Big Dump

PWP

Colin flips through a stack of paper on my desk and reads a couple of them. He looks up at me, cocks his eyebrow.

“Fascinating stuff, really. Where did you get it?”

“Our professor, believe it or not, had been a practicing psychologist. He gave me the copies of some cases.”

“What, he hates your teacher of medical ethics and defies them just to mess with him?”

“No,” I smile, “All names are changed and the patients…or their families agreed.”

Colin nods and goes back, picks up one paper and reads: “A patient shows anxiety, paranoia, is reluctant to speak. The fingernails are caked with blood, the hair is messy and unwashed,” at that he stops and looks at me.

“What?” I ask, drumming my fingers on the desk, “I’m just interested.”

“I like it better when you read biographies.”

“Those are, in a way,” I nod toward the stack, “There’s even a case with lobotomy.”

“Where?” he asks, going back to the pile.

“The one with pictures,” I smile at his enthusiasm, then come closer and we both look at it for some time.

…::…

On a bus to college I’m on the outside seat and people are hovering next to me, holding on to the railing and looking out the window. I look up at them and notice one man’s lips moving, small whispers coming out. I can’t hear anything among the general noise.

Outside I walk through the streets, counting my steps and thinking that any time now it’s going to rain. I pass a man sitting on the bench, in his mid-thirties, the collar of his sheer t-shirt stretched and hanging. He looks at the people with wide eyes and everybody pretends they don’t notice him. Our eyes meet and there’s a certain connection I feel – his astonishment at seeing the world as it is and my astonishment in seeing something familiar in his eyes. Then I look away and he does, too, perhaps looking for someone else who would return his gaze, perhaps just because he is seeing something else.

I have lunch with Ed in a small café while I watch a girl folding and unfolding napkins, clicking her nails and looking around once in a while. Ed follows my gaze and turns to look at me, amazed a little.

“You like her?”
I shake my head slowly from side to side, while still watching her.

“She can’t keep still,” I say, “She taps her foot or rubs her knees, or brushes her hair, or sways her head – but she can’t keep still. There’s something on her mind. I wonder what it is.”

“Her boyfriend’s late.”

I shrug, looking down at my plate. “Maybe something else?” I ask.

“You are reading too much into it,” Ed says as the café door opens and a bloke walks in, then takes a seat at her table. She beams. I frown.

..::..

On Friday Thom appears on our doorstep, asking if we had a hacksaw. While Colin goes through piles of instruments left from my dad, I talk to Thom in our doorframe, hugging myself lamely while he tries to peek above my shoulder.

“So you are good, yeah? Busy tonight, yeah? Oh by the way, I was listening to the record of our practice, and I’ve got some…I worked on something…you can look at that now if you want to. If you are not too busy, yeah? I mean…”

“There it is,” Colin comes up behind me, passing the hacksaw to Thom, “What’s it for?”

“Nothing much,” Thom says, sniffing, “Thanks, I’ll bring it back later.”

“So you are coming back?” I jump in, “Later tonight? Maybe I should go with you, I can tell you about…that thing…while we are at it. If I won’t bother you. I mean, if you are allowed to bring someone along, that is, yeah?”

“If you want to, the car’s open,” he says, still looking down and fingering the saw. I grab a jacket, nod a couple of times and run to his car, taking the passenger seat. He lingers on the doorstep a couple of moments, I watch Colin smile before closing the door and soon he sits beside me, the saw resting next to him on the seat.

I don’t pay all that much attention to where we are driving while smiling in a silly fashion, showing my crooked teeth to the windshield and listening to a couple of blokes talking on the radio station. I’m terrified that I will embarrass myself somehow – my stomach would growl or my seat would squeak, so we spent a few minutes in utter silence.

“Ever noticed how high up the clouds are?” Thom says and I look at the sky instantly, the big tufts of clouds hanging heavily.

“No.”

“That’s because we are on the lower ground. The sky seems higher up.”

He stops the car on the bridge and gets out, carrying the saw with him. He walks to the railing and stares down for a second while I watch him and then climb out to walk and stand next to him. He crouches then and starts working on the dusty railing, sawing off the cursive-written “Oxford”, embedded in a large plate of pig iron, covered with brash designs.

He moves his arm vigorously and I watch a drop of sweat rolling down his temple, the skin and muscles beneath his shirt moving, the glassy look in his eyes. I reach a hand to him and almost touch his hair, almost run my fingers through it; it brushes me faintly and I’m electrified.

Thom goes at it while the sun sets and we are the only ones on the dusty bridge. The sound slashes my hearing and I don’t care – I just sit down next to him on that dirty bridge, stretch my legs in front of me and blurt out everything that is on my mind.

I tell him about the girl in the café, the man, the streets, my professor, the schizophrenia cases. I tell him about Colin, the books I read, the records I listen to, I even tell him about my conversations with him.

Finally he drops the hacksaw and the iron plate falls onto asphalt with an echoed phump.

“Okay, now, take the other end,” he says and we both clench our teeth as we carry the thing over to his car to put it in the trunk. I gaze at the railing of the bridge and there’s a gaping hole.

..::..
The next day I walk on the street and see the familiar “Oxford” sign in cursive lying on the grass in front of the townhouse.

The day after that it’s gone.

On the third day there’s a new iron plate on the grass and a second gaping hole in the bridge.

Then it is gone again.

The iron plates appear on garage sales, in front of the cafes. One of them was hauled and prepped against the door of the police office. One morning I see my neighbor trying to roll the thing out of his backyard.

One of them is hanging on the wall of the pub.

I wait for the train and there’s “Oxford” in cursive on the platform near me.

In Ed’s basement, there are two of those.

First the officials tried to return them to the bridge, trying to weld the plates back into place and cover up the holes, because they were afraid the kids would jump off the bridge. Then they lost a couple, then several, and finally all of them.

Thom and I, we sit on that bridge side by side, nestled in those holes, our legs hanging free in the air. He thinks of something, I watch him. Describe him in my head. Use terms. Draw pictures of his hands, his neck, his chest. Pay attention to the way his shoulders move. Count his breaths and check the size of his pupils. Examine his fingernails, the timbre of his voice, the bridge of his nose.

The holes on his jeans.

The velvet fur on the back of his neck.