Falling Man

My Pa, a riveter by trade, died building the Golden Gate Bridge. On Feb. 17, 1937, his work scaffold collapsed. They had stretched a safety net under the floor of the bridge from end to end, but it was only capable of catching men and their tools. It had saved 19 men from a cold drowning. Those lucky ones, they laughed and called themselves the “Halfway to Hell” club.

But my Pa’s scaffold was too heavy, and it broke clean through the net, carrying him and ten others down into the freezing, salty strait.Three months later, when they opened the bridge to pedestrian traffic, my mother put on her Easter bonnet and best shoes and took us kids to walk “that bridge.” All the Golden Gate widows were given a place of honor beside the mayor on a platform, and in the warm spring sunshine with a cheering crowd, the bridge boss, Smiling Joe Strauss, called out the names of the men who had died “giving California this greatest of gifts.”

We walked the bridge, and my mother pointed to the soaring red towers, each with 600,000 rivets, she said, put in place by men like my Pa, by their sweat and arms as hard as balcony railings.“It’s a modern marvel,” everyone said, and they posed for happy photographs.

I wanted to love the bridge, then and ever since. But all I can see of it is cold unyielding steel and a falling man pleading with the sky.

Game On

He’s sitting on the curb, Mr. Bigshot Jimmy McLean, cleaning his fingernails, legs all stretched out so everyone can see he’s wearing Air Jordans. All Teeny and me want to do is play our hopscotch, but his big feet are sitting on the square marked “HOME.”
He’s got the whole street to sit, so why does he have to pick our hopscotch place? That’s like being at the movies, and the whole room is empty but some tall guy comes and sits right in front of you.
I am 13 now, and Teeny’s 12-and-a-half. My father says we're too old for hopscotch, but we like it. Teeny likes balancing on one foot while she bends down to pick up her stone. I like drawing with a different colored piece of chalk for every square: pink for 7, blue for 6, green for 4 and white for the rest. Mr. Bigshot Jimmy McLean has rubbed away the letter “E” in “HOME” with the heels of his fancy stolen shoes. I know they're stolen because two days ago he told Teeny’s brother’s girlfriend he was too broke to buy her a cherry Coke.
Teeny's standing arms akimbo now, giving Mr. Bigshot Jimmy McLean her eat-shit-and-die look, but he ain’t paying no mind. He just goes on cleaning his big ugly nails, sliding the index fingernail on his right hand under the left hand nails and flinging pieces of dirt down on the street. Down on our number 2 hopscotch square. Teeny steps in closer, in fingernail flicking range.
“Move off, you lesbo bitch,” says Mr. BJM.
“That would be your Momma you talkin’ about,” Teeny says.
The picking stops and I sense the edge of something dangerous is about to pop out of Teeny’s anger vault. I think Jimmy does, too. I think he doesn’t want to tangle with a female reform school reject.
“So how about a game?” he says, all casual and friendly now. He stands, moves to the HOME square of the hopscotch grid and looks at me.
I toss him the chalk and say, “Here. Think you can remember how to print the letter “E?”