The Bridge

by Mitchel Montagna

Just as he reached the top of the stairs, Irving accidentally dropped his beer can.  He watched it clatter to the landing below, squirting foam in its wake, coating the steps and wall.        

Osborne stormed out of his apartment. “You imbecile.  My landlord lives down there.”  

          As their eyes met, Osborne flinched. The beer’s sour odor filled the stairwell.  Irving’s hands slipped into his jean pockets. One fist emerged with a cigarette, which he placed in his lips, then he said, “You got any cleaning products?”

          Irving’s other hand held a matchbook. He lit the cigarette while keeping an eye on the can still spinning 20 feet below.

          “’Course I do,” Osborne said. “That’s not the point.”

          Osborne was smaller and skinnier than Irving.  He had short black hair, a long nose and alert eyes.  He turned away and walked into his kitchen. Irving followed and said, “What is the point?”

In a storm of drifting smoke, Osborne ripped paper towels off a roll. “The point is, these people think I’m a Christian. Some dope throws a can of Bud down the stairs, it could make them question my faith.” 

Behind Osborne was a doorway leading from the kitchen to a small living room.  Irving could see a pair of tan work boots on the end of a couch. The person wearing the boots said, “You gotta nerve, Osborne. A Christian. Where do you get off claimin’ you’re anything but the drug dealin’ punk you are?”

The deep, drawling voice was familiar to Irving. He dragged on his Camel and shuffled through his memory. 

Meanwhile, Osborne grinned.  He was a high-strung young man whose jittery movements often made him look like he was braced to get his ass kicked. This was because as a boy, Osborne often got his ass kicked. Many schoolmates had believed, correctly, that Osborne was a loudmouthed little prick who didn’t respect his betters.  Irving, in childhood, had shared this view. But since Irving was only slightly bigger than Osborne, was a coward and couldn’t help admiring the nervy little shit, the two became friends.

“Hey Irving, you remember Manero?”        

The boots dropped to the floor, and a longhaired man in his twenties sauntered into the kitchen. Manero wore sunglasses, black jeans and an untucked blue shirt. He had the beginnings of a beard. He had as much height on Irving as Irving had on Osborne, and was as muscular as both of them put together.  “Hey,” Manero said, offering a hand.

Irving took it. Now he remembered. When Irving had been a high school freshman on the wrestling team, Manero was a senior and a star. At practice and during matches, others watched in awe while Manero strutted his stuff. His muscles looked carved from rock, and his veins popped. His teeth flashed with confidence and menace.  With a flamboyant style, he often pinned his opponents in less than one minute. 

Manero had put on a few pounds and his hair bore no resemblance to the aggressive crew cut he had worn. But he still looked like he could bend steel. So Irving was surprised by the gentleness of Manero’s grip.                        

A cigarette burned in Manero’s other hand. He allowed Irving a glimpse of those renowned teeth. “How come all us old wrestlers smoke?”          

Irving felt a flush, pleased Manero remembered him. The too-slim Irving had had a modest career at best. With the pride of a grizzled combat veteran, he thought of how he and Manero had shared wrestling’s unique experiences. The dieting. The Bataan death march workouts. The projectile vomiting. Irving felt his balls expand. He shrugged and said, “Release from all that punishment?”

Manero removed his sunglasses and stooped to avoid the ceiling as they walked to join Osborne at the kitchen table. Next to the table was a window, open to invite the warm night air inside. Osborne sat studying the contents of several film canisters. 

Shit, Irving thought, wrestlers smoke? Kid stuff. In fact, we’re all druggies.  Manero was obviously here to buy dope, which bothered Irving for a reason he couldn’t quite name, not that he was in any position to judge. 

          At the table, Irving stubbed out his cigarette. He raked his hands through his long hair, as shaggy as Manero’s. Home from college on vacation, Irving felt good and relaxed, with the prospect of a drug-fueled night ahead. As Irving settled into a chair Osborne looked up, quick as a ferret. 

          “Hey.  Before you get comfortable.”  He handed Irving a wad of paper towels.  “Don’t forget to clean your mess.” 

---

           Later, the three men sat around the table. Osborne had muted the lights, and music played softly. Manero scarfed up a line of cocaine just as Irving took a hit from a bong. Irving held the smoke inside, became red-faced, then coughed. Manero rolled his head along his shoulders and let out a muffled hoot. Osborne inspected a mound of white powder with the concentration of a dog sniffing its feces.      

Irving was sticking to pot tonight. While driving his parents’ Ford recently, he had imagined he was falling through the sky. He had failed to notice the dead end he was driving toward – or even that he was driving. The Ford plowed into a tree. Irving couldn’t figure out how he could’ve done anything so asinine. He decided it must’ve been the coke he’d ingested – couldn’t’ve been the 15 beers he’d also had – so now he was reconsidering his habits. 

