Evan Connell - Mr. Bridge

“You could hear me walking around, could you?”

“Easy.”

“Are you having a meeting?”

After a pause Douglas said, “I don’t get you.”

“Isn’t this some sort of a clubhouse? Don’t you have meetings here?”

“It’s just a cave. You want to come in?”

“No. But thank you. How many of you are in there?”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“Well, I guess there’s six or seven.”

“My Lord, how big is that place?”

“It’s pretty deep,” Douglas said. “You can stand up if you want to.” He had been holding the trap door above his head, but his arms were beginning to tremble; he lowered the door until it rested on his head. “We’re sort of crowded, though. I guess you’d get your pants muddy if you tried to squeeze in.”

“I expect I would. Who else is in there?”

“Tipton, and Rod, and the big guys, and some guy from Overland Park. He’s a friend of one of the big guys. He plays quarterback on the Overland Park High School team.”

“Ah ha. Now tell me, is this the only entrance?”

“Yes, but they’re talking about digging a rear escape.”

“That sounds like a good idea.”

“We caught a snake here yesterday.”

“What kind?”

“Just a garter snake. At first we thought it was a rattler. He’s about a foot long.”

“You’ve kept him?”

“He’s in the cigar box. We’re going to try and catch a live mouse for him to eat.”

“I don’t believe garter snakes eat mice.”

“That’s what the guy from Overland Park says. But we thought he might anyway.”

After a lengthy silence Mr. Bridge said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“That’s okay,” Douglas said as the trap door began sinking, “let me know if you want to come in sometime.”

“Just say some guy really had it in for you and yanked out a pistol,” Douglas proposed. “What would you do?”

Mr. Bridge had settled down to read the stock market reports. “I would do as I was told,” he replied as he opened the paper.

“What if he wanted your dough?”

“I would give it to him, naturally.”

“You’d let him get away with it?”

“I would remember what the man looked like and report the robbery to the police as soon as possible.”

“Can they get your dough back?”

“Not often.”

Douglas thought this over, then he said, “I don’t know what I’d do.”

“You should do the same. If you are ever held up, you give the fellow whatever he asks for. After that go straight to the police.”

“If they can’t get your dough back what good does it do?”

“Chances are it will accomplish nothing. The point to remember is that if you are ever approached by a thug with a weapon you must not argue or attempt to fight. Chances are that if you do as he tells you, you won’t get hurt.”

“If he wasn’t a big guy maybe you could get his gun.”

Mr. Bridge lowered the newspaper. “Now, let me tell you something. My grandfather was shot to death by a bandit because he refused to give up his money.”

Douglas knew that his father seldom joked, but here was a bit of information so extraordinary that he felt obliged to put on a cynical face.

“It’s a fact,” said Mr. Bridge. “It happened aboard a train in the state of Delaware just after the turn of the century. I was a child at the time, but I vividly recall my father talking about it. My grandfather owned a brick factory in southern Delaware. He made a good deal of money and employed, I believe, fifteen or twenty workmen. In those days they didn’t have banks in every town, so if a man wanted a considerable sum of money he was often obliged to make a trip to get it and carry it himself, which was risky business. I suppose a number of men were robbed. At any rate, once a month my grandfather was in the habit of taking an overnight train to the town where his money was banked. He would withdraw enough to pay his employees and then take the train home again. Well, sure enough, some fellow found out about this, and in the middle of the night he awakened my grandfather, pointed a gun at him, and demanded the money. Instead of doing what he was told, my grandfather while lying in the berth attempted to kick the bandit, with the result that the fellow shot him. He died the next day.” Then he added: “It was extremely foolish of my grandfather. By attempting to save a small amount of money he forfeited his life.”

“How much did the guy get?”

“I have no idea. I imagine it would have been several hundred dollars, which in those days of course was worth a good bit more than it is today. However, the amount he lost is irrelevant. What is important is that by attempting to save some money he lost his life.”

Douglas scratched his head but he did not say anything.

“Have I made my point clear?”

“I guess so.”

“All right,” Mr. Bridge said as he lifted the newspaper. “Kindly make a note of it, my friend.”

“I’m nearly at wit’s end,” Mrs. Bridge admitted one evening while seated at her dressing table. “I’ve tried everything under the sun.”

He suspected she was referring to the problem of getting clothes for Douglas. Douglas did not like new clothes. All summer he had wandered around looking unpressed and ragged, and he saw no need to change his appearance just because school was opening. She had said “You can’t keep acting like a tramp forever,” and he had said “Nobody’s going to know the diff.” Then she had said “Do you want people to think we’re halfway to the poorhouse?” and he shrugged. This problem came up each September, but it seemed to be getting worse as he grew older.

“Take him to Altringer’s and turn him over to the salesman who got him dressed last year,” Mr. Bridge said.

“I dragged him there yesterday. Mr. Yanofsky can’t do a thing with him this year. I feel so sorry for that poor man. He tries so hard. I just hope the other boys behave better than Douglas. He brought out goodness knows how many suits, and Douglas managed to find fault with every single one of them. I could cheerfully have strangled him.”

Mr. Bridge was tired and did not want to get involved. He pulled off his shoes, wiggled his toes, and yawned.

“I’m trying again tomorrow,” she continued. “I’ve told him we’re going to that new shop on the Plaza. I certainly hope they have something that will intrigue him. It might help if you simply laid down the law. He ignores me. I might as well argue with the moon.”

“Remind me before I go to the office. I’ll talk to him.”

“I do wish you would.”

“Why didn’t he like the suits at Altringer’s?”

“Not a thing in the world was the matter with them. Several of them were very nice. He was being obstinate. He pretended that one was too tight and another was the wrong color. He went out of his way to find fault with whatever Mr. Yanofsky showed him. Honestly, Walter, I’m starting to wonder if there isn’t something wrong with him.”

Mr. Bridge yawned again and rubbed his eyes. “Douglas will get over it. I did.”

“I can’t imagine you ever behaving like a wild Indian.”

“I did, though.”

“Really? The other day Grace Barron said she just knew you were wearing a suit and tie the day you were born.”

“Oh, she did, did she?” he asked, and thought about the comment for a few moments. “Well, I’m afraid I must be what I am, for better or worse. If I were to try to answer all the attacks made on me, this shop might as well be closed for any other sort of business.”