When they hear the cries, Mark and Juan come to the rail. Mark then goes to the phone, while Juan turns toward the old man. “Weren’t you going to do anything?”
The old man walks over to his table and picks up his iced coffee. “Things happen, nothing can be done about that.”
When the old man returns to the rail, he sees that the drifting boy has managed to latch onto a warning buoy. The boy hugs it while the water rushes over his shoulders and head. He pulls himself high enough for air, but the old man knows the patient current can endure whatever strength the boy possesses. “The current’s too strong.” The old man sips his drink. By the old man’s feet, Juan spits on the floor. “You’re a cold man. That boy’s likely to die.” The old man looks out over the river. “People die for no reason.” He sets his glass on top of the rail and adjusts his cap. “Why don’t you jump off and save him?” Oppositionally, disdainfully, Juan turns silent.
The boy is maintaining his hold, but he has slid lower on the buoy. Mark returns. “There’s people coming.” Juan covers his eyes. “I can’t watch this.” The old man gazes on.
The boy’s grip gives way, and he again begins downstream. When he doesn’t fight, the current is strong enough to hold him up, but when he tries to break free, he is hurled under water and spat farther out toward the middle.
“He’s not going to make it.” Juan twitches. Mark places a hand on his friend’s back.
Bow-high in the air, a motor boat is now soaring down river. The old man sees the boat power down and circle the boy. From the boat, a man tosses a white float into the water several yards ahead of the boy, but the boy cannot reach it. The man pulls it in and tosses it out again, this time nearly hitting the boy’s head. The boy grabs the float. The driver of the boat, to keep it from turning and spinning, maneuvers the small craft. Toward the side of the boat, the other man pulls the boy and, after considerable effort, hoists him aboard.
The short teen sits in the open bow with a blue towel wrapped around him as the driver negotiates against the current to where the boy’s two friends are standing ankle-deep in the river. As the boat approaches, the old man sees the teen shivering under the towel. “He got lucky.”
On a white sleeve, Juan wipes tears. “You’re a pig.” The old man hands Juan his empty glass and places both hands on the rail. “Life and death are matters of pure chance.” The waiter throws the glass over the rail, then points his finger at the old man’s face. He trembles and sputters noises which resemble grunts more than language. The old man looks out over the river. “One man is not enough to save anyone.” Before walking away, Juan scrutinizes the old man as if he were examining evil itself. A few other customers who have drifted into the cafe during the incident are also in need of service. Mark leaves the rail and waits on them.
The old man stands alone. He can hear the driver of the boat yelling at the boy’s friends, cautioning them about swimming in the river, telling what could have been. The old man watches the two boys climb onto the shore. Into the shallow water, the driver steers the boat. The other man tilts the motor, then throws an orange nylon rope. The old man watches the two boys pull in the boat. It runs aground a few feet from shore, and the short teen climbs out. He gathers the rope, hands it to the driver, and pushes the boat back off the bottom and out into deeper water. When the boat drifts far enough, the motor is manually tilted back into place. Before firing it, the driver yells back. “Go on, get on out of here before someone gets killed next time.” The old man sees one of the boys yell but cannot make out what is said. The driver starts the engine, shakes his head, and navigates the boat out into the current. The boat grows smaller and smaller until it is no longer distinguishable.
Juan returns with a glass of iced coffee. The old man takes it from him. “I guess this’ll make the paper. I won’t read the story though; I hate reading stories about heroes.” Juan walks away. The old man carries the drink back to his seat.
In the breeze, his newspaper has blown onto the floor. He sets the glass on the table and then gathers together the paper. The old man sits and looks again at the Cubs box score. The dirge of the flowing water, the compassion of the waiter, the omnipotency of the teens, the afternoon sun, and the box score jumble in his mind, and now, more than forty years too late, the old man remembers the sublimity of that warm August afternoon, before all the fights, before all the hurt, before all the loneliness, before the decades of human error, when his son sat beside him, the two of them eating hotdogs covered in stadium mustard, at Wrigley Field.
I miss your postings.
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