The Bridges

… By President Hart and Vice President Nichols. During the conference, several of Hart’s signature policy changes were highlighted. Billy opened one eye, glancing at the television that came on at its assigned time, then the clock to confirm the hour. The soothing voice continued as his eye closed and he pulled the covers over his head. By reining in entitlements, Hart showed that Social Security will remain solvent for at least the remainder of his term. The Social Security retirement communities alone are saving the government 33 percent over payouts by the previous administration.

Then it was Hart’s voice. And everybody loves them. We’ve made the golden years of our seniors really shine. Plus, Medicare and Medicaid costs are down fifty percent with the successful One-Pill program. Fifty percent!

Billy tried not to listen. He had his prescription for the One-Pill, but didn’t take it. And he was not ready for retirement, on his own or in one of the new government facilities. His plan was to keep working until this administration was over and Social Security went back to its traditional form. He knew he’d need it; his savings were a pittance. But he couldn’t imagine himself in one of these old age homes. Nope. This news didn’t apply to him. So he rolled over and said, TV off! 

As he started to drift back into that comfortable, warm aftersleep time, his mind perked up and reminded him it was a Grecian Formula day. Couldn’t let the gray creep back into his hair in his line of work. The bed felt so cozy, soft and enveloping. But youth called. Youth screamed. Youth threw back the covers, letting the rush of cold, nasty air sweep over his body. Maybe I should consider pajamas, he thought.

One Saturday a month was Grecian Formula day, a regularly-scheduled task, like vacuuming beneath and behind his sofa and cleaning the bathroom thoroughly in his man cave. He chuckled at the thought. Yeah, man cave. Because it’s just me.

He sat up, regretting the night before. He was out late after work with the gang from his latest gig — a rowdy group — consuming bar food and drinks. While he limited his drinking to diet ginger ale, the evenings out enlarged his waistline and reduced his retirement funds, such as they were. Another silent chuckle as the words retirement funds careened among his neurons.

His feet tested the floor. It was there, cold. He rotated his ankles and rubbed his knees before he unfolded slowly, standing. Gravity pulled at every joint. Blood readjusted to his erect posture, veins became pronounced in hands, legs. He needed to blow his nose and scratch his ass … or did he need to scratch his nose and fart? Either would do.

Billy Greenwich. Age 62. Art director. Well, marketing communications graphics specialist. But still an art director in his mind. His self-assessment continued — idle thoughts while he perched on the kitchen stool waiting for the coffee to brew. He was estranged from his wife and brother, and really just a peripheral character in his daughter’s life. His daughter was thoroughly ensconced in her career, enjoying success as he once had, though in a different direction. Hmph. Guess I’m not much else right now, he muttered out loud. Maybe a stylist, today.

The coffee finished, breaking his train of thought. He poured a cup, taking it black, sat down at his desk and turned on the TV. The headlines scrolling across the screen didn’t look like they would take him to a better place mentally: Sanctions Against Canada Up for Vote in Senate, Pennsylvania to Limit Birth Control, and statewide, Retirement Community Flashing Trial Goes to Jury. 

He missed Facebook. At least he could always strike up a pleasant conversation with someone, even at this hour. Or find something silly or funny to watch. Silly and funny were good distractions — the OxyContin of the masses. At least they were. All that was gone. Who would have thought he’d miss videos of cats. He didn’t even like cats — more of a dog person.

His email box was stuffed with 64 notices, all of which came in since he went to work the day before. He decided to tackle that with his morning cup. At least 40 were tagged as junk and he quickly eliminated those, not worrying that any might be of value. Twenty of the emails were jobs, or so they claimed to be. Most of them had nothing to do with his experience or ability, though they claimed to be openings for Graphics! Artists! Art Directors! Directors! Art Erectors! Yep, one actually said that. He knew from experience — way too much of it — that they were all misleading and had nothing to do with art directing. 

The rest were from entities with which he did business. He saved the grocery and restaurant coupons, deleted a couple of announcements and let stand a few others to read as their important dates grew closer. And there was one from Madeline, his boss.

