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Castro Bridge Mix #1: First Hand

Sep 27, 2013

“Good sex is like good Bridge.

If you don’t have a good partner,

you’d better have a good hand.”

 —  Mae West


San Francisco, Today

Marc Nesbitt shot through the crowded Montgomery Muni underground station like a human bullet.

Advertising posters, commuters’ determined faces, and fallen newspapers wadded up next to his feet all came into focus for moments and then continued to race past him.  His mind and body were  numb from his frenetic workday, but Marc couldn’t help but be awed by three brand new musical acts carving out a living inside the unsettled belly of the San Francisco rush hour as commuters made their way back home.

Off along the distant east wall of the station, a man sat alone pointing to his empty guitar case.  Adam was always the first familiar human Marc Nesbitt saw on his daily commute home.  The unkempt homeless man’s face was covered in a thick brown hairy moss of overgrown whiskers and he very rarely uttered an unbroken sentence. Although Adam was the subject of several cruel nicknames including “Grizzly Adam” and “One Adam IQ 12”– Marc knew that this man was far more than that. He purposely slowed down and handed Adam half of his lunch for that day. Adam’s sheepish eyes thanked Marc for the sandwich and suddenly fixated on two words detonating inside his mind. “Chill said.”  He banged the right side of his own head against a nearby wall in a futile attempt to stop the incessant pounding of the two words going off like church bells lodged inside his skull.

Marc stood inside the hermetically sealed light and sound vacuum created by the impending arrival of a Muni train headed for the Castro.  Beads of sweat percolated on top of Marc’s shiny forehead.

He was barely able to make out the announcements on the station’s intercom which fought for his attention.  First a computer generated voice, “Approaching outbound. One car K. Two cars LL in five minutes.  One car M in ten minutes.”  Then, within seconds of the train pulling up to the platform, an emotionally charged human voice tore through the air, “San Francisco Police to the outbound Muni platform.”

In his mind, Marc visualized a fan of playing cards encircling a pair of eyes.  The eyes grew more pronounced with every passing moment.  As did the lights of the oncoming train.

Then, with a sudden thrust of his body, Marc found himself on the Muni train tracks. Onlookers were screaming. There was just no time to help this man. A mother shielded her small daughter and looked away as the inevitable event unfolded.

Marc incredulously looked up at the train racing towards him. He had no idea how or why he had ended up this way.

He was going to die.


©  Will Morrison 2013.   All Rights Reserved.

This serial is a work of fiction.  Any similarities between individuals living or dead to those depicted in this publication are purely coincidental.