On The Bridge
Authors: Ada Uzoije
ON THE BRIDGE
ADA UZOIJE
Adapublishers.com
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ht © Ada Uzoije 2013
All Rights Reserved
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To my parents and siblings for their love and support
On The Bridge (The Poem)
I watched the man standing on the bridge
Being a curious teenager, I tried to impress
“Nice car, Mister” I said
The man yielded a faint smile in return
Being a curious teenager, I wanted a conversation
“Yes! With you Mister” I insisted
The man came closer to me
Being a curious teenager, I questioned him
“Why? Why?” I asked
The man took his time to reply
Being a curious teenager, I was patient
“Everyone was blind to see” He said
The man then leaped into the oncoming traffic
Being a curious teenager, I ask you
“Why do people commit suicide???”
By Ada Uzoije (
On The Bridge : A Novel
)
When Doug’s parents, Norman and Jean Bates, drove up to the school and saw him waiting for them, they once again noticed that he looked just like the other 15–year-olds clustered around him waiting for lifts. They all had oversized jeans, worn with the belt slung under the buttocks, the crotch halfway down the thighs, and three or four inches of bright-coloured boxer shorts visible above them.
They were all wearing brightly coloured running shoes and T-shirts, and those with straight hair, like Doug, had combed it with a forelock sweeping across their foreheads.
Norman and Jean were pleased that he seemed like one of the group, a normal teenager, and popular. It was reassuring. They can’t have done too bad a job of bringing him up, they thought. Jean had wry thoughts about the “freedom” sought by teenagers to wear exactly what everybody else was wearing, and Norman secretly thought the current teen fashions deplorable, but he acknowledged that when he was that age, his preferred dress was just as bizarre. He wanted to tell Doug what he thought, but couldn’t find the words that would keep it from sounding like serious disapproval. Whatever their reservations about the details, they were glad he hadn’t grown up to be a nerd or some other type of outsider.
When he saw the car, Doug said quick good-byes to his friends and walked quickly over and flung himself into the back seat, ending up sprawled across it with his head against one door and his feet propped on the opposite window. After exchanging greetings, Norman and Jean quizzed Doug about his day and got the usual teen non-responses:
“How was school?”
“OK.”
“How did the math test go?”
“OK.”
Doug asked his parents questions about their day and got fuller but shallow replies. They had, in fact, never been a communicating family, even before Doug turned into a teen.
As they were starting up the bridge over the river, a flopping noise signalled a flat tire. Norman swore and turned to Jean, “I thought you were going to replace those tires.”
“I did. Maybe the garage didn’t put the new ones on properly.”
“Did you buy Michelins?”
“Of course, dear, that’s what you told me to do.”
They all got out of the car; Norman got the tire and the jack out of the boot. Neither Jean, as a woman, nor Doug, as a teenager, thought to help him change the tyre. They stood by the bridge parapet while he worked and chatted desultorily about the river and the view, paying only half attention to the conversation. Doug looked around at the splendour of the environment and it seemed quite majestic, even beautiful, had the noise of the occasional passing traffic and the smell of rubber on tarmac not soiled it. The wide road was warm with activity and it stretched into the near distance with a waning impact upon the horizon, inviting young Douglas to consider getting familiar with it.
The fifteen–year-old crouched down as his mother quietly watched her husband at work now. He reached out his hand to the tar below and his curiosity compelled him to make acquaintance with the dark grey matter first hand, the road they always travelled upon that he never bothered to meet with the shake of hands and here he was, placing his palm flat on the warm rocky surface to feel the heartbeat of the passing traffic as he had never done before.
It was oddly liberating to take time to feel the road that always represented a snaking way home and nothing more, never having the opportunity to experience what it really was. Looking at the heavy and dangerous load of steel that travelled upon it, Doug almost thought of his meeting with the road as touching a lion cub for the first time. It was something not many people would bother to do, for the insignificance of the thing or the danger of it, but once the time presented itself, Doug found it thoroughly surprising how the road’s heart beat beneath his hand, how it allowed him to investigate it apart from just being a way to travel and he smiled to himself.
“Wow, it is a long way down, isn’t it?” his mother said suddenly, distorting his thoughts on the tarmac for a second before he realised she was looking over the barricade of the bridge. He rose to his feet and leaned slightly against the cement. Again the grandeur of the massive chasm took hold of him, the scent of wildflowers and dust drifting up from the vast valley to meet his senses and his eyes wandered from side to side of the gorge, over the long grass and the trickle of river that ran meandering right through the middle of it, where the two sides met far below. He nodded to his mother, smiling at her sudden joviality which he guessed may have been brought on by the involuntary break that forced the family to stop and enjoy the nature and breathing wind – something they would normally never undertake. Life simply was too hectic and anyway, and why would they ever stop on a monotonous trip home to take in the existence of things they normally only saw flashing past them in a blur of the speeding car’s windows?
Both he and his mother appreciated the scenery and the welcome, although unexpected, time-out they had received. His father was not as appreciative. With every stripping turn of the nut or slip of his hand on the tire iron he would unleash an unholy collection of curses under his breath, shaking the intrusive perspiration from his face and wiping the drops off with the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt.
