another street loser named Puckman had inherited it,
flipped it on its side, crammed it full with our individ
ual yet collectively useless junk, moved in, and called it
home sweet home. Lovely.
It was always cold, always crowded, and it reeked of
cheap booze, vomit, and layer after layer of filthy piss-
and shit-stained clothing. The roof leaked so badly
we were forced to huddle together at one end to avoid
getting soaked, and that was if it was only a light sprin
kle. If it was a downpour—forget it—we may as well
stand outside. The Carver Street Bridge, about thirty
feet above, helped shelter us a bit, but we had to put up
with the rickety old freight trains thundering across it
day and night, every twelve hours.
It was a terrible way to live. Degrading. We were like
sewer rats—worse—at least the rats were too ignorant
to realize how much life like this really sucked. The
best thing I could say about our crummy little corner
of the world was that being located beneath the bridge,
at least I wouldn't have to walk very far to kill myself.
Good thing, too, because I was exhausted, mentally
and physically. So goddamned weary, I wasn't sure if
I'd have enough energy to climb the muddy embank
ment in time to make the next train or not.
As quietly as I could, small brown package in hand, I
stepped over the passed-out prone body of Blue J,
sprawled in his usual late afternoon position blocking
our makeshift plastic tarp doorway. Dropping my last
forty cents—a quarter and three nickels—into his shirt
pocket, I silently wished him luck and eased out the
door without disturbing him.
Outside, Puckman was sitting on the ground, leaning
up against one of the rectangular concrete bridge abut
ments, about fifteen feet to my left. He was busy eating
what looked like a large rat but might just as easily have
been a small brown kitten. Normal society might frown
on such a feast, but around here a meal was a meal. It
had probably been hit by a car and left sticking to the
road somewhere. Roadkill wasn't exactly one of the sta
ples of any homeless person's well-balanced diet, but
when times were tough you ate whatever was available.
Nothing better than a half-burnt/half-raw hunk of un
recognizable meat with the tread marks from a truck
tire still visible on it. It might be disgusting and make
you want to puke—hell, sometimes it did make you
puke—but you did whatever you had to do to survive
on the street.
Anyway, Puckman was chewing away on something,
when his beady little eyes turned and locked on mine.
His face contorted into an angry grimace and, believe
it or not, he actually started to growl. Obviously, he
had no intention of sharing his meal with me. Not that
he had to worry. I didn't want anything to do with the
crazy bastard today.
Puckman wasn't my friend. Never had been, never
would be. Blue J and I put up with him because he paid
us rent, if you could call it that, to share our Dumpster.
Sometimes he paid with money but more often he sup
plied us with food and clothing. He was good at begging
and was an even better pickpocket and thief. Other than
that, he was a no-good lousy bum. It was guys like him
that gave the rest of us homeless people a bad name.
Puckman was a short fet Mexican with greasy black
hair hanging halfway down his back. He didn't even
know where he was most of the time, far too whacked-out
on homemade Screech to realize he wasn't still pining
away in sunny Acapulco, or wherever the hell it was he
came from. He'd been brought up to Canada three
summers ago on a temporary work visa, to pick to
bacco. It was real hard work but they were treated well
and the pay was excellent. The manual labor was too
much for his fat lazy ass, though, and he'd made a dash
for the U.S. border, swimming across the Niagara River
near Fort Erie to illegally enter this home of the brave
and land of the freeloader.
The name Puckman came from his annoying obses
dreds of them from all over the city and they were
stashed away in dozens of white plastic bags in his cor
ner of the Dumpster. There were so many of the damned
things he was forced to sleep on top of them but he
didn't seem to mind. He told me I'd understand if I'd
ever lived in Canada where hockey was like a religion.
Yeah, right. He'd spent three weeks in Canada, on a
tobacco farm, in the hottest part of August, and some
how he'd become an authority on their favorite winter
sport. What a crock of shit. Puckman wasn't an author
ity on anything; he was just a lunatic and definitely not
someone I was sad to be leaving behind.
"Adios, asshole, see you in hell," I called over to him,
then started walking away.
He growled at me again, smiling triumphantly, like
he'd won some tough-guy macho battle because I hadn't
asked for a nibble of his yummy supper. He wouldn't be
smiling so much if he'd known I had one of his beloved
hockey pucks stuffed in the pocket of my ragged jacket.
