Gord Rollo Read online

  another street loser named Puckman had inherited it,

  flipped it on its side, crammed it full with our individ

  ual yet collectively useless junk, moved in, and called it

  home sweet home. Lovely.

  It was always cold, always crowded, and it reeked of

  cheap booze, vomit, and layer after layer of filthy piss-

  and shit-stained clothing. The roof leaked so badly

  we were forced to huddle together at one end to avoid

  getting soaked, and that was if it was only a light sprin

  kle. If it was a downpour—forget it—we may as well

  stand outside. The Carver Street Bridge, about thirty

  feet above, helped shelter us a bit, but we had to put up

  with the rickety old freight trains thundering across it

  day and night, every twelve hours.

  It was a terrible way to live. Degrading. We were like

  sewer rats—worse—at least the rats were too ignorant

  to realize how much life like this really sucked. The

  best thing I could say about our crummy little corner

  of the world was that being located beneath the bridge,

  at least I wouldn't have to walk very far to kill myself.

  Good thing, too, because I was exhausted, mentally

  and physically. So goddamned weary, I wasn't sure if

  I'd have enough energy to climb the muddy embank

  ment in time to make the next train or not.

  As quietly as I could, small brown package in hand, I

  stepped over the passed-out prone body of Blue J,

  sprawled in his usual late afternoon position blocking

  our makeshift plastic tarp doorway. Dropping my last

  forty cents—a quarter and three nickels—into his shirt

  pocket, I silently wished him luck and eased out the

  door without disturbing him.

  Outside, Puckman was sitting on the ground, leaning

  up against one of the rectangular concrete bridge abut

  ments, about fifteen feet to my left. He was busy eating

  what looked like a large rat but might just as easily have

  been a small brown kitten. Normal society might frown

  on such a feast, but around here a meal was a meal. It

  had probably been hit by a car and left sticking to the

  road somewhere. Roadkill wasn't exactly one of the sta

  ples of any homeless person's well-balanced diet, but

  when times were tough you ate whatever was available.

  Nothing better than a half-burnt/half-raw hunk of un

  recognizable meat with the tread marks from a truck

  tire still visible on it. It might be disgusting and make

  you want to puke—hell, sometimes it did make you

  puke—but you did whatever you had to do to survive

  on the street.

  Anyway, Puckman was chewing away on something,

  when his beady little eyes turned and locked on mine.

  His face contorted into an angry grimace and, believe

  it or not, he actually started to growl. Obviously, he

  had no intention of sharing his meal with me. Not that

  he had to worry. I didn't want anything to do with the

  crazy bastard today.

  Puckman wasn't my friend. Never had been, never

  would be. Blue J and I put up with him because he paid

  us rent, if you could call it that, to share our Dumpster.

  Sometimes he paid with money but more often he sup

  plied us with food and clothing. He was good at begging

  and was an even better pickpocket and thief. Other than

  that, he was a no-good lousy bum. It was guys like him

  that gave the rest of us homeless people a bad name.

  Puckman was a short fet Mexican with greasy black

  hair hanging halfway down his back. He didn't even

  know where he was most of the time, far too whacked-out

  on homemade Screech to realize he wasn't still pining

  away in sunny Acapulco, or wherever the hell it was he

  came from. He'd been brought up to Canada three

  summers ago on a temporary work visa, to pick to

  bacco. It was real hard work but they were treated well

  and the pay was excellent. The manual labor was too

  much for his fat lazy ass, though, and he'd made a dash

  for the U.S. border, swimming across the Niagara River

  near Fort Erie to illegally enter this home of the brave

  and land of the freeloader.

  The name Puckman came from his annoying obses

  sion with collecting hockey pucks. He'd gathered hun

  dreds of them from all over the city and they were

  stashed away in dozens of white plastic bags in his cor

  ner of the Dumpster. There were so many of the damned

  things he was forced to sleep on top of them but he

  didn't seem to mind. He told me I'd understand if I'd

  ever lived in Canada where hockey was like a religion.

  Yeah, right. He'd spent three weeks in Canada, on a

  tobacco farm, in the hottest part of August, and some

  how he'd become an authority on their favorite winter

  sport. What a crock of shit. Puckman wasn't an author

  ity on anything; he was just a lunatic and definitely not

  someone I was sad to be leaving behind.

  "Adios, asshole, see you in hell," I called over to him,

  then started walking away.

  He growled at me again, smiling triumphantly, like

  he'd won some tough-guy macho battle because I hadn't

  asked for a nibble of his yummy supper. He wouldn't be

  smiling so much if he'd known I had one of his beloved

  hockey pucks stuffed in the pocket of my ragged jacket.

