Chapter 1 – Under The Bridge
by docwilson on Apr.15, 2010, under Serial
Chapter 1 - Under The Bridge
Once upon a time, three lucky boys found a special, magic hideaway under a bridge. It became their fortress of sanity, the only oasis in their otherwise featureless, shitty, small town southern lives. They were very happy there, for a time, playing with a kindly old troll who also made his home there.
It was summer, and as usual they were looking for an out of the way place to smoke some dope. Andy noticed a trail cutting through the tall weeds at the foot of the Fulton St. bridge. From the top of the levee they could see the trail twisted 90 degrees as it went down and disappeared under them.
They stumbled down the bank and under the bridge to find the trail widened into a little grassy plateau looking out over the river. The air was cool there in the shade under the bridge and the view was excellent. Laughing at their good fortune, they didn’t notice the old man until they were already into the joint.
He had built a nest of sorts up high near the embankment, protected in back by the bridge itself and on two sides by concrete pylons. He sat there peering down at them from his pallet of cardboard, bleary eyed and silent as they passed around the joint and giggled.
“I swear to God – if he tries to queer off with us I will fuck him up.”
“That old man ain’t bothering you , give me the joint.”
“Yeah, pass the joint, Billygoat Gruff. Fuck that old man.”
“Fuck all ya’ll.” Gruff made a show of stretching his skinny frame, scratching at his scraggly goatee. Ignoring their reaching hands, he sucked down another quarter of the joint before passing it.
They hung out there bullshitting the rest of the afternoon. The old derelict just sat there in his nest the whole time, blinking and staring at them, eventually pulling out a pint of fortified wine and sipping from it.
Andy looked at his watch. “Fuck, me and Eddie got to go, man. The old woman will be pissed.”
“Aight. I’m taking off too.” The Billygoat launched his cigarette butt into the weeds and stood.
As they were leaving, scrambling back up the bank, the old man farted, high pitched and loud, like a trumpet blast. As if to say goodbye.
He listened to their shouts of laughter echoing above him as they went on their way. He might have smiled a little. He carefully put the bottle back in its hiding place, stretched out on the cardboard, and went back to sleep.