When that freight train was screaming toward me,
ready to bust my body into hundreds of pieces, my hope
was that God would grant me one last wish. I wanted to
look down from the bridge, hurl that stupid hard rub
ber disc at Puckman's big fat head, and bean him one
right square in the kisser. Then I could die a happy
man. It probably wouldn't pan out that way but I could
always hope, right?
Without another glance, I began climbing the steep
muddy embankment leading up to Carver Street. From
there, I could walk straight out onto the bridge and wait
for my ticket out of this shitty life. I slipped and stum
bled on the way up but within a minute I was standing
on the first railway tie, at the foot of the bridge.
The Carver Street Railway Bridge was a fine ex
ample of human stupidity at its best. As far as I knew,
bridges were usually constructed to span the distance
over the top of something: things like rivers, canyons,
or other roads and train tracks. Not this bridge; it
stretched a track across an expanse of about eighty feet
over the top of—nothing. Well, Blue J and Puckman
were down there, but I seriously doubted they were in
the city planner's mind when the bridge was designed.
Maybe at one time a road had been planned, but for
whatever reason, hadn't been built? I have no idea. Doesn't
matter.
I started out onto the bridge, only to remember the
brown envelope under my arm. Idiot, How could I
possibly forget something so important? It was vital I
drop my package in the mail before going through with
this. Luckily, that wouldn't take too long. There was a
postal b
ox only half a block south of Carver on Dupont
Street,
The package was addressed to Gloria Churchill, the
sister-in-law I mentioned. Inside were the last three
things I would ever give to my daughter. There was
an envelope of cash—only a hundred and thirty dollars
from my last SI check—a letter, and an insurance pol
icy I'd taken out on myself. The cash was meaningless,
but it was all I had. The letter was short and sweet, tell
ing Arlene things you don't have the need or the right
to hear, but the insurance policy, that was the impor
tant thing. I'd been making the premiums through
Gloria for well over a year now, and if anything was to
happen to me, like say, being accidentally run over by a
freight train, I'd set it up so Arlene would be the recipi
ent of the death benefits. It wasn't a lot, just twenty-five
thousand dollars, but that would be more than enough
to get her first few years in college out of the way. Might
even pay for it all. Either way, it would give her some
breathing room to pursue whatever dreams she had
for life.
I'll admit, I selfishly hoped she'd think nice things
about me, maybe tear down the wall she'd built around
her heart to keep me out, but in the end none of that
would really matter. At least I'd finally be helping her
out, finally be her dad, instead of the forgotten loser who
always buggered things up.
At the mailbox, I checked and rechecked the address
and made sure the postage stamps were stuck on securely.
With a tear in my eye, I kissed the package good-bye
and prayed to whatever gods were listening for the en
velope to make it safely to Arlene's door. If my death
could give her the key to a happy life, it would be worth
it. I hoped she was old enough to understand that.
Hurrying back to the tracks, I paused to catch my
breath, gazing out across the bridge's rusty rails to a
spot on the horizon about three miles away. There, cut
ting a line across an elevated grassy knoll on the out
skirts of the city, was another set of railway tracks.
Twice a day, six days a week, a freight train out of Erie,
Pennsylvania, would roll down that hill, snake through
the bowels of the city, and then rocket across the Carver
Street Bridge on its way to Rochester, New York. Twelve
hours later, the same train—or more likely, one that
just looked a lot like it—would rumble back across this
bridge, reversing its route, heading home to Erie. After
all the times this train had roared over my pathetic ex
cuse for a home, I still had no idea what type of cargo it
carried.
I guess I never would.
Almost as if my thinking about it caused it to hap
pen, the train slowly chugged into view, temporarily
reducing its speed as it descended into the city. I watched
the train until it disappeared behind the tall build
ings and then immediately began walking out onto the
bridge. If the freight train didn't experience any un
usual delays, I had approximately eight minutes left
to live.
CHAPTER THREE
September in Buffalo was a great time of year. Beauti
ful. The trees were turning a million different colors,
the temperature had finally dropped back into the six
ties and seventies, and the stale city air felt clean again
after a long summer filled with sweat and smog. Fall
was by far my favorite time of year, but unfortunately
clean air and pretty leaves just weren't enough to post
pone today's plan.
There were many reasons why I wanted to kill my
self, but other than the insurance policy, none of them
were particularly important. I had the same sad sob
story most homeless people tell. Had the good job,
nice family, nice little house with the white picket
fence, blah, blah, bla"h. None of it mattered. I lost it all;
that's what counted. You know some of it already, and
can probably guess the rest. My wife, Jackie, and my
little boy, Daniel, were killed during a heavy rain
storm in an automobile accident. No other vehicles
were involved. Jackie was driving, but it was a hun
dred percent my fault. A few buddies had talked me
into going bowling of all damn things. We played a
few games, hit the bar, and before long I was drunk
out of my mind and called Jackie to come pick me up.
