I saw him beneath the bridge.
He hadn't been there when I had passed the path along the river, but as I returned, I saw him leaning on the pale blue steel beam, standing on the platform of the cement footing.
He was wearing a long robe, which from a distance made me think he was homeless, or poor, or at the very least, crazy. But when our eyes met, it suddenly occurred to me that his robe was made of a very fine material, and that this was a man I needed to speak to.
I called out to him, probably something vague, like "Hey!" but it is also possible that it was more of a sound and less of a word. He echoed me, whatever I had said, as if we were both speakers of a secret language. We smiled and I began to approach him.
The bridge was anchored on a shore that was made up of rocks and grass, with cement gorwing up between the cracks. I had to carefully pick my way towards him and he laughed and encouraged me, even when I had to jump over a very deep hole.
"Don't fall in!" he cried and laughed and laughed and cried. Every time I looked up at him, it seemed as if I hadn't gotten any closer to him, yet when I looked back to the path, it seemed as if I were very far indeed. I began to wonder if it was all a joke, his way of reeling me in, to get me to come closer to him across some strange chasm of mystery or danger.
I slipped on some grass that had been growing on the cement ground, scraping my knee and tearing the knee of my jeans. When I looked up, he was there, above me, a close up of his gentle smile.
"You stopped trusting me," he said.
"You stopped seeming trustworthy, " I said, trying to soften it with a laugh.
"Give me your hand, this ground is weaker than we realize," he extended his hand to me, and it seemed old and gnarled and furred. More like a branch from an old tree, covered in moss. I accepted it into my own hand, pulling on it as I raised myself and my bleeding knee. Indeed, the hand was attached to this old man, who seemed stronger than the thin branches I had imagined he was made of.
"Do you always talk to strangers?" he asked, still holding my hand.
"Do you?" I was beginning to regret this encounter. What were we going to do now? Would he lead me to the forested area further down the path? Would I ask to see the edge of the water? Truth be told, I had wanted some form of courage to bring me to look directly at the water. I didn't think this stranger would be that kind of courage, but I was willing to accept him and his form.
I looked directly into his mouth and he said, "Do you like my robe? I'm a performer in a theater troupe, I wear this to get into character,"
I smiled and didn't answer. Was he trying to impress me, now? I felt a little relieved that he was less than magical, less than mysterious, than he was just another human.
"I had thought your robe was magic. It is very elaborate, at the very least, I thought you were too rich to be hanging out under a bridge," we both laughed at this and I was the one who led the both of us in the direction of the water.
"You can borrow it if you are cold," I heard him say as I pressed on towards the edge of the river.
"It's always nice to meet someone who has an appreciation for fine threads," he kept at it, kept after me, kept coming after me in a playful manner, almost skipping on the slippery cement and stones.
Before I knew it, my hand was in the water, and then, my foot. The water was so lovely and the bridge so grand, it was as if the whole day had created a giant sculpture for me to enjoy. Everything was at once moving and still, the clouds, the steel, the cement, and the flowing of the water, and even of his robe, rippling in the wind.
It was only after I turned him into a tree that I noticed my knee was not bleeding, in fact, that it had never been scratched at all. Even my jeans were not torn anymore. I looked up at the robe waving on the branches and tried to remember the words to turn him back into a person.
