SHORT STORY

Staff Sergeant Joe Brady’s Bridge

by Mike Sherer

Ihappened 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 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

out to the river. “I don’t like to talk about it.”

I studied him. He was young, trim, well-tanned, with a flinty look and glazed eyes. Also, the buzz cut and camouflage shirt suggested military. “Were you in the Army?” He nodded yes. “Middle East?”

“Two tours. Afghanistan.” His frown grew severe. “And do not thank me for my service.”

I chuckled. “Yeah, I always thought that sounded kind of hoaky.”

“Insincere is the word.”

“Not too quiet there, I guess.”

“It is at night.” He looked up at me. “Ever been in the desert at night?” After I shook my head no, he continued. “All you hear is the wind across the sand.” He looked around at the trees. “I like listening to the crickets here.”

“What did you do over there? If you don’t mind my asking.”

He looked like he minded, but he answered anyway. “Escort duty. I accompanied supply convoys through dangerous terrain.” A wistful grin graced his face. “Sort of like a guide for people passing through unfamiliar territory for the first time.”

A crumpled soda can sailed down from above and clanked on the rocks at our feet. I jump back in surprise when the vet leaped up out of his chair with a snarl, gazing up at the bridge with venom in his eyes. “Lousy litterers!”

“I hate that, too,” I said, once I’d caught my breath. “People are pigs.”

He turned his wrath on me. “How do you like it when people toss trash into your front yard?”

I shrugged. “I don’t like it. But I just pick it up and throw it away.”

“I just hate that!” He heaved a deep sigh and sagged back into his chair. “I need to calm down. I’m still a little tense.”

“After two tours in Afghanistan? I get that.”

He smiled sheepishly up at me. “Spending time here. Fishing. That calms me.” He returned his attention to his line in the water.

Now that he had calmed, something he had said registered. “You consider this place your front yard?”

He nodded upward. “That’s my bridge.”

I’d seen the signs along the highways, of people and families and organizations and businesses taking responsibility for keeping a stretch of roadside clean of trash. No wonder he got so upset. I wasn’t surprised that he would volunteer to pick up garbage from ‘his’ bridge, after two tours of duty in a war zone. Some people served their country every way they could, while others shirked duty of any kind. “So you volunteered to pick up litter from the stretch of road with that bridge?” He laughed. “That’s not it.”

Humble, too, I thought. Then a tug on his line distracted both of us.

Until another distraction imposed upon our peace. The shrieking siren started up again as the ambulance pulled away from the crash site above. I looked up to follow the flashing light at it sped off the bridge. “I need to be going.”

He smiled at me and nodded pleasantly, then turned his attention back to his fishing. I walked on down the river bank. Reaching a bend that would take me out of sight of the man, I stopped to look back one last time. He was slouched down into his chair, the way I had first spied him, holding the rod loosely in one hand while sipping a beer with his other. So at peace with the world. That was encouraging. I turned and walked on, hoping I could find such peace myself.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Mike Sherer is a published author of many works from screenplay to novel. His screenplay ‘Hamal_18’ was produced in Los Angeles and is available on Amazon Prime. Published work includes: ‘A Cold Dish’, ‘Under A Raging Moon’, ‘Shadytown’,’Souls of Nod’ and four other novellas and 27 short stories. Only one of his works was been self-published. His novella ‘The Dead Sister’ can be found on Kindle Vella.

Mike lives in the Greater Cincinnati area of southwest Ohio. Website: mikesherer.org