Scott Cheshire - High as the Horses' Bridles

A real bridge, the Rialto. All this time I had no idea.

The freckled boy asked, “Can we walk on it?”

“Insurance says not right now. But soon.” Like the boy, I wanted to walk on it.

The guide continued, “The Howard has passed through many hands. The last owners being a church group who lovingly restored much of the interior and exterior, I have to say. And to whom we are much indebted.”

I felt like some of them were eyeing me suspiciously. I thought of Dad; was he sleeping, was he awake?

“Unfortunately, said group was no longer able to afford the building and so they sold the Howard to the city. We wish them well. It should also be said the original murals downstairs in the foyer were summarily, and dare I say unnecessarily, painted over when said group purchased the property. Previously, the panels beautifully depicted scenes from classical mythologies. We have promotional literature from the original period with detailed pictures. And we’re handling the issue as we speak. You saw the scaffolding, and so…” He motioned toward a tall scaffold erected in the Great Room over the seats.

I saw that the balcony was bookended by a pair of opposing red velvet ropes, blocking access to two closed doors.

“Now, prior to the Howard’s previous owners, the site was primarily used for entertainment. Onstage theater, and of course”—he presented the stage with an outstretched hand; in that hand was a remote control—“they showed movies.” On cue, a massive white screen descended from the ceiling above the bridge. “The last showing was in 1977, the fantabulous age of grindhouse.” He paused, appeared to make some decision, and continued speaking. “Do we know the term ‘grindhouse,’ hmmm?”

I wanted to know everything, all of it, and I was sure the more I knew about this place the more I would know about me. I saw the bridge was hidden behind the screen.

He said, “The last showing was a typical double feature. Deodato’s super-gruesome cannibal horror, The Last Survivor . And a sci-fi classic, Logan’s Run .”

The children looked at each other. There was visible interest in the word “cannibal.” I edged away from the group, physically compelled to see the bridge.

“Who here has seen Logan’s Run ? Hmm? Anyone?”

I dropped to one knee behind a row of seats, and pretended to tie my shoe. I untied the laces for effect.

“Let’s take a look from the main room floor, and we’ll get the full picture from there.”

There was a shuffling of feet. Busy noises from the foyer came in through the open doors as I played with my laces.

“Every last inch of copper has been hand buffed by toothbrush.…”

Heels clicked on the marble stairs.

I looked around, stood up after tying my shoe. I rushed to the right side, sidling behind the red velvet rope, where the way led into a narrow hall that ramped upward and curved leftward so I couldn’t make out exactly where I was headed. The hall maybe went where I wanted, I was hoping, and I continued along the rise of the ramp in the narrow white hall and I kept on walking until I saw a great wash of whiteness: the movie screen.

It was enormous, a giant’s bedsheet.

It dawned on me: I’m out there. Now. I’m standing on the bridge right now. I lightly stamped my feet. I leaned forward and looked down at the decorative wood, at the latticework.

Then there was a crash of loud static.

A pure static sound came flooding from everywhere and filling up the hall and the whole Great Room, and the white screen suddenly went gray. There were flecks of black and gray, dark, and some darker, all of them dancing on the screen. Then the lights in the Great Room went out. And what was maybe a thread, or a maybe stray hair on a film cel, lashed across my vision like a long whip or a black lightning bolt from above. And the screen filled up with a giant image: a tall cross inside a large circle at least two stories tall. The image joggled and it jerked. There was a loud clicking sound in the static. The cross was there in the circle, and then it was gone.

Then just as fast, the image next took the form of a number, the number 5, a monstrous and backward 5, looming there twenty feet tall.

Then there was a 4, a backward 4 …

3 …

2 …

I didn’t look away. I extended my arm and stood on my toes. I slung a leg over the bridge. I reached out, trying to touch the screen, which now was just a few feet away and hanging from the ceiling. I stretched myself and saw the individual white nylon fibers. I stretched myself and touched the colossal on-screen image of the 1. The lights came on, showing everything, the bridge beneath my feet, and the countersunk screws holding all of this together, the formed wooden joists above my head. Right there, beyond the reach of my hand, on the very outer edge of the ceiling, where the ceiling abutted the wall, and not so far from a small Saturn’s wobbly faux rings, was the neatly scripted signature: Harold Lowell, 1965 . One of the painters had signed his name. Then the screen slowly lifted until every seat below sneaked into view. And then I could see the rest of the ceiling, and every faded body of light, every last crack in the plaster, the scratches, bruises, and pockmarks that inevitably come with age.

I walked along the sidewalk sipping yet another coffee, wanting to share with someone the strange dreamy feeling I was having. I got her voice mail and didn’t leave a message.

I walked for a long time through the neighborhoods, past the apartment buildings and the two-family walk-ups, the brick houses so close beside each other, a border space of six thin inches between, the pigeon shit in dry white drips staining the ribbed aluminum drainpipes. Past the cell-phone shops and the Laundromats, the overcrowded railroad apartments one flight up and overhead, and Stinking Lizaveta’s Famous Best Russian Emporium. I walked by a large gated mosque, aqua-blue minaret and dome shining, and I remembered there was a Russian Orthodox church just a few blocks away.

As I walked by the church, the doors slowly opened and out came a mass of people, some laughing and cheering down the stairs. It was a wedding. I stopped and watched them for a while. The white flowers adorning the railing and the long limousine parked at the curb. Bells were ringing, and the bride and groom wore red ornate crowns on their heads and they were both quite serious and also just short of cracking up. The older ones were stoic and congratulatory and appropriately delighted, and the younger ones in dress shirts with no ties or jackets, collars open at the neck, carousing and acting so healthy and happy, so outwardly and openly, that the whole street came alive with new life. The trees tossed pale green and yellow flowers from their arms and the light breeze made my hair move. I walked on past the Irish bars and the Italian delis until I found myself under the elevated N train.

I stood there beneath the high-up tracks. Shadow planks on the street and sidewalk as the train rattled by overhead blocking the sun and letting the sun through intermittently between the railcars. I thought again of my father, and of how many different kinds of people there are in the world, and I felt terrible for enjoying being away from the house for so long. Across the street was an abattoir for chickens in an extra-wide two-car garage. Steel shutter doors were rolled down halfway. There were feathers in the hot air, limp floating on the exhaust fumes, spinning and darting about in the traffic gales. I smelled metal and blood, and heard the buzz of bone saws, but not the cluck of a single chicken.

There was a buzzing at my waist. It was Sarah, and I broke into a sweat.

I said, “Okay. First. Let me say I’m sorry, but it’s been an emotional trip. And I keep calling and hanging up and calling again because I know I need to stop calling you. And I was going to leave a message—”