Bridge of Clay

* * *

—

By night, near the end, they procrastinated.

They needed to make a decision.

“Did you want to go over and get it?” said Michael. “Did you want to go dig up the typewriter? I’m sure those people won’t mind.”

But now it was Clay who’d decided. It was Clay who was firm and final. It was then, I think, he’d realize

d:

For starters, this story wasn’t over yet.

And even then, it wouldn’t be him.

The story was his, but not the writing.

It was hard enough living and being it.

The seven beers was another beginning:

A timeline of death and events.

Looking back I can see how rude we were, and Penny herself, pure insolence.

Us boys, we fought and argued.

So much of the dying hurt us.

But sometimes we tried to outrun it, or laugh and spit toward it—and all while keeping our distance.

At our best we interrupted.

Given death had come to claim her, we could at least be difficult losers.

* * *

—

In winter that year I took holiday work with a local floorboard and carpet firm. They offered me a full-time job.

At school, by sixteen, I was both good and not-good at many things, and my favorite was usually English; I liked the writing, I loved the books. Once, our teacher mentioned Homer, and the rest made light and laughed. They quoted a much-loved character, from a much-loved American cartoon; I said nothing at all. They’d joked at the teacher’s surname that day, and at the end of class I’d told her:

“My favorite was always Odysseus.”

Ms. Simpson was a bit perplexed.

I liked her crazy ringlets, and her spindly, inky hands.

“You know Odysseus and didn’t mention it?”

I was ashamed but couldn’t stop. I said, “Odysseus—the resourceful one. Agamemnon, king of men, and”—quickly, I sucked it in—“Achilles of the nimble feet…”

I could see her thinking, Shit!

* * *