The Other Side of the Bridge

by Camron Wright

  There are also letters documenting the tremendous amount of concrete and steel consumed by the bridge during its construction.

  “Two separate concrete plants have been erected, one on each shore. Cement is poured day and night, a huge river of aggregate that never ceases to flow. I would not have believed the scale of the project had I not been here to see it with my own eyes, to touch it with my own hands.”

  And then another note from Frenchy Gales. “There were guys down in the cement who would level it off. At the end of a pour we took count, and we were one guy short. The pours were deep. Everybody started stabbing around in the cement trying to find the guy, but we couldn’t. The timekeeper asked if I would go with him to notify his family. It was one-thirty in the morning when we knocked on their door. The timekeeper nearly fainted when the missing guy answered the door in his pajamas. He explained that he got tired, slipped out, and went home to bed. That was the last time he ever worked on the bridge.”

  The name Frenchy Gales appears often. He apparently worked in many areas of the bridge, and I can’t help but wonder if he knew Patrick. Were they friends? Did they work together, laugh together, drink together?

  I continue to sift. There were times when the construction moved along at surprising speed, but other times when the Gate refused to be bridled. I find notes from Russell Cone, a man who headed one of the major construction companies.

  “On October 31, an unexpected storm rolled huge waves into the Gate. They struck the steel forms with tremendous force, breaking over the deck of the access trestle. They kept buffeting until the fifty-ton tower began to shudder six feet forward and back. The oscillation worked the foundation pipes loose. The trestle groaned and creaked and then a mountainous wave, higher than any of the others, hit the forms like a cyclone. Before our eyes it swept a tangled mass of wreckage into the Golden Gate. All we could do was stand and watch. It didn’t just tear out the trestle that day, it also tore out my heart. It was ten months of the hardest kind of work imaginable, and in just one swallow, it was gulped up unmercifully by an angry sea.”

  I am struck by their persistence, amazed by their determination to overcome all obstacles. Just six months after the storm had devastated his company’s work, Cone notes, “May 4, 1934. I was heartbroken when the storms washed the trestle out into the bay, but we have found the will to move forward. The work continues, and the bridge is now taking on an almost living quality. Today, we rode the elevator some seven hundred feet up from the tower’s concrete base. It was a raw, windy day—perhaps fitting—when we placed the American flag on the top of the bridge tower for all to see. For a certainty, the men now know, we will succeed!”

  They were asked to tame one of the most treacherous pieces of water meeting land known to man—and they did.

  They found a way.

  chapter twenty-three

  Dave plucked the yellow sticky note from his phone. Gloria’s scribbles said it all. “Four more days!”

  “And two of those are the weekend,” Dave added, to no one.

  In ninety-six hours, Shaun R. Safford, one of BikeHouse’s top executives, would be sitting in the adjacent conference room with a close circle of highly paid staff. Four creative types from the company’s ad agency would also attend, as well as three support staff from Strategy Data.

  Dave would lead. Brock would assist. Ellen would stand at the door and play boss. She’d shake hands, carry on about new partnerships and working together for the mutual good—PR propaganda.

  The room would be packed with capable executives watching Dave’s every move, listening to his every word. All eyes would be on him—he was the man in charge. It would be dog-and-pony at its finest.

  He shouldn’t be nervous. Speaking in front of business groups was second nature to him. He’d done it hundreds of times, in groups larger than this one. Why, then, was his stomach knotting?

  He needed someone to talk with, someone to calm him down. Dave paged through the contacts in his phone, weighed his options. When he dialed a number, a familiar voice answered.

  “This is Redd.”

  “Redd, it’s Dave.”

  “Dave? I was just trying to call you on the other line. You must be psychic.”

  “Or psycho. What’s up?”

  “Can you come down here right away?”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “There’s someone here that I’d like you to meet.”

  “Who is it?”

  “A friend. I think you two have a lot in common. I told her you’d be right down, so don’t make the woman wait. I have to run. I’ll look for you soon. ’Bye.”

  Click—and Redd was gone.

  • • •

  Dave’s first real ride on a customized bike, besides his initial two-foot lunge, had come at the end of his first lesson. “A couple of loops around the parking lot,” Redd had said, “just to get the feel of the machine.” By the end of lesson two, Dave had graduated to the public streets in the vicinity of the Lakeshore location. By number three, he was testing short stretches of the Garden State Parkway. Dave hoped it would soon be time to hit the open road.

  “You look a bit tense today,” Redd said when Dave walked through the door.

  “Tell me about it. I’m meeting with Safford and crew next week. Not sure why, but I’m oddly nervous.” Dave glanced around, but he could see no one waiting. “You said you had someone I should meet?”

  “I do.” Redd’s eyes twinkled like stars at midnight. “Dave, have you ever bumped into a person and known from the first moment that they were perfect for a friend?”

  “No. I haven’t.”

  “Well, that’s what happened.”

