a fiction from the granville street bridge

there it was – on the bridge waiting for me – a memory i had forgotten about entirely. the despair of an 18-year old girl drenched in december rain – looking over at mid-span and thinking “if i go over with this pack on my back, at least it will weight me to the bottom” – traffic whizzing behind me a whole city indifferent.

only two times in my life have i crossed that bridge on foot – 13 years ago – and tonight. both times heart pounding by the time i reached flat land again. i needed no misery to trigger that memory – just a glance towards the rise where i had once stood and looked down.

how melodramatic i was back then – compelling myself away from the place i had erred to hide in the squats of south granville street with others who were scarred like me – urging ourselves towards greater self-destruction aimless and uneccessary – what force arrested our wills and held them hostage while our bodis endured again and again?

who was she? i can no longer find myself in her – have drained myself of such hopelessness (though there are still some dark places when i poke around the edges) – i try to conjur everything about that night and the day before that brought me there. i remeber later a hotel room where a woman screamed hoarse in the alley all night long and a man gave me $15 to lie beside him while he got himself off. there was nothing so lonely as that woman crying that i had ever heard. the room though, was overwarm and at least i got dry and had a floor to sleep on once i eased myself away from the sleeping man on the bed.

about him – he was no predator, just a lonely old artist who begged in the morning i not tell anyone what he had done (which i had consented to in any case). he lived in the downtown eastside forever making coast salish art for underpaying rich whites and drinking the money away. all he wanted was someone warm close by to stave the loneliness off for just five minutes. i never faulted him for that, and i never told anyone either even though i saw him around all the time. his name i don’t remember anymore (and i believed he passed on years ago).

(i wrote this last night sitting at a bus stop on broadway after crossing the bridge – there was more from here, but i would like to expand on that more before i post it…. take it for what it is – a memory, a fiction, a different life entirely)