            Irving looked through the window and saw the moon, glittering and hot. The stars looked like drops of mercury. Irving leaned closer. He saw a leafy treetop just below the windowsill. The tree rose from a garden running along the side of the house. The surrounding lawn looked smooth as still water. Despite the smoke, Irving caught a whiff of sweet, fresh air. 

Irving glanced at Manero separating another line of coke with a razor blade.  Manero’s eyes were wide and gleaming. Their expression reminded Irving of a distinctive family look. Manero had had two older brothers and a sister, all with the same sparkling eyes. The sister with her heart-stopping beauty had caused some of Irving’s most fully realized erotic fantasies. But what bothered him now, he realized, were the brothers. 

Like Manero, both had been wrestling stars. They were also drug abusers. Both had died in catastrophic car wrecks on the mountain roads near their school. In each case the Manero brother was driving at almost 100 miles per hour. In the first accident, the car smashed into a boulder; in the second, just a few months later, the car sailed off a cliff. In Irving’s mishap, he’d fortunately been going only about 30 miles per hour. The impact had crushed the Ford’s front end like an accordion, but he’d been unhurt.

“So what’s this bull about being a Christian?” 

          Hunched over a line of powder, Osborne completed a drawn-out snort as his head vibrated. “Ahhh,” he gasped. “Stuff. Kicks your ass.” He winked at Manero, who grinned intently back.     

Osborne nodded at Irving. “Sure you don’t want any?”  

“I’m sure,” Irving said. “So what’s this Christian bull?” 

“You know after my dad kicked me out last month,” Osborne said.  

“Yeah,” Irving said. “Can’t imagine why he did that.”

 “I had no money,” Osborne said. “When I found this place, it was real cheap. I could tell the owners were Baptist types. Pictures of Jesus. The New Testament on a table. The guy said he and his wife didn’t drink. I allowed as how I myself was born again. There I was in the hospital, I said. Had a mysterious illness. I’d lost all hope. One night I looked up, saw Jesus himself at the foot of my bed.” 

          Manero’s face snapped toward Osborne. “Are you kidding me?”

           “I keep things low-key,” Osborne said. “No loud music, no parties. Only let a few people up here, like you bums.”

          Manero slapped his forehead. “Damn. You are one shameless bastard.”  

          “Good thing you never get laid,” Irving said. “You’d have to sneak ‘em up here.” 

          “I fucked Sue Stahl,” Osborne said, and set his jaw as if expecting a challenge. 

Irving and Manero looked at each other. 

“Well that’s fine,” Manero said. He stood up and stretched, filling half the kitchen. “You’re goin’ to Hell, man. And I gotta go home.” 

Irving tapped his cigarette ash out the window. Sue Stahl was the younger sister of a former classmate. Back then she was, like, 13 or something. Well, she’d be old enough now. Irving wasn’t sure whether he should be envious. He couldn’t picture the girl with tits.

 “What about the pills?” Manero said, staggering. “You fuck me up with this other shit, I forget why I came.”

“I told you,” Osborne said. “I can get your seconals, probably, by tomorrow night.”

“You mean tonight,” Manero said. He glanced at his watch. “Holy shit.  I gotta be at work, three hours.”

“You wanna come here, get ‘em?” Osborne said.

Manero lurched toward the staircase. Then he thought better of it, and detoured to the refrigerator. “You know that creek by my place. Come by Friday afternoon,” he said. “I’ll be swimmin’ near the bridge. Bring ‘em to me there.” Manero opened the refrigerator and pulled out a Coors. “For the road.” 

“You wanna come?” Osborne said.

“Sure,” Irving said. He asked if he could get a ride.

“Your parents run out of cars?” Osborne said. “How’d you get here tonight?”

 “Borrowed one,” Irving said. “A Lincoln Town Car. It’s a classic, like a living room on wheels. But I can’t go to that well too often.”

Osborne laughed. “Anybody I know?” 

“Maybe. You know people, shop at the Orange County Mall?”

Manero was taking long pulls from the can of Coors.

“I’ll come by your house Friday ‘round one,” Osborne said. 

Manero opened the refrigerator again. “I’ll be taking ‘nuther one, you don’t mind.”

“I do fucking mind,” Osborne said. “Put that back.” 

Manero walked a crooked path toward the stairwell door, holding a can in each hand. “Be seein’ you boys.” As he reached the door it popped open.

The door swung against the opposite wall, revealing a woman in a bathrobe. Her hair was in curlers and her legs were bare. She held a Budweiser can away from her body, as if it were something foul. 

