William sits in the bridgehouse waiting for a boat to come, or a car to crash, or maybe for a train to derail and kerplunk into the river. Sitting in the bridgehouse, William wants something to happen. He wants to do his job. He wants to pull levers, flip switches, and watch in awe as massive steel beams rise into the air. He wants to do something other than sit on his work stool and scratch his flabby belly while begging for something to happen.
Outside, cars zoom smoothly along the bridge, humming brightly against steel grating then resonating with solid concrete as they leave William behind. From the perspective of the cars, the bridgehouse resembles a slightly oversized outhouse you might find at summer camp, or in your great-great-grandma?s backyard, or a shack hanging on some cliff in the mountains.
It sits on the western side of the bridge just south of the drawspan, supported by large steel beams above and below it, the lower of which forms a walkway that leads to stairs down to the main ramp of the bridge. The bridgehouse is covered by weathered wood siding, stained by years of attacks from birds and other elements. There is a window halfway up each of its four walls through which William monitors the goings on of the bridge and the surrounding waterway.
William is desperately waiting for something to happen, but not much is going on tonight. His shift started at 7 PM, and as the sun fades behind the city skyline, he grows restless, wiggling his oversized body back and forth in an attempt to balance his bulging frame on his workstation stool.
This isn?t what William imagined the first time he saw the bridgehouse, years and years ago when William was a tiny boy, sitting in the passenger seat of his mom?s old beater sedan. At first, he couldn?t imagine what a house was doing right there on a bridge! Was someone living in there? Who could it be? What were they doing in there? Surely a troll didn?t live in there, it was too small, and much too grand, and besides trolls live under bridges.
Back then, it?s wood was painted a dramatic coppery-gold, matching the steal beams, and the steel rope that cascaded in a spider web across the blue sky. William wanted to ask his mom about the bridgehouse, but she was in a bad mood ? he remembers feeling waves of negative energy pouring from her. He doesn?t remember why. He must have done something bad earlier.
Of course! That?s it. They had been in the car for so long that William had taken off his shoes. He hated the shoes. They were baby blue, and had smiley faces on them. And they hurt his feet. Every time he put them on, he imagined he was wearing mice that bit him every time he took a step. Oooh, those were painful shoes. He knew that he had to get rid of them. So, he slowly rolled down his window. It was a hot day, and the stream of air cooled down the car nicely. His mom didn?t say anything. He lifted a shoe up into the air, slowly, staring at it. He grinned, and began laughing.
At the same moment that he thrust the shoe out the window, he felt a sharp pain on his shoulder. His mom had caught him. But it was too late. The car behind them complained loudly, his mom yelled, and William laughed. William was so happy imagining the shoe being run over and over by massive cars. He imagined it was an ugly rat, its guts splattered all over the place like the roadkill in front of his house earlier that day.
And here, in the bridgehouse, William is trying to deal with another annoyance. He keeps shifting his weight around on his work stool, but it just doesn?t want to cooperate, and with each passing moment William grows more and more agitated. The stool is a ramrod, and time its propellant. The blandness of each passing moment, punctuated by the discomfort of his stool is driving William crazy. He grunts to himself, scratching his unshaven chin. He eyes the control panel. No lights are blinking, no beeps emanating. Outside the window he sees what he sees every day, cars and trucks humming along on the left, and to the right the darkness of the river, surrounded by city lights on each side ? all exactly the same things he sees every day, repeated thousands of times.
Why can?t something just happen? William lifts his hands in prayer, begging for a huge semi to roll by, shaking the bridge, and loosening the rivets holding the steel beams above his head. The rivets would come completely loose, and splat! The steel beam would crush William into a pancake. Pancakes in the bridgehouse, people would scream, jumping out of their cars, running across the bridge, slobbering like hungry canines as they would pounce onto the steal beam, then lift it up, and scrape Willy off the floor.
But even that has happened a thousand times in William?s head. The pancakes he?s imagined could pile up higher than the city?s skyscrapers, could replace the river?s dams, or rival the great pyramids of Egypt when stacked just right. Even the most ridiculous thoughts are worn into Willy?s mind like the ruts on a well traveled road.
