Bridge Over Troubled Water

by Alfonso Vaughn

  The majority in the room was clearly taken back by her statement, but nobody said anything. The doodler could only shake his head.

  "My God, I think you'd eat your own if it would save a few hundred dollars."

  "I've worked hard to get to where I am," she retorted. "I didn't take any shortcuts or give in when life threw me a bit of turbulence."

  "Well, we all hope that you never feel the urge to kill yourself," said the doodler. "That would just break our collective hearts."

  And with that, he went back to his doodling.

  Tischer spoke up.

  "Enough, guys. We really need to find a solution on this."

  There was an awkward stalemate in the room. Tischer's eyes drifted to the television that showed footage of Jerry leaving the bank. A caption running along the top of the screen read: "Negotiator still boasts one-hundred-percent record."

  Tischer smirked as though a customer had just kicked-off negotiations by offering the full asking price for a piece-of-shit car.

  The police station was a hive of activity. Jerry strolled past the work stations and greeted various colleagues.

  "Thought you were spending the day at the track?" inquired one of them.

  Jerry shrugged and kept walking towards Helms' office, where he stopped at the door and questioned the secretary.

  "You still with that bum husband?"

  The secretary nodded as Jerry opened the door.

  "Shame."

  She blushed and turned back to her work as Jerry entered the office.

  As he walked towards the empty seat opposite Helms' desk, Jerry didn't notice Mayor Tischer sitting on a chair along the side wall. But as soon as he did, he immediately turned and shook his hand.

  "Had I known royalty was gonna be present, I would have worn a suit."

  Tischer grinned.

  "How's it going, Jerry?"

  "Shitty. You?"

  "Shitty."

  Jerry broke the handshake.

  "Good. Now I'm feeling better."

  He sat down in front of his captain.

  Helms slid a file across the desk to Jerry, who opened it and read over the contents. Tischer stood next to him, then paced.

  "We're getting serious heat over these suicides. We need experienced men to tackle the problem. And they don't come any more experienced than you."

  Jerry stared Helms down, closed the file and passed it back to him.

  "You know I don't have time for this," he said as he stood up, considering the meeting adjourned.

  Helms gestured for him to stay.

  "I'll delegate some of your duties to other men. We need you--"

  "I don't have time to baby-sit emotional wrecks!"

  Tischer intervened.

  "Jerry, please. You're the best man for the job. The city needs you."

  "Put Darryl on it," Jerry replied. "He's qualified, young and hungry. And would sure as shit be more use to those people than me. He might even mean what he says."

  "He doesn't have the experience," Helms reasoned. "These aren't people being held up in a liquor store by a crackhead just looking for his next fix, Jerry. These are fragile people who are minutes away from killing themselves. They have zero hope, nothing. They need reassurance, someone to convince them that there's something positive ahead if only they'd give it another go."

  Tischer kept up the pressure.

  "And there's no one better at getting others to come around to his way of thinking in tight situations. I promise you the city will give you everything you need to tackle this."

  Jerry was amused at their attempts to convince him.

  "Give it to Darryl. He's more suited to dealing with this stuff. Trust me." He strode to the door and opened it, then looked back at the Chief and the Mayor. "If this department gives me one more problem it can't handle, I'll be on that bridge next."

  Helms was unmoved.

  "You're the only man for the job, Craig!"

  Jerry was too old to let the freshman-year psychology work on him. He sarcastically nodded his agreement, left the office and slammed the door behind him.

  Jerry walked past the secretary without even acknowledging her attempt at making eye contact.

  He arrived at Darryl's desk, and found him with his head buried in paperwork.

  "Yo, chauffeur. Let's go."

  Like a dog motivated by a bone, Darryl perked up and reached for his jacket. Action time.

  Jerry immediately burst his bubble.

  "Don't look so happy. You're only dropping me off at home."

  "Shit, really?"

  "Really."

  "Really really?"

  "Yeah, really really."

  Jerry noticed a sandwich on Darryl's desk.

  "You not gonna eat that?"

  Without waiting for an answer, Jerry lifted the sandwich.

  In the car, Jerry took a huge bite as Darryl looked, signaled and swapped lanes.

  "I got you more responsibility," Jerry said as his teeth were busy breaking down the food. Tiny bits of sandwich ejected all over the car's interior didn't stop the smirk on Darryl's face. After Jerry removed a bit of meat from the dash with his finger, he continued.

  "It's extra work, so I don't want an irate fiancÈ bitchin' at me that he's not getting any help planning the wedding of the year."

  Darryl gave Jerry a quizzical look. Jerry swallowed and clarified.

  "Take a peek over to your left."

  Darryl looked and saw the Golden Gate in all her beauty.

  "Suicide watch, about one a week. Should take a trained negotiator twenty minutes to reel them back to safety. Then you pass the ball to the men in white coats."

  "How will I know?"

  "You get a call from the Bridge Authority and go. It's that simple. If you can't deal with these people, you need to think about a new career."

  Jerry took another bite of the sandwich. Darryl couldn't keep the enthusiasm off his face.

  "I'll do it."

  "I know you will."

  "You'll see. The suicide rate will go down by at least fifty percent in my first month."

