The Man Under the Bridge – 1952
written by: Bern Sy Moss
Jimmy didn’t take the school bus even though it went right past his house. If he were foolish enough to get on that bus, he would have to endure Bull Murphy who made a habit of taking his lunch and allowance money. At ten he might be the “man of the house” as his mother liked to say, but not big enough to take on Bull.
Instead, he walked through the woods following a path to town that had been there for as long as he could remember. Past the pottery factory that was closed for as long as he could remember and under the railroad bridge where the freight trains went by on Wednesdays.
He kicked up the autumn leaves with his good foot, the one the polio had spared, as he limped along. Approaching the bridge, he could see someone sitting under it, a man with his back against the stone retaining wall. The man’s wrinkled suit jacket was thrown over his left shoulder, his hat pulled over his eyes, his head bent forward as if asleep. A twig snapped under Jimmy’s shoe as he came closer startling the man to attention.
The man and Jimmy eyed each other suspiciously.
“What are you doing here?” Jimmy asked.
“Resting,” the man answered. “And waiting for the train. A train still goes by here, doesn’t it?”
“No passenger trains,” Jimmy said.
“A freight?”
“Tomorrow, on Wednesdays.” Given the man’s rumpled look, Jimmy could understand why the freight would be his choice.
“How fast does that freight go by here?” the man asked.
“This time of year, the engine picks up some grain cars off the siding ahead, so some of the cars are standing on the bridge for a while,” Jimmy answered.
An uneasy feeling made Jimmy want to move on. “I got to get going,” Jimmy said, “or I’ll be late for school.”
***
He was still there, leaning against the stone wall, just as Jimmy left him, “Are you the bank robber?” Jimmy asked.
“I consider myself a bank borrower. I’ll give it back when I find a job,” the man said as he painfully shifted positions. His jacket fell from his shoulder revealing a bloody mess on his shirt.
“Yup, they thought they shot you,” Jimmy said. “Miss Simpson, that’s my teacher, said you had a gun and nobody knows who you might shoot. Said if anybody knew anything they should tell, but I didn’t.”
“How come you didn’t tell?”
“Thought, maybe, you were just a hobo.”
The man reached into his pocket pulling out the gun and pointing it at Jimmy.
“This gun?” he said laughing before letting off a shot directed at Jimmy’s head.
“It’s a cap gun,” Jimmy laughed. “You robbed the bank with a toy gun. What are you going to do with the money?”
The man sighed. “Goin’ to buy a burial plot and headstone for my wife. Lost my job and needed the money for a proper burial. They were going to put her in a potter’s field, but I told them I would get the money somehow. She deserves to be buried with dignity. You’re just a kid and don’t understand why this is so important to me, but someday you will.”
“I saved you half of my sandwich from lunch,” Jimmy said handing it over.
“Damn, the best bologna sandwich, I’ve ever had,” the hungry man said as he gobbled it down.
“Want some bubble gum?” Jimmy asked as he unwrapped the package containing the gum and what he was really after, the baseball trading card. He stuffed some of the gum into his mouth.
“Damn, I got this one already. Oh no, my mom would wash my mouth with soap if she knew I said that word,” Jimmy said.
“I won’t tell,” the man said, laughing as one large bubble burst on Jimmy’s face.
“Damn, I can blow a bigger bubble than that,” the man said as they rested their backs against the stone wall.
***
On Wednesday morning, the man was sitting under the bridge as usual. Jimmy handed the man the sandwich he made for him from his lunchbox.
“Thanks kid,” the man said. “I hope you’re learning something from this. Don’t rob any banks or you’ll end up like me, sitting under a bridge waiting for a freight train.”
“I know. See ya,” Jimmy said.
I’m doing the right thing, not telling, he decided as he walked the path to school kicking up the leaves with his good foot as he went along. Two long, one short, one long, always sounded from the train’s horn, every Wednesday when it was at the crossing at the county line as it moved along to someplace west. Then Jimmy would know when the man was gone.
***
That afternoon, the man wasn’t sitting under the bridge. Jimmy heard a whistle and “Kid, kid.”
He looked up to see the man sitting in the open door of one of the boxcars. “Take care of yourself, kid,” the man said and waved.
Jimmy waved back and headed home. By the time he got there, a police car was in the driveway.
“Officer Peters thinks you know something about the bank robbery,” Jimmy’s mother said.
“They never brought him back so we could bury him. He was a hero and nobody knows where he is. Probably laying in somebody’s field.” Jimmy shouted and ran for the door, but Peters grabbed Jimmy by his shoulders before he could get away.
“What’s the matter with you,” Peters shook Jimmy and shouted.
“What’s the matter with him,” Peters looked to Jimmy’s mother.
“His father died in the war. Missing in action,” she said. “We didn’t get to bury him.”
Two long, one short, one long, sounded from the freight train’s horn—the train was now at the crossing at the county line taking the man to someplace west.
Burying someone with dignity meant more to Jimmy than the man would ever know.
- The Man Under the Bridge – 1952 - June 1, 2025
