Remembering A Man Under A Bridge
*This is my version of a Valentine's Day Honorable Mention.*
His name was Badger. That's what the entire town called him, and he seemed delighted. Badger lived under a bridge on property owned by a power company providing most of the electricity in the area. The land was pretty. He'd chosen a small nook by the water far away from any main road. That area of the bridge was surrounded in giant chunks of fallen and broken concrete. There were river rocks all around, and stacks of coiled copper wire he had scavenged from anywhere he could find it. He'd used these things to build a crude little bungalow lined with plastic to keep out the rain.
I met him in town one day after I left work at the bakery. We were always gifted bread that hadn't sold by the end of the day, and most of us would hand it out to anyone living on the streets of Asheville. Badger was always in town by noon, selling working smoke pipes he'd crafted from his river rocks and copper wire. They were actually quite beautiful, and he made pretty good money. At one of the points in which I was drawn back to the woods (you'll read about my love affair with nature), he taught me basic survival skills. I thought he was a genius, and he never seemed to be interested in leaving the land. I remember there were some college kids who'd stolen a bible he'd kept with him and found pictures of some young boy tucked inside it, along with a folded magazine page from a Seventeen edition that sported a picture of some actor. The rumor started to spread that he was a pedophile, and he was verbally abused every time anyone encountered him afterwards. This made me terribly upset, and I started gathering dead animal remains (bones and feathers and things- not the gross stuff). I began constructing little "art pieces" that looked very witchy and evil, and stalking the group of brats who'd started his persecution. I found one of them living in a modest little apartment building by the highway that ran through the main strip of town. I carefully placed my creations by his door.
I don't know why I did it, and I know it probably didn't do anything but amuse somebody. But in my own head, I figured I'd sent some sort of morbid warning. (The thing sure did look creepy.) In any regard, I decided to live out there with Badger for awhile, finding my own little corner by a cluster of trees nearby. He showed me how to build fire without matches or lighters, and how to stay quite cozy in the winter time. I paid him with various baked goods from work, and we spent long hours at night drinking liquor and talking about philosophy, politics and death, and everything in between. He eventually moved on after his beloved German Shepherd died, and migrated somewhere up north. I still remember how to build a fire from scratch, and I think about him once in awhile when I'm out in the woods alone.
His name was Badger. That's what the entire town called him, and he seemed delighted. Badger lived under a bridge on property owned by a power company providing most of the electricity in the area. The land was pretty. He'd chosen a small nook by the water far away from any main road. That area of the bridge was surrounded in giant chunks of fallen and broken concrete. There were river rocks all around, and stacks of coiled copper wire he had scavenged from anywhere he could find it. He'd used these things to build a crude little bungalow lined with plastic to keep out the rain.
I met him in town one day after I left work at the bakery. We were always gifted bread that hadn't sold by the end of the day, and most of us would hand it out to anyone living on the streets of Asheville. Badger was always in town by noon, selling working smoke pipes he'd crafted from his river rocks and copper wire. They were actually quite beautiful, and he made pretty good money. At one of the points in which I was drawn back to the woods (you'll read about my love affair with nature), he taught me basic survival skills. I thought he was a genius, and he never seemed to be interested in leaving the land. I remember there were some college kids who'd stolen a bible he'd kept with him and found pictures of some young boy tucked inside it, along with a folded magazine page from a Seventeen edition that sported a picture of some actor. The rumor started to spread that he was a pedophile, and he was verbally abused every time anyone encountered him afterwards. This made me terribly upset, and I started gathering dead animal remains (bones and feathers and things- not the gross stuff). I began constructing little "art pieces" that looked very witchy and evil, and stalking the group of brats who'd started his persecution. I found one of them living in a modest little apartment building by the highway that ran through the main strip of town. I carefully placed my creations by his door.
I don't know why I did it, and I know it probably didn't do anything but amuse somebody. But in my own head, I figured I'd sent some sort of morbid warning. (The thing sure did look creepy.) In any regard, I decided to live out there with Badger for awhile, finding my own little corner by a cluster of trees nearby. He showed me how to build fire without matches or lighters, and how to stay quite cozy in the winter time. I paid him with various baked goods from work, and we spent long hours at night drinking liquor and talking about philosophy, politics and death, and everything in between. He eventually moved on after his beloved German Shepherd died, and migrated somewhere up north. I still remember how to build a fire from scratch, and I think about him once in awhile when I'm out in the woods alone.
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