The Bridge.
For years now, I always get a little bit nervous when I go over this bridge. This is one of the reasons for that.
There’s a bridge going out of our town. It goes over a river with an unpronounceable Indian name, which only the locals think they can pronounce right. Since the town was founded in the early 1830s, there have been different bridges located in the same place, but this story is about the bridge in my time, the one I was almost killed on twice.
I moved out on my own when I was 17 and had to find a job and a place to live. Across the river out of town were two cinderblock cabins by a large house. The cabins were built back in the 1930s for travelers. Back before there were chain motels, these cabins were spread throughout the countryside and were the only overnight rest stops people had available. By my time, these two cabins were converted to small cottages for rent. Since they were bare minimum the rent was also in my price range. I didn’t own a car at that time, but I did have a ten-speed bicycle. I used it everyday to peddle the five miles to work. On my way to and from work, I had to cross the bridge twice a day. The bridge is a little over a quarter of a mile long and back then it was one of those narrow two lane bridges. Whenever I was crossing the bridge, if I heard a car coming up behind me, I would stop peddling and stand on the side of the bridge until the car had passed.
One day after work, I was peddling back home and I was on the bridge. I heard a car behind me and did my usual stop and stand, waiting for it to go by me. I hear the car coming closer and knew it was way over the speed limit. As the car speeds past me, I hear a big whoosh by my head and my eyes follow the sound. Someone in the car had thrown a coke bottle at me, which missed my head by inches. If the bottle had connected, I would have been either killed instantly, or I would have died from the 30-foot fall down into the river.
It took me a number of seconds to realize what had happened and then I got mad. Although I didn’t know who the people were, I did know I had seen the car before. The next day I stopped by the local police office and talked to one of the officers. I told him what happened and the description of the car. He told me there was nothing he could do, and unless something had happened to me, his hands were tied. I told him that if something had happened to me, I would be dead and he would be conducting a murder investigation. He told me to forget it and to go home.
Shortly after this I obtained my first new car and moved to a nearby city to work and start college. I never did see that car or people again, but up to this day, I still count myself lucky I wasn’t killed that day on the bridge. Four years later in just about the same spot, was the second time I came close to being killed. But that’s a story for another time.
There’s a bridge going out of our town. It goes over a river with an unpronounceable Indian name, which only the locals think they can pronounce right. Since the town was founded in the early 1830s, there have been different bridges located in the same place, but this story is about the bridge in my time, the one I was almost killed on twice.
I moved out on my own when I was 17 and had to find a job and a place to live. Across the river out of town were two cinderblock cabins by a large house. The cabins were built back in the 1930s for travelers. Back before there were chain motels, these cabins were spread throughout the countryside and were the only overnight rest stops people had available. By my time, these two cabins were converted to small cottages for rent. Since they were bare minimum the rent was also in my price range. I didn’t own a car at that time, but I did have a ten-speed bicycle. I used it everyday to peddle the five miles to work. On my way to and from work, I had to cross the bridge twice a day. The bridge is a little over a quarter of a mile long and back then it was one of those narrow two lane bridges. Whenever I was crossing the bridge, if I heard a car coming up behind me, I would stop peddling and stand on the side of the bridge until the car had passed.
One day after work, I was peddling back home and I was on the bridge. I heard a car behind me and did my usual stop and stand, waiting for it to go by me. I hear the car coming closer and knew it was way over the speed limit. As the car speeds past me, I hear a big whoosh by my head and my eyes follow the sound. Someone in the car had thrown a coke bottle at me, which missed my head by inches. If the bottle had connected, I would have been either killed instantly, or I would have died from the 30-foot fall down into the river.
It took me a number of seconds to realize what had happened and then I got mad. Although I didn’t know who the people were, I did know I had seen the car before. The next day I stopped by the local police office and talked to one of the officers. I told him what happened and the description of the car. He told me there was nothing he could do, and unless something had happened to me, his hands were tied. I told him that if something had happened to me, I would be dead and he would be conducting a murder investigation. He told me to forget it and to go home.
Shortly after this I obtained my first new car and moved to a nearby city to work and start college. I never did see that car or people again, but up to this day, I still count myself lucky I wasn’t killed that day on the bridge. Four years later in just about the same spot, was the second time I came close to being killed. But that’s a story for another time.
posted by Family Man | 7:21 AM
<< Home