Enough of this! William hurls his elephantine body off the stool, and bounds in one quick step out of the bridgehouse. Lifting his snout, he pulls crisp evening air into his lungs, raises his arms towards the sky, and yawns a roaring yawn. He is an agitated lion; a shark on the prowl; an elephant screaming at the smallest little mouse. As his yawn reaches the peak, and his lungs deflate, he thinks back to five minutes ago, when he lept outside and yawned a roaring yawn. This time, things will be different. William furls his brow, and bunches his chin into a dimple.
As usual this time of night, a steady stream of monotonous rush-hour traffic flows across the bridge. A few tourists are straggling across the pedestrian walkway below the bridgehouse. The furl in William?s brow deepens. He hunches his head down, and sinks into thought.
A stout old man with pirate-leathery skin and a pure white goatee strolls across the walkway below. His hard sole shoes clang against the bridge.
?Hoy, down there!? William yells.
The old man cranks his head around.
?You! Stop!? Williams voice booms.
The clanking gets a little faster.
?Hey!? William flails his arms. ?Let me just ask you??
The man walks faster, and William considers giving chase. But he can?t leave his post too far behind. He might miss a boat calling in, or maybe the bridgehouse might actually collapse, or maybe the phone would ring, and a telemarketer would call, and he would have someone to talk to, and maybe he really does need a subscription to Road House Magazine, or a zero interest credit card with no annual fee. No. Nothing is going to happen in there. What?s the point. It?s time to take real a risk.
But it?s too late, the man is gone and there is nothing new to do. William saunter?s back toward his post, his head hanging low, his face pink and scrunched together, his lips protruding. Willy forces himself to breathe short snappy breaths ? he heard on the radio that you can make yourself feel emotions by controlling how fast you breathe. As he gets closer to the bridgehouse, his footsteps grow heavier, and his breathing faster. He feels heavier than a deady guy filled with cement, but somehow he manages to breathe like a hummingbird. Fast, slow, heavy, quick, William tears himself apart with each step. He is filled with sand, but he?s doing his best to shake like an hourglass caught in the wheel of a train.
Just as Willy stands at the door to the bridgehouse, just as he leans over the precipice, just as he is about to plunge off the cliff and into a sea of wanton familiarity, he balls his hands into two fists, slams them together, and begins to laugh. He laughs with a deep, booming voice that resonates through his chest, and cascades in dark waves across the bridge.
To Be Continued
Outside, cars zoom smoothly along the bridge, humming brightly against steel grating then resonating with solid concrete as they leave William behind. From the perspective of the cars, the bridgehouse resembles a slightly oversized outhouse you might find at summer camp, or in your great-great-grandma?s backyard, or a shack hanging on some cliff in the mountains.
It sits on the western side of the bridge just south of the drawspan, supported by large steel beams above and below it, the lower of which forms a walkway that leads to stairs down to the main ramp of the bridge. The bridgehouse is covered by weathered wood siding, stained by years of attacks from birds and other elements. There is a window halfway up each of its four walls through which William monitors the goings on of the bridge and the surrounding waterway.
William is desperately waiting for something to happen, but not much is going on tonight. His shift started at 7 PM, and as the sun fades behind the city skyline, he grows restless, wiggling his oversized body back and forth in an attempt to balance his bulging frame on his workstation stool.
This isn?t what William imagined the first time he saw the bridgehouse, years and years ago when William was a tiny boy, sitting in the passenger seat of his mom?s old beater sedan. At first, he couldn?t imagine what a house was doing right there on a bridge! Was someone living in there? Who could it be? What were they doing in there? Surely a troll didn?t live in there, it was too small, and much too grand, and besides trolls live under bridges.
Back then, it?s wood was painted a dramatic coppery-gold, matching the steal beams, and the steel rope that cascaded in a spider web across the blue sky. William wanted to ask his mom about the bridgehouse, but she was in a bad mood ? he remembers feeling waves of negative energy pouring from her. He doesn?t remember why. He must have done something bad earlier.
Of course! That?s it. They had been in the car for so long that William had taken off his shoes. He hated the shoes. They were baby blue, and had smiley faces on them. And they hurt his feet. Every time he put them on, he imagined he was wearing mice that bit him every time he took a step. Oooh, those were painful shoes. He knew that he had to get rid of them. So, he slowly rolled down his window. It was a hot day, and the stream of air cooled down the car nicely. His mom didn?t say anything. He lifted a shoe up into the air, slowly, staring at it. He grinned, and began laughing.
