I Hate to See that Evening Sun Go Down

-a trip in reverse through the life of civilization-

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. And my hearty greetings to the citizens of this fair city and state viewing this announcement via public television, or listening on their radios and streaming apps. A special thanks to my staff and the present media for arranging this conference on such short notice. What we have today is something special. As you are all aware, this city has just completed our landmark road and transportation project, officially titled the Northwest Corridor, including its landmark elevated highway. This project has been almost five years in the making, requiring the dedication of thousands upon thousands of man-hours, millions of tax-payer dollars and my administration’s meticulous planning. Now, we finally witness the fruits of our labor. Enjoy! But, you know, I couldn’t help but notice…”

Governor Hampton Dickens looked at his staff to his left and right, their support held firmly in their eyes, their quick reassuring nods. With barrel-chested pride, he continued...

“If you look around our great metropolis, this great state, even this great country, you might have noticed a lot of names on those roads, those bridges. Some of which are known to citizens throughout this great land. Names so important to our history that we need only know their last name. Washington. Lincoln. Eisenhower. Douglas...Fredrick. Tubman. But some of these names, well, some have that little stench of privilege and influence, the odorous byproduct of wealth and nepotism. Of knowing the right people at the right time. I am here today to offer a little change in a big way. To set an example. To evolve toward progress. And, hopefully, when all is said and done, maybe even set a precedent of consideration and, most importantly, recognition for those American workers who have built these roads, but have never driven past their own name. Built these buildings, but don’t see their name in the skyline. Heck, built this room but wouldn’t be allowed in under the circumstances. It gives me great pleasure to announce to you today, that the Northwest Corridor will be named in memorium of the first person to be deceased on it.”

Hampton stepped back to receive their gasp of applause. He beamed his teeth to and fro, illuminating the audience.

“Who might that be? Only time will tell, but we’re out here wronging what rights we can, and I have faith that this is a big step in the right direction, the direction of a brighter and equitable future. The bridge opens today at 5 p.m., just in time for rush-hour relief. Thank you for your time. God bless you, God bless this state and....”

God bless America.

John Smith did a double-take at the television.

“Holy shit,” he muttered.

He had been on a master mason on that very project and about every city project for the past half a century. That had been his last job before retirement, and it was good one, far as infrastructure goes. Once upon a time, he had been a civil engineer but he was never any good at the politics and, ultimately, just wanted to be outside with the fellas.

Retirement hadn’t suited him well. Felt like not much compared to building a civilization. He’d work around the house but always end up bitching over beers with his Union buddies, their bodies racked with years of work. Many of them halfway to falling apart, but their pride in tact. All the politicians and family members just waved their hands, saying he should be proud of the city he had literally poured the foundations for. The only consolation he felt was knowing the history of buildings--half of which he wouldn’t be allowed in under the circumstances--and the innerworkings of the road systems, which frankly no one else seemed to give a shit about. He’d thought about writing a book on Eisenhower’s Interstate system.

The TV returned to its regularly scheduled programming and the audience laughed at him sitting there in his over-stuffed chair, doing nothing but waiting to die.

Fuck it.

He didn’t know why but he popped his daily pills, too many to count. His daughter was the expert in all that. She’d stop by every Sunday with her potato of a husband sitting in the car, while she dropped off lasagna or some other microwaveable shit, and then, halfway out the door, give her reason why she couldn’t stay long.

But this wasn’t going to be because of loneliness, some cry for attention crap. Not at all. Spite, maybe.

He put on his old ballcap and walked out of his house. Well, he called it his. He’d had to refinance to help the kids out, so the bank owned it a few years yet. Homeowner, my ass.

But still, pride burned inside him. That was a good looking house, the lawn was nice and cropped. He’d been given a responsibility and he’d taken it as far as he could go. His daughter and son, for all they were or weren’t worth now, had been given a good childhood there. He’d tried the flower garden thing, but they were too fragile for his liking, so he just hired the work out. Had a couple plums and an apple tree. Those rocking chairs toward the West looked just like the American dream used to, ought to...should’ve, could’ve, would’ve.

He climbed slowly into in his old Chevy, the toolbox in the back won from a raffle long ago, and drove to the nearest Waffle House.

His daddy had taken him to the original when he was a boy, and they had started a tradition from there. Every New Year’s morning, they’d make the long drive into the city for a good meal. Just the boys. His mama would be busy at home with the girls preparing the New Year’s meal of cornbread, greens and black-eyes peas. Rutabaga for just his mama and him. Fried pork chops when the last year had been a good year.

He ordered a pecan waffle, slab of country ham and a coffee, and watched, wishing he could still smoke indoors.

