Short Stories

The Bridge

by Mary James and Jean James

 

I hadn’t walked a block from my office building before the grey cloud cover shifted and let through a flood of sunlight. The magnificence of it seemed a travesty to my monotonous life, like an unfulfilled promise. It wasn’t a special moment that it should merit such a glorious display, though I’d long ago forgotten what a special moment was. This was just a “walk-across-the-bridge-to-lunch” moment. It happened every day, along with a series of many more such uninteresting moments, from that first moment in the morning when I gazed blearily in my cheap mirror at my apathetic, unshaven face, to that last moment each night when I crawled into my cheap bed in my cheap apartment.

The dark water below the bridge was the same dark water I stared at every noontime. It had a few more sparkles across its surface, but no doubt still wet and cold—just water. Birds soared overhead but they’d be there even if it were raining. They chased handouts, not sunshine. The same people passed me by as they hurried to their lunch spots, just as I hastened every day to my own favorite restaurant—the one big extravagance in my unextravagant life. Seldom did any new faces appear. It was a business area. Workers, not shoppers, not tourists, crossed that bridge.

 Everything was in place that noontime. The buxom, tan-faced, hotdog girl stood at her post by her hotdog stand. Our newest employee, with straight, brown hair and straight back turned defiantly toward the rest of the world, ate her bag lunch at the bridge rail as usual. The three giddy girls from somewhere across the bridge, who made eyes at everyone they passed (though usually not at me), passed and talked loudly as if entertaining an audience. No doubt sometimes they were. The stout secretary, Jan, from the downstairs reception room of my office building headed in my direction and outstripped me. She was hungrier than I was. The truth was I always slowed down and let her beat me because it seemed to give her pleasure. Then there was the . . .

 My complacency fell off the bridge with a large splash and sent up a spray of rainbow tinted promise. Through that spray my eyes met two wide-set green eyes coming from the opposite direction. For some reason I couldn’t turn away disinterested—as would have suited my mood. Those eyes gripped mine and proceeded to speak to me. They said wonderful things as they loomed closer and closer. I believe mine answered because I felt something flash out from me before I could reach up and stop it—and I was glad for once to be too slow.

With my eyes still lost in those approaching green depths, my peripheral vision registered a well shaped head crowned with short, sleek, dark-brown hair. A bright wave of clinging white dress wrapped its way around a slim waist girded only by a narrow red belt. Somewhere below the next curve, unending, long legs carried everything along with perfection. The entire picture reeked of culture, depth, mystery—and invitation. I started to render a happy “hi” when the friendly eyes darkened in disinterest. The green depths slid away in another direction as the vision passed by, and my hi careened too low to be heard

I walked stupidly on, like a programmed mannequin, and tried to pretend it hadn’t happened. I hoped I’d never see her again and at the same time planned what I’d do the next time she passed. Would those magnificent orbs slash me deeply again? Would they ever shine again the genuine interest I saw in them before their shutters closed?

All that night I hardly thought of anything else, and I was more than ready to step out and be swamped by the same wave when lunchtime arrived the next day. I waited on my end of the bridge and knew I’d go hungry before I’d miss my opportunity. Within minutes she approached—same eyes and legs, different dress. I put on my best business manner and proceeded to cross as close to her as possible without looking ridiculous.

I willed those eyes to look my way—and stood there dumfounded when they actually did lock with mine. They locked, looked me over, and dismissed me as surely as the day before—and much more quickly. The green gaze drifted toward the distant horizon and I was left with only the scent of her perfume and the rhythmic clip of her high heels on the pavement. So much for yesterday’s blissful meeting of souls.

Now I was a lowly worm that had dared cross the pavement in front of a goddess rather than stay in its nice safe dirt home where it belonged. If she’d only been merciful and squashed me underfoot, or impaled me with one of those spike heels, it might have been over. Instead I had to squirm along on my way with grave feelings of insignificance. She had—everything. I had a low paying job at the bottom floor of a computer company. I was in sales. I barely existed. If I never came back from lunch it would probably take the company three days to realize it.

Only stubbornness made me try again the third day. I defied her to look my way. I felt her pass like a quick draught of cold air coming from the open door of an air-conditioned room and I was again tossed on the hard rocks of reality. Lunchless, I hurried back to the office and headed straight for the restroom. I was about to lose the last of my dignity and the lunch I hadn’t eaten when Scott Jerome from the software development floor came in.

            “You don’t look so good, Todd. Coming down with something?”