Odd, he thought. He had been at work with her the day before. And it was from her personal account, not her company account. He opened it.

Call me over the weekend. Important.

M

One of the few good things about his job was that on weekends, he could pretty much let it go. He closed the email, deciding to deal with it Monday. Probably just changing direction on the latest project: a brain fart from the young marketing committee.

CHAPTER 2

Get down, Phil whispered. Headlights. It’s a posse.

Get down? Right! With these knees? Carolyn eased herself to the forest floor, hoping the thick brush would hide her from the lights.

The five of them stayed still and watched the pickup truck slowly come to a stop at the forest’s edge. The four doors opened and five young men piled out noisily. I thought I saw something run into the woods right here, one of them said, punctuating his declaration with an exaggerated belch. The men shone the lights from their phones into the darkness. They were all dressed alike: camouflage pants, tan t-shirts and dark blue hoodies. Three were armed with standard issue crossbows with rubber-tipped bolts. All had Tasers.

Put the lights out, you dumb shit. They won’t help. 

Hey, man, shut up. They’ll hear us!

The leader gave him a dour look. Duh, ya think they missed the pickup? All right. Let’s fan out. Pete, you take point. Keep about 20 yards apart. You think they went in here, Hal?

Hal looked up from his phone. What? Oh, yeah. Right about here.

Phil, Carolyn, Juan, Barry and Patty watched, remaining as still as possible. 

This is killing my back, whispered Juan. 

My leg’s going to sleep, added Patty, almost inaudibly. Phil shushed them and watched as the party of five from the pickup truck entered the woods. 

Phil tapped Patty and Juan on the shoulder and pointed to a stand of bushes nearby. We better split up. If they come over this way, get the hell out and we’ll all meet back at the fence. They knew he meant the corner of the compound near the maintenance shed where the fence had long ago been discretely compromised. The others nodded in agreement. Patty and Juan gingerly got on their feet, painfully remaining in a crouch. This shit is for younger people, said Patty, realizing that younger people wouldn’t be in this situation. She and Juan slowly made their way, tree by tree, to where Phil had indicated. As the two moved back to the right, Phil tugged on Carolyn’s sleeve and motioned over his left shoulder. They started to move slowly off, deeper into the woods. 

What should I do? Barry whispered.

Phil pointed to a fallen tree behind them.

A voice came from the posse. Hey, Hal, see anything? 

Hal responded with some hand signals he’d seen in a movie about commandos. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? asked his teammate. 

Shut up, dude, said Hal as they continued to advance through the brush, nearing Carolyn and Phil, who each lay absolutely still at the bottom of a ditch, trying to control their excited breathing.

One posse member moved past the trees hiding Carolyn and Phil. He raised his crossbow and peered through its night scope, panning across the woods. I can’t see a damn thing but trees, he said. But as he turned to his right, he did see something. Hold on. What’s this? Come out of there, you fucker!

Phil stood up, his hands in plain sight. The young man scanned him up and down with the night scope. All right. Gotcha. He looked Phil up and down, adding, Old man. With one hand, he pulled his phone from its holder on his belt. He pushed two numbers and its screen lit up his face. Phil could see it clearly for a moment, before the lighted phone dropped from his hand to the forest floor. The man’s body followed, crumpling to the ground like a skyscraper undergoing demolition, top to bottom. 

Phil blinked and looked into the darkness. Carolyn’s form began to make itself apparent. She stood over the young man, holding a three-foot-long tree branch. There was a smile on her face. The phone lit again, vibrating amid the vegetation on the forest floor. It buzzed three times and then went silent. That was followed shortly by another posse member whisper-shouting, Andrew … Andrew? Where are you? Who you got? The man slowly approached the spot where he had heard a noise. He speed dialed Andrew again and heard the buzzing of the phone a couple of yards away. Without a night-scoped crossbow, he stared blankly into the dark, listening. He speed dialed the team leader. Can’t find Andrew.

Be quiet and listen for him. We’ll be right over. Use your flashlight, came the reply from the speaker of the phone.

Phil and Carolyn watched from another ditch deeper in the woods.

I hear something, came a shout. Over here!

