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Big Apple Bridges

Drew Marshall

    Alan left the Daily News behind, having made a quick departure back to his midtown office at the MGM/UA studios, for a late-night conference call with some big shots on the West Coast. Alan Esposito was a Harvard educated entertainment attorney who has been acting as my literary agent for the past year, trying to sell my screenplays.
    I ordered, then quickly downed my fifth shot of cognac for the evening, like the functioning alcoholic that I was, and skimmed through the day’s headlines.
Walter Mondale, former Vice-President under Jimmy Carter, had announced his pick for vice president. She was Queens native, Geraldine Ferraro, serving in the House of Representatives. This was history in the making. She would be the first woman from a major party to run on a national ticket.
    I left the bar-restaurant and headed over to the Lexington Avenue subway for the long trip back to my small apartment in Astoria, located in Northern Queens. A section of which, was in fact, part of Ms. Ferraro’s turf as a legislator.
    A light rain started falling as I approached the subway entrance. An attractive young couple coming up the stairs, told me both the E and F trains were down, and there was no service back to Queens. I continued underground to confirm this with the transit clerk inside the token booth. A power line was down and the senior man in the compartment did not know when service would be restored. I decided to head over to First Avenue and fifty-ninth street to catch the Q60 bus back to Queens. The rain became heavier as I reached the bus stop.
    The stop was by the Roosevelt Island tram, nestled next to the Queensboro Bridge. I wore my protective camouflage, a suit and tie that was required of me as a paralegal at the Wall Street law firm where I was employed. I had no hat or umbrella to guard me against the crying skies.
    On an inebriated whim, I decided I should walk across the bridge and then catch the bus or call a cab, upon reaching the other side. The 59th Street Bridge, as native New Yorkers called it, was about three quarters of a mile long. The structure was completed in 1909.
    This bridge had no pedestrian walkway or bicycle path as the marvelous Brooklyn Bridge has. I’ve crossed that magnificent cable-stayed-suspension bridge by foot and vehicle many times. Just a few weeks ago during my lunch hour, I climbed over the promenade railing on the Manhattan side, sat on a rock directly underneath the bridge, and enjoyed my midday meal.
    After divorcing his second wife, my best friend Ben moved to Bay Ridge in Brooklyn. He was several blocks from the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge, the longest suspension bridge in America. It connected the southwestern section of Brooklyn to Staten Island. We would walk along the promenade and park ourselves directly under the bridge. Ben and I would stare up in awe and wide-eyed wonder at it’s charismatic, overwhelming presence.
    A bridge is much more than the sum of its parts needed for construction. Bridges like these were testaments to our imagination, skills, knowledge of engineering, architecture, discipline and will power to succeed and progress.
    It must have not been too difficult, but I can’t remember how I was able to get onto the upper level of the bridge. A bridge that has been immortalized in song by popular singing duo and New York City natives, Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel.
    I surveyed the terrain before embarking on my journey across the river. The wind had increased somewhat since I was last at street level. I held on to the railing on my right side and walked along at a casual pace, while the cars blew by me, several feet to my left. The space allotted me to walk over, was about five feet wide.
    At the halfway point, I stopped to catch my breath and admire the view. The city was lit up like bright stars in space and blasted through the mist that had settled in. It was always a thrilling experience to look down at this city from atop the observation deck at the World Trade Center, but this was exhilarating. I felt like the captain on a ship leaving port, sailing away towards an enthralling, ocean escapade. I absorbed the mesmerizing panoramic view feeling vibrant and fully alive, my senses operating at full blast, totally enraptured.
    This is a dark, dangerous, contradictory city, that’s condemned to corruption, pollution and decadence. A metropolis smothered in fear, finance, and frustration, yet one that is laced with hope, dreams and endless opportunities. For a fleeting moment, this native son was one with it all. In tune with it’s tempo, in sync with its pulsating rhythms. I was on top of this town for a change, instead of being on the bottom looking up.
    Then I made the mistake of peering over the railing and looking straight down. I remember reading it was about three hundred and fifty feet above sea level. It looked a helluva lot more than that. It seemed to stretch for miles. An aggressive gust of wind attacked me from behind in an attempt to push me over the side. I tightened my grip on the railing with my right hand and grabbed hold of a vertical cable next to me, with my left hand. The invisible attacker then quickly took off. I continued holding on for dear life, another minute or two, before relaxing my grip.
    I steadied myself and soldiered on, quickly but cautiously, hoping the ill wind had permanently retreated for the evening. I was stone cold sober at this point. My only goal was to get back to solid ground.
    I was now in downtown Queens, also known as Long Island City.
The rain had stopped and the wind had all but disappeared. I headed out of the isolated area by the base of the bridge, in order to meet up with a payphone. I abandoned the idea of catching the bus and would take a cab back to my home.
    Factories, fast food joints, and topless bars littered the streets here. I was well acquainted with the area. I had worked in a wholesale records, tapes and videos warehouse nearby for a few years, before attaining my present position.
    For a moment I was somewhat surprised but not altogether disappointed that there weren’t a few police cars waiting for me upon my return to dry land, or at least a few men in white coats with nets, ready to scoop me up and deposit me at the nearest psych ward.
    Thinking perhaps some good citizen speeding by in one of those vehicles decided to stop and call the authorities, to notify them that some lunatic in a brown suit was traipsing around the bridge. Or, perhaps some sorry, sullen, sap had decided he was going to kill himself by jumping off the bridge or in front of one of the vehicles of a passing motorist.
    On the drive back I kept thinking about that spectacular scene from Tarzan’s New York Adventure movie, starring Johnny Weissmuller as Tarzan the Ape Man. His son Boy is kidnapped by circus promoters
and taken back to the Big Apple, to be put on display and exploited. Tarzan
and Jane travel to Fun City to retrieve Boy and take him back to the jungle.
    Tarzan winds up being hunted by the police and bolts a taxi while on the Brooklyn Bridge, as the cops are closing in on him. He climbs to the top of the bridge and dives into the river, two hundred feet below, to avoid being arrested. We know that in real life Weissmuller was a champion, Olympic swimmer with five gold medals to his name, along with setting several freestyle swimming records. The magic trickery of special effects in films should remain just that, a mystery.
    I would be thirty years old at the end of this year. I’ve always had a rebellious and daredevil streak in me, but I realized by the time I arrived in Astoria, what a stupid stunt I had pulled. I was just plain lucky that I could recount this tale from the safety of my home, and not a watery grave.

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