I turned to meet his somewhat-sympathetic eyes. He’d never understand. He invented things, complicated, software things, and got paid big money. He’d never been a worm.

“I’ve been killed three times in a row. Now I want a soft place to die.”

“You’re not talking about computer games, right?”

“Long legs, green eyes. I’ve found her page but I don’t know how to log in. How do I become a rich, handsome genius in three easy lessons? I think she’d go for that type. I probably should throw in the physique of a body builder too. Wow! Hers has already been built.”

“You’re in bad shape, aren’t you?”

“Wouldn’t you be? I just looked in the mirror. I couldn’t stand to look at me for as long as she did. Maybe it’s a bad mirror.”

“You should look at your assets. . . . You’re tall . . .”

Evidently he couldn’t think of anything more to say.

I looked again as my less than trim body, sallow complexion, baggy-boring clothes, and utter look of dejection. No wonder she turned away. But I’d caught her attention for a few seconds. Is their fate in a glance? I had to find out and I was ready to put forth the ultimate effort.

“Guess I need to shape up, right?”

“Not necessarily. But you need to think tough—be aggressive. Remember, if it’s important, anything goes.”

When he left I couldn’t help but wonder if that attitude was what got him where he was.

I brought my lunch in a bag the next day and posted myself at the rail of the bridge. When she came into view, I studied her carefully.

Just as she neared my vicinity another girl passed her by and called out, “Hi, Monique. Where you going in such a hurry?”

“Only to lunch,” answered a low, throaty voice that I decided had a definite French accent. I was jubilant. I had her name, her nationality, and had confirmed she must eat lunch somewhere nearby. Now I needed an industrial-strength makeover. I tossed the rest of my sandwich to the birds, no doubt shocking the straight-haired, bag-lunch girl with such wastefulness, and hurried away to make my plans.

After work that day I checked on the cost of membership at a gym. The cost, plus the thought of exposing my soft, toneless body to all those buff ones, decided me against it. I went to the library instead and came away with a couple of fitness books and everything French I could find, from French poetry to a CD course guaranteeing to teach me how to speak the language in twenty-four easy lessons. I also stopped at a book store and bought a book on computer networking and another on software programming. It wouldn’t do much good to catch this gorgeous creature if I couldn’t afford her.

Finally I stopped at a drugstore and bought the first magazine I saw that looked like it might show what successful, fashionable men wore. I think I blushed at the checkout counter when I realized it was a soap opera magazine, and I mumbled something like, “She wanted me to get her the newest issue. I hope this is it.”

In my apartment that night I exercised for two hours and then studied until midnight. Before dragging myself to bed I glanced through the fashion magazine, still with a feeling of embarrassment. I learned that I didn’t resemble the men in those shiny pages. They were well-dressed, well-groomed, and all had beautiful women by their sides. They literally reeked of confidence. I’d never paid any attention to clothes except to see how cheaply I could cover my body. I dropped the magazine in the trash and went to sleep.

Four long weeks I upgraded my body and mind. Every day I either bought a hotdog from the hotdog girl or brought a sandwich and ate it at the bridge edge, my back to the world like the straight-haired girl. I didn’t want Monique to see me until I was ready—though every day I stole a peek at her retreating back.

At the end of the month I surveyed myself in the mirror. I didn’t look much different, but something had invaded my eyes that hadn’t been there before. And my face had lost its pallor—probably because I was getting a suntan eating my lunch outside.

I celebrated my first month’s anniversary and purchased some new clothes—with the help of a stylish salesperson. I bought them with the money I’d saved by carrying a bag lunch to work. The clothes transformed me hugely, and proved my weight was about right, but I still needed to muscle up.

The next day I jogged to work with my new clothes in a backpack. I timed it so I’d get to work before anyone else and have time to change before business hours. I was well dressed and hard at work long before even the secretary on my floor arrived.

The first person to come in was Scott. He looked surprised to see me there that early.

“Anything ever come of Lady Longlegs, the one who had you all tangled up her web?”

“Monique, you mean? I see her every day at lunch. I’m about ready for her to see me.”

“Monique, huh? Don’t let her wait too long. . . . From the book you’re devouring, I take it you’d like to be on my floor?”

“I . . .”

“Good choice. More future than sales—at least with this company. Come upstairs when you get a chance and I’ll loan you some software. It should help in your studies.”

That night I worked until everyone had left the building. I wanted no one to witness my trotting home in pain and misery. The worst thing about it was my mind chanted, “Don’t look left, don’t look right, forge ahead, fight, fight, fight,” in time to my steps. It was an old football cheer from my high school days and it nearly drove me insane. It would probably accompany me from now on as I jogged my weary way.