Osborne had his thumb up a nostril. Manero stood about ten feet from the woman, swaying. The soft music continued to play. Irving stared at the clean paper towels in front of him. Fuck, he was thinking, he never had made it to the staircase to clean up.

The woman had a pale, middle-aged face with fleshy cheeks. She looked around the room. She saw smoke and a junkyard of empty beer cans. She breathed the smoke. She saw mounds of white powder on the kitchen table. Her face was calm but stern. She folded her arms across her chest.        

Osborne’s lips quivered, as if trying to latch onto words. Irving’s heart raced.  This was the first time he’d ever seen Osborne speechless. He looked out the window. The night was serene. Could he possibly make a jump from three stories up? He leaned closer for a more comprehensive view.

Manero cleared his throat.  The woman looked at him.

“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,” Manero said.  

The creek alongside the Manero farm ran between two fields – one with tall corn stalks, the other with alfalfa. Irving hadn’t seen the farm in years. It seemed a little smaller, with patches of barren land around the edges. The view was still pretty, though. Grassy slopes rose from either side of the water and merged with farmland. Every fifteen yards or so along the top of each slope, an oak or maple cast shade with a rich bloom of leaves. But for the most part the sun had clear visibility to the creek, warming the water and making it sparkle.       

“You ass,” Irving said. “Where were you?  I had to borrow another car.”

Osborne blinked and said, “You think I was gonna help you out after what you pulled?” In his outrage, his voice cracked. “I had to move back in with my dad. The bastard’s gonna kill me in my sleep.” He calmed down and looked curious. “How’d you get out that window, anyway?”

“I used the tree. That Lincoln was parked in your driveway, I thought I hadda get outa there. But I take it nobody called the cops.” 

“My landlords threw me out,” Osborne said. “But they didn’t call anybody. Said I deserved another chance.” 

Manero, standing between them, snorted. “Well, they’re fucking wrong.”        

The three men stood, with Sue Stahl, on the slope near the alfalfa field. A rust-colored silo was about 100 feet behind them. Sunshine filled the sky. The men were shirtless. Osborne looked reedy in his long, dark swim trunks. His skin was stretched over his breastbone and ribs. Irving wore blue-jean shorts and had the same general build, with a bit more padding. Manero wore faded gray gym shorts, his physique thick, his muscles still visible. He carried a case of Coors.  

Irving was interested to discover that Sue Stahl, indeed, had tits. She also had a round ass, snuggled into a yellow one-piece bathing suit. Her long brown hair was parted in the middle. Her face resembled her brother’s – without the sandpaper skin and nasty sneer. Irving remembered that Jim Stahl had hated Osborne with a passion. He’d probably kill Osborne if he knew about him and his sister. 

“Used to be much deeper here,” Manero was saying. “Lake Minnewaska started feeding more streams over the years, took water from this one. When we were kids, we could dive off that bridge.” He nodded toward a gray metal bridge to their right, about 30 feet above the water, wide enough to support one lane of traffic.  

“Didn’t you used to have a barn over there?” Irving pointed near the silo.

Manero looked across the field. He shook his head.

The four headed down the slope. Osborne handed Irving a burning joint. Irving took two deep tokes. As he exhaled, he was already relaxing. The grass under his bare feet felt warm and he breathed in the water’s fresh smell. Its current made a soft hissing sound as it flowed toward the bridge.   

Sue Stahl took the joint and smoked it like an expert. She must be 17 or 18 now, Irving was thinking. He looked at her uneasily. Old enough to be having sex with Osborne – yeecchh – old enough to be doing drugs. Smoke burst from Sue’s nostrils as she handed the joint to Manero.     

They reached the water’s edge. Manero put the case of Coors down on some pebbles. He removed a six-pack and placed it in the stream. Irving put his foot in. Only slightly cooler than bath water. Just the way he liked it. “Your sister around, by any stretch of the imagination?”

Manero chuckled. “Nah. She don’t live here any more.” 

Irving grinned at his own audacity and joined the others moving into the water.  The gentle current kissed his skin. When he reached the middle of the creek, which was about 40 feet wide, the water was chest high. He went underneath and opened his eyes.  The view was clear. Green, ghostly-looking weeds clung to the bottom. Several rainbow-colored fish floated past. The lower limbs of Irving’s companions fluttered in slow motion. Irving crouched and leapt up as hard as he could.  He came splashing up through the surface and into the air. He fell on his back and floated with the sun pouring onto his chest and face.

He heard Osborne. “You go to church, it’s easy to fake. It’s not like Jews, talk in a foreign tongue.”

“You never even went,” Manero said, “when you were a kid?” 

“No,” Osborne said. “You?”

“Yeah. For all the good it did.”

