The Old Man and the Bridge

“Mom,” gasped Danielle, “Mom, I think that man is going to jump.”

It was a bright sunny afternoon, Danielle and her mother Sandra, decided to go beach-combing along the coastal waters of Washington State. Danielle, who was named after her father, lived in Seattle. When her father retired, he and Sandra moved to the coast and built their retirement home. It was on rugged, beach-front property.

           Danny now visits her mother on weekends. She works for Microsoft and mom has taken up painting, mostly seascapes.

The old man pulled the cord on the bus and it slowed to a stop on the other side of the bridge. He left his pack on the floor under his seat and then slowly got out of the bus. The driver smiled at him and said, “Have a nice day.” And then he closed the door and accelerated down the road.

           The old man calmly strolled out onto the bridge’s pedestrian walkway. He stopped at the center of the bridge and peered over the rail. He watched the wide river under him boil, as the incoming tide collided with the swift river current, and then empty into the wide Pacific Ocean.

           “Pretty, isn’t it?”

           “He turned to the sweet voice and forced a smile, and then nodded at her. The young girl continued on. He gazed at the far horizon where the blue sky melted into the blue ocean and he sighed in relief. He patiently waited until no one was on the tall bridge. He took a deep resigned breath and climbed over the rail. He hesitated…

Danny and her mother were stunned and helpless as they watched in horror when the poor man fell forward. They tried to scream as time itself slowed down. The man rolled forward and then he awkwardly spun like a rag doll towards the wild river. He slammed into the water like a sack of potatoes.

           Whack!

           The sound was loud and heart-wrenching.

           Danny screamed and dropped to her knees. Her mom dropped the plastic bag of shells she was holding and quickly ran towards the bridge. When she got there, the man was rolling in the angry water like a log. He was close to shore. So, she latched on to his shoulders and pulled, but the current was strong and she was old and weak. She lost her footing and the cold water started dragging her under.

           “Mom, mom,” screamed Danny as she ran down the beach and waded into the swift water. “For God’s sakes, mom, I can’t lose you too.” Danny reached her mother and hung on to her until other beach-walkers quickly joined the rescue. They finally managed to pull the old man’s wet, limp, body to the gravel beach.

           The paramedics finally arrived and found a hint of life. They told the two rescuers that he probably had internal injuries and a broken back. “He most likely will not make it alive to the hospital. Sorry.”

           The mother and daughter, with tears in their eyes, hugged each other and left for home. It was a somber and sad ride. In the blink of an eye, life can change drastically or be snuffed out as easily as a candle flame. After consuming half of a bottle of scotch in front of the fireplace, they felt a little better.

The following weekend, it was unseasonably hot in Seattle.

           Danny quit work early and arrived at her mother’s by late afternoon on Friday. The front door was locked and the doorbell never fetched her mother.

           “She must be on the beach painting,” mumbled Danny as she worked herself around back. And that is where she found her, but not quite as she expected.

           “Mother!” she gasped. “Why are you naked?”

           “Jesus, Danny. You gave me a terrible fright.”

           Danny lowered her eyes and shook her head.

           “I am not naked, sweetie.” Sandra quickly slipped her yellow blouse back on. “I am wearing jeans.”

           “But you were topless, mother! Why?”

           “I have an interview for a job, as a pole dancer. In a biker bar.”

           “Not funny, mom!”

           Sandy reached into a cooler and retrieved two beers. She handed one to Danny and opened the other one. “I read somewhere,” she went on to explain, “that if you soak in natural vitamin D from the sun, you won’t get breast cancer.”

           Danny opened her beer and took a long satisfying drink. “You know you can buy vitamin D over the counter, mom. That way you don’t expose yourself to the neighbors.”

           “I only have one neighbor and they only come up on the weekends. And besides, I think old Fred could use a cheap thrill now and then.”

           “Mother…” Danny was a loss for words and changed the subject. “That old man on the bridge, did he die?”

           “I don’t know? There was nothing in the paper. Must have been a vagrant, and just out of booze money.”

           “Danny nodded, took another drink, and then asked, “What cha painting, mom?”

The following week turned wet and cold. Sandra painted from behind her large, plate-glass-windows that faced the ocean. The surf was tall, and foaming at its mouth, like a huge water-dragon. She mixed the blues, and greens, and grays, and the splashes of white paint, so that her canvas came alive with realistic detail. She was pleased with this piece. She decided to reward herself with a trip to town. And with cold beer and a hot pizza at Giovanni’s.

            As she drove through town, she passed the hospital sign and remembered the old man. Her curiosity got the best of her. So, she pulled into the parking lot and then went inside. She went up to the front deck. The nurse in charge was busy writing something. She was tall and bordering on fierce-looking.

