Short Story...Under The Bridge
Click.
“Son of a bitch!” Trevor Barrow removed the cold gun muzzle from his temple and let his pistol hand fall and began to sob. “I can’t do anything right.”
He leaned back against his late model, dark blue, Mercedes. His double-breasted suit was rumpled, a silk tie hung loose around his thick neck. He drew a half empty fifth of Glenlivet Scotch to his lips and gulped. Wiping his lips on a shirtsleeve, he smeared Scotch across the raised monogrammed cuff.
Trevor’s car sat under a bridge in a seedy part of downtown Detroit between two abandoned factories. The cars exhaust fumes commingled with the wafting sewer steam to create a toxic fog that enveloped him. The acrid smell of rotting garbage, urine, and sewer gas made him cough as a chill went through him.
Flames licked out of a nearby rusty 55-gallon barrel. He sat the bottle on the roof of the car and steadied it. In a quick movement, he racked the slide to chamber a round. Shadows danced in a semi-circle from the radiant light.
With a grimace, he placed the gun to his head and screamed, “AAAAHHHH” He again pulled the trigger.
Click. As the hammer hit the firing pin the clip slid out of the gun and hit the asphalt with a thud.
“Damn it!” Trevor quickly picked up the clip and slid it back in.
“What the hell you doin’?’” a voice asked. It seemed to come from a pile of newspapers by the burning barrel.
“Huh?” Startled, Trevor pulled the gun from his head and pointed it at the newspapers. “Who’s there?”
“Can’t you find a better place to off yourself than in my house?”
Trevor scanned the area. “Who’s there?”
“God, you dumb ass. Go find somewhere else for your crap. You’re disturbing my peace.”
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” Trevor stumbled over and kicked the newspapers. Underneath, found only garbage and concrete.
“What are going to do, hit me with that thing? Throw it at me? It aint worth a flying... If it were, you’d have been done the first pull. You poor lucky bastard.”
Trevor squinted and peered through the darkness beyond the flames. He could barely make out the silhouette of a tall skinny man leaning against a pylon of the bridge.
“Come out of there. Whoever you are,” Trevor said as he waved his gun, motioning the shadow out.
“You are a little confused, aren’t you buddy?”
“Huh?”
“You have no right to order me to do anything, and pointing that piece of junk at me is meaningless. My will to live is less than yours. So piss off.”
“Look, I’m not a murderer. I want to kill myself, not you. I won’t hurt you. Just come out.”
The shadow seemed to ponder the situation for a few seconds, and then said, “Alright, I’ll come out, but put that gun down on the car and bring the bottle over here.”
Trevor backed over to the car, set the gun on the hood, grabbed the bottle off the roof, and walked back toward the voice.
The man stooped to pick something up and then slowly emerged from the shadows. He looked haggard and malnourished with long gray hair and matching beard. His weather beaten face had a hangdog look. A threadbare tweed suit hung lifelessly on his frail frame. It looked as though it had been an expensive suit sometime in the past.
In one hand, balanced against his hip, he held two aluminum lawn chairs with faded floral print webbing. He unfolded each one, set them by the burning drum, and said, “Cop a squat and hand me that bottle.”
Trevor sat down and passed the man the bottle. The man uncorked it, took two big gulps, and choked, “Damn that’s the good, I aint had Glenlivet in years.”
They sat for a few moments unsure of what to say. The man finally broke the silence by saying, “What’s your problem junior? You evidently have money. Nice car. Fine clothes. Looks like a Rolex on your wrist. What gives?”
Trevor stared beyond the barrel flames to the Detroit River. He could hear waves breaking against the bridge’s pylons. Tires thumped on bridge grating as cars entered and left Canada. He muttered, “First thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers. ”
“Shakespeare? King Henry the Sixth… What tragedy has befallen you son?”
“I am a lawyer.”
“Ok, that sucks, but it’s not worth killing yourself over.”
“You don’t get it.”
“No, I guess I don’t. But I used to be a lawyer, long ago.”
Trevor laughed, shook his head, and looked him over, “Yeah? You must have been a real good one.”
“Twenty years ago, I was. This was a $1,500 suit back then.” He brushed dirt from one of the lapels.
“So, you’re a homeless lawyer, just my luck. Did God send you to be my guardian angel?”
