Hard Times: Chapter 8 "The Bridge Camp"

The Bridge Camp (Sugar’s Story)



I knew Stone was a unique individual the first time I met him. Most people lose the big picture when they hit the streets. They become self-centered, oriented toward survival and nothing else. Stone was different. I could see that right away. He cared about people. That’s why that dog Cinn found him. Lucky thing too. Stone was green, new to the ways of the road, never been without a home. Stone was right: That dog was a whole lot smarter than he was when it came down to hard traveling. She saw it right off. He needed her and she needed him. He was a different sort of man and she was a different kind of dog.

I’m a dog man myself. We have about six or seven camp dogs and a good dozen cats at any given time. They all have names, they’re all smart enough to survive on their own and I know every one of them dogs. I reckon I spend as much time with dogs as men. I prefer the company of dogs to humans and women to men and I don’t trust no man who doesn’t feel pretty much the same way.

When Stone ended up under the bridge with the rest of us vagabonds I watched him. I could see he went by the rules and he wasn’t afraid of work. He collected stories. Always writing things down on scraps of paper. He was a good listener. That’s one of the things I liked about him. I’m a good talker. One night we found ourselves sitting side by side by the fire and I told him my story: How I came from Indiana looking to find my only son but by the time I got here he was long gone. Vanished without a trace. After that we talked most every night. He’d talk to me about his plans and all the things that worried him. He was always worried about something. I’d tell him my adventures on the road, points of danger and exhilaration, lessons learned and lessons lost. Mostly I tried to teach him the things he needed to know if he was going to survive out there on his own. I taught him slow and easy, by metaphor and allegory, not like a preacher handing down the word from on high.

He was planning to move out with some vague notion of making it to Colorado where he had family. It was pretty much a lame idea but I never told him that. A man should have a goal in mind, some sense of destiny, even if his destiny never gets that far. There was a lot of folks on the road in those days – more than I ever seen before or since. Most of them were good people caught up in hard times. Even a good man can do bad things if he’s desperate enough and there was a lot desperation going around. Other folks were just born to do bad things. They seek you out just to size you up and see if it’s worth taking whatever you got. The man that came into camp was an easy mark but the man that left was wiser and more cautious. He learned a lot by just watching people coming and going, seeing how they acted and knowing who to trust. I’d like to think I helped him along and judging from what I seen and heard since those days I believe I did all right.

When he left that sorry day, late summer I believe it was, I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. He was just another story to be told: a speculation and a mystery. I’d stop at the most peculiar times, tending the garden or building a fence, and wonder where he was and whether or not he actually made a run at the Great Rocky Mountains. There were times I wondered if he was still alive and I’d say a little prayer that he was. I guess you could say he made an impression on me that stayed with me all the way through fall and winter and into the spring when low and behold there he was with his little dog Cinnamon. He was a sight to see. He looked ten years older with long hair and a full beard but his clothes were clean, his belly full and his eyes were full of wonder.

He was traveling on one of those solar crawlers – a nice one stocked with plenty of food and supplies. He was on his way to see his family but he stopped to visit and tell me his story. There was good and bad in it. The bad was he almost died of the sickness that swept through the valley like a plague. I guess every camp lost someone. We lost more than our share. It’s always worse when you lose the young ones and that we did. It made us stronger though. It made us get serious about building our own little village out there in the clearing. We needed shelter from the storm – more than a bridge can offer – and we had plenty of good working folks with the skills to build it.

The good of it was he survived and he met some really good folks along the way. He told me about the farming operation down the road and the troubles they had with the boss. The place supplied much of the city with fruits and vegetables to keep folks from starving, including our camp here. We had our own gardens and greenhouses then and we didn’t take more than we needed but we were grateful for what they gave when we needed it most. Stone was proud of the workers for standing up to the boss and asserting their rights. I gave him a little advice. It seemed to me property rights didn’t hold for much in this new world and no man had a right to profit from desperate times like this man was doing. But seeing as he had a deal with the authorities to provide food to the city folks the workers had to be careful. The cops and the military didn’t answer to much but if they thought their food supply was threatened they just might come down with the hammer of Thor. Stone wondered if it might do some good to talk to the authorities himself and I said it couldn’t do any harm. It might just set their minds at ease a little.

Mostly he talked about a place they called Paradiso – a little Paradise – but Stone called it the Sun Camp owing to the fact that they used the power of the sun for energy. They made solar panels and solar vehicles and they did a hell of job of it too. As I understood it was a community of young people, college kids with wide-eyed ideals and the skills to see them through. Stone said they were well on their way to building a fully self-sufficient community that did no harm to the land they lived on, the water they drank or the air they breathed. I told him we had pretty much the same idea but it was a little further down the road. I could tell the Sun Camp was where he wanted to settle and he was angling like he wanted me to live there too. I felt real good about that but I’d already decided this was my place. I was planted like an old oak tree and the only way to move me was to cut me down.

I was a man without family. My wife left me for a younger man when times were still good. My parents were dead and gone. No aunts, uncles, nephews or nieces to speak of. My only son took off to California never to be seen again. Now this was what I had. I was a part of a community, well liked and respected. The Bridge Camp was my family. At least that’s how I felt then. Not that I feel differently now but the time would come when I felt that old familiar itch to move on. I told Stone I’d be pleased to visit wherever he ended up and I was willing to help any way I could. I told him about the plans we had for our village, showed him the drawings and the blueprints so he could see we was serious, and took him for a little tour. We had most of the walls up for a full-sized community center shaped like a U around a big courtyard. We had several masons in camp and we were building out of bricks we formed from riverbank clay and straw. Stone was pretty much amazed at what we were doing and offered up the idea that we could trade with The Farm and the Sun Camp in such a way that we’d all be better off. I liked that idea and went to work talking it up with the others. That crawler was a real good way of selling the idea of solar energy.