           She looked up and snapped, “Yes?”

           “I am inquiring about a man brought in here a couple of weeks ago. He was the one that fell off a bridge.”

           “Do you have a name, mam?” She kept writing without looking up.

           “Sandra, miss…?” Sandy was trying to read her name tag. It said, Betty.

           The busy nurse, Betty, picked up her clipboard and ran a finger down it. “No. We have no Mr. Sanders here.”

           Sandra dropped her head thinking, tall and deaf. I pity her husband if she has one.

           “I’m sorry. My name, is Sandra and I don’t know the name of the man I am looking for. He was the one that fell off a bridge.” ‘Just how many bridge jumpers do you get a year?’ she wanted to ask, but thought better of it.

           A light suddenly went on in the nurse Betty’s eyes. “Ah, yes. We don’t know his name. He can’t remember it.” It was a dim light. She then asked, “Are you a relative?”

           “No,” Sandra said. “How is he?”

           The nurse softened and smiled. It made her look human. “He was in a coma for a few days. He has a broken arm, a few cracked ribs, and a bunch of bruises. He is lucky to be alive.”

           Sandra sighed in relief, “Can I see him?”

           “I’m sorry. Only relatives and the police. They are still trying to find out who he is.” Then Nurse Betty asked, “How do you know him?”

           “I pulled the poor man from the water,” said Sandy, proudly.

           Nurse Betty raised her eyebrows and paused in thought. And then she softly whispered, “I think that saving a man’s life qualifies you as a very close relative. Room 212.”

           Sandy never got a good look at the old man she rescued. All she remembered was his thick, water-soaked beard and dirty clothes. As she worked her way down the hall and around empty gurneys, she developed enough curiosity in her, to kill nine cats. She quickly tip-toed into his room.

           The old man in the bed was hooked to multiple tubes and wires. His face was shaven and he had thin white hair. He looked frail. He looked in his nineties. He looked dead. The electric charts said differently.

           Sandra solemnly walked to the side of his bed and clasped his hand and softly mumbled. “Wow, you must be some tough old bird.” And to herself, “What was your hurry. Give or take a year, you could have died in your own bed.” She sighed and gently laid his hand on the sheet and whispered, “I am so sorry for you… whatever your name is.”

           “It’s George,” sounded a soft voice from behind a white curtain.

           Apparently, George has a roommate.

           Sandra jumped in surprise as the voice slid the curtain back.

           “Hi,” he said.

           Sandy recovered her composure and her manors. “Hi. My name is Sandy.” She forced an embarrassed smile.

           The roommate’s bed was in an upright position so that the occupant could sit, upright. He looked comfortable. His left arm was in a cast.

           He reached out his right hand. “I’m John.”

           Sandra gently shook his hand. She was pretty sure he smiled but it was hard to tell behind all that tousled hair on his face. He was more what she was expecting to find.

           John leaned back against the pillows and then asked, “Do I know you?”

           Sandra shook her head and then she realized that this was the man she had risked her life for. “I thought you didn’t remember your name.”

           “I don’t. The police call me John Doe. I kind of like it. Although, I would favor, John Buck. Or at least John Deere.”

           Sandy laughed at his joke. She noticed he had a slight accent contaminated with a little French. Maybe Quebec? She was beginning to like the guy.

           “Would you mind a little company?” She asked as she slid a chair beside his bed. She needed to find out more about this strange bearded man. The curiosity-box in her brain was about to burst.

Shortly the day-nurse came to the room. She peeked inside and told her that the police had arrived and that they had more questions.

           Sandy slid her chair back under the window. “John?” she questioned. “Would it be alright if I came and visited you tomorrow?”

           “I would like that, Sandy.”

           His beard moved and Sandy was sure that there was a smile hidden under it.

           He then asked, “And would it be possible to bring real food?”

           “Pizza?”

           The beard didn’t hide his affirmative laugh.

Sandra slept with mixed emotions that night. She had no idea why she had asked if it was okay to come back and visit him. And why she suddenly considered him a friend. He was a stranger. And he could be an ax murderer. And his real last name could be ‘Borden.’

           “No wonder cats need nine lives.”

Sandra picked up her pizza, the Hawaiian, and put it in a soft cooler to keep it warm. It was the one she kept by her easel to keep her beer cold, and handy. When she arrived at the nurse’s desk, it was empty. So, she discretely slipped into room 212.

           The nonagenarian was still plugged into important machines and still looked dead. ‘In olden times he would already have been buried,’ she thought to herself.

           John was staring at the soundless TV. The closed-caption was streaming across the picture, but he didn’t seem to be reading it.

           “Hi, John.”

