He drove along at a comfortable pace until he reached the Tappan Zee Bridge, where traffic came to a complete stop. The sun shone the day's last rays as he sat flipping radio channels, the car idling. After a while people shut down their engines and stepped out of their cars and stood on the bridge. Some leaned against their vehicles and others walked around on the bridge.
In the other direction cars continued to move. The bridge vibrated and shook.
As one and two and three hours passed, he became restless. For a while he was back in the car with the radio on scrolling a.m. stations, looking for news about an accident (or anything else) south of the bridge that would cause the standstill, but he came up empty. He was tired and wanted to get back on the road toward Philly – he had a ways to go yet and time was not on his side. He decided to ask a guy in the next lane over if he knew what was going on.
"Excuse me."
The guy, a burly white man perhaps thirty years old, sweaty, looked up from where he sat against the driver's side wheel of his Ford pick up. "What's up?"
"Any idea why we're stopped?"
The guy shrugged. And stared.
"Alright then." He turned back to his own car, sat up on the hood.
Two more hours passed, slowly. Vibrations started to bother him. Lack of information bothered him. Some people relieved themselves off to the side, and that bothered him. He relieved himself in an empty Gatorade bottle while crouching uncomfortably in the backseat of his car. Luckily he only had to pee.
Some people seemed like they had become friends with others in neighboring cars. Their attitudes seemed to say "we can't do anything about this, we're stuck, so let's chat it up and laugh and joke around."
He felt bad for families with little kids. He heard some kids crying and it made him feel kinda crazy – he wished he could do something to help them but couldn't think of anything he could offer.
The only person he'd spoken with was the burly guy. He thought of trying to become friends with him just to have something to do, but when he looked over in the guy's direction, he didn't like the look on his face. It seemed like the guy was staring at him with a mean sort of look. He stared back. This went on for a few minutes before he found himself getting angry and decided to do something about it.
"What's up man?"
The burly guy seemed surprised. "Nothing. What's up with you?"
"Why you looking at me like that, chief?"
The burly man stood up. "What the fuck you talkin' about, man?"
"What am I talkin' about? What are you talkin' about? Fuck you, man."
"Son, I'll throw you right off this bridge if you say that again. You best just shut your mouth and mind your own business."
Now they stood in each other's faces, the rage having built up within each of them. Their chests were about an inch apart. If either of them were to make a move, things would get ugly pretty quickly….
Just then he heard someone cheering from up ahead. He and the burly man turned to look. People were getting back into their cars. Traffic was starting to move.
He looked back at the burly man and said, "Sorry about that. I don't know what got into me."
The burly man nodded and got into his truck.
He walked back to his car and wondered what had just happened. It was like he'd been possessed for a few minutes, like something crept up inside and made him want to explode. He chalked it up to nerves, the frustration of being stranded on the bridge. The rest of his drive to Philly was uneventful.
Just a Cup of Coffee
The dogs in the painting hanging from the north wall of Joseph's apartment looked down on Garret and Joseph. The sun shone through the apartment's front windows as the hands of Joseph's grandfather's old clock struck Ten.
"What's going on today?" asked Garret.
Joseph lay on a beaten up, very comfy leather loveseat. "Let's go to a diner."
"Now?"
"Yeah."
"Aramingo?"
"Nah."
"Acropolis?"
"It closed."
"Oh yeah, I forgot. Bummer."
"Huge bummer."
"Hmm. Spring Garden Restaurant?"
"I was just there."
"Mugshot?"
"The coffee shop?"
"No, the diner on York."
"Haven't been yet."
"Let's check it out."
Joseph shook his head. "I don't feel like trying a new place."
"We could bike to South Philly. Oregon, Broad, Melrose, Penrose…."
"Penrose? You crazy? I love it, but dude we're in Fishtown. You realize how far that is?"
Garret threw his hands into the air. "Okay, I give up. Pick one or let's just hang here."
"Let's go to Aramingo."
"Dude, that's the first one I said."
Fifteen minutes later, a white haired waitress stood before them in a shirt a little too tight and a little too low cut. The decade could've been any of the last six – nobody there would know the difference.
"Eggs over easy, bacon, potatoes, white toast, small stack on the side. Coffee, small orange juice, water please."
The waitress seemed to absorb Garret's order. She looked at Joseph.
"Coffee, black."
"That's it?" asked the waitress.
"Yeah, Joe, that's it?" Garret prodded, surprised.
"Yes please."
The waitress traipsed away from their table and checked in on another.
"Whadja wanna come to a diner for if all you want is coffee? We coulda made coffee at your apartment."
"Dunno. I just wanted to get out."
The walls around them listened on as they spoke of nothing important. The world and all of its problems, those of the '50s and the aughts and those of today, were far away and almost unreal. People in booths and at tables around them touched their forks to plates of scrapple and chipped beef and waffles and looked at each other and talked about family and friends and their dreams.
Garret and Joseph finished up and rode back to Joseph's apartment and didn't do much for the rest of the day. They weren't hungover or jaded or depressed, but content to just be. Joseph looked for a while at the painting of dogs on his wall. He'd never noticed a faint smile on the face of a sitting beagle.
"What's going on today?" asked Garret.
Joseph lay on a beaten up, very comfy leather loveseat. "Let's go to a diner."
"Now?"