Trade with other communities was something we’d never considered. Never came up. Seems like it should have but it didn’t. I guess because we were the Bridge Camp people thought we didn’t have much to give. Shows what people know. The most valuable things you have are not things at all. In this world things like gold and silver and precious stones don’t amount to much. Not like food and water and a safe place to lay your head. But the most valuable thing people have is knowledge. It don’t matter what you look like or where you’re from or how much coin you got in your pocket, it’s what you know that counts. The Bridge Camp was a goldmine with people who knew how to build things and get things done. We had engineers and carpenters and woodworkers and well drillers and mechanics and plumbers and ditch diggers and anything else you might need. But most of all we had the knowledge of masonry and we made some good strong bricks that would stand up to the worst storm. We had some roofing panels that were first class too.

Stone went on home to see his family but the idea he planted here was already germinating and growing. Pretty soon we sent some folks over to his neighborhood in town to help out there and to let Stone know we were ready and willing to trade. They’d had a tough go in his old neighborhood. What started out as gang trouble ended up as an overreaction by the military. At least that’s how I heard it. The army boys didn’t go to many parties but when they did they went with a purpose. Wiped out the whole lot of that prison gang set loose by the authorities because they couldn’t afford to keep ‘m locked away. Shot ‘m dead and burned down a few houses in the process. Turned out Stone’s house – or the house he took up in – was one of them. So they needed some help rebuilding and we had just the people to do it. When we got there things were a mess. They had this guy telling everyone what to do when he didn’t know how to tie his own shoes. Enough said.

We helped them out as good neighbors with no expectations but they had some things that we could use. For one they had a couple of industrial sized ovens that we put to use baking bricks and roofing tiles. After all they’d been through they put in some time and effort making weapons too and what they came up with was damn sure effective. Some folks are afraid of snakes; I’m afraid of needles. When they showed me that air gun with darts treated with some kind of tranquilizer it sent the shivers running through me. I’ve seen it put a runaway mountain lion down so you can imagine what it does to a man. Stops him cold and lays him out. One man takes it and the rest run like rabbits. No more security problems. Got to hand it to them city boys. They did this one right. We still put up our walls because we figured it was just a matter of time before the criminal element came at us with heavy artillery no matter what the consequences. We had our share of guns and bombs stashed away but we were determined not to use them. I guess that’s the difference between us and them: With them it’s a matter of time. With us it’s a matter of circumstance.

I saw a lot of Stone and his family every time he was staying in town. We worked together, drew up plans together and traded stories just like the old days. We built a baseball field so the kids could play ball. It was hard to find catchers equipment and good hard baseballs but we managed. Went door to door in the neighborhood and people got behind it. We flattened out the field, put up some fences and bleachers, measured out the bases, made a good pitchers mound and put up a hotdog stand. Of course it’s hard to find a good hotdog these days too. That’s one of things I missed. We drew up some teams and started playing games once or twice a week. Gave us all something to think about besides the serious business of getting by.

Sometimes me and Stone would go down to the bridge and camp out. His son was always with him and of course his dog. There was still folks that liked camping out and some were just wanderers so there was always folks under the bridge. We’d sit by the fire, eating canned beans or whatnot, and trade stories with whoever came along. I asked Stone if he was still serious about collecting stories and he said he was. It was just something that came natural to him. His son was just like him in that regard. He’d collect his own stories and share them along with the rest of us. Sometimes it was hard to tell what was what with Denim’s stories – like maybe he elaborated a little more than expected – but they were always pleasing to the ear. He told a long story about some folks on a solar train that was ambushed and ended with two thieves being hanged out there in countryside. I looked at Stone and he just winked. I guess him and Madge figured it was better for a boy to believe that people got hanged for thievery than for no good reason at all.

We got on well. Even when there was nothing in particular going on, he’d stop by to make sure I was all right and to ask if I needed anything. I never did but I appreciated the asking. I wasn’t the leader of the Bridge Camp – not by any reckoning. We didn’t have nor want any leaders. We had men and women that knew a lot about a certain thing and they’d step up to do a job. If things worked out we followed them and took their orders. Along came another job and we’d follow someone else. That’s the way we did things. Sometimes we’d take a vote on some decision that effected everyone and needed deciding. Otherwise we just figured things out as we went along. Still, my friendship with Stone gave me the respect of the camp. Folks tended to listen to me and I listened to them. I guess maybe that’s why I stayed around so long.

The last time I saw Stone they were moving out. He had the whole family on a four-car train loaded up with all they had and a whole lot more for trade. As it happened I was preparing to hit the road myself. I’d been in one place a little too long. Getting a little too comfortable and fixed in my ways. I figured I had one good journey still left in me. They asked of course if I wanted a ride but I had my sights fixed on a northern route. Summers were getting too hot and too long about that time so I thought I might find better climes up north. I was getting pretty close with a dog I called Mr. Jones after an old song nobody remembers and I was all but certain she’d go with me so my path was pretty much laid out. We said our goodbyes and that was that. Wherever I went and whatever I did, if I was lucky enough to live through it, I always knew I’d end up back here in the place I most belonged. And so I did.

As time went by I’d find myself thinking about Stone and Denim and Madge and Cinnamon and their little girl too. She was bright-eyed and pretty as a field of sunflowers. Can’t quite remember her name. I’d wonder what became of them and say a little prayer. I don’t know if there’s a god that listens to prayers or cares a hoot about what we all do but if there is then I’m pretty sure he or she or it or whatever keeps an eye on good folks like Stone and his family. I hope so.

In all my days on this earth – and some would tell you they’re a little more than I deserve – I ain’t never encountered a better man.