           His beard parted into a proper smile. “Hi, Sandy.

           “Your purse smells delicious.”

           Sandy smiled at him and then retrieved the chair. She set the cooler on it and started to open it.

           “Sandy?”

           She paused and looked into his eyes and saw fear.

           “What’s wrong, John?”

           “The police are coming by this afternoon.” He paused.

           “Why?” she asked with concern. Thinking, ‘they found out he really is an ax murderer.’

           “They want to take my finger-prints, and some pictures. They want to see if they can find out who I am.”

           “Well, that is a good thing, John. Isn’t it?” She sighed in relief.

           Tears began rolling down John’s cheeks and disappearing into his beard. “I am terrified. I am afraid I will find out who the man was that jumped off that bridge.

           “Whatever his name was, he had to be in great pain to do such a thing. I am happy just being John Doe. I don’t want to be that other man anymore.”

           They sat in silence. They lost their appetite. The pizza got cold. And Sandy, for the first time in her life, was at a loss for words. For a long time, she listened to the clock on the wall as it irritatingly, ticked away. “Why in the hell,” screamed Sandy’s brain, “is that thing not digital. For Christ’s sakes, it’s the twenty-first century.”

           Sandy jumped to her feet. “John, you are not in jail. This is a free country. I say, let’s go for a drive. Nobody saw me come in and no one will see us go out.”

           “But I can’t ask…”

           “Shut up!” she said as she helped him to his feet. “God I miss saying that.” She then quickly found a wheelchair and made good their escape.

           From a hospital.

           And without paying.

           So technically, maybe they were fugitives.

           She drove him all the way to her home trying to stay at the speed limit, which was a first for her. John sat silently, while the good Sandy cursed the bad Sandy for being such an idiot. When they drove over the bridge, the good Sandy urged her not to look.

Danielle texted her mother that she was on her way. ‘…and please mom, be wearing clothes! :)’

           When she arrived, Danny didn’t bother trying the front door. She went straight to the sea-side of the house. And that is where she found her, but not quite as she expected. Mom was standing over a seated man while holding a sharp instrument in her hand.

           At least she was dressed.

           This stopped Danny in her tracks. What macabre scene was her mother up to now? Was it murder? Was it mayhem? Or perhaps a haircut? Yes, she was holding a scissors. She now wondered who the victim of her haircut was? Her mother was a marksman with scissors.

           She cautiously approached.

           “Mother, who is that? And why do you even own a cell phone if you’re not going to answer it?”

           Sandy, a little startled, said, “Oh, hi Danny.” She then picked up her purse and laid it on the man’s lap. She rummaged through it. “Ah, there you.” She said to her phone.

           “I have a message.” She announced.

           She then pushed the message button and read Danny’s text. She smiled. “Your humor is getting better.”

           Danny pointed at the sitting man and cleared her throat.

           “Who is that?”

           Sandy set her purse next to the chair and the older man stood up. “This is John Buck…ley, John Buckley. He is my gardener.”

           John reached for her hand and with a slight bow, he said, “I am pleased to meet you, Danny. Your mother has told me so much about you.”

           “Hi,” was all Danny could get out. She quickly retrieved her hand. She noticed that the man’s hair was mostly gray. It looked as though that it had been quite dark at one time. It was straight and combed from front to back in parallel lines. Each hair aligned perfectly. Debonair came to mind, except for his beard. It was still quite unruly and hid the true age of his face. He could be handsome?

           “Well, if you will excuse me, I will freshen up while you two ladies get caught up.” John smiled at Sandy, which annoyed Danny, and then he asked, “May I borrow your scissors?”

           “No,” silently screamed Danny in fear.

           John chuckled when he saw Danny’s eyes. “I think it time that we all see exactly what I look like. I sure hope I’m pretty.” He then turned and walked towards the house.

           “I swear he clicked his heels, mother.”

           They stood in silence until John disappeared through the back door.

           “Mother, have you gone completely mad? A gardener? You don’t even have a garden.”

           “Well, I decided I needed a garden. That’s what old people do. They garden. And they have gardeners…hence John.”

           “But, but…”

           But, before another ‘but,’ Sandy added, “Oh, by the way, John is cooking tonight. It’s Italian. Baked spaghetti. He makes his own sauce.”

           “He’s cooking? Cooking!

           Mother, have you gone completely mad?”

Sandra reached into her cooler and retrieved two beers and then she began explaining who John really was, and why she had brought the poor wretched soul into her home.

           And that, “He is a fugitive from the hospital, and he is now hiding out in my spare bedroom.”

           And that, “It’s is no big deal, Honey.

           “And besides, I have gotten rid of all our axes.”

           “Mother, have you gone completely mad?”