"Yeah."
"Aramingo?"
"Nah."
"Acropolis?"
"It closed."
"Oh yeah, I forgot. Bummer."
"Huge bummer."
"Hmm. Spring Garden Restaurant?"
"I was just there."
"Mugshot?"
"The coffee shop?"
"No, the diner on York."
"Haven't been yet."
"Let's check it out."
Joseph shook his head. "I don't feel like trying a new place."
"We could bike to South Philly. Oregon, Broad, Melrose, Penrose…."
"Penrose? You crazy? I love it, but dude we're in Fishtown. You realize how far that is?"
Garret threw his hands into the air. "Okay, I give up. Pick one or let's just hang here."
"Let's go to Aramingo."
"Dude, that's the first one I said."
Fifteen minutes later, a white haired waitress stood before them in a shirt a little too tight and a little too low cut. The decade could've been any of the last six – nobody there would know the difference.
"Eggs over easy, bacon, potatoes, white toast, small stack on the side. Coffee, small orange juice, water please."
The waitress seemed to absorb Garret's order. She looked at Joseph.
"Coffee, black."
"That's it?" asked the waitress.
"Yeah, Joe, that's it?" Garret prodded, surprised.
"Yes please."
The waitress traipsed away from their table and checked in on another.
"Whadja wanna come to a diner for if all you want is coffee? We coulda made coffee at your apartment."
"Dunno. I just wanted to get out."
The walls around them listened on as they spoke of nothing important. The world and all of its problems, those of the '50s and the aughts and those of today, were far away and almost unreal. People in booths and at tables around them touched their forks to plates of scrapple and chipped beef and waffles and looked at each other and talked about family and friends and their dreams.
Garret and Joseph finished up and rode back to Joseph's apartment and didn't do much for the rest of the day. They weren't hungover or jaded or depressed, but content to just be. Joseph looked for a while at the painting of dogs on his wall. He'd never noticed a faint smile on the face of a sitting beagle.
Freakish Growth
No logical explanation existed for the unique life of an apple tree beside Righteous Pond. It grew taller and sprawled wider than any tree of any kind before it or since. And it nearly drained and destroyed the pond.
The tree seemed innocent enough at first. It soaked up the sun, drank in the rain through its roots, and grew at a pace consistent with its surroundings. Apples fell to the ground and into the pond and didn't much bother a thing. The tree reached a typical twelve foot height and could have lived out its days at that size.
But this apple tree developed something other plant life lacked. Its branches liked growing. Its roots enjoyed drinking. When its natural growth slowed, the branches reached out still farther. When the roots felt thirsty, they dug themselves deeper. Eventually the roots broke through the bank of Righteous Pond and tapped into more water than the most torrential of rain storms ever brought. With this new access, the tree learned to manage its own growth.
Around the time of the tree's fiftieth birthday, it was already bigger than any apple tree in history, over forty feet tall and equally wide in its wing span. Gradually the branches spread out over the pond. The more it grew, the more its growth rate increased, and the more this escalation in growth rate became essential to its happiness. By the time it turned one hundred years old, it was taller and reached wider than any California redwood, defying nature with its freakish size. Its apples grew in size concordantly with its body, falling like small boulders onto the ground and into the pond.
By year one hundred and fifty, its growth was no longer sustainable. It had nearly drunk the pond dry. Branches hung low, strained by the weight of heavy apples, and began to split and snap off. The tree's trunk leaned over the pond and its roots could no longer support it. It was only a matter of time, it was always a matter of time, and one day the tree collapsed, uprooted, and fell into what was left of Righteous Pond.
In the years thereafter, the pond was lucky enough to slowly refill. Water surrounding the dead tree gradually caused the wood to wither away, erasing any evidence of its existence.
The tree seemed innocent enough at first. It soaked up the sun, drank in the rain through its roots, and grew at a pace consistent with its surroundings. Apples fell to the ground and into the pond and didn't much bother a thing. The tree reached a typical twelve foot height and could have lived out its days at that size.
But this apple tree developed something other plant life lacked. Its branches liked growing. Its roots enjoyed drinking. When its natural growth slowed, the branches reached out still farther. When the roots felt thirsty, they dug themselves deeper. Eventually the roots broke through the bank of Righteous Pond and tapped into more water than the most torrential of rain storms ever brought. With this new access, the tree learned to manage its own growth.
Around the time of the tree's fiftieth birthday, it was already bigger than any apple tree in history, over forty feet tall and equally wide in its wing span. Gradually the branches spread out over the pond. The more it grew, the more its growth rate increased, and the more this escalation in growth rate became essential to its happiness. By the time it turned one hundred years old, it was taller and reached wider than any California redwood, defying nature with its freakish size. Its apples grew in size concordantly with its body, falling like small boulders onto the ground and into the pond.
By year one hundred and fifty, its growth was no longer sustainable. It had nearly drunk the pond dry. Branches hung low, strained by the weight of heavy apples, and began to split and snap off. The tree's trunk leaned over the pond and its roots could no longer support it. It was only a matter of time, it was always a matter of time, and one day the tree collapsed, uprooted, and fell into what was left of Righteous Pond.
In the years thereafter, the pond was lucky enough to slowly refill. Water surrounding the dead tree gradually caused the wood to wither away, erasing any evidence of its existence.
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