Tuesday, March 29, 2005
His Hand Held the Rail
It was 6:30 Thursday night when we drove over the Hoan on the way to watch the game, all of us ready, in some way. Fresh from a shower, empty for food, new cotton against our skin, as ready as the passivity of fandom allows.
We crested the Hoan bridge and saw the white car parked on the wide shoulder to the right. Another car drove ahead of us, to the right. It passed the parked car first. Another car drove farther ahead. We slowed, as the other cars had. And as we turned, like the others had turned, we saw him standing there, outside the shoulder, on the short, thin ledge between the cement abutment and the sky.
He stood dark and dirty, tall against the night, with dark hair and two days' beard on his cheeks. He looked down, like a factory worker checking production, like a fan in the grass seats peering at the stage, like a teacher chalking out a never-ending math equation, like a man pondering all the good times.
And what gave us hope as we drove on, hands searching for a cell phone somewhere under the seats, in a purse, or glove compartment, or jacket pocket, was that he held his hand on the rail next to him. He didn't just stand and ogle at the abyss below, watching it ogle back. His rough, calloused hand held the rail for support, keeping himself standing, upright, for at least the short time we could look and rationalize and hope that he was too.
We crested the Hoan bridge and saw the white car parked on the wide shoulder to the right. Another car drove ahead of us, to the right. It passed the parked car first. Another car drove farther ahead. We slowed, as the other cars had. And as we turned, like the others had turned, we saw him standing there, outside the shoulder, on the short, thin ledge between the cement abutment and the sky.
He stood dark and dirty, tall against the night, with dark hair and two days' beard on his cheeks. He looked down, like a factory worker checking production, like a fan in the grass seats peering at the stage, like a teacher chalking out a never-ending math equation, like a man pondering all the good times.
And what gave us hope as we drove on, hands searching for a cell phone somewhere under the seats, in a purse, or glove compartment, or jacket pocket, was that he held his hand on the rail next to him. He didn't just stand and ogle at the abyss below, watching it ogle back. His rough, calloused hand held the rail for support, keeping himself standing, upright, for at least the short time we could look and rationalize and hope that he was too.