I kept up the leg work for another four weeks, along with the rest of my program, including a computer course a couple nights a week. Every morning while I waited for the rest of the office force to appear I’d study my computer books and Scott’s CDs. He had a whole volume of them on his floor and said I could come up anytime and borrow what I needed. On the whole I felt pretty good about myself and decided it was time for action.

At noon the next day, when Miss Monique passed by, I turned and followed from a distance. I located her at a sidewalk restaurant. She sat by herself, her long legs crossed perfectly. She sipped a drink and glanced up at me as I approached. I walked past, close by her table, and dared to smile. She smiled back and I was sure I read invitation in those once disapproving eyes.

I was Todd, the conqueror, when I returned to the office after lunch that day. I knew I was going to win. Jan nodded to me when I came in.

“Todd, do you know if Scott’s gotten back from lunch yet? I’m having trouble with this new software they installed.”

“Haven’t seen him. Let me have a look.”

I was actually able to solve her problem in seconds—the first fruits of my study. Helping Jan was a good step because she talked. Maybe eventually the big boss, Mr. Jefferd, would see my potential and I’d be on my way up.

“Our sales were down last quarter” Jan said and burst my bubble right at the start. “Mr. Jefferd even thundered to me about it. Is that why you’re working early and late?”

“Well—n-no not exactly. I’d been—I’ve meant to talk with Jefferd about a different position—about a move to the software development team. That’s my new . . .”

“This wouldn’t be a good time to mention that. There have been problems in the software department for a couple months now. I believe it’s something to do with the Paris office. You know they’ve been handling all the European sales lately. There’s some kind of trouble, and they call here a dozen times a day—usually to talk with Jefferd. Half the time I can’t understand them. They think they’re talking in English, I guess.”

I remembered Scott’s advice. I needed to think tough—be aggressive.”

“I speak French. Just call me if you have any trouble.”

The lie felt scary and good at the same time. I liked the look of shock that registered on Jan’s face. Maybe she was seeing me as something more than a loser. I’d better spend more time on the French CD now or she might call my bluff.

For the next three days I passed by Monique on the bridge as close as possible without actually knocking her over. I never looked at her and enjoyed my childish game of hard to get. The fourth day I did accidentally bump her. I actually knocked her purse off her shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I should watch where I go,” I said and handed it to her.

She didn’t look angry. She actually looked interested.

That evening I psyched myself up for the plunge—it was now or never. I poured over my French tapes. I could handle a few phrases exceptionally well, and felt confident enough to try one if it seemed wise.

The jogging clothes stayed at home the next morning. With my new body and a new suit that could have come off the cover of a movie magazine, I set forth for work. I didn’t take a bag lunch. I’d eat at her cafe. Better yet, I’d eat at her table. My heart sang out, “Look up your partner and prepare to dance.”

When it came time for the actual performance, I lost some of my starch. She was there alright. She wore that white dress with the red belt again. I walked up and took the table beside her. My chair was so close my hand brushed her sleeve.

“You’ve eaten her before, haven’t you?” I gave her a friendly smile. “What’s their best entrée?” I felt sophisticated and confident.

“I usually get a burger.”

I looked at her plate. That was what she was eating, alright. A hamburger didn’t leave much opportunity for further conversation—unless I asked her what size fries she’d recommend. There certainly was no place for a French phrase.

While I got up nerve to ask if I could sit with her, I noticed a man about her age at another nearby table whose attention was also on her. His furtive glances in her direction were far too obvious. I didn’t like the look on his face. If he made one false move I was ready to punch him on his nose with my new muscles.

And then Monique was getting up and the man was suddenly beside her. My heart stopped completely. He didn’t look like someone she should know. He didn’t even look . . . clean. My suddenly more experienced eyes told me he was a slightly shabby. Two months ago I wouldn’t have realized it. Maybe I didn’t now. Maybe it was just jealousy. He pulled something out of his jacket pocket and showed it to her briefly—too briefly for me to identify it.

“Can I walk you back to your office?” I heard him ask her. I couldn’t tell if they knew each other, but she seemed agreeable with his company.

Something inside me went down with a thudding crash. I hadn’t even ordered yet. I followed them halfway across the bridge, then gave up and walked back to work, hungry and heart sore. I’d lost hold of the day. I was so out of it I almost ran into Mr. Jefferd as I charged through my office door. I was vaguely wondering what the big boss was doing down on my floor when he turned abruptly toward me.