  When that freight train was screaming toward me,

  ready to bust my body into hundreds of pieces, my hope

  was that God would grant me one last wish. I wanted to

  look down from the bridge, hurl that stupid hard rub

  ber disc at Puckman's big fat head, and bean him one

  right square in the kisser. Then I could die a happy

  man. It probably wouldn't pan out that way but I could

  always hope, right?

  Without another glance, I began climbing the steep

  muddy embankment leading up to Carver Street. From

  there, I could walk straight out onto the bridge and wait

  for my ticket out of this shitty life. I slipped and stum

  bled on the way up but within a minute I was standing

  on the first railway tie, at the foot of the bridge.

  The Carver Street Railway Bridge was a fine ex

  ample of human stupidity at its best. As far as I knew,

  bridges were usually constructed to span the distance

  over the top of something: things like rivers, canyons,

  or other roads and train tracks. Not this bridge; it

  stretched a track across an expanse of about eighty feet

  over the top of—nothing. Well, Blue J and Puckman

  were down there, but I seriously doubted they were in

  the city planner's mind when the bridge was designed.

  Maybe at one time a road had been planned, but for

  whatever reason, hadn't been built? I have no idea. Doesn't

  matter.

  I started out onto the bridge, only to remember the

  brown envelope under my arm. Idiot, How could I

  possibly forget something so important? It was vital I

  drop my package in the mail before going through with

  this. Luckily, that wouldn't take too long. There was a

  postal b
ox only half a block south of Carver on Dupont

  Street,

  The package was addressed to Gloria Churchill, the

  sister-in-law I mentioned. Inside were the last three

  things I would ever give to my daughter. There was

  an envelope of cash—only a hundred and thirty dollars

  from my last SI check—a letter, and an insurance pol

  icy I'd taken out on myself. The cash was meaningless,

  but it was all I had. The letter was short and sweet, tell

  ing Arlene things you don't have the need or the right

  to hear, but the insurance policy, that was the impor

  tant thing. I'd been making the premiums through

  Gloria for well over a year now, and if anything was to

  happen to me, like say, being accidentally run over by a

  freight train, I'd set it up so Arlene would be the recipi

  ent of the death benefits. It wasn't a lot, just twenty-five

  thousand dollars, but that would be more than enough

  to get her first few years in college out of the way. Might

  even pay for it all. Either way, it would give her some

  breathing room to pursue whatever dreams she had

  for life.

  I'll admit, I selfishly hoped she'd think nice things

  about me, maybe tear down the wall she'd built around

  her heart to keep me out, but in the end none of that

  would really matter. At least I'd finally be helping her

  out, finally be her dad, instead of the forgotten loser who

  always buggered things up.

  At the mailbox, I checked and rechecked the address

  and made sure the postage stamps were stuck on securely.

  With a tear in my eye, I kissed the package good-bye

  and prayed to whatever gods were listening for the en

  velope to make it safely to Arlene's door. If my death

  could give her the key to a happy life, it would be worth

  it. I hoped she was old enough to understand that.

  Hurrying back to the tracks, I paused to catch my

  breath, gazing out across the bridge's rusty rails to a

  spot on the horizon about three miles away. There, cut

  ting a line across an elevated grassy knoll on the out

  skirts of the city, was another set of railway tracks.

  Twice a day, six days a week, a freight train out of Erie,

  Pennsylvania, would roll down that hill, snake through

  the bowels of the city, and then rocket across the Carver

  Street Bridge on its way to Rochester, New York. Twelve

  hours later, the same train—or more likely, one that

  just looked a lot like it—would rumble back across this

  bridge, reversing its route, heading home to Erie. After

  all the times this train had roared over my pathetic ex

  cuse for a home, I still had no idea what type of cargo it

  carried.

  I guess I never would.

  Almost as if my thinking about it caused it to hap

  pen, the train slowly chugged into view, temporarily

  reducing its speed as it descended into the city. I watched

  the train until it disappeared behind the tall build

  ings and then immediately began walking out onto the

  bridge. If the freight train didn't experience any un

  usual delays, I had approximately eight minutes left

  to live.

  CHAPTER THREE

  September in Buffalo was a great time of year. Beauti

  ful. The trees were turning a million different colors,

  the temperature had finally dropped back into the six

  ties and seventies, and the stale city air felt clean again

  after a long summer filled with sweat and smog. Fall

  was by far my favorite time of year, but unfortunately

  clean air and pretty leaves just weren't enough to post

  pone today's plan.

  There were many reasons why I wanted to kill my

  self, but other than the insurance policy, none of them

  were particularly important. I had the same sad sob

  story most homeless people tell. Had the good job,

  nice family, nice little house with the white picket

  fence, blah, blah, bla"h. None of it mattered. I lost it all;

  that's what counted. You know some of it already, and

  can probably guess the rest. My wife, Jackie, and my

  little boy, Daniel, were killed during a heavy rain

  storm in an automobile accident. No other vehicles

  were involved. Jackie was driving, but it was a hun

  dred percent my fault. A few buddies had talked me

  into going bowling of all damn things. We played a

  few games, hit the bar, and before long I was drunk

  out of my mind and called Jackie to come pick me up.