“Your brothers,” Osborne said. “They’re in a better place.” 

Irving was surprised to hear that.  Maybe he was dreaming.

“You’re goddamn right,” Manero said.

Irving rolled to his stomach, stood and looked around. Sue Stahl was nearby in water up to her neck. Her wet hair hugged her cheekbones. Her breasts shimmered beneath the surface. Irving’s gaze lingered there for a beat, then his sight moved up along the trees that lined the slopes and rose into the bright sky. 

Irving felt skinny and self-conscious alongside Sue’s mature body. The contrast embarrassed him. Then again, she was with Osborne, who made Irving look like Hercules. Still, Irving found himself hunching over so his chest wouldn’t be so noticeable.

Manero and Osborne drifted, talking, about ten yards downstream, closer to the bridge. In this world, Irving mused, your drug dealer replaces your clergyman.   

“Hello,” Sue Stahl said.

“Hi,” Irving said. 

“Great day, huh?”

“I’d say so. Haven’t seen a cloud in hours.” Irving crouched so that his chin met the water. “What’s Jim up to these days?”

She smiled and looked downward. “You don’t know?”

“Uh uh.”

“He’s in jail.”

“You’re kidding. What the hell for?”

“Tried to hold up a gas station,” Sue said.

The current urged them toward the bridge. “Holy shit.”

“Osborne tells me you steal cars,” Sue said.

 “Each of those tabs,” Osborne was saying to Manero, “is 50 milligrams.  Usually it’s half that, keep that in mind.” 

Manero was near the shore, sipping a beer, nodding.

“Actually I only borrow them,” Irving told Sue. “But I take your point. I’m thinking of quitting, anyway.” He had started swiping cars in high school for rebellion, excitement and maybe to impress girls that looked like Sue. If one was ever impressed, she kept it to herself. 

“Besides, Osborne’s one to talk,” Irving said. “Our whole class.  Like America’s Most Wanted.”   

Sue came closer, pushing water aside. A shining drop hung on the edge of her nose. “Did you hear Peter’s family’s selling the farm?” she asked quietly. Peter was Manero’s first name. 

“Is that good or bad?”   

The girl shrugged.

As Irving floated away, Sue’s face brightened.  “So, what’re you studying at college?”

“Psychology,” Irving said.  “Don’t ask me why.”  Sue was sidestroking beside him. A shot of sunlight moved inside her amber eyes. “It’s something, anyway,” Irving said. “Maybe I’ll be a teacher. How ‘bout you? You going to college?”

Sue Stahl shook her head “no.” Irving continued to let the water carry him along.  He floated beneath the bridge. Its metal grid diffused the sun.  Irving watched the underside of a pickup truck rumble across. The truck made a deep belching sound. The bridge wobbled. Irving floated to the other side and met the sunshine face up.         

Irving came out of the water. He found a patch of grass about halfway up the slope, near the alfalfa leaning in a gentle breeze. He lay on his stomach. The sun began cooking his back and shoulders.  

He awoke groggy. Something had roused him – if not a sound, then some flicker of a notion probably from a dream. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and blinking.  Not much time had passed; the sun was still above the treetops, sending flashing glimmers through the water. Irving saw Osborne and Sue Stahl lying side by side on their stomachs. Osborne had an arm resting across Sue’s back. It struck Irving as nice, and it made him smile.   

Past them, over the creek, Irving heard a vehicle cross the bridge. His shoulder blades stung. Probably red as a tomato, he thought. He stood and walked to the creek. He grabbed a beer that was cooling in the water. He opened the can and took a sip. A pack of Camels lay on the grass. He took a cigarette and placed it in his lips. He couldn’t find a lighter. “Damn,” he tried to say but sleep had jammed his voice. He managed only a croaking whisper. He walked toward Osborne and Sue. Maybe they had a lighter. His craving for a smoke rushed through him like blood. He began chewing the unlit cigarette.     

  He was facing the bridge now, and when he glanced up, he was shocked. He saw Manero’s arms swing out. The rest of Manero’s body followed his arms out into the air and off the side of the bridge. The Camel tumbled from Irving’s mouth. He tried to shout but his voice remained clogged. He ran splashing into the water.     

Manero was airborne, head first, over the creek. His back was arched and his muscles were smooth. Irving’s feet were entangled in weeds. They dragged him down.  Irving’s next attempt to shout was cut short as his face met the creek. He bound back up, staggering.          

And Manero kept dropping.   

THE END

Mitchel Montagna has worked as a special education teacher, radio journalist, and corporate communicator. Publications include Amarillo Bay, Ephemeral Elegies, Penmen Review, Close to the Bone, and Yellow Mama. He is married and lives in New Jersey.