Tire Scrap On The Bridge

Take that breath?

Photo by Geetanjal Khanna on Unsplash

Thursday once again!! What might I do to greet this day forward? Sales barely creeping lately.

Are there any tricks still within my reach or are we destined for far coarser paths? Hard to say, of course. Unless one, you, me, is in the predicting game. Well, are we? I’d say more than likely, not. But I liked him well enough so as not to hang him from the highest branch, just yet anyway,

So unless he takes an evil turn my way, he will be left unscathed. I noticed though he’s come very close to unemployment. Could strike at any moment. I’m a little sorry to see this could tip at any given moment.

What’s the point, anyway? Is this line even worth the effort? What do I hope to achieve by having a roll of absorbent paper towels handy on the kitchen counter? So useful and whoever invented them deserved his eventual billions. That’s all it takes, one healthy look.

It’s like earlier this morn. The towels had been misplaced. We kept two rolls ready to go in the kitchen. One next to the sink and the other near the stove. So after I get home tomorrow, does that mean vacation? And if so, for how long?

&&&

So tomorrow it’s the skin doc to see what he can find, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let him dig around til I’m a bleeding pile of red meat. Not gonna happen.

Yes, you’re surprised as I am that they answered every note. Thoughtful gestures written neatly after each. I waited and waited, only to find that it wasn’t really necessary. In the end, it all just parked on the corner somewhere. Happens at least once a day. And no, I really don’t care about her in that way. Not my intent at put down, but if the end isn’t worth the effort then why all the fuss?

The drive from Kansas City off the main drag taking longer than I thought.

A conundrum indeed. Only this might be translated as a committee mess inside another identical mess. Only thing is that there are two steeply contrasting differences. One can barely hold his gaze on the other. Just too powerful, isn’t it?

A rather boring walk down the gravelly path. The flowers hardly spectacular this mid-morning and the humidity already stifling. So I ask you what you are going to do about it. What is this other language you’re reaching out for? It’s a common enough occurrence. This being reminded of the emptiness of the creative flow.

Though of course my father disagrees with my point of view. Asks at the same time: why are you not settling in with the perspective? Why insist on such polarity?

Something I’ve done wrong again? Touch and go sort of delicacy, right? A balance goes off balance due to a misstep and I mourn the rest of the day. Wondering why and what happened. Once again, an attempt at crossing the bridge so that they’re a clear picture of it all.

Why you ask? What’s the point you continue? The bridge was as big as god. One always wondered how the freshness of it could momentarily knock me out. A parallel thing.

She wore her cleaning uniform. The one given her by the woman of the house as the man never got involved. After all, his domain is elsewhere. Another world. Another set of contacts, people, meanings. Values change completely. And they don’t coincide nor do they get along and yet out of pure necessity and there is found an accord. It’s like a well-constructed bridge.

When all the pieces come together, it’s when it doesn’t fall into the torrent of rushing water. Not right away, at least. Over time, most bridges will tumble and literally float away as so many meaningless pieces, unrecognizable. Those nearby will witness the floating by and will pay it no interest nor concern.

Bridge road obstacle, as big as a suitcase, maybe an eighteen wheeler had a blowout and a huge chunk stopped on the bridge. Happens, I was assured. The wall went like nothing, then cold.

Just the way it is though and through no one person’s fault, as it is a group collaboration. Those to blame it might be best described as a macrocosm gone microcosm. After all, it’s from the air. Floating ideas. Which when they gel come together to form the bridges of life.

Like that girl, I saved off the edge of Ponte Vecchio, drunk, broken-hearted, dawn sun barely lighting the scene. Crying like a lost baby. She wanted to take the dive into the muddy flow. I held onto her for all my life. Had she done it, had I not arrived at just that moment she would’ve had immediately gone under the branch filled muddy current.

One imagines death by water as one of this planet’s worst. I cannot imagine. Another told me how the ski tow rope wrapped around her ankle and she was pulled under. She remembered that after what seemed utter panic and pain she felt mellow, endless time, felt something reaching out for her.

No, well, I can up until a certain point imagine death by drowning. The water surrounds me. All is well those first forty seconds, then doubt enters. I can’t rise, I can see the sun covered surface above, but I can’t break free. Free of what? Oh yes, the bumper has snagged my slacks.

My arms are useless.

I stupidly rip off my shoes using my feet. Feel only colder as my feet have hastened things.

What about my shoes when I get back up?

I reach the forty-second mark. Yes, of course, it will vary for every living soul. Some can comfortably hold their composure for, say, fifty, or even a minute and a half. But not much beyond that.

So imagining up to that point is easy. I’m even thinking about my wife, my boys. Wondering how it was, I now find myself at the bottom of this body of water, a pond or river, the direct recollections rapidly giving over to panicked flash thoughts.

Thoughts with a new flavor.

Will I get out? Sixty-second mark. I stupidly conclude perhaps I could rip off my leg, freeing the rest of me to surface. I even wonder what it will be when I break the surface. Will they find me soon enough before I bleed out?

For the very first time, something occurs to me. Breathe! Just breathe, for Christ’s sake. Christ? What? Maybe in a microsecond I throw out a plea to god to save me. Then it’s back to the growing crescendo of panic and the impossibility of not being able to breathe.

I almost try it.

There she is, concerned, crying then, my boys distraught. I wonder how they will pay the bills. Seems so stupid. Wasn’t fair, it never was meant to be fair. Breathe, the completion of one breath beckons hopefully. Can I? Why then, don’t I? A minute now.

I have to breathe, take air out of water, right?

The miracle awaits me?

Almost now, I almost try going against all sensible actions. Breathe in water. Hurts. They say it hurts. How would they know? The scientists say that. How do they know?

A full mindless breath enters from out into my starved lungs, shock and expected pain beyond my ability to express. I gaze panicked, upwards to see movement, silent splashing, ropes and, and, a ladder?

The people are nearing. I push out the water for a second life giving breath. This time I forgot what happened. Around me are people, one wears a tie. A rope dangles and twists about like spaghetti. Recollections from an impossibly long time ago. My eyes are the only functioning part of me. Pain in my chest. Oh, and my brain or mind, I see them seeing me now.

The people keep going up and coming back, damn it.

Silence. Activity around me. The pain unspeakable. Let me be free of this pain. No movement is allowed me now. Just what’s going on in front of my eyes? Sleepy?

At Ponte Vecchio, she never thanked me. The ambulance arrived as the crowd grew.

I walked away.