Dark figures converged on a thin beam from a flashlight. Then the area lit up with more lights. The young men could be seen propping up something, presumably Andrew. The limp form they were holding groaned. Fucking idiot. I told him to be careful. All the phone lights turned outward into the surrounding darkness for a moment and then back to the figure on the ground. He’ll live. Carry him the fuck outta here. We better go.

The men were not making any attempt to be quiet now. They got the injured Andrew to his feet, and two of them helped him as he dizzily limped back toward their truck.

Yeah, let’s go. I need a beer. Maybe a shot.

Phil and Carolyn stayed motionless, saying nothing for five minutes after watching the truck drive off. Then they heard the birdcall. It was a ridiculous birdcall, completely out of place and nearly humorous. Juan! Cut the crap! Patty, Barry … everybody OK?

Juan’s head popped up from behind a fallen tree, not fifteen feet away. Patty crawled along the bottom of the ditch that had given Phil and Carolyn refuge. Check, she said.

I’m good, said Juan.

Barry! 

There was no answer.

Barry, c’mon! Where are you? I told him to stay over there by that tree.

They converged on the spot — and found Barry. His back was against the trunk, his legs splayed out. His hands clutched his chest. He was motionless. 

Carolyn grabbed his shoulders and shook him. His head slumped forward, and as she stepped back in shock, his body rolled to the side, stopping face down in the dirt and leaves.

Oh my god!

Phil got on his knees and rolled Barry over. With the body on its back, Phil started chest compressions. I don’t know what I’m doing! I don’t know! Help me!

You’re doing it right, Phil. Just slow down. Patty was trained in CPR. We need to give mouth to mouth.

Oh no, said Phil. Oh no. No pulse, no anything. He’s dead. I don’t think he’s coming back.

Patty took Barry’s hand. Then she cradled his head in her hands. I think you’re right.

CHAPTER 3

I don’t know how to tell you this, Madeline said, looking up from the monitor on her desk.

Don’t know how to tell me what? Her tone was strange.

Billy had worked for the Oberg Company for seven years. He worked closely with Madeline. 

For the first five of those years, he had gotten along well enough with her assistant, Louise, but that relationship took a very hard turn south. Billy was never sure why. He was pretty sure whatever Madeline had to say would have something to do with Louise.

His relationship with Madeline had always been a good, positive and productive one. In fact, upper management actually believed they were cousins for some reason. They made a good team, coming up with concepts, Madeline writing the text and Billy doing the design and illustration for ad campaigns and other materials.

We’re … um … the company is hiring an ad agency … going in another direction with our marketing. Not my decision, of course.

Billy blinked, considering this sudden turn. Though not so sudden. Really, he should have seen it coming. Just that morning, he had stopped at The Quacker, his favorite breakfast spot, for a bagel and coffee. He sat alone in the booth closest to the door. As he was putting some whitefish on the bagel, a woman emerged from the back booth, her head down, practically running full steam ahead past him and out the door. It was Louise. She was working pretty hard at avoiding having to say good morning. Or fuck you. Or anything. He should have known then that something was up.

And now this. Madeline went on about reasons for his layoff. Budgets, new directions, this committee and that committee, never bringing up the elephant in the room — his age. But as she spoke, sympathy and caring evident in her voice, his mind shot off to address the consequences of what was happening. 

He knew he had less than six months to find work — meaningful work — or he was not going to be able to remain on his own. His daughter couldn’t take him into her home. He and his wife hadn’t communicated since their daughter’s graduation from school. He didn’t speak to his brother at all. Without a decent job, he was likely done with his career and off to the pasture, and all that now meant.

It had been hard to get the Oberg job. He’d been 55 at the time and had to compete with much younger candidates in a young person’s business. It had taken more than six months to find and get that position. He tried to recall how many jobs to which he had applied: either 220 or 320. He couldn’t remember.

At 62 it was unlikely — unless he downright lied on his resume — that he would find something before he ran out of money. 

He would probably have to retire. That word stood out in his brain, as if it were in 72-point bold italic type amid paragraphs of 11-point text. And retirement was no longer the golden years unless one was pretty well off. The