Michael Thomas - Man Gone Down

There’s someone ahead of me on the bridge, not too far away. Close enough to see the bob-bob of her ponytail as she ascends. She runs like Claire. She looks as though she’s moving quickly, but she isn’t covering much ground at all. She must have been close when I went down. It’s too late for her to be alone on the bridge. It’s not safe. I stand up and start running again — just fast enough to close the gap a bit. Just close enough to keep an eye on her.

I close on her quickly. She bounces up and down, going through the motions of running without really doing so. Black sport bra. Black short shorts. Blonde hair. She’s long legged, and as I close I see her hamstrings and calves contract and release.

I’m on her hip and she turns. She doesn’t startle. She smiles and waves in time with her gait. She speeds up and tries to stay with me. We run together, make the plateau and wind around the center pillar, me every few steps pushing the pace just a hint. She breathes heavily and lengthens her stride — less bounce. She exhales through her mouth, pursing her lips as if to focus her overall effort. We hit the downhill. She shakes her head, whipping her hair across her face like a horsetail.

“Go.”

She waves toward Brooklyn. She pats her sternum and feigns a wheeze.

“I’m okay. Go.”

She waves again. I find a new gear, and then another. And I’m fast again. But now I feel solid, like one muscle exerting one effort with no memory of the effort before. I make a promise, out loud, to whoever may be listening. “I will do it. I will get the money. Then I will go. I swear it.”

Tomorrow I will go to work and do whatever it is I need to do. The vertical iron rails flash by quickly, giving fleeting glimpses of the road below and the river beyond. I remember riding the streetcars with my mother after work and how the fences would start to blur as the train gathered speed. The metal would flicker with light and the images of the world beyond as though I was looking into the lens of some old, dimmed projector. She’d shift her legs and the grocery bags at her feet would complain. And not knowing I was watching her, she’d sigh, and her miles and her age would show in her face and sit on her shoulders. She’d involuntarily start to hum or even sing, “People get Ready.” The memory fades back to the black water, the rails — so real that I reach out for them. And it’s just me going fast and the bridge and the water, sleeping Brooklyn in front and tomorrow in my head. The dead are quiet now, soon they will be gone, for that is the price of empire.

C had looked at my knees one morning. We were staying at an inn and had gotten up early to watch the World Cup final from Korea. I was trying to walk quietly down the groaning steps. My legs were stiff, having danced with Claire the night before at her cousin’s wedding, and I had to use the rail. There’s not much worse, socially, than being a brown person on the dance floor at an otherwise all-white event. I don’t like dancing anywhere, certainly not sober. And to have them watch me shift my weight, conservatively on creaking knees and ankles, emulating the sexual act with their Brahmin jewel while flanked by my children, X every so often slamming into me like a blitzing linebacker. Claire thought it was fun.

C watched me struggling and wondered aloud if Ronaldo’s injuries had been worse than mine.

“Worse. Much worse.”

“What did he do?”

“One year a fractured tibia. Ruptured patellar tendon the next.”

“That’s bad?”

“Yes.”

“But he’s better now?”

“Yes.”

“Good. They need him.”

We were alone at the start — seven o’clock. It was a chilly New Hampshire mountain morning. And as the den began to fill with guests and the morning warmed, C left his sweater on, sensing from the crowd that they, for a reason he couldn’t understand, were rooting for Germany. It was tense going — more people entered, sat, voiced their opinions, and talked about their children’s teams or their own former athletic glory. And even when his hero broke the scoreless tie, he remained silent. He looked around nervously and pressed a bit closer to me on the couch — trying to read my expression. I patted his head. One woman kept looking from C to the television, trying to link him to the Brazilian players who celebrated. She wouldn’t look at me. When Ronaldo scored the second goal to seal the victory, C couldn’t help himself. He jumped up, tore his sweater off to reveal the homemade shirt. He pointed into the air, waving the index finger slightly — just like the man on the TV — and ran out of the room, triumphant.

Still no sleep. It’s amazing what happens when the adrenaline tapers off, the endorphins disappear. I sit on the bed in the dark kiddie room and feel the pulsing, dull ache of twenty years of long distance running, hundreds of soccer games, hundreds of slides on hard-packed infields, fence jumping, sprints down alleys, nightsticks to the ribs and handcuffs, knees threatening to collapse while playing with the kids on a Brooklyn schoolyard’s asphalt top. They, unknowingly undercutting me, me not wanting to trample them. Then later, C watching me pop Motrin and sit on the floor strapped in ice.

I get ready to leave before Claire can call to wish me a happy birthday — to ask me what I’m doing. I feed Thomas three pellets. He’s slow to react. They start to sink into the bowl. I want to give him more. The food instructions say that he should eat fresh pellets taken from the surface of the water, but they also warn against overfeeding. I’ll give him more later if those aren’t gone.

Because of its southern exposure, the great window room is already bright. Marco is asleep on the couch. His laptop is next to him and the brief in question is spread across his knees. The television is on— Cool Hand Luke. He’s preaching his gospel to George Kennedy, just before they shoot him. I shut it off. He stirs, kicking the paper in the air. He gropes the couch for his glasses.

“What time is it?”

“Six thirty.”

“You’re out early.”

“Meeting.”

“Right.”

He closes his eyes again. I think that I should make sure he’s up for good, but he’s the boss. He can be late. I go down to the cellar to where my tools are stashed. I open the gang box and proceed to lay the items I want to take on the floor. I don’t know who I’m working for or what I’ll be doing so I take out my cordless and my half-inch drill. I take out my twenty-ounce hammer, five pencils, try square, twenty-five-foot tape, speed square, chalk line and extra chalk, grease pencil, Sharpie, utility knife, extra bits, #2, and #3 Phillips, #1 and #2 trim square, slot-head bits, hex head, channel locks, tin snips, needle-nose, small C-clamps, Besseys, speed-bore set, masonry and metal bits, plumb bob and line, torpedo level, wooden rule with depth gauge, five-in-one, battery charger and extra battery for the cordless. I leave the ratchet set, pipe wrench, and the remaining power tools behind. I look over the assemblage — call each tool out by name. I do it again, touching each one, as well. Then I put them, one by one, into my large canvas bag. I stuff my tool belt in last and sling the bag over my shoulder.