“Back from lunch early, I see. That’s good. Come up to my office, Todd. I’d like to talk with you a minute . . . about your future.”

“Future?” I said dumbly. He didn’t know about Monique. He must mean my real-world future, the one collecting dust somewhere on a back shelf of my life.

I was nervous as we rode the elevator up to his lair.

“Jan tells me you’ve been coming to work early and leaving late. She also mentioned that you’ve an interest in software development.” He looked around at me as if I was supposed to answer.

“Y-yes.”

By the time we reached his office on the sixth floor he had a fairly good idea of how much I knew. I’d managed to hide what I didn’t know. He motioned me to one of his soft leather chairs. I’d hardly gotten comfortable when two uniformed police came through the door.

“Todd, I hope you won’t mind accompanying these men to the police station. They want to ask you some questions. I’ll be down later. I’ll have a few more questions to ask too.”

Now I was totally dumbfounded. I went with them, of course. I didn’t even consider using my new muscles. After a few police-type formalities, including a search, I was taken to a small room where I was invited to sit opposite another uniformed individual. His unsmiling face unnerved me.

“We have your partner already in custody. I believe they’re signing a statement right now. I’d advise you to do the same.”

I looked at him dumfounded, unable to think of anything intelligent to say. He took it for refusal on my part.

“You’ve both been under surveillance, private surveillance hired by Mr. Jefferd. Your meetings, or drop-offs, for the last five days have been witnessed and recorded on camera. Also, other suspicious activities have been noted for the last couple of months. We’ll get search warrants to check your homes.”

He looked at me as if I was to say something.

“Drop-offs?”

“Was it software or written information?”

“I sell software,” I said dumbly.

“We know. That’s why you’re here. Your boss wants to know how many of their new software development ideas you’ve stolen and what European companies bought them.”

While he was still speaking Mr. Jefferd breezed in with a brown-haired girl beside him and took over the show.

“You see, Todd, when we blamed the Paris office for the leak, Susanne here insisted she’d come and prove their innocence. Office cameras caught you in the software development area during off hours. They showed you leaving with discs in your possession. Jan vouches for your ability with software and told us you speak French. She also informed us you were living on a higher scale lately—new clothes and such. There were a number of other incidents recorded. Susanne has seen you signal your partner during your lunchtime, but it was only the last few days you got careless and tried to pass information. My detective caught you on camera.”

I suddenly realized Susanne was the straight-haired lady from the bridge with the bag lunch.

“And who is my partner in all this?” I asked, still in disbelief.

I was led out of the room and into a larger one where a girl with her back to me sat across from a police officer. He promptly got up and walked into the hall with the others, leaving us alone. I guessed they had a microphone or something in the room to catch our conversation. The girl turned toward me and I gasped in disbelief.

“Monique, what are you doing here?” I immediately felt embarrassed because I shouldn’t know her name.

“They said I helped you steal software, that we sell it to a company in France. I told them I don’t even know you. . . . How do you know my name?”

“It’s all a mistake. Don’t worry, I’ll straighten everything out.” Wow, she was beautiful, even with the black streaks around her eyes where she’d been crying. This was my chance. I wasn’t going to pass it up now. “It’s nothing, really. We’ll laugh about this later today.” She looked up at me hopefully so I ventured further, “Voulez-vous aller dîner?”

A confused expression clouded her wonderful face. “I-I don’t speak Spanish.”

The French accent I’d imagined that first day was decidedly missing. Evidently only her name was French. But it didn’t matter.

“Look, I’ll make a phone call and clear everything up. We’re allowed one phone call, aren’t we?”

“Will you call an attorney?”

“No, a friend of mine at work . . . Scott Jerome.”

“Don’t call Scott. I wasted my call on him. His girlfriend said he’d left the country. And she doesn’t think he’s coming back because he took everything with him.” She looked angry then. “He never told me he had a girlfriend!”

“When did you meet Scott?”

“A few weeks ago. But . . . I don’t care now. He was a tightwad anyway. And he’s no friend of yours. I heard them say he was the one who told on you.”

That bit of information should have demolished me, but I was finally in the presence of this woman. Nothing could tarnish that.

“I’m sorry you had to go through this, Monique.”

“I’m okay now—now that I know what it’s about.” She looked around to make sure we were still alone, and leaned close in my ear. “I was afraid it was about the drugs.”

“Drugs?”

“Shh!”

The End