“Right. I’ve been living under this bridge for twenty damn years just waiting for your dumb ass to come down here to kill yourself. Did you inherit your money or what? You can’t be much of an attorney.”
“I am . . . I’m too good of an attorney.”
“Ok, I’ll bite. What kind of an attorney are you?”
“Defense.”
The man began to howl with laughter, “Great.”
“What’s so funny?”
“I was a prosecutor.” He said trying to contain himself.
“Look, I’m very good. I have it all. I was educated at Yale. I have a mansion, the summer homes, an apartment in New York, a yacht, sports cars, trophy wife, mistress, and all the money I can spend. I just can’t do it anymore. I can’t take it.”
“The pressure?”
“No. Getting people off.”
“That’s what defense attorneys do - the good ones anyway.”
“I don’t want it. Look old man you’re not exactly in a position to be giving me advice. You live under a bridge for Christ sake.”
“Ah, taking the Lord’s name in vane and insulting me. Tisk.Tisk.”
“Sorry. I just don’t know what to do.”
“Quit. Sell everything. Move south where it’s warm.”
“It’s not that easy. Something happened. Something I can’t live with.”
“You can live with whatever you want to live with, junior. I walked away from the prosecutor’s job because I couldn’t do it anymore either.”
“Why?”
The man stood and held his hands close to the barrel’s flames. His brow furrowed as he pondered an answer. “That was a long time ago. I try not to think about it, actually do everything I can to forget it.” He paused for a long moment. He started to speak. Stopped and then said, “It was a murder case.”
“So, was mine.” Trevor said.
The man hesitated again, “I sent a guy to Jackson for a murder. He was raped and killed the first week he got there. When it happened, I thought, good riddance.”
“That’s what prosecutors do. You can’t control what happens in prison.”
“Yeah, but during the trial there was something I didn’t like. It didn’t feel right. The defendant didn’t seem to fit the crime.”
“The jury must have thought there was enough evidence to convict.”
“It all turned on the testimony of a cop. A cop we later found to be dirty. He admitted to perjury and planting evidence in my murder case in exchange for a plea agreement. But by then, the defendant was dead.”
“Oh shit.”
“Yeah, an innocent man died, and I lost faith in myself and in the system. The line between good guys and bad had become too blurred.” The man turned to face Trevor; tears glistened in the corners of his eyes. “I’ve been down here ever since.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Yeah, you said that.”
“No, I mean, that’s kind of what happened to me, but from the other side. I got a guilty man acquitted two weeks ago. He was accused of Murder in the First, Aggravated First Degree Criminal Sexual Conduct, and Use of a Firearm during the commission of a felony. The works. He walked…because of me.”
“So, that’s what you do. That’s your job. Don’t beat yourself up over it. How do you know the guy’s guilty?”
“It was on the news a couple hours ago. They caught him burying two naked young girls in his back yard. The news reported evidence of rape…”
They both said nothing for a few moments. Sirens roared in the distance. Trevor’s car ran quietly, waves sloshed against the pylons. Tires thumped above on the bridge grating.
The old man walked over to the car and picked up the gun. He pulled out the clip, looked at it, tapped it against his hip and slid it back into place. He racked the slide, pointed it towards the burning barrel and pulled the trigger.
The gun recoiled, emitted a loud pop, and a muzzle flash as one round pierced the barrel dead center. Embers and ashes plumed into the air as he shook his head and said, “Having nothing, nothing can he loose.”
He flipped the gun around, grasped it by the slide and placed the grip back into Trevor’s hand. The old man slowly returned to his lawn chair, leaned back, and stretched his legs. He appeared to drift off to sleep.
Trevor shook his head and stuck the gun into his waistband. “Shakespeare.” He walked over to the car and opened the door. “Since I’ve got nothing to loose now, I’m thinking North Carolina. You want to go?”
The man didn’t answer. His eyes were closed.
“Hey?” Trevor yelled at the man.
The man didn’t move.
Trevor walked over and touched the man’s shoulder. He still didn’t move. He shook him gently. No response. Taking the man by the wrist, Trevor felt for a pulse. There was none.
