Low Bandwidth Version

Across the River

by Alan Harris 

Continued from Part I

What's your name?

The old man looks a bit startled. "I don't go by anything, but if you really want to call me something, just say Pete."

"Do you think a guy can make it as a beggar in this day and age?"

"I know a guy can. I'm making it. It's not very hard. Now let me ask you a question. Are you religious?"

"Nah. I used to be a Presbyterian, then turned Methodist, then dropped the whole thing. Religion just seemed like a flimsy kind of entertainment there at the church. The congregation was always carping about how communion was too long or too often, or they didn't like this hymn or that sermon. It seemed like a joke that wasn't very funny. How about you? Are you religious?"

"No, but I do like to see the sunrise every day. I do like to see these birds, and the flowers that are blooming this time of year. I have nothing against religion, but I get mine here in the outdoors."

'Do you ever feel guilty about begging? Not making a living, and all that?"

"Not at all. I figure if people want to give me something, that's their business. I won't fight it. If they don't want to give, that's fine too."

"Did you ever go through a long time when no one gave you anything and you nearly starved?"

"Not really. Most people are pretty nice. They don't mind."

"Do the police ever give you any trouble?"

"No, Why, do I look suspicious?"

I laugh. "No, you look like an old guy who lives in one of these little houses along here and has a pension."

Pete give me another deep look and says, "I am on a kind of pension, but there's no money in it."

"What kind of pension do you mean?"

"One day I decided I had worked enough, and I retired. Done. No talk, no argument, no social security. I just retired, and my pension is being able to watch the birds and flowers in the park and think the thoughts I want to think. I don't have any boss telling me what color my necktie should be."

"That's exactly the kind of retirement I decided on when I walked away from my car." 

As we walk along, a warm breeze floats up, bringing the fragrance of lilacs again. Pete suddenly stops me and nods to indicate a small green house with white shutters. "Now here's a lady that always gives me something. She doesn't give a hoot what I look like or who I am. She just gives me something every time. Watch."

He walks up the sidewalk and knocks on the front door. A gray-haired lady comes to the door and immediately smiles through the storm door as she recognizes Pete.

"Good morning", Pete says, in a friendly, non-fake way. "It's a nice morning, isn't it?"

"Yes it is", she replies, opening the storm door. "Can I get you a little something to eat this morning?"

"Why, yes, that would be nice. And I wonder if you could spare a little for my friend here. He's just walked across the bridge and doesn't know quite where to turn next. Do you have a little extra something for him?"

"Of course. Just a minute." She goes back into the house. I notice the painted concrete deer in her front yard, and I admire her petunias beside the front stoop. She returns with two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I walk up to the door and take one, and Pete then politely takes the other with a nod and a smile.

"Thank you very much", I say, with more gratitude than I've ever felt before. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate this sandwich. You are a very kind woman."

"That's all right", she smiles back. "It never hurts to help a little."

"Thanks again", Pete waves at her as we return to the sidewalk and resume our wanderings. "See, that was easy. This sandwich will last you all morning, Fred, and you can spend the rest of the morning doing anything you want."

"Where are we going, Pete?"

"Nowhere, Fred. Did you want to go somewhere?"

"No, I just thought you were taking me somewhere."

"You already took yourself somewhere in your life on the other side of that bridge, and you didn't like it. Now you're going nowhere. Do you think you'll be able to like that?"

"It's hard to say. It's so much different from the usual mindless hustle."

We come to a large viaduct supporting a busy highway. As we pass under it, Pete gestures for me to sit down. He sits on a scrap of six-by-six lumber, and I squat on one heel, the way my father taught me when I was a boy.

He points upwards, raising his voice above the whizzing and thumping tires of the cars passing directly over our heads. "These people are all going somewhere, Fred. Do you know where? No, you don't. And I don't either. Maybe someone told them that they should go somewhere, so they did. Maybe they had to build something, and to do that, they had to go buy some tools and materials, and to get them, they had to find a job to make some money, and they had to go to college to get a job, a good job, not just any job. And maybe they felt like they had to have a wife and a family, because everybody does. They're all going nowhere, Fred. They all think they know where they are going, but not a one of them knows."

I sit still for while, shift my weight to the other heel, and sit some more. A huge diesel truck thuds across the viaduct, and the roar of its powerful engine gradually fades away in the distance.

"What's the point of our not being part of them?" I ask whimsically.