  Jerry couldn't help the sarcasm.

  "You're my new hero. Fuck Joe Montana!"

  "Why do you have to be a dick all the time?"

  "Age affords me the indulgence, as it affords me seniority. Now concentrate on the goddamn road. You drive too close to the next lane."

  Jerry's house was in a respectable neighborhood, but it did need attention, primarily from a painter and gardener.

  Darryl's car pulled up and Jerry got out. He was about to close the door when a thought hit him.

  "Don't disturb me for the next two days, unless it's a state emergency."

  Darryl nodded, but wanted to say something. Jerry picked up on it.

  "Okay, what is it? Spit it out."

  "Are you coming to my wedding? We haven't received the R.S.V.P. yet."

  Only someone with the perception skills of a garden gnome would fail to notice that Jerry would rather set fire to his balls, then stomp the flames out with two blocks of wood, than accept the invitation.

  "It'll be the highlight of my month."

  And with that he slammed the door shut and made his way inside.

  The interior of Jerry's house was the same as the outside: respectable enough, but in need of some freshening up. He set down his keys, pressed the play button on his answering machine and kept walking.

  "No new messages," spoke the automated voice.

  Jerry entered the kitchen, strode to a cupboard and took out a glass and a bottle of whiskey. He poured a stiff measure. Sunk it.

  "Ellie. Ellie?"

  There was no response to his yells, so he had another drink.

  Soon afterwards, he relaxed on the window seat in the living room and looked out at the gloomy weather, with a phone to his ear. There was another stiff whiskey in the other hand. The ringing tone was interrupted.


  "Hi, you're through to Ellie. I'm having too much fun right now to speak to you, or anyone for that matter. You know what to do."

  Jerry thought about leaving a message, but hung up as it beeped, downed the whiskey and left the room.

  Jerry's study was more like a private bookmakers; four televisions relayed sports footage - tennis, a college football game, baseball, and horse racing. Jerry sat with his desk phone to ear, eyes glued to the screens.

  "Give me two grand on Federer to win. I know the odds suck, that's why it's a sure bet. Then dump it all on the 49ers at the Seahawks. Yeah, well, we can't go back to the eighties. What can I say? They're my Achilles heel. Later."

  He hung up the phone as he heard the front door slam shut. Jerry immediately left the room and descended the stairs.

  He walked into the kitchen, where he found his delicate daughter Ellie drinking from a carton of juice at the open fridge. She was twenty-four and an untidy dresser, which did her body no justice. She noticed Jerry and placed the juice back into the fridge.

  "Hey, Dad."

  She gave the surprised Jerry a suffocating hug. All his problems disappeared in an instant.

  "I tried to phone you earlier."

  Ellie let go, walked back to the fridge and picked up her bag.

  "I was at the library."

  Jerry felt disappointment when he noticed her hazy eyes.

  "Studying?"

  "Communication theory."

  "Oh, nice. Does that mean there's going to be more of it?"

  Ellie smirked at him and headed for the door.

  "Have you eaten today?"

  "A fruit salad," she said as she left the room.

  Her footsteps ascended the stairs. Jerry moved to the door and shouted up after

  her.

  "Does that mean you want dinner?"

  "What are you cooking?"

  "Whatever you're going to eat. Chicken?"

  The response was delayed.

  "Yeah, Dad. Chicken sounds good."

  Jerry was quite the dab hand at the stove. Chicken and vegetables fried in the pans. The rice boiled. He tasted each, overly impressed with his own cooking. The TV on the mounted rack showed the horse racing channel.

  "And they're off!" the commentator announced.

  Jerry, spatula in hand, turned to the TV and stayed perfectly still for his dose of adrenaline.

  "Come on, Five. Do it for me!"

  Horse Five took the lead, a beautiful animal. The jockey whipped it and dug his heels into its side.

  "Come on, come on!" ordered Jerry.

  In perfect flow, Five pulled away even farther. Approaching the final straight, the horse left a huge gap between herself and the field. Another horse collapsed. Jerry's arms rose in victory.

  "That's my girl, that's my girl!"

  Only fifty meters remained to the finish line. Jerry's arms extended way over his head, warming up for the victory dance. Horse Five couldn't possibly lose...until it decided to take a sharp turn to the left, jump over the safety barrier, and head into no-man's-land.

  "No! No, you fuckin' donkey, get back on the track!"

  Horse Three crossed the line, victorious. Jerry shook his head, went back to the stove and checked on the food.

  Ellie entered, still in the process of coming back to life after a long nap.

  "Back another winner, Dad?"

  Jerry got the plates from the cupboard and set them down on the table.

  "Who always gets the cheese?"

  "You do."

  "That's right. And you get the drinks."

  Ellie got the beverages while Jerry brought the rice over and distributed it between the plates. Ellie sat down as Jerry got the pans and dished out the chicken and vegetables. She smelled the offerings and winked at her old man.

  "It looks real good. Healthy. Protein. Vitamin C. Vitamin B. All the daily goodness a girl needs."

  Jerry's sarcasm had definitely rubbed off on her, but he didn't notice. He leaned down and kissed his daughter.

