The Bridge

He would pass through the bridge on his way to work. Driving in his silver ’87 Benz, the odometer always pinned at exactly 90, which was the speed limit in that particular part of the road. He’d arrive in front of his office building at quarter to 8, park, get out, lock the doors, check if all were locked, take out a Marlboro cigarette from the carton in his coat pocket, and smoke half of it. He would extinguish the fag in the sole of his left brown leather shoe, and then toss it to the side of the pavement for the street cleaner to swipe a bit later.

He’d then enter the 20-story building, walk up to the middle elevator, out of five, and board it once there. He’d press the number 8 for the floor where his office was. He’d exit the elevator and hang his coat on the coat hanger furthest from the window. He’d then turn and walk straight to his desk — one of 20 identical desks in the room and sit on his wooden chair with polished armrests — one of twenty identical wooden chairs with polished armrests in the room. The time would be 8 o’clock sharp. On his desk he’d have a black Olivetti typewriter, always clean, always shining, an ashtray, although he never smoked indoors, two empty metal trays on either side of the typing machine, and a red retractable Schneider ballpoint pen. He worked this job for ten years straight.

All the other desks would be occupied by 8:05. By 8:10 everyone would get a very long sheet of paper — on it printed a list of first names and surnames. He would have to fold the sheet five or six times for it to fit on his desk. By 8:15 the bin to his left would contain several hundred machine-printed letters. He would then take the top letter and put it in the typewriter. He would then adjust the letter’s position so the type glide would fall right after the address, which would always be “Dear Mr./Mrs.”, and would then type the first name from the long list of names. He would then click the red Schneider ballpoint pen and cross out that name from the list. Others would put a tick or a cross next to those names, but he wouldn’t. He’d cross it out completely from left to right to demonstrate that the job is done without a doubt. He’d then remove the letter from the typing machine and put it in the bin on his right-hand side. Most of the days those would be letters of demand, that would implore the recipient to pay back their debt(s). Some days those would be letters of termination, informing the recipient that their employment would be discontinued with immediate effect, and as of recently, those would be letters of eviction, letting the recipients know that they will soon be expelled from the premises of their homes.

He would continue crossing off the names on the list until noon, at which point he’ll stand up, push his chair back a bit and head out. He’d again take the middle elevator out of five and this time he’d press the number 0 for the ground floor. He’d exit the building but would not smoke a Marlboro cigarette this time around as he only smoked half a cigarette a day and that would always happen in the morning before work. He’d then cross the street and enter the small diner that was there. He’d sit alone, and order a large cup of coffee, a bagel with cheese, and a side of fries. He’d then eat the fries first, then he’d eat the bagel with cheese, and he’d then drink the coffee cold. He’d ask for the bill, and would then take out his wallet, and pay. He’d always leave exactly 10% tip.

Once fed, and caffeinated, he’d go back to his office across the street, on the elevator to the 8th floor, to his desk, and wooden chair. He’d sit back down, and would take the next letter of demand, or termination, or eviction. He’d put it in the typewriter, and he’d type the next letter on the list. He would then click the red Schneider ballpoint pen and cross out that name from the list. He’d them remove the letter from the typing machine and put it in the bin on his right-hand side. He’d continue typing until the list was completely crossed off, and all letters from the tray on his left were transferred to the tray on his right. The time would be 5 p.m. sharp.

He’d then again stand up push his wooden chair back a bit. He’d pick his coat from the coat hanger that is furthest away from the window, put it on, head for the middle elevator, press 0, head out of the building, unlock his silver Benz, get in, turn on the ignition, and drive back home. He’d pass through the same bridge he had passed the very same morning, and at the exact same speed of 90 which was the speed limit in that part of the road. He’d arrive home at half-past six, as it was a long drive from the city to the suburbs, and he’d park his silver Benz in the driveway of his suburban single-family detached. He’d turn off the engine and sit in the driver’s seat for 2 more minutes before getting out. He’d then walk up to his front door and ring the bell. His wife of 15 years would open and greet him in. He’d hang his coat on the coat hanger in the hallway, and head to the upstairs bathroom where he’d use the toilet, shower, and brush his teeth. He’d then dress in the bedroom and head back downstairs for supper. Supper would be served at 7 p.m. sharp. Most of the time his wife would’ve made lasagne or beef stew, sometimes she’d cook chicken or pork ribs, and as of recently, she’d do meatball spaghetti or hamburgers. They would eat then sit in the living room in front of the TV. Both would read even though the TV was on. He’d read autobiographies, and war journals, she’d read a magazine on home décor or cooking. They’d stay up until 9 p.m. sharp at which point in time they would stand up, turn off the tv, rest their reading on a drawer on either side of their beige couch, and head to the bedroom upstairs. Sometimes they would make love for about five minutes then kiss each other good night and turn to the other side. Most of the time they’d just kiss each other good night and turn to the other side.