At the same moment that he thrust the shoe out the window, he felt a sharp pain on his shoulder. His mom had caught him. But it was too late. The car behind them complained loudly, his mom yelled, and William laughed. William was so happy imagining the shoe being run over and over by massive cars. He imagined it was an ugly rat, its guts splattered all over the place like the roadkill in front of his house earlier that day.
And here, in the bridgehouse, William is trying to deal with another annoyance. He keeps shifting his weight around on his work stool, but it just doesn?t want to cooperate, and with each passing moment William grows more and more agitated. The stool is a ramrod, and time its propellant. The blandness of each passing moment, punctuated by the discomfort of his stool is driving William crazy. He grunts to himself, scratching his unshaven chin. He eyes the control panel. No lights are blinking, no beeps emanating. Outside the window he sees what he sees every day, cars and trucks humming along on the left, and to the right the darkness of the river, surrounded by city lights on each side ? all exactly the same things he sees every day, repeated thousands of times.
Why can?t something just happen? William lifts his hands in prayer, begging for a huge semi to roll by, shaking the bridge, and loosening the rivets holding the steel beams above his head. The rivets would come completely loose, and splat! The steel beam would crush William into a pancake. Pancakes in the bridgehouse, people would scream, jumping out of their cars, running across the bridge, slobbering like hungry canines as they would pounce onto the steal beam, then lift it up, and scrape Willy off the floor.
But even that has happened a thousand times in William?s head. The pancakes he?s imagined could pile up higher than the city?s skyscrapers, could replace the river?s dams, or rival the great pyramids of Egypt when stacked just right. Even the most ridiculous thoughts are worn into Willy?s mind like the ruts on a well traveled road.
Enough of this! William hurls his elephantine body off the stool, and bounds in one quick step out of the bridgehouse. Lifting his snout, he pulls crisp evening air into his lungs, raises his arms towards the sky, and yawns a roaring yawn. He is an agitated lion; a shark on the prowl; an elephant screaming at the smallest little mouse. As his yawn reaches the peak, and his lungs deflate, he thinks back to five minutes ago, when he lept outside and yawned a roaring yawn. This time, things will be different. William furls his brow, and bunches his chin into a dimple.
As usual this time of night, a steady stream of monotonous rush-hour traffic flows across the bridge. A few tourists are straggling across the pedestrian walkway below the bridgehouse. The furl in William?s brow deepens. He hunches his head down, and sinks into thought.
A stout old man with pirate-leathery skin and a pure white goatee strolls across the walkway below. His hard sole shoes clang against the bridge.
?Hoy, down there!? William yells.
The old man cranks his head around.
?You! Stop!? Williams voice booms.
The clanking gets a little faster.
?Hey!? William flails his arms. ?Let me just ask you??
The man walks faster, and William considers giving chase. But he can?t leave his post too far behind. He might miss a boat calling in, or maybe the bridgehouse might actually collapse, or maybe the phone would ring, and a telemarketer would call, and he would have someone to talk to, and maybe he really does need a subscription to Road House Magazine, or a zero interest credit card with no annual fee. No. Nothing is going to happen in there. What?s the point. It?s time to take real a risk.
But it?s too late, the man is gone and there is nothing new to do. William saunter?s back toward his post, his head hanging low, his face pink and scrunched together, his lips protruding. Willy forces himself to breathe short snappy breaths ? he heard on the radio that you can make yourself feel emotions by controlling how fast you breathe. As he gets closer to the bridgehouse, his footsteps grow heavier, and his breathing faster. He feels heavier than a deady guy filled with cement, but somehow he manages to breathe like a hummingbird. Fast, slow, heavy, quick, William tears himself apart with each step. He is filled with sand, but he?s doing his best to shake like an hourglass caught in the wheel of a train.
Just as Willy stands at the door to the bridgehouse, just as he leans over the precipice, just as he is about to plunge off the cliff and into a sea of wanton familiarity, he balls his hands into two fists, slams them together, and begins to laugh. He laughs with a deep, booming voice that resonates through his chest, and cascades in dark waves across the bridge.
To Be Continued
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