"It's only a few raindrops, honey, what could possibly
happen?"
Famous last words.
Anyway, I lost everything important to me that day—
my wife and son to death, my daughter to hatred—lost
my job and the house about seven months later, moved
into the whiskey bottle on a full-time basis, and ended
up here on this bridge ready to say, Fuck it, I'm out of
here. I don't need to explain myself. I don't need a rea
son to die. I'm doing it for Arlene, but to tell you the
truth I'm also fed up with the rest of life's bullshit.
Plain and simple—I've had enough.
I never heard the car pull up behind me, lost in my
sorry-for-myself thoughts, but when I made it to the
bridge's halfway mark and turned around, there it was.
It was one of those big stretch limousines—sparkling
white with golden trim and matching gold wire spoke
rims. Christ, it looked about thirty feet long. A car like
that stuck out almost as much as a dancing elephant
would've, in this neighborhood. I was momentarily taken
aback at the sight of it, but not because of how out of
place this fancy car was. What surprised me most was
how familiar it looked. I couldn't remember where or
when, but I was positive I'd seen this limo before.
The rear driver's-side door suddenly opened and a
tall muscular man in an expensive gray pinstripe suit
stepped out onto Carver Street. He looked at me, bent
down to say something to the driver, and then started
walking out onto the bridge. He was white, bald-headed
with a neatly trimmed goatee, stood maybe six foot four,
and guessing, Fd say he weighed at least two hundred
and sixty pounds. My surprise was quickly turning
into shock because as he approached, I realized that he
too looked familiar. Where the hell had I seen this
guy and his car before? I tried, but just couldn't re
member.
What does he want}
Now there was a good question. All kinds of nasty
scenarios spun through my head. Did I owe somebody
money and this monster had been sent to collect it?
That would be just my luck—I'm out here ready to com
mit suicide, and some big ape was going to break my
legs before I got the chance. I seriously considered run
ning for the far side of the bridge but what he said
stopped me dead in my tracks.
"Wait, Mr. Fox. I need to speak with you about some
thing important. Really important."
How did he know my name? I was scared, but I didn't
run. I
waited until he came within fifteen feet.
"That's close enough," I said. "What do you want?"
"Nothin'. Just to talk for a minute. Trust me, it'll be
worth your while."
I laughed at that one. If I had a nickel for every time
someone on the street told me I could trust them, well,
I guess I wouldn't be a homeless bum anymore. But I
was homeless, and I wasn't falling for it.
"You may not believe this," I said, "but I think I've
heard that line before. If my so-called friends screwed
me, why should I trust a complete stranger like you?"
"Because I'm not really a stranger, am I? Don't you
remember me, Mr. Fox? We met briefly last night. You
were pretty out of it. Maybe you've forgotten?"
His words triggered a memory of me being punched
in the face and tossed roughly to a threadbare green-
carpeted floor. Not a very nice recollection and I'd heard
enough. I decided to run from this mysterious man af
ter alii Before I'd taken my first step, though, my jum
bled memories of last night cleared and I did remember
meeting him. It hadn't been him who'd hit me. It had
been someone else. This man had tried to help.
Yeah, now I remembered. I wanted to go out with a
bang, try one last time to fit into this crazy world before
calling it a life. After leaving Blue J and the young
woman behind, I picked out some new clothes at the
local Catholic Church. They weren't anything fancy
but they were clean, dry, and best of all, free. I cleaned
myself up and went to one of the local bars to have a
drink. It was a stupid mistake. I'd been drinking with
Puckman before leaving the Dumpster—grape Kool-
Aid and cheap gin—and had smuggled a flask of it into
the bar. I was almost too drunk to stand up, but nobody
seemed to care about that. It wasn't until the bartender
caught me sipping out of the flask instead of buying my
drinks that all hell broke loose. He sent a bouncer over
to toss me, but I was too stupid to go quietly on my merry
way. Not me. I picked a fight with this man-mountain
and soon I'm eating his considerably large fist and pick
ing myself up off the floor.
"You helped me, didn't you? That bouncer was ready
to mop the floor with me and you stepped in to drag
him away. Everybody started fighting, but I ducked out
the side entrance and took off. Your car, your white
limo there, it was parked outside by the curb. I knew I'd