  “Redd, I appreciate it, but . . . I’m not looking for . . . companionship right now.”

  Redd was only encouraged. “True, my friend, but sometimes it comes looking for you. She’s waiting in the back, so please be a gentleman and at least say hello.”

  Dave was tense and tired; he needed to talk, not engage in some social hour. He protested again as he followed Redd through the door into the shop.

  “Redd, I’d rather not . . .”

  The place was empty except for Redd’s smile and a gleaming black and red Harley Sturgis.

  “She came in this morning. She’s mint. She not only has a belt-driven final drive, but her primary drive is belt-driven as well. I’ve checked her over, inside and out, and I’ve never had a bike traded in better condition. I’ve made a few modifications, but she’s mint—and she keeps calling your name.”

  Dave reached down and let his fingers drift over the curves of the tank. He had not expected this.

  “She’s beautiful, Redd,” Dave said.

  “That she is. And the leather’s original. Seems the guy spent more time giving her polish than riding her. Here’s the thing. I have to ride down to Frederick, in Maryland, tomorrow to pick up some papers from my sister. I was thinking that you and your new friend could tag along. I’ve already made arrangements with the boss—we’re calling it a test drive.”

  “I’d love to, but my presentation is in four days.”

  “What’s your point? You seem wired. Nothing better to settle you down, to get you ready, than a good old-fashioned ride into the caring arms of Mother Nature.”

  Dave pondered while Redd pushed.

  “I’m telling you, it’ll do you good.”

  “What time are you leaving?”

  “First thing in the morning, ’bout six—before traffic gets heavy.”

  Dave touched the bike again and then climbed on. He let out a breath, couldn’t help but grin. “Let me make some calls, but . . . yeah, let’s do it.”

  chapter twenty-four

  Soaring across the open road, leather jacket deflecting the wind, rumbling bike between your legs—it was like a sports car on steroids, an adrenaline cock
tail shaken and stirred. Yet, it wasn’t the power available at the simple twist of a wrist that intrigued Dave. It was the solitude, the peacefulness that came with the ride.

  It was such a contradiction, such an irony—intensity and energy, and yet serenity. It was watching trees and fields and open sky, understanding that a bigger picture surrounds, a picture that can’t be seen from a high-rise office. It was discovering a larger world, and therein finding yourself.

  More important, it offered Dave time to think.

  Rather than take I-95, Redd opted for the scenic route—I-78 over to I-81, then down to I-70 and straight into Frederick. It was twice the distance, but that was exactly the point.

  Just out of Chambersburg, Redd pulled off the interstate and onto a frontage road. When he passed Parker’s Drive-In, a hometown burger joint, he pulled in and stopped alongside a picnic table in the back. It was badly in need of new paint. Yet, despite the place’s dilapidated state, or perhaps because of it, it managed to emanate country charm. Dave parked alongside and shut off his bike.

  “Now that you’ve had a few hours in the saddle, what do you think?” Redd asked.

  “She’s amazing!” Dave replied. “And did you see the look from those kids in the school bus? That alone was worth the trip.”

  “It’s about to get better. They have a pastrami burger here that will cut a month off of your life. You want one?”

  “Works for me.”

  “Watch the bikes. I’ll be right back. Treat’s on me.”

  Dave relaxed at the table. The surroundings were quaint, serene—and he couldn’t help but think that Meg would have adored the place. This trip had been a good idea after all.

  When Redd returned, the burgers were all he’d described—pounds of artery-clogging pastrami piled with enough condiments to feed a small town. Eating as they soaked in the surroundings, Dave posed the question to Redd that had been perplexing him—a question he’d been pondering for the last two hundred miles.

  “Redd, do you mind if I ask you something?”

  “No, what’s up?”

  “It’s a question I asked my shrink the other day and, well, I’d like a second opinion.”

  “I’m competing against a shrink?”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t sue for malpractice.”

  “Okay, lay it on me.”

  “I’m wondering how far one should go in search of hope?”

  “Sounds philosophical.”

  “I was actually hoping for practical.”

  “What did your shrink say?”

  “She said I’m emotionally vulnerable—that I need to be rational, to think with my head. Otherwise, she suggested, I might end up doing something, well, irrational.”

  “Like learning to ride a Harley?”

  “No, like taking off on my bike and never coming back. Would that be stupid?”

  “I suppose it depends on where you’re going and what you’d be leaving behind. Have you thought about it—just taking off, I mean?”

  Dave shrugged first with his eyes. “I guess I have. The problem is that the doctor’s right. I have been a bit unstable lately. I mean, at times I feel like my life is getting back to normal, whatever normal may be. But at other times, I just feel empty, like the answers are out there somewhere, waiting, and it’s up to me to find them. I guess that sounds a bit bizarre.”

  “Sounds to me like you had a little more motivation to ride a road bike than just market research.”

  “Perhaps. I just keep thinking about Meg—about a conversation we had about life and dreams and jackets and motorcycles.”

