SHORT STORY
Staff Sergeant
Joe Brady’s
Bridge
I
by Mike Sherer
happened upon a man fishing in a river below a bridge. His slim slight frame was slouched down in a camp chair in the shade of the bridge with a rod in his hand. Dressed in jeans and a desert camouflage tee, with a Cincinnati Reds ball cap on his close-cropped head, he seemed perfectly at ease and at peace with the world. A small tackle box was on one side of the chair, while on the other was a small cooler. If I had to guess, I’d say he was late twenties to early thirties. The river was slow-flowing, and not very wide. The trees on both sides seemed undisturbed, other than by the usual suspects, squirrels and small birds. No structures, except the heavy cement columns supporting the bridge towering above, were to be seen. A peaceful place to relax and enjoy some fishing. But it wasn’t quiet; traffic noise, especially the roar of semis rumbling across the bridge over my head, saw to that. As if reading my mind, the fisherman nodded his head up 8
at the bridge. “Traffic gets pretty heavy sometimes.” “Must be a good fishing spot,” I observed, “to make it worth the racket.” He frowned. “Not really.” He kicked his cooler. “Help yourself.” I was parched. “Thanks.” Opening the cooler, I found it filled with beers. I shook my head. “Better not. I’m driving.” “Go ahead. One won’t kill you.” He was right. So I took one out and closed the cooler. “Have you caught dinner yet?” “Not yet.” He turned his attention back to his bobber drifting on the lazy current. I opened the beer. “What are you fishing for?” “Anything that will bite.” I took a long draw. Man, that tasted good. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was. He smiled up at me when I finally lowered the can. “Two won’t kill you, either.” Before I could disagree, a siren whined sharply toward the bridge above. “It does get noisy here.”
“Late at night it quiets down.” “You fish here at night?” “My favorite time. The crickets are singing, the frogs are croaking. You even hear a whip ‘o will sometimes. And I’ve heard a hoot owl.” The siren screamed right up onto the bridge, then stopped. The sudden silence was deafening. When I looked up at the bridge, the red strobing light was blasting the sky. “Something bad happened.” The fisherman frowned up at the bridge. “Something bad’s always happening.” “Think we ought to climb up there and see what’s going on?” There was a dirt trail beside the bridge ascending the hillside up to the highway. “No, I’ve seen enough carnage in my life. The ambulance is here. They can handle whatever tragedy’s taken place. We’d just be in their way.” I nodded in agreement, and looked back to him. “What kind of carnage?” He turned his attention back
Books ‘N Pieces Magazine — April 2022 — www.BooksNPieces.com