  "Only the best for my princess."

  He returned the pan to the stove and took a seat. Jerry seasoned his food with salt and pepper and then tried to find Ellie's eyes, but she was too occupied shoveling down the food.

  "Jesus, slow down. The chicken ain't going anywhere. It's dead."

  "Hungry."

  Amazed, Jerry could only watch Ellie eat at first, then eventually started at his food. Again, he tried to make eye contact.

  "You know what date is coming next week?"

  Ellie stopped eating, glanced at Jerry before returning to her food - her pace considerably slower.

  "Ellie."

  "I know what date it is!"

  She got up, slammed her plate down by the sink and left.

  Back in his study, whiskey on the desk, Jerry opened a laptop and logged on. Attracted by the sound of movement in the next room, he stared at the wall and pondered. Snapping out of it, Jerry lifted the whiskey and took a drink.

  One the laptop, he selected the icon for remote camera access. A grainy image appeared. Objects became visible. A person: Ellie.

  She moved to the window, pushed it open, and then reached under her bed and retrieved an old videotape box. Ellie opened it, took out various items of drug paraphernalia and loaded up a steel pipe. Lit it. Inhaled. Held the smoke in her lungs for a few seconds and then blew it out the window. It quickly dispersed, the evidence vanishing. She put the pipe back into the box, left the window open and collapsed onto the bed.

  Jerry slammed the laptop shut, stood up, lifted his jacket, and left the room. His footsteps echoed around the house as he descended the staircase.

  Seconds later, the front door slammed shut.

  The buzz and excitement that only the crowd at a sold-out racing event could bring filled the Golden Gate Fields, northern California's premier racetrack. Thousands in the stands watched the eight horses do battle. Beautiful specimens. The jockeys gave it their all. After a long struggle, the winner was greeted with cheers, frantic celebrations, and plenty of dockets being ripped up.

  The back of the stands was a great vantage point and not as crowded as the other areas. This was where the regulars watched the races unfold and talked crap about their luckless, shitty lives.

  Jerry ripped up his docket, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it at a Chinese man two yards off to his left: Chou, just like every Chinese man in his fifties you ever saw at the racetrack, a saliva-dispensing, chain-smoking, beer-from-the-bottle- drinking degenerate.

  "Fuck you, Craig," he said.

  "Show me the winner, then."

  Chou shook his head, ripped up his own docket, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it at Jerry. Both men smiled like naughty school kids. They moved off towards the crowds.

  "Let's go check on our investment, my little yellow friend."

  "Beer."

  "We get beer on the way."

  In the lobby, the bartender set down two bottles of beer, took the money off the counter and left. Jerry and Chou's eyes didn't leave their form guides during the entire transaction.

  Chou shook his head.

  "We not win."

  "We won't even place?"

  "Ah. Field too strong. Only place if rest of horses all fall, break legs."

  Jerry patted Chou on the back and ushered him away from the bar.

  "We better start praying, then."

  The beers half gone, Jerry and Chou strolled through the bedlam that was the trainers' area. Horses, owners and workers were either preparing for the forthcoming races or packing up to leave. A burly security guard approached Jerry and Chou.

  "Passes?"

  Jerry searched his pockets, took out his pass and badge. Chou proudly held out his pass.

  "Owner. Race horse owner."

  Jerry's tone was as sarcastic as ever.

  "Which one works for you?"

  The security guard
nodded his head.

  "They're both good."

  Jerry and Chou walked on, patted a few of the horses, and nodded at several owners. Seconds later they were with their trainer, Buzz Masters, who was in his sixties but looked much younger, with his strong build and fine head of long white hair. Jerry was genuinely happy to see him.

  "Buzz, baby, how we looking?"

  Buzz led them to a rundown bucket of a trailer and brought down the ramp to reveal their horse, Slim Genie. Not really slim at all; plump would have best described her.

  Jerry was incredulous.

  "Jesus, Buzz, what have you been feeding her?"

  "Chou's leftovers from his restaurant."

  "You've been feeding our horse sweet and sour chicken and noodles?"

  Chou chimed in.

  "Vegetables. Chicken. Good source of energy."

  Right on cue, Slim Genie's tail rose and a mountain of shit formed in seconds. She neighed with delight, perhaps happy to contribute to the conversation.

  The ramp was brought back up, under the disapproving shakes of Jerry and Chou's heads. Buzz was defensive.

  "Relax, it's her third race. It's a process. About routines."

  "Shouldn't you be walking her or something?" Jerry asked. "Whispering motivational horse-slang into her ears?"

  Buzz waved Jerry's concerns away.

  "It's an old practice. Keep 'em locked up as long as possible. You know, then when she's released, she'll run like the wind. Happy for the freedom, that's the thinking."

  "Has she got any chance of winning?" Jerry inquired.

  "Sure, if the guy from the glue factory shows up and takes the rest of the horses away."

  At the tote booth, Jerry took the docket passed over by the confused operator. Jerry's eyes were full of hope as he glanced down at it: "Slim Genie to place - $200."

  "Good luck, Jerry," said the operator. "She's the thirty-three-to-one long shot."

  Jerry's response was immediate.