“Let’s take a walk down by the river,” came the suggestion from my wife. “Do what?” says I.“You heard me. It’s like the most beautiful day that’s ever been. We can actually walk outside for more than five minutes and not need a shower.” (I listened patiently, forming useless objections in my mind)
“The sky is deep blue again,” she continued. “Not that hazy white heat that always makes us think about taking a trip to Canada, which we never do.” She was on a roll; I hated to admit. I had nothing, until I spotted what looked like female golfers in High Def. “But women’s golf is on,” came my shallow attempt at avoidance.
She looked suspiciously at the TV. “Who’s the blond?”
“Not sure, I think her name is Natalie something.”
“So if this is day two, I guess that mean there are more days to follow? No way. You said when the PGA was over that was it for the year. ‘The last shot at glory,’ was all I heard for four days!” Thirty minutes later we were walking from our car towards that Big Dam Bridge.
“So how far you want to go?” she asked me. “How bout to here,” I said. We’d walked about twenty yards. No comment. “OK,” I tried again. “I haven’t been up on that bridge since it opened, let’s go up there.”
“Deal,” she said. As we walked some guy passed us on one of those adult tricycles. He had a helmet and a long pole sticking up with a flag on top, for low-flying airplanes I guessed.
We saw the big houses above us, built at our old high school hangout known as Overlook Park, the place where all the kids from St. Mary’s and Catholic went on Friday nights back in the seventies, until some mean old city fathers put up a barricade. After that we ended up at any kid’s house whose parents were dumb enough to either allow it, or be out of town with a teenager living at home. In later years, I heard the kids were gathering at Murray Park, which was where our kids used to go - the circle of life. I pointed up to Overlook. “Remember the fun we use to have up there?”
“Sure do.”
Some joggers went by, breathing hard and glistening under the late sun. We came to the wooden bridge, and both remembered seeing rats swimming below one time, in the bayou-looking muddy water. There was nothing there now but some driftwood and an old tire. Two girls stood on the bridge, taking pictures. A walker coming towards us looked out of place, wearing street clothes and loafers. He reminded me of Dirty Man, the name our kids, years ago, gave to the scraggly homeless guy that walks all over the city.
The intern we once had at the paper, Liz Lemon, had mentioned him when we were having her farewell dinner at Juanita’s. “I saw Brown Walking Man the other day in Walgreens,” Liz said.
“Who?” I asked her.
“You know, the scraggly homeless guy you see walking everywhere around the city.”
“You mean Dirty Man?”
“I heard he was in a witness protection program,” someone said.
“No, he used to be on a soap opera until they killed his character off and he never recovered.”
The legends grow.
Kathy and I came to the Big Dam Bridge, but still had a ways to go to get to the entrance. When we got to its apex, we sat on a bench and enjoyed the breeze. Kathy stood and looked over the side. “See any gators?”
“There aren’t alligators in there,” she said, almost asking.
“Just 500-pounders that would swallow you whole.”
She looked again and I grabbed her leg, doing my best imitation of an alligator growl, which got her to shriek, and people to look.
I won’t tell you what she said next. “Just for that you can walk back alone to the car and pick me up on this side.” And that is pretty much what I did.