The Bridge

Jim Allan awoke precisely in time for the job. As he rolled into consciousness, he thought how
strange ceiling looked in this lighting. Is that roof still leaking? Work. Get up. He rose gingerly
as if a man twice his age. Every fiber of his body ached, from his rough arms to his stocky legs
and begged him to return to bed. Mr. Allan hadnt had a full nights rest in weeks. In fact, he
didnt really remember what being rested was like. Life was a cycle of work, eat, sleep but what
was a man to do? He had a family to support.

Up. Shower. He thought. He normally looked forward to the shower. The warmth always helped
his pains but nothing would make them go away now. The door creaked loudly when it opened,
another chore to the list, the ceiling could wait. As the shower warmed he took of his night shirt.
It had been a gift from his mother-in-law for his birthday and he loved it. Already it showed
signs of wear, edges unraveling and missing the button second from the bottom. His wife had
tried her best to take care of all things in the house with the little money they had, but she found
it a more daunting task than any one person could handle. As the mirror fogged, he looked down
at his carefully folded sleepwear and thought how he so desperately wished he could give his
wife more; she deserved more. He thought this every morning.

He took an usually long shower. His mind was blank the entire time, he liked to keep it that way
especially now. His wife yelled that he had better hurry, or the bossman would find another Jim
Allan to rivet metal. He knew she was right. He shaved quickly and cut the same place as
always. The blood left a red streak across his pale face like the morning sky over the hills of his

youth. How he missed the hills. He hated living in the city, so constricted. This damn bridge will
just add to the mess he thought, Im part of the problem.

The starch white shirt was waiting above his faded, ironed overalls. He began to put his shoes on
but he knew Mary Ann would throw a fit if she saw work boots in the house. He walked out
kitchen and saw his wife there by the sink. The light from the street light hit her like the moon by
the river in the hills. Her skin glistened in a youthful tone, a hugh that he had not seen in his skin
since he started this job. He felt a feeling towards her he hadnt felt in six months. He walked
over barely touching the ground and moved all of her light hair to left.

As his lips hit her neck, she pushed him away and pointed to the table. I made you eggs just the
way you like it baby, she said smiling brightly. Goodmorning. Goodmorning Jim said back. The
bacon will be done soon she said. He found his seat and she brought him a glass of orange juice
and kissed him on his broad forehead. If you looked at the two you would struggle to find a more
loving pair in all of creation.

Mary Ann Allan found her seat next to her husband and silently but warmly watched him eat.
They both sat in silence but in a way displayed at type of tenderness that needed no words. Jim
ate quickly. He had too. As he finished, his wife picked up the plates, but Jim protested saying
she was doing too much work for a woman in her condition. Of course she did it anyways. Jim
went to small closet by their little red front door to get his denim coat. As he put his boots on she
turned on the sink faucet. Jim hugged his wife tightly, but not too tight, before saying goodbye.

He kissed her lips softly and whispered I love you beautiful she said it louder back. Why do you
always whisper it Jim, she said, afraid for world to hear? Jim smirked, I love you Mary Ann
Allan! Quiet down Jim youll wake the neighbors!

They kissed once more before he left. Then he squatted down and lifted her blouse and kissed
her round stomach. As he stepped out into the morning air he looked back and leaned in and
kissed her forehead, neither saying a word. Jims mind followed the usual pattern it was
accustomed to during his trek to the Bridge. His wife, their childhood, his wife, the baby, his
wife. It followed this pattern until he reached Mr. Michael Crowes house. He had forgot to ask
his wife how Mrs. Michael Crowe was doing. He knew how Mr. Crowe was doing, all the
workers did. He missed his friend Michael; he missed him very much.

Michael Crowe and Jim Allan had been the best of friends for as long as either of them could
remember. Both of their Fathers worked on the same railroad and they attended the same
grammar school. They both grew in the clasps of poverty, which they both wanted desperately to
escape. They had taken the Bridge job together both knowing the risk but the money was too
good. The prospect of owning their own homes, they couldnt resist. Besides this was the life that
they had to live, it was just the way of it. Their Fathers had lived this way and their sons would
live this way and their grandsons and their grandson's sons. It was the way of it.

Jim and Michaels childhood was spent far from any bridge project. The hills had no metal. In
the gentle slopes Jims mind now slid. Slid like his father did on the coal pile, like the coal pile

slid on his father. The sun rolls over the hills in this part of the world in a way that only God
himself could describe. The river rolls gently like how Michael would laugh as he spoke; Jim,
goddamn man what is there to do in these hills? The skies is so close, why cant we just fall into
them? The Great River is only thing that could divide the hills. The sky gave its best effort but
only the river was worth falling into. And so Jims thoughts rolled and fell into the river. They
climbed over hill after hill and got lost in the streets and fell short before the bridge.

Walking past reflecting on his friend Michaels life, Jim Allan thought something for the first
time, was it worth it? He thought of junior. Was it worth it? His father had struggled so long and
so hard and Jim was still in poverty. Surely, Jims son too would live as his forefathers had. Jims
son would wake up early in the morning and kiss his wife and not know if he would see her, he
would go to the job site in rags that his wife had tried so hard to clean and press. He would eat
the sandwich, out of the tin lunch box, that his wife had made. He would be maimed or killed on
the job site. He would fall to his death, or be buried in ash or coal, he would be blown to pieces
by the anger of a locomotive, he would burn in a fire that would rage long after his body was
gone and Jim could do nothing to save him. Jim knew he couldnt even save himself. I cant
provide a better life he thought. My father couldnt how could I?

Jim had no time for thoughts when he arrived at the job site. The bridge over the great river was
nearly half complete and nearly two years behind schedule. The bossman boomed Mr. Allan
hurry the hell up as soon as old Jim was in sight. Grabbing his tools and hurrying the hell up Jim
joined the line of workers going to their assigned spots along the Bridge. Jim was to rivet metal.

The riveters were the cornerstone of the operation. Jim had been a paver for the road being built
but had been newly appointed to the high honor of riveter as another had fallen to his death.

As Jim approached the far point of the bridge the sun crept just above the rolling hills outside of
the metropolis. The bright morning sky revealed to Jim just how high he was from the waters of
the great river. Jim thought to himself how strange it was that a man with the last name Crowe
would fall to his death. Of all the ways for a bird to die, he thought. Jim loved the sun, but it
made him come to realize, he was afraid of heights.

R. S. Beck 2014