued, the tips of his fingers softly encircling the cat’s ears. “Way back, life . . .” Words caught in his throat, thoughts that struggled to come out. He harumphed. 

“I was young, eager, ready to start a career. I even loved someone.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “Ancient history.”

The soft, contented buzz of the cat matched the volume of the lazy sound of the river below, the two forming a harmony of contradictory notes. He turned and looked over his shoulder, watching the slow-moving water as it snaked its way downstream. Like so much in nature, the river had purpose, the water had a destination. He lifted his gaze, and the river narrowed as it made its way toward the horizon, eventually curving away and disappearing into the dark. Sometime, very far away, that water would meet the sea. The seawater would evaporate, rise up to become clouds that gathered into a storm, then rage across the land, just so that the water could start its journey once more—a life source, its reason for being. He sighed, then turned his attention back to the cat.

“Been alone now for more than ten years. I guess nobody wants me. Hell, maybe I’m unlovable.” He chuckled. “How about you? You feel like that sometimes? Maybe no one loves you? I mean, you are out here all by yourself.”

The cat lifted its head. “Meow.”

“Yeah, you get it, don’t you?”

The cat rested its chin on his leg once more. He gently massaged its neck.

“Lost my job last week, too. I thought I was good at it. No. I know I was good at it. Used to be, anyway.” He drew in a deep breath and then exhaled. “I was behind on a major project. The client walked. Harold said I just wasn’t up to snuff anymore.” 

“Meow.”

“Harold? He’s my boss. Was my boss. I liked him. Still do. Can’t blame him.” 

He tilted his head backward to rest on the railing and stared out at nothing. 

“It was the drink. I know that.”

“Meow.”

“How? I don’t know. One martini after another. That’s the path I took, the road I paved for myself.” He looked down at the cat. “I’m sure that’s not your problem, is it?”

The cat stood, climbed over his leg, and curled up into his lap. He caressed it with long, gentle strokes down its spine, its thin body registering with his touch. 

“So, tell me about you. How did you wind up here?”

The cat rolled onto its back—its paws curved, hind legs splayed out. “Meow.”

“What? You don’t want to talk about it?” He stroked its belly, evoking another round of loud purrs. 

He looked down, the cat’s eyes reduced to a sliver of an opening. Purr, purr, purr.

“I get it. It’s hard to face up to what you own, what you’ve made of yourself.”  He narrowed his eyes as his brows drew together. “Wait. You didn’t get tossed out, did you?”

The cat’s eyes opened. “Meow.”

“Well, those bastards! What did they do? Dump you on the side of the road somewhere?”

The cat stared at him. 

“That’s no way to treat anyone. I bet you were a good cat. Did all you were supposed to do, right? I mean, stayed clean. Did your business where you were supposed to. Maybe even caught a mouse or two, kept the house pest free.” He chuckled again. “Yeah, you do your best and then look what happens. You wind up on a bridge.”

“Meow.”

“I know, I know. In my case, I let the booze get in the way. But honestly, I really did try. I really did. Life—life just gets hard sometimes. You get screwed up in your head. Then, one morning you wake up and find that all you have is your work, and that’s not enough. Inside . . .” He tapped his chest. “Inside, you feel nothing. And work doesn’t hug you or greet you when you come home.” 

The cat rolled to its side and then pushed itself up, standing on its hind legs. It reached upwards with its front paws and placed them on Jason’s lower chest.

“Meow.”

He smiled. “What? You want a hug now?” He reached down and gathered the cat in his arms. “There. That better?”

The cat snuggled against him, its purr renewed. 

“Yep. Everyone needs a little love.”  He leaned his head toward the cat and brushed his cheek up against its side. He stayed there for a minute, letting the warmth of the cat’s body seep into him, letting the contentedness of its purr fill his ear. He pulled back.

“Have you eaten recently? You look like you could use a good meal.” 

“Meow.”

Jason cocked his head. “Tell you what. You’re by yourself. I’m all alone. What say you come live with me? We can figure something out, right?”

“Meow.”

“Well, that’s it then.” He stood, holding gently onto the cat. Again, he faltered as he rose, steadied himself with one hand on the rail while he cradled the cat in his free arm. 

“It’s about a fifteen-minute walk from here. Not far, except it is a bit chilly.” Feeling secure in his footing, he brought his other arm in to make sure the cat was secure in his embrace. “Ready?”

“Meow.”

He bent his head down and kissed the top of the cat’s head. They passed under the solitary streetlight and then past the clutch of aspens, the rustling of the trees calling out a soft goodnight.