  "It's only a few raindrops, honey, what could possibly

  happen?"

  Famous last words.

  Anyway, I lost everything important to me that day—

  my wife and son to death, my daughter to hatred—lost

  my job and the house about seven months later, moved

  into the whiskey bottle on a full-time basis, and ended

  up here on this bridge ready to say, Fuck it, I'm out of

  here. I don't need to explain myself. I don't need a rea

  son to die. I'm doing it for Arlene, but to tell you the

  truth I'm also fed up with the rest of life's bullshit.

  Plain and simple—I've had enough.

  I never heard the car pull up behind me, lost in my

  sorry-for-myself thoughts, but when I made it to the

  bridge's halfway mark and turned around, there it was.

  It was one of those big stretch limousines—sparkling

  white with golden trim and matching gold wire spoke

  rims. Christ, it looked about thirty feet long. A car like

  that stuck out almost as much as a dancing elephant

  would've, in this neighborhood. I was momentarily taken

  aback at the sight of it, but not because of how out of

  place this fancy car was. What surprised me most was

  how familiar it looked. I couldn't remember where or

  when, but I was positive I'd seen this limo before.

  The rear driver's-side door suddenly opened and a

  tall muscular man in an expensive gray pinstripe suit

  stepped out onto Carver Street. He looked at me, bent

  down to say something to the driver, and then started

  walking out onto the bridge. He was white, bald-headed

  with a neatly trimmed goatee, stood maybe six foot four,

  and guessing, Fd say he weighed at least two hundred

  and sixty pounds. My surprise was quickly turning

  into shock because as he approached, I realized that he

  too looked familiar. Where the hell had I seen this

  guy and his car before? I tried, but just couldn't re

  member.

  What does he want}

  Now there was a good question. All kinds of nasty

  scenarios spun through my head. Did I owe somebody

  money and this monster had been sent to collect it?

  That would be just my luck—I'm out here ready to com

  mit suicide, and some big ape was going to break my

  legs before I got the chance. I seriously considered run

  ning for the far side of the bridge but what he said

  stopped me dead in my tracks.

  "Wait, Mr. Fox. I need to speak with you about some

  thing important. Really important."

  How did he know my name? I was scared, but I didn't

  run. I
waited until he came within fifteen feet.

  "That's close enough," I said. "What do you want?"

  "Nothin'. Just to talk for a minute. Trust me, it'll be

  worth your while."

  I laughed at that one. If I had a nickel for every time

  someone on the street told me I could trust them, well,

  I guess I wouldn't be a homeless bum anymore. But I

  was homeless, and I wasn't falling for it.

  "You may not believe this," I said, "but I think I've

  heard that line before. If my so-called friends screwed

  me, why should I trust a complete stranger like you?"

  "Because I'm not really a stranger, am I? Don't you

  remember me, Mr. Fox? We met briefly last night. You

  were pretty out of it. Maybe you've forgotten?"

  His words triggered a memory of me being punched

  in the face and tossed roughly to a threadbare green-

  carpeted floor. Not a very nice recollection and I'd heard

  enough. I decided to run from this mysterious man af

  ter alii Before I'd taken my first step, though, my jum

  bled memories of last night cleared and I did remember

  meeting him. It hadn't been him who'd hit me. It had

  been someone else. This man had tried to help.

  Yeah, now I remembered. I wanted to go out with a

  bang, try one last time to fit into this crazy world before

  calling it a life. After leaving Blue J and the young

  woman behind, I picked out some new clothes at the

  local Catholic Church. They weren't anything fancy

  but they were clean, dry, and best of all, free. I cleaned

  myself up and went to one of the local bars to have a

  drink. It was a stupid mistake. I'd been drinking with

  Puckman before leaving the Dumpster—grape Kool-

  Aid and cheap gin—and had smuggled a flask of it into

  the bar. I was almost too drunk to stand up, but nobody

  seemed to care about that. It wasn't until the bartender

  caught me sipping out of the flask instead of buying my

  drinks that all hell broke loose. He sent a bouncer over

  to toss me, but I was too stupid to go quietly on my merry

  way. Not me. I picked a fight with this man-mountain

  and soon I'm eating his considerably large fist and pick

  ing myself up off the floor.

  "You helped me, didn't you? That bouncer was ready

  to mop the floor with me and you stepped in to drag

  him away. Everybody started fighting, but I ducked out

  the side entrance and took off. Your car, your white

  limo there, it was parked outside by the curb. I knew I'd