“Finally, he has peace.” Trevor walked back over to the car, got in, and drove away. Shaking his head he said to noone, “ Having nothing, nothing can he loose…”
“Son of a bitch!” Trevor Barrow removed the cold gun muzzle from his temple and let his pistol hand fall and began to sob. “I can’t do anything right.”
He leaned back against his late model, dark blue, Mercedes. His double-breasted suit was rumpled, a silk tie hung loose around his thick neck. He drew a half empty fifth of Glenlivet Scotch to his lips and gulped. Wiping his lips on a shirtsleeve, he smeared Scotch across the raised monogrammed cuff.
Trevor’s car sat under a bridge in a seedy part of downtown Detroit between two abandoned factories. The cars exhaust fumes commingled with the wafting sewer steam to create a toxic fog that enveloped him. The acrid smell of rotting garbage, urine, and sewer gas made him cough as a chill went through him.
Flames licked out of a nearby rusty 55-gallon barrel. He sat the bottle on the roof of the car and steadied it. In a quick movement, he racked the slide to chamber a round. Shadows danced in a semi-circle from the radiant light.
With a grimace, he placed the gun to his head and screamed, “AAAAHHHH” He again pulled the trigger.
Click. As the hammer hit the firing pin the clip slid out of the gun and hit the asphalt with a thud.
“Damn it!” Trevor quickly picked up the clip and slid it back in.
“What the hell you doin’?’” a voice asked. It seemed to come from a pile of newspapers by the burning barrel.
“Huh?” Startled, Trevor pulled the gun from his head and pointed it at the newspapers. “Who’s there?”
“Can’t you find a better place to off yourself than in my house?”
Trevor scanned the area. “Who’s there?”
“God, you dumb ass. Go find somewhere else for your crap. You’re disturbing my peace.”
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” Trevor stumbled over and kicked the newspapers. Underneath, found only garbage and concrete.
“What are going to do, hit me with that thing? Throw it at me? It aint worth a flying... If it were, you’d have been done the first pull. You poor lucky bastard.”
Trevor squinted and peered through the darkness beyond the flames. He could barely make out the silhouette of a tall skinny man leaning against a pylon of the bridge.
“Come out of there. Whoever you are,” Trevor said as he waved his gun, motioning the shadow out.
“You are a little confused, aren’t you buddy?”
“Huh?”
“You have no right to order me to do anything, and pointing that piece of junk at me is meaningless. My will to live is less than yours. So piss off.”
“Look, I’m not a murderer. I want to kill myself, not you. I won’t hurt you. Just come out.”
The shadow seemed to ponder the situation for a few seconds, and then said, “Alright, I’ll come out, but put that gun down on the car and bring the bottle over here.”
Trevor backed over to the car, set the gun on the hood, grabbed the bottle off the roof, and walked back toward the voice.
The man stooped to pick something up and then slowly emerged from the shadows. He looked haggard and malnourished with long gray hair and matching beard. His weather beaten face had a hangdog look. A threadbare tweed suit hung lifelessly on his frail frame. It looked as though it had been an expensive suit sometime in the past.
In one hand, balanced against his hip, he held two aluminum lawn chairs with faded floral print webbing. He unfolded each one, set them by the burning drum, and said, “Cop a squat and hand me that bottle.”
Trevor sat down and passed the man the bottle. The man uncorked it, took two big gulps, and choked, “Damn that’s the good, I aint had Glenlivet in years.”
They sat for a few moments unsure of what to say. The man finally broke the silence by saying, “What’s your problem junior? You evidently have money. Nice car. Fine clothes. Looks like a Rolex on your wrist. What gives?”
Trevor stared beyond the barrel flames to the Detroit River. He could hear waves breaking against the bridge’s pylons. Tires thumped on bridge grating as cars entered and left Canada. He muttered, “First thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers. ”
“Shakespeare? King Henry the Sixth… What tragedy has befallen you son?”
“I am a lawyer.”
“Ok, that sucks, but it’s not worth killing yourself over.”
“You don’t get it.”
“No, I guess I don’t. But I used to be a lawyer, long ago.”
Trevor laughed, shook his head, and looked him over, “Yeah? You must have been a real good one.”
“Twenty years ago, I was. This was a $1,500 suit back then.” He brushed dirt from one of the lapels.
“So, you’re a homeless lawyer, just my luck. Did God send you to be my guardian angel?”