"No point at all. Why does there have to be a point? I just watch things, watch people. I walk around, smell flowers. That's all. I don't do much. There's not much to do, really. Your heart beats, your lungs breathe, people give you food. It's not bad at all."

"Don't you ever want to go somewhere or make something or do something, Pete?"

"Nope, Why bother? Those folks up there that are going places can do that. They can build their buildings and work in their little office cubicles and write their reports and drive their cars till they end up dead, just like I will, and just like you will. What have they gained? Maybe a nice casket and a six-inch obituary, which I won't have."

"Can we get out from under this viaduct? I suggest, annoyed by the loud rumbling of the traffic."

"Sure, we can go anywhere we want, Fred."

"Let's go back to the river and watch the ducks", I suggest.

We walk back east towards the river. The spring morning is bright and beautiful now. Dandelions are in full yellow bloom in most of the little front yards. A large woman with wrinkled stockings is leaning down and weeding her flower bed. She nods to us politely and anonymously as we walk by.

Soon we reach the river and sit down on the bank. I snap off a long stem of grass and clamp it between my teeth. No ducks are around. The water is very smooth and peaceful.

"You do this every day?" I ask. "Just wander around anywhere you want, and sit and think?"

"Sometimes I think, sometimes I sit, sometimes I walk, sometimes I lie down." He lies down slowly and meaningfully on the grass.

"Do you ever have pain or feel lonely?"

"Nope."

We are both quiet for a long time, looking out over the quiet river, smelling the lilacs whenever a new breeze comes up. After a while eight mallards swim by, a green-headed male, a drab brown female, and six half-grown ducklings. They are quacking and plunging after food in the water, seeming to enjoy each other's company greatly. I begin to feel a strange ache inside me, and I know that my new life here is just not going to work. I can't even live a whole day like this, let alone the rest of my life. I will go out of my mind with boredom.

"Pete, I don't think I'm going to be able to live the life of a beggar. It just doesn't feel right to me."

"I know, Fred. That's what everyone says who comes across that bridge. They stay a few days, a few weeks, maybe only a few hours like you, but sooner or later they go back. They just need to come, and they just need to go. It's no big deal. Why don't you go back to your family now, and no one will know any different."

"But my wife probably has the cops looking for me, and I left my keys in the car along the road."

"Well, you did make that decision. But I don't think it'll be so bad. Why don't you just go back over the bridge and see what's over there?"

"Okay, Pete. Listen, I really envy the way you can lead such a calm life, and how you are so kind. Maybe someday I will be able to retire like you did, but not yet. I want you to have this as a little token of my appreciation." I hand him a fifty-dollar bill.

He brushes it away. "Thanks, Fred, but I don't need it. Your heart is in the right place, though. If you ever decide to come and see me again, I'll be hanging right around here. I don't go very far. Like I said, there's really nowhere to go."

"Good-by, Pete. Thanks again for taking me along with you."

I walk up the slope to the bridge and wave to him as I head east over the bridge. I find myself thinking that it will somehow be night on the other side, and that this has all been a dream. I reach the other side, but the sky is just as bright as ever. The sun is still climbing in the west, higher and higher as the spring morning gains warmth. I reach the road that leads to my car and turn south, fully expecting to have to walk all the way home. No doubt the car has been stolen by kids or towed away by the police.

As I walk over a familiar rise, I see my car ahead, just as I left it. I walk up to it and look in the window. The keys are still in it. No one has harmed it. I open the door, get in, start it up, and drive towards home. The only thing is that sun still in the west. What time is it? Am I late for work? It doesn't matter. I meet a police car, but I am driving within the speed limit, so I am invisible to the law.

As I approach the block where my house is, I wonder what I am going to tell my wife. Just then I hear a faint but unmistakable whisper in my ear. It sounds like Pete asking, "Where are you going?"

I smile as I pull into my driveway, and say aloud, "I don't know, Pete. Maybe nowhere."

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About The Author

Alan Harris has written poetry, aphorisms, and essays on a variety of subjects. He has published several volumes of poetry, such as Poems That Search and Poems That Question; Sparks from the Flame; a book of aphorisms entitled Spared for Seed; as well as web-based poetry books (www.alharris.com/poems). This article was first published in Circle of Love, Yorkville, IL. Alan's paid careers (of various lengths) have included farming, music education, English education, piano tuning, journalism, computer programming, systems analysis, and Web development. Since retirement as a corporate Web developer in Chicago, he is dividing his time between creative writing and designing non-commercial Web sites. The author's website is http://www.alharris.com and he can be contacted by email at alharris@alharris.com 

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