  Redd took another bite of burger and another swallow of Coke, as if that might help him formulate a profound answer. “Not sure what to tell you, Dave. Never been too good with questions like that. I work on motorcycles. It does seem to me, though, that you may be asking others to decide something only you can answer.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  Redd hesitated, as if he had more to say, as if he wanted to expound but wasn’t sure he should.

  “What is it?” Dave asked.

  “I guess you just remind me of someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Me.”

  Dave laughed. Other than his recently acquired affection for customized Harleys, he hadn’t figured they had much in common. “And how’s that?” he asked.

  “I took off once, just like you describe.”

  Dave set his burger on the table. The man had his attention. “You’re serious?”

  Redd nodded.

  “Can you tell me about it?”

  When Redd rolled his lips inward, his mustache completely concealed his mouth. It was a moment before he spoke.

  “I don’t mind telling you, Dave. You’re my friend. It’s just that you need to understand this is my story. I don’t want to suggest it applies to anyone else. You understand what I’m saying?”

  Dave nodded. “I think so.”

  “I took off one day on my bike. Just dropped everything and rode away—it was right after the war.”

  “The war?”

  “As a young man, I spent some time in Vietnam.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  Redd shrugged. “There’s a lot we don’t know about the people who surround us.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was drafted in April of ’69. I was supposed to ship out six weeks later. I didn’t believe in the war, Dave.” His eyes narrowed as he spoke. “I wasn’t about to go fight in some hellhole halfway around the world, killing people for reasons nobody could explain.”

  “You bailed?”

  “That was the plan. I was gonna ride my bike to Canada with some buddies. A lot of my friends were doing it.”

  “So you dropped everything and took off?”

  “No. It didn’t work out that way. I got home late that night—too late. I was gonna leave early the next morning, but I’d been drinking. I overslept. My dad was up by the time I got downstairs. The first thing he asked was where I was going. I tried to be funny, told him I was going down to sign up. He knew I hated the war; I thought it would make him laugh. Only thing was, he didn’t get that it was a joke. He got all teary-eyed and started to go on about how proud he was of me, how proud my mother would be if she were still alive. It was the first time I ever remember my dad saying he was proud of anybody. The first time . . . ”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I packed up my bike and rode out of the driveway. The only problem was, I rode down to the recruiting office. Three months later I was sitting in a dirty foxhole near the Mekong Delta, wondering what the hell I’d done. I was just a scared, lonely, stupid kid. I shouldn’t have been halfway round the world killing nobody—not at that age.”

  Redd paused, contemplated his burger as if deciding how to attack his next bite, then chewed slowly. They were in no hurry.

  “I made a friend there. His last name was Harris; first name was Leslie. What kind of parent would name their son Leslie?” It was a question that expected no answer. “We called him Les—Les Harris. He was a bit older than I was—actually, he was a lot older, had a wife and a kid at home. Guess he felt sorry for me, ’cause he always watched out for me. He was just a damn fine person.

  “We were going out on patrol. It was my turn to take the point. It wasn’t dangerous. We hadn’t run into any VC for weeks. I’d been sick, puking the night before—hadn’t slept hardly at all. I felt like hell and I must’ve looked it, ’cause Les took one glance at me and said he’d swap me turns at point. He said that I could hang near the back.

  “The route was the same. We would wade across the river and then hike six miles, running a perimeter check through the jungle.” Redd’s muscles tensed. “I was dragging at the back when the gunfire started. It took me a minute to register what was happening. T
hree men went down in our patrol before we realized where the shots were coming from. Turned out there were two VC hiding in the jungle. By the time we took care of them—” he paused, then turned to Dave. “Took care of them . . . what a bizarre expression.” He didn’t wait for a response. “By the time we killed ’em, several minutes had passed.”

  His words slowed. “When I got to Les, he was bleeding from his mouth. He was trying to whisper something, but I couldn’t tell what he was saying. I tried, Dave, but with all the blood he was coughing up, I just couldn’t make out his words. After a few minutes of trying, he just quit talking, and then, a few minutes later, he quit breathing. He died in my arms. I couldn’t help him; I couldn’t even tell what he was trying to say.”

  Redd stopped as if he needed a moment to compose himself. He took a long drink of his Coke before he was ready.

  “I was so screwed up after that—I can’t even tell you how screwed up I was. I came home from the war angry—angry at the Vietcong, angry at our country for sending me there, angry at life. The whole damn mess just didn’t seem fair, not right at all. It should’ve been me, a young, stupid kid, to take a bullet to the chest, not a good man with a wife and kid waiting for him to come back home.

  “After I got back, I went to see his wife. Hanna was her name. She looked so empty—so lost and lonely. I told her how Les had saved me, how I should’ve been at the front of the line that day. She didn’t say it, but I could tell that she was also wishing it. She asked if Les had said anything before he died. I didn’t know how to answer. All I could do was shake my head no.