On the next morning, he’d wake up, use the toilet, sometimes shower, dress, head out, get in the silver Benz, and drive for an hour and thirty minutes through the bridge into the city straight to work. He’d be on his desk at 8 o’clock sharp, would start typing in names in letters at 8:15, have lunch and coffee at noon, get back to the office, and continue typing until 5 p.m. He’d then put on his coat, and head back home in his silver Benz through the bridge and into the suburbs where he’d park in the driveway of his house, wait in the driver’s seat for two minutes, walk up the door, ring the doorbell, head upstairs, shower, brush his teeth, head downstairs, have dinner with his wife, sit on the couch with her in front of the lit TV, read an autobiography until 9 p.m. head upstairs to their bedroom kiss each other good night and sleep until the morning after.

Once a month at 5 p.m. sharp he’d put on his coat but instead heading to the middle elevator he’d take a left towards the wall-mounted telephone at the end of the hallway. He’d phone his wife and tell her he got an extra assignment and will be late for dinner. He’d then go back to the middle elevator and press the number 0 for the ground floor, head out of the building, get in the silver Benz, and turn on the ignition. He would then drive in a direction opposite his house for 30 minutes to the far end of the city. He’d stop, engine still running, in an alley, and he’d roll down the passenger side window. Then a girl would lean into the open window, and he’d invite her in. Then he’d drive in a different more secluded alley where the girl would perform fellatio to him for five minutes until he experiences an orgasm. He’d always keep his hands on the seat next to him and he’d always wear a condom conscious of the risks of contracting a disease. The girl would always have short hair so he could see the back of her neck, and her shoulders, sometimes bare, and enjoy the way her neck muscles would tremble and twitch. He had a favourite girl although she was not always around and he was, in those cases, mildly disappointed. He liked the smell from her armpits — always clean, always sweet. Once the girl was done, he’d take off the condom and tie it in a knot, put it in a paper napkin he’d taken from the diner across the street from his office building, he’d roll down his window and throw it out on the street. He’d then pull up his trousers and tuck his shirt in. He’d then button them and reach for his pockets. He’d always pay with a crisp twenty and he’d never take money out of his wallet, conscious that in his wallet he had his ID and other documents that he didn’t want to be exposed. The girl would take the twenty and ask if he wanted anything else to which he would respond with a no. Which would not be sincere as he wanted a lot more, and sometimes he’d fantasize about it while under the shower at home or while using the restroom at the office. He’d masturbate to these fantasies until he would climax and would have to clean himself with a piece of toilet paper. His wildest fantasy was no condom.

One day he would drive through the bridge in his silver Benz with the odometer pinned at 90. He’d par the Benz in front of his office, get out smoke half a Marlboro cigarette, extinguish it in the sole of his brown leather shoe, head into the building to the middle elevator out of five and press the number 8 for the floor where his office was. He would then hang his coat on the coat hanger furthest from the window and head straight to his desk.

He would arrive at his desk at 8 o’clock sharp to find that his black Olivetti typewriter was gone. The two metal trays on either side of it were missing, and so was the ashtray that he never used and the red retractable Schneider ballpoint pen. Instead on his wooden desk — one of 20 identical desks in the room he would find a letter. He would find a letter identical to the ones he would type in every day. A letter that would start with “Dear Mr./Mrs.” and then would continue with his own first name and surname. The letter would inform him — the recipient that his current employment would be discontinued with immediate effect. He would stay numb there for a second while the room would fill with people and these people would create all sorts of ruckus, but he would stay motionless and in silence and would read the letter repeatedly, he’d try to recall if it was him that would type in his own first name and surname and when, but he wouldn’t be able to do so. He’d then fold the paper in four and put it in the right pocket of his trousers. He’d then pick up his coat, head to the middle elevator, press 0, exit the building, get in the Benz, and drive back home through the bridge and into the suburbs to the driveway of his single-family detached. He wouldn’t wait in the driver’s seat for two minutes this time around, and would get out of the car, and head straight in the house without ringing the doorbell, he’d toss his coat on the floor of the halfway and would run straight up the stairs to the bathroom. He’d find his wife there unclothed entangled with another gentleman who was also unclothed. He’d blink a couple of times and would then close the bathroom door on his way out.

He’d get in the Benz turn on the ignition, and head back. He’d stop on the bridge and turn off the engine. He’d then get out of the Benz and would face the railings. He’d put his hands in the pockets of his trousers. In his right pocket, he’d find the letter from this morning. He’d crumple it with his hand, pull it out and throw it over the railing. He’d then look right towards the suburbs, and left towards the city, and then straight. He would then climb up and over the railing and jump over the bridge.

He would get an obituary in the paper the next morning. At the bottom of the obituaries page. It would read — family man, respectable career, a loss to the community.