The Troy Burroghs Adventures [The Bridge of Latin Ville] #24

The Troy Burroghs Adventures [Impressionist-Traveler]

Episode: #24

The Bridge of Latin Ville

As I sat along side of the bridge I noticed many people wanting to see the bridge, this cool Thursday afternoon. I sat looking over its edge pretending not to notice, or trying not to be too noticed, although I was the only gringo in town until 10 PM or so. I was quite impressed with how many people I counted, maybe 200, which is not bad out of a town of 400. This was a nice bridge; I called it the ‘Good Bridge.”

Actually I was an undercover city employee, hired to do a job by the Mexican government. I knew a little Spanish, like Hola, and adios amigo, y amiga, you know those big words. Also how to get food if I was hungry, I can’t think of it at the moment how to say it, but when I get hungry I’ll figure it out I suppose; when I get hungry, I’ll come back to the paragraph and insert it, in this diary note. As I was saying, or about to say, there were about 200-people that walked across the bridge this Thursday (I just remembered Tengo hombre), well they hired me because I was bilingual, plus I had two degrees; that kind of stuff.

Then I left this bridge and walked to a more notorious area a different bridge: to a bridge called “Unpleasant Bridge” a groovy name, it fits though; out by the nasty marshes, I got out of my Super Jet VW, turned on my music loud: if the blacks can do it back home, I can do it here (so I told myself, plus…), so can the gringo, so I thought, plus, the Mexicanos do also, so I was in like Flynn (so, so, so so…); so here was me playing cool as I walked toward this hum-drum of a bridge, dilapidated.

When I got there I had noticed more rats and crap under the bridge than people, no one was walking across it willingly; but I did notice three small groups: one, people smoking pot and shooting up (under the bridge, and laying down where the creek was, laying in the mud, they had fallen and was too drugged to get back up); two, a blissful drunk with wine bottles in his hands (and he buddies); and third, a group trying to get to the other side, they looked more respectful, maybe trying to get home, a few of the drunks were making faces at them, trying to grab one of the women’s dress as if to scare her. The drunk had left his abode and snuck up to the top of the bridge and tried to pick under her dress; and so I walked among them, under the bridge where most of them were, a-bout twenty or so.

I left early that day I had seen enough, but I came back three days later and went through the whole process of observation again. I was supposed to be taking some kind of a survey to see how to spend the County’s money wisely. But Unpleasant Bridge was always the same, and the only wise money to be spent would be to demolish it, and the Good Bridge was always good, so no need to spend money on something good already, and so I gave my report, not to spend any money, and picked up my check, turned on my music loud, and drove back to Minnesota.

Written: 11/2002 [Reedited: 2/2006] Unpublished