East Gate Bridge

Wrote this in a rush for my creative writing class (I'm an expert in the field of procrastination) and I know the ending is rushed but I couldn't figure out how to fix it. So some ideas in that department would be great. I'm always up for harsh/honest reviews! Gracias

East Gate Bridge

I can see my breath – a white sheet laid across a midnight mattress. Already, barely a few steps from my car, I’m shivering inside my worn leather jacket. There’s a hole in the right sleeve and the wind licks endlessly at the exposed skin. For a moment, I consider turning back to grab my mittens and toque, but I quickly dismiss the thought. There’s no point. I won’t be cold much longer. It’s a strange thing to think about, and the thought neither warms nor chills me. It only makes me feel numb, which is something I’ve grown accustomed to over the past few months.

Lit by a single lamppost, the darkness of the bridge is suffocating. The quiet of the bridge, as well, is unnerving. Aside from the light tap of my boots against the concrete, the entire bridge is dripping in illusive silence. I whistle a tune that my mom often sung around the house when I was a kid, trying to break up the silence and calm the adrenaline sizzles in my veins. The light, energetic tune is unsuitable for a night like tonight.

It’s not a long bridge by any standard, but it feels miles long as I trek towards the center, where cars rush on the road beneath. My palms break out in cool sweat and every cell in my body is screaming at me to turn around. But I’ve already made my decision.

When, at last, I make it to the middle of the bridge, I place my hands on the railing and gaze down at the road below. It’s a busy road and even now, at just a little past midnight, it’s littered in traffic. The sight makes me nauseated.

Some time goes by as I stare at the sea of headlights. I couldn’t tell you how much – I left my watch at home. But as the moment ages, I fully comprehend what I’m about to do. There’s a part of me that’s comforted, but then again, there’s a part of me that’s scared shitless.

Soft footsteps echo in my ear. Turning, I meet eyes with a man who limps in my direction. His features are hard to discern in the dim light, but I can immediately tell that he’s homeless. Riddled with holes and covered in grime, his clothes are much too big for him. The man’s hair is in dire need of a comb and his ragged facial hair is in dire need of a trim. As he nears, I notice that his hair is entirely grey and his face is sewn with wrinkles. He couldn’t be younger than sixty.

From the corner of my eye, I watch the man hobble closer. The limp is more noticeable as he nears and I can’t help but feel pity for him. I reach into the pocket of my jacket, pull out my wallet, and begin shifting through it. Sixty dollars is all I have. That, and a photo of my daughter. I pull out the photo and the money, place the photo in my pocket, and turn to the man, cash in hand.

“Here,” I say, shoving the money into his hands. “Take it. I don’t need it anyway.”

His eyes widen and his expression quickly melts into one of shame. Speechless, he stares at bills in his hand. While he toys with the money, I throw my wallet off the bridge and into a gap in the rushing traffic. For a moment, my world slows to nearly a halt and I watch my wallet hit the ground. It’s barely lying there for a second before a rush of cars flies over top of it. Then, it’s gone.

“You know,” the man says softly beside me, “I haven’t always been this way.”

I turn my head sideways and look at him in disbelief.

He licks his lips before he begins to speak again. “I’ve had my moments. My days in the sun." He fondles the money once more before shoving it into his jean pocket. “Moments where I was second to none. Like the day my son was born.” His hand flies hastily to his jacket pocket as he shuffles around, searching. He eventually pulls out a small wallet-sized photograph.

I’m speechless as he shoves a picture of a young boy with white-blond hair and a wide grin into my hands. Looking at it, I can feel my daughter’s own photo weighing heavily in my pocket. She’s twelve now. Much older than the six-year-old girl in the photo, but she’s still a child. Guilt gnaws at me as I trace the boy's face with my thumb. I’ve never been a good father anyway. Not even from the very first day my daughter was born. I was late to the hospital and almost missed her birth.

“He’s cute,” I say quietly. “What’s his name?”

“It was Carson.” Was. There’s a notable pain in the man’s eyes and I awkwardly avert my gaze when tears gather in his eyes.

Unsure of what else to say, I just nod and hand the photo back to him. He takes a long at it before putting it away. A thick silence pools. Already, I’ve averted my attention back to the street below. The vortex of headlights rushing towards me, seemingly from nowhere, is mesmerizing.

At last, the man speaks. “Do you have any kids?”

“A daughter.”

“How old?”

Without conscious thought, my hand reaches into my coat and wraps around her photograph. “Twelve.”

The man smiles beside me. “Must be a handful at that age, eh?”

I shake my head back and forth rhythmically. “No. Not really. She’s great, actually.”

“What’s her name?”

“Her name is Anna,” I say, hesitating. He asks a lot of questions. I hadn’t given it much thought before, but the entire situation is kind of bizarre. I just hope he isn’t some kind of pedophile, though I doubt it – his eyes are kind.

“Lovely name. Mine’s Larry, by the way.” He holds out his hand and I shake it. His grip is firm.

“John,” I say.

“Nice to meet you, John.” Larry takes a seat on the ground and leans his head against the railing of the bridge. “Take a seat.”

I don’t know why I’m bothering to talk to him. And when I take a seat next to him, well, I don’t know why I do that either. All I know is that it’s nice to have some company. It calms me.

“So, John. Tell me – what are you doing on this bridge in the middle of the night? Don’t you think you should be getting home to your family?” He must know.

“Can’t do that, Larry.”

“Why not?”

It’s like he’s my therapist. I did pay him earlier, after all. The whole situation is so ridiculous that I begin to laugh. Loud. Uncontrollable quakes of laughter shake through my hollow abdomen. It’s such a strange reaction that it has me laughing harder. And then, before I even realize, I’m crying. Hard.

Larry places a hand gently on my shoulder and squeezes. He doesn’t say anything, just sits there and listens to me sob. It’s embarrassing and I know I should stop, but I can’t.

I cry for a long time, too. Lord knows how long it takes me, but my sobs eventually turn into sniffles and I relax enough to speak.

“You know,” I say, “I haven’t always been this way. I’ve had my moments, too.”

* * *

A trashcan fire burns brightly, illuminating the filth-riddled faces of five men crowding around it. They each rub their hands together furiously in an attempt to warm frozen fingers.

A man limps toward the light of the fire and joins them.

“Hey Larry, you filthy sonofabitch. Where have you been?”

The man, Larry, smiles softly. “Almost watched a young man end it tonight on the East Gate Bridge.”

A younger man standing to Larry’s right nods knowingly. “Been there myself,” he says. “What’d you do?”

“Helped to pull him through.” Larry pauses to look around at five pairs of probing eyes. “Looking at me now, boys, you might not know it. But I’ve had my moments.”