Cars streamed by on what used to be dirt-top. He sipped his coffee. Was it a hive or was it the speed of life? He couldn’t decide anymore. Used not to honk at least.

His food came, and the waitress was pretty and smiled. He winked at her, and she winked back. It was delicious as always, but they’d taken the logo out the middle of the waffle to make it smaller. Dumbasses have a company named Waffle House and then change the waffle. Change something else, godammit.

He’d tried to blame it on old age, the generation gap, but that doesn’t mean people were getting any smarter. He didn’t begrudge much from the people he saw, but everywhere he looked he could see parts of his own life, and people never knowing what it took to build.

Fuck it.

He put back the rest of his coffee, pulled out a filterless Paul Mall and lit it up.

The waitress looked at him and smiled, but he didn’t smile back. The cook busy with his flat-top, hollered a come-on-man, while some hussie from the suburbs covered her kids mouth and pretended to cough, accidentally choking herself in the process. The teenagers in the corner booth whipped out their phones like they were filming a real discovery, a relic from twenty years ago that they couldn’t even imagine.

He left a tip on the table and nodded his thanks before stepping outside and lighting another cigarette.

He drove around the city, recounting aloud memories and details of each project he’d been a part of and some he hadn’t.

Stopping at a park, he had poured the concrete for, he watched some kids throw a football, while some fat cannoli pushed around a hot dog cart, hollering something about sauerkraut and New York style.

Godamn yankees. Couldn’t stand ‘em.

He wasn’t hungry but he grabbed some fried chicken and a milkshake at the diner where he’d met his first wife. He knew he wasn’t after nostalgia, because he wasn’t lamenting much. Didn’t even want to call it a better time, but the presence of the past remained as everything else around it changed and to revisit it within that light, well, that at least made it more clear for what it was.

He stopped and got some gas, before merging onto the freeway and on toward the new Corridor. It wasn’t yet 5, but traffic had come to a predictable standstill with commuters leaving early to try out the new turnpike. He tried listening to music but it didn’t feel the same just sitting there, instead of cruising.

He nodded at a couple men pulling a horse trailer, and a couple bikers creeping their way between the lanes. Always good to see the old ways still alive. America.

Five o’clock crept closer but the traffic stopped where it stood with the on-ramp still a mile ahead.

Fuck it.

John parked his truck in the lane and grabbed a little hammer from the tool box and crept to the back of the horse trailer and whispered soothingly to the old, unsaddled gelding inside.

He hammered the pin up quickly, grabbed the lead rope on the floor and clipped it to the halter.

“Ya see there, buddy? Just like you did when you were younger. Me too.”

He clicked his tongue and rubbed the horse’s big nose as he lead him out of the trailer and into the traffic jam.

He climbed the wheel well, quick as he could in front of the whole damn city, and jumped onto the horse’s back, grabbing his mane and spurring him forward with his heels.

“Hey you!”

“Let’s go. Let’s go. Holy shit.”

John teetered sideways as the horse cantered between the cars. He whispered his curses and thanks, holding on for dear life.

He righted himself shortly before he arrived to the on-ramp, the gate vertical and two electricians checking the terminal.

“Howdy yall. What seems to be the problem. I was a worker on this project.”

They looked up.

“Ain’t that a sight. The gate came up early on our final test”

“Wait, a second is that John Smith? How you been, bud? You still pouring concrete? And why in sam-hill are you on a horse?”

John tipped his hat, a boyish, floppy grin barely concealed underneath the bill.

“Ay, Sammy Jones. How are ya?”

“Horse thief! That guy took my horse!”

“Oh, shit. Got to go, fellas.”

Ya! Ya!

He took off at a full gallop, holding onto his hat with one hand like the cowboys of his youth.

Giddyup!

He rode for a couple miles until he arrived at the tallest part of the corridor. Patting the horse’s neck and rubbing his nose, he said his praises and dismounted, walking to the railing, the sprawl of the city and glory of nature all in his purview.

Growing up, they’d always called it a baseball sky. That’s what he was hoping for. Sure could’ve used a rocking chair at the moment; nah, a lawn chair would do just fine.

He looked over the side. He couldn’t see it but what he knew was down there, two-hundred fifteen feet below, were the remnants of another bridge, not another turnpike, back then they didn’t have those, but small, one-hundred-thirty five foot covered bridge of wood, steel and concrete piers built over a creek now long dried by the demands of civilization. He had contributed to its design and build as a youth, with the local paper saying it had both “the appearance of durability and that most welcome consequence of the industrial age, the beauty and designs of utility”. He spit and watched it fall into obscurity but no doubt landing in the creek bed that could only be believed was such by those who had witnessed it as so.

“Don’t do it!”