“Right. I’ve been living under this bridge for twenty damn years just waiting for your dumb ass to come down here to kill yourself. Did you inherit your money or what? You can’t be much of an attorney.”
“I am . . . I’m too good of an attorney.”
“Ok, I’ll bite. What kind of an attorney are you?”
“Defense.”
The man began to howl with laughter, “Great.”
“What’s so funny?”
“I was a prosecutor.” He said trying to contain himself.
“Look, I’m very good. I have it all. I was educated at Yale. I have a mansion, the summer homes, an apartment in New York, a yacht, sports cars, trophy wife, mistress, and all the money I can spend. I just can’t do it anymore. I can’t take it.”
“The pressure?”
“No. Getting people off.”
“That’s what defense attorneys do - the good ones anyway.”
“I don’t want it. Look old man you’re not exactly in a position to be giving me advice. You live under a bridge for Christ sake.”
“Ah, taking the Lord’s name in vane and insulting me. Tisk.Tisk.”
“Sorry. I just don’t know what to do.”
“Quit. Sell everything. Move south where it’s warm.”
“It’s not that easy. Something happened. Something I can’t live with.”
“You can live with whatever you want to live with, junior. I walked away from the prosecutor’s job because I couldn’t do it anymore either.”
“Why?”
The man stood and held his hands close to the barrel’s flames. His brow furrowed as he pondered an answer. “That was a long time ago. I try not to think about it, actually do everything I can to forget it.” He paused for a long moment. He started to speak. Stopped and then said, “It was a murder case.”
“So, was mine.” Trevor said.
The man hesitated again, “I sent a guy to Jackson for a murder. He was raped and killed the first week he got there. When it happened, I thought, good riddance.”
“That’s what prosecutors do. You can’t control what happens in prison.”
“Yeah, but during the trial there was something I didn’t like. It didn’t feel right. The defendant didn’t seem to fit the crime.”
“The jury must have thought there was enough evidence to convict.”
“It all turned on the testimony of a cop. A cop we later found to be dirty. He admitted to perjury and planting evidence in my murder case in exchange for a plea agreement. But by then, the defendant was dead.”
“Oh shit.”
“Yeah, an innocent man died, and I lost faith in myself and in the system. The line between good guys and bad had become too blurred.” The man turned to face Trevor; tears glistened in the corners of his eyes. “I’ve been down here ever since.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Yeah, you said that.”
“No, I mean, that’s kind of what happened to me, but from the other side. I got a guilty man acquitted two weeks ago. He was accused of Murder in the First, Aggravated First Degree Criminal Sexual Conduct, and Use of a Firearm during the commission of a felony. The works. He walked…because of me.”
“So, that’s what you do. That’s your job. Don’t beat yourself up over it. How do you know the guy’s guilty?”
“It was on the news a couple hours ago. They caught him burying two naked young girls in his back yard. The news reported evidence of rape…”
They both said nothing for a few moments. Sirens roared in the distance. Trevor’s car ran quietly, waves sloshed against the pylons. Tires thumped above on the bridge grating.
The old man walked over to the car and picked up the gun. He pulled out the clip, looked at it, tapped it against his hip and slid it back into place. He racked the slide, pointed it towards the burning barrel and pulled the trigger.
The gun recoiled, emitted a loud pop, and a muzzle flash as one round pierced the barrel dead center. Embers and ashes plumed into the air as he shook his head and said, “Having nothing, nothing can he loose.”
He flipped the gun around, grasped it by the slide and placed the grip back into Trevor’s hand. The old man slowly returned to his lawn chair, leaned back, and stretched his legs. He appeared to drift off to sleep.
Trevor shook his head and stuck the gun into his waistband. “Shakespeare.” He walked over to the car and opened the door. “Since I’ve got nothing to loose now, I’m thinking North Carolina. You want to go?”
The man didn’t answer. His eyes were closed.
“Hey?” Trevor yelled at the man.
The man didn’t move.
Trevor walked over and touched the man’s shoulder. He still didn’t move. He shook him gently. No response. Taking the man by the wrist, Trevor felt for a pulse. There was none.
“Finally, he has peace.” Trevor walked back over to the car, got in, and drove away. Shaking his head he said to noone, “ Having nothing, nothing can he loose…”