While they were standing there, a man in a posh red Ferrari pulled over to the curb in front of them and parked. Doug scoffed at the predictable choice of colour and wondered if Ferrari ever made a snot-green line of cars. The vehicle was new and well-kept, but sported a big dent in the rear. Someone must have rammed him from behind, thought Doug, and the calculator in his brain ran up the cost of such a thing that he was certain the other driver must have regretted to this day. Jean gasped at the sight of the sports car, as most shallow women with less wealthy husbands would, and she lifted her chin to pay the driver some attention. She remarked on the status of men who drove such cars and the calibre of women they usually went for, and babbled continually on, sometimes losing her voice in the loudness of a passing truck.
The man got out of the car. Something about him caught Doug’s attention and he kept a keen eye on him as his mother mumbled beside him. Doug made sure he listened just enough to recognize his name or any commands in her voice that would prompt him to action, but other than that, he had a point of interest. Ferrari Man was tall and looked distinguished, with hair silvering at his temples and a well-groomed face. His clothes were the height of fashion, a dove grey suit with a matching tie, cream dress shirt and black highly polished loafers over black socks. He was carrying a briefcase, which seemed odd to Doug, who wondered idly what he was going to do with it on the bridge.
“Douglas Bates,” a bark of a stern voice jerked him from his wonderment. It came from just a few steps away, from where his father was struggling. The boy jumped and tore his eyes from the driver of the sports car, unwillingly and forced by hierarchy and discipline.
“Yes, dad,” he replied in earnest.
“Do you know how to change a tire?” The annoyance in Norman’s voice was unmistakable.
“No, dad.”
“Well, then, now is as good a time as any. Not like you are really doing anything but standing about like a nancy,” Norman bitched, using his most favoured word for any male beneath his abilities, especially when he was having a rough time of something and especially when his son did not endure some sort of torture at the disciplines of male priorities that were imposed upon him as a young man. Resentment laced his orders. He motioned for Doug to come to him, determined to give him at least one lug nut to fasten after helping him lift the heavy spare and impale it on the protruding iron. He wanted to see the pitch black grime of the wheel drum on his son’s hands, if only to appease him in a small way that he was not an entirely useless specimen who knew nothing more about a man’s work than opening the garage door or changing a light bulb.
Doug was not happy, but he bit his lip for fear of punishment. His father never physically disciplined him, not in the traditional manner, but what he did apply was surely physical, and most definitely punishment. Norman had an insidious way of teaching his son that physical discomfort was a most effective teacher and he did so at every opportunity. Doug fumbled his way through his father’s instruction, but could not help but rush so that he would be able to lay eyes on the rich guy who had just gotten out of his grand car with a briefcase. His fingertips ached under the strain of the weight he had to mount and he screwed the nut he was given as quickly and thoroughly as he could, because he knew his dad would pester him until it was done in full and done properly. Norman watched Doug complete his task according to instruction and with some toil, managed to pat his son on the back for a job well done – something he was not accustomed to doing.
With himself sprung from father’s snare Doug quickly found Ferrari Man as he walked over to the parapet next to Doug and Jean and leaned over it, looking down at the river.
The young boy was cheered to see the man do the same as he had done a few minutes before and remark on the view, but something about the man’s expression and demeanour prevented him from breaking the spell the man in the suit seemed to be under.
He set the briefcase on the parapet, and for a moment. Doug thought he was about to tip it over the edge and uttered a startled but stifled exclamation. That got Ferrari Man’s attention, and he looked up at the boy. Their eyes met. He wished he could tell the young staring boy all about his thoughts, for the child was genuinely intrigued by his presence.
“Nice car, mister,” Doug nodded, trying to impress a man of such seeming stature.
The pale blue eyes of Ferrari Man narrowed kindly and he yielded a faint smile in acknowledgement. Doug was about to say something again, but the man ignored his attentions, suddenly turned and simply leaped into the oncoming traffic.
The unsuspecting driver of the two-ton bread van had not a moment to react. He could not stop or even slam on the brakes in time as he came upon the sudden obstacle in the road and slammed into him at full speed. The man’s body hit the windscreen and was flung headlong over the van. His briefcase shattered against the concrete barrier and expelled its contents, sending documents snowing down all over the roadway, and the body landed on the rear view mirror of the articulated lorry following the van, which dismembered him utterly, severing his head at the neck and his right hand at the wrist.
His body fell under the articulated lorry’s wheels, which crushed bone and flesh to pulp with one clean pass. The head bounced off the Bates’ car and velocity urged it over to Doug’s feet, rolling across the tarmac and the shoulder of the road, losing chunks of red flesh with every bounce, the crunching sound of severed neck bone sickening all who had the misfortune of hearing it. Doug could not move, frozen in shock, and for a few seconds he was unable to think at all about the atrocity that played out in front of him on a normal school afternoon.
The head rolled viciously, gaining more welts and scratches as the skin peeled off on its journey and it came to rest in front of the unfortunate boy’s feet, looking up at him with a horrified expression and glaring at him with slightly displaced, unseeing eyes. The disconnected hand hit Doug full in the face, a slap from a dead man, and knocked him against the parapet of the bridge with its force. Blood stained the appalled child’s face in the morbid wake of the flying hand as it bounced off him and fell to the ground, landing perfectly over the mouth of the mutilated head, giving it a macabre likeness to a man covering his mouth in surprise or shock.
Doug’s legs failed him as he attempted to pull himself away from the grisly deadhead, screaming like a lamb at slaughter in unfathomable terror until he saw his mother run towards him. Her words came slurred and her movement slow as she called his name in hollow echo. The whole world began to turn too fast and then the young boy fell to darkness, his mind closing in mercy and his body fainting into Jean’s timely embrace.