Why the Bridge Stopped Singing
“No, Joe Joey-oe makes six. Six dead since summer.”
“Maybe they’ll take us at the Gibson Street shelter.”
“Deader than dead, Joey. Broke his promise too.”
“I need a drink a hell of a lot more than a bed.”
“Me, I need food. Stomach is tight as a fist.”
“Someone stoke the fire. It’s fuckin’ cold.”
“This ain’t cold, Joe. Christmas is cold.”
“You want to check out the Colonel?”
“Dumpster biscuits. Side of slaw.”
“Valentine’s Day, Joey-oey.”
“What about it?”
“That’s cold.”
“Yeah.”
I stand next to them, listening silently. As long as I don’t say anything, they can’t see me. If I speak, there I am. But their conversation gutters like the fire and goes out and the quiet gets all creepycrawly so I stagger off into the darkness down the concrete embankment to the river to take a leak. The bridge sings to me as a truck passes over, stuck a feather in his cap and called it macaroni. My piss slaps heavily into the freezing water. I wave my dick at the EPA, zip, and turn left toward a sky full of mean stars. They get brighter in winter, bigger. Cold makes the air like a lens. At ten below stars can burn through a man’s eyes right into his brain—happened to me once. Downstream, there’s a giant’s comb washed up on the embankment. I slink over to it, trying to convince myself that it’s only a ladder with the side rail missing, that his footprints are just big smears of mud. If I don’t believe in him, see, he doesn’t exist. The wood is mostly dry so I decide to be a citizen and drag it up to the fire.
“You broke your promise, Joey-oey-oey-oe.” He swallows the dead man’s name, turning it into a yodel. “No Joey-noey-oey-oey-oe.” He has the voice for it, but no rhythm. Crazy as a chicken and chatting with his hallucinations. It’s a luxury I can’t afford because of the curse. My hallucinations can come true if I’m not careful. I break some teeth off the comb and toss them into the fire barrel.
“No Joey-oey-noey-oey-oey-oey-no.”
“Hey Gene Autry, shut the fuck up.”
As flames lick out of the barrel, I eyeball them. Gene Autry is wrapped in a tarp beneath one of those easy-load shopping carts where the basket rides high and shallow. Two guys are lying together in a cardboard box with a picture of a computer desk on it. They’ve stuffed it with newspapers for warmth. Tape the ends, stick a $200 stamp on the box and we could mail them to Florida. Or North Dakota. A black guy is stretched out in the shadows that flutter like crows against the bridge abutment. Asleep or passed out, but not dead. He hasn’t shrunk like dead men do.
“Gene Autry?” says one of the box guys. “Is that what you called him? How old are you anyway?”
“Old enough to be fuckin’ president.”
“Joey-noey-oey-oey-no.”
“Listen, I gotta eat.”
“So eat.” The box shudders.
“Besides, you ain’t got shit to drink.”
“No.”
If that’s true, I can’t stay with them. If I don’t pour some alcohol on my imagination soon, the river could thicken to blood. Frogs might crawl up my pants.
“But Mags’ll have a bottle. Always does.”
