A Pioneer for Our Time

No one jumps off the Peterborough Bridge. When Lance Dunfries goes he will be the first. Lance Dunfries will be the father of them all.

In the land of the gun, the rope, the nap in the back of the car, Lance will reveal a new path.

The shotgun is popular, mainly for its reputation for the sure result. Hunting rifles are unwieldy, but handy, as no home goes without one. Sitting under an apple tree with a .38 to the temple sets a memorable scene.

For sheer shock value, nothing compares to hanging, depending on the venue. The tree in the forest, the barn beam: these demand respect. The shower curtain, however, is unforgivable.

Carbon monoxide poisoning has its adherents, but it is the cheater’s method, its dignity false. The slashed wrist and the overdose of a good-night’s sleep both fail to meet the standard of worthiness.

The Peterborough Bridge has yet to find its moment. It spans this wide bend of river, connecting the two mill towns, waiting to be immortalized. Lance is the man to give it its due. The stream is shallow there, and on sunny days the boulders just under the surface are visible and menacing. Luckily for Lance it is not a sunny day, but overcast and cold. Winter is coming. He is wearing the fleece pullover his wife gave him for his birthday. As a birthday gift he found it wanting, but now he is grateful. Besides, the prospect of justice when she identifies the body with the gray fleece pullover is a pleasing one. She will spend the rest of her days remembering his last birthday.

He shudders at the thought of being a body needing identification. The idea is to escape the body, to flee from unbearable banality into collective memory, into history. So he closes his eyes to watch himself pass into lore. As long as there are rivers and bridges, and men who dream of past deeds and better worlds, Lance Dunfries will live.