A chunk of a police woman swayed as she dismounted her motorcycle, breathing hard, her pistol already drawn and grabbing the handlebars with the other hand, finally engaged the kickstand.

“Fuck off.”

SWAT could be seen racing toward them a mile away, the brilliance of their blue lights so superficial against the evening sky. The van pulled up behind her, and the soldiers scattered around him with their rifles drawn. A news helicopter materialized overhead, speculating terrorism into the radios of the traffic below.

“You have so many reasons to live!” she screamed.

“I know. Fuck off.”

“Talk to me!”

“I built this city, you know,” he said turning at the hips, gesturing around him.

“Yes, I’m sure you did. I am very happy for you.”

“Man, I could tell you some things about concrete. Now this is basic stuff, but underneath where we’re standing, or more appropriately what we are standing on, this is called a flange beam, literally one of the metaphorical pillars of civilzation, but what’s more interesting is that it’s the longest concrete beam in the history of the entire state. Almost two-hundred feet, three hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Man, that is huge! You have any idea what it takes to make that? Much less transport it. I guess not, but you should’ve seen it when it got put in. Longest one they ever did was in the Netherlands at two-twenty-three, but, daggum, I think we could’ve beat them.”

“Oh, wow. How about you back up, okay? You can tell me about it and we can get traffic moving, huh? Let other people enjoy driving on these beams.”

“You’re standing on an engineering marvel with one of the best views of the city and a baseball sky on the way and you’re worried about fucking traffic?”

“I’m just trying to help. I want to help you. And I want to help all those poor people waiting to go home down there. Civility is important, right? Don’t you think?”

“Not at the moment, no. Hell no. Civilization can wait on my happy ass while I watch the sun go down and come up on everything I’ve built.”

“We want to save you! You’re worth being saved.”

“Look, girl. I’m not leaving ‘til the sun comes up, then I’ll go.”

“Sir! We have to avoid metaphor. Death is not romantic! We have to stay grounded.”

“Death? What the...who said anything about death?”

“Flashbang out!”

BOOM

They should’ve put up those anti-jumping barriers, but budgets and what not. Nobody expects jumpers on a high speed turnpike anyways, too worried about being hit by a car on the walk up. John Smith’s world went after-life white as the concussion from the grenade shoved him back and over the ledge. The wind tugged and whipped his silver hair, the ringing in his ears replaced with the comfort of white noise like riding an old Harley. His eyes adjusted just enough to see the pink and orange rays of the sunset paved across a blue so vast he wasn’t sure whether he was falling into it or away.

“Suicide is a most serious matter, and is a leading cause of death in our society. Unfortunately, there were some bad actors who wished to make what should have been a mark of progress, all about themselves. But this city will not stand for such a thing. No, this is not a renegging but a re-evalutation. We are learning, and it is all far larger than any one of us. My thanks to all the brave men and women in law enforcement. Their sacrifice is our gain.”

The governor jutted out his jaw in a show of solidarity.

“Though this does not take away from the tragedy of this one case, we recognize that this issue, this terrible issue of suicide, is an epidemic. It does not just effect one of us, but all of us. Experts are still figuring out why. Why? What causes this? We don’t yet know, but we do know there are things we can do to help. With generous sponsorship from Pharmaco, who is undoubtedly at the vanguard of care, my administration will begin instituting self-care and -prevention measures immediately. We will spare no expense in our use of preventative barriers. Civilization is a fragile thing, and it cannot be allowed to slow again. Signs every five-hundred feet with daily, positive messaging. Free depression diagnosis. A new ‘Don’t Do It’ campaign, led by NFL running back, D’wayne Freeman. A city-wide National Suicide Day, excuse me, National Suicide Awareness Day, and more. This is how you get things done. This is how we stop our pandemic of despair.”

Hampton stepped back to receive their gasp of applause.

“Ladies and gentlemen, besides these measures, it brings me great joy and pride today to announce the new name of the Northwest Corridor. Drumroll, please.”

With gusto, Hampton pulled the black cloth from an easel.

“The Road to Care, sponsored by Pharmaco!”

He beamed his teeth to and fro, illuminating the audience.

“Thank you. Thank you. The project will be delayed to institute the changes I’ve mentioned, as well as, what will no doubt become a landmark of our city, a stadium style sponsorship name and logo for this roadway. It promises to be over three thousand feet long, and I’m told it may even be seen from space! Truly, we are building a brighter future. Thank you. God bless you, God bless this city and God bless America.”

***As some of you may know, I was recently banned from Twitter. Forgive the infrequent stories here, but recent life has been nothing short of chaos, and I am still working on my novella. It will be worth the wait. Thank you from my heart for all of your support. -PCM***