The Canal Bridge

There's a funny quality to the air on a sunny, cold winter's day. Something about the paleness. Or the way your skin slices through it, the way it encases you and keeps you distinct.

Jack paused at the bridge over the canal. It wasn't that he wanted to stop, but that his legs slowly ceased to move. Sometimes it felt like being a swing that keeps getting pushed from behind, sending it up high, and plunging back down, again and again. And then the pushing would stop and the swing slowly used up its momentum, and gradually came to a stand still.

Jack didn't know where the pushing came from, but it was usually there. When it stopped, he supposed he should feel relief, but mostly he just felt lost.

This short, wide bridge is full of people sitting around in groups on the cobble stones in the summer, occasionally making way for a car or a bike. But now it was nearly empty, and Jack stood looking along the canal.

Maybe it was because of the water. Isn't air always different next to bodies of water? Jack wasn't sure, but there was something peculiar about the air, as if it was peeling away like the bark of an old birch tree, and cracking like the oil of an old painting. It seemed to be pulling him in to its fissures, and as part of him hovered up there, his shoulders dropped a little.

Years ago, he'd walked across the bridge with someone else. Jack hadn't known much about F., but that didn't matter. F. was enthusiastic about life, and seemed to delight in Jack's way of being alive, which Jack carefully presented to best effect. They had gone to a bar further down the bank and talked enthusiastically, drinking the same drink, smoking the same cigarettes. It can be so easy to get someone to like you. But it never really gave the kind of satisfaction Jack was after. The kind where you can relax into the air like a huge rocking chair that will softly push you upright whenever you need it. The only time Jack had sat in a rocking chair was at his grandma's house as a kid, but they hadn't visited very often, and he had been suspicious of it.

The trouble with making someone like you, Jack thought, hovering in the cracks in the air above the canal bridge, is that it's never enough. You can never believe it, because you've created it. But you can't risk what would happen if you would stop trying. Until you get too tired, but then it's usually too late.

Back then, it had been autumn. Jack remembered the leaves, and the air had been a bit denser than it was now. The days must have been shortening already, because Jack remembered the candles in the bar.

In the opposite direction along the canal, there had been summer. Where the wide grass bank sloped up from the water, Jack had sat with C. and a bunch of other people on blankets. The slope had been full of clusters mingling into the gentle dusk. Had it been a birthday of one of C.'s friends, or some kind of celebration? Either way, they were in a large group with pizza, and wine in plastic cups. C. was often in large groups of people, and Jack went along.

It's harder to know what to do in large groups, Jack thought, still drifting in the air. There are too many separate variables to monitor simultaneously. How can you know what effect your words and actions will have on multiple agents, many of whom are only partially familiar? This is a difficult situation to keep in control, and Jack would often retreat into silent observation.

The tricky thing about silent observation is the vague tinge of boredom and resentment at not being part of the group and its mood and jokes, even while rejecting them. Jack called it shyness, and C. was very understanding.

C. liked making plans and filling the time, and following causes that really mattered, because the world is full of things that are unjust, that can burn like a fire inside, and you are responsible to make them better, and make sure you live up to what you've committed to doing about it and what others expect, otherwise you'll disappoint them or yourself or -- you're not sure but it's important that you keep trying and pushing, even if you don't want to. Jack followed the plans, and made the causes important, because Jack was responsible for making sure C. was never disappointed.

The trouble with being responsible for someone else's emotions, Jack thought four feet above himself, looking at the grassy slope, is that it's a lot of pressure. And it never becomes less, because even when you manage to prevent the disappointment, the threat of it never goes away.

Jack felt tired. Floating in the air like this seemed to make everything appear in flat layers that made him slightly dizzy. Jack came back down into himself, and noticed he'd been leaning heavily on the thin iron railing, and his forearms were sore. Looking around, he rubbed them through his thick coat, and started walking home.