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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2075537-Purple-Haired-Punk-Chick
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by Frit Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E · Short Story · Relationship · #2075537
A short story about a troubled guy who ends up on a bridge.
In the apartment main bedroom he lay on his bed with his eyes wide open. He turned onto his side. A few moments later he moved to his front and when that wasn’t working tried his other side. He rolled back onto his back for a few more minutes before he sighed heavily and gave up. He sat up in the bed and looked at the alarm clock which silently blinked “1:03.”

Beside the alarm clock was a framed photo of a woman. She was pretty and smiling with eyes filled with love and happiness. He picked up the picture and held it in his hands. He seemed to see more than just that snapshot, more than that moment in time because after a minute or so he cursed and set the picture face down onto that bed. He rubbed his face as he got up and walked out of the room into the living room.

The TV came to life as he sat on the couch with the remote in his hand and he flipped impatiently through the channels.

He paused on this one movie where a guy and a girl were laughing together, holding hands. He watched them with their sparkling love filled eyes up to the point just before it looked like they were going to start making out. Then he turned the TV off.

He got up and went back to his bedroom where he hauled on some jeans and a shirt. He grabbed his jacket and put his runners on.

Outside it was cold. He walked briskly, oblivious to the moon shining down and the flicker of stars in the sky. He walked down the deserted streets without realizing where he was nor where he was going.

He walked for almost an hour and stopped only when he found himself at the foot of the bridge.

He stepped onto the wooden planks slowly, his eyes drawn to the waters far below. A look of calm replaced the haunted look and he ran his hand along the rail as he made his way farther onto the bridge.

He was nearing the halfway lookout when he heard footsteps coming from the other side of the bridge.

He was annoyed. All he wanted was to be alone and there he saw this purple haired punk chick wandering intrusively towards him with this great big old dog cheerfully walking at her side.

Why did she have to choose that bridge at that time to walk her stupid dog? He stopped at the look out and hoped she would hurry across and leave him to his solitude.

Far down below the water was fast moving and he found himself almost hypnotized by the powerful flow.

“It would be so easy,” he almost heard someone whisper. “So easy…”

He’d almost forgotten about the girl and her dog when he suddenly felt this wet snuffing at his hand.

He turned to see that the purple haired punk chick was standing not 5 feet away and her mutt was sniffing at him.

“Mind if we stop here for a minute?” the girl asked.

“It’s a free country,” he said. He hoped she would get the hint from his tone that it was not all right and she should move on.

“I used to come here a lot when I was younger. Something about this place, time seems to stop.”

What the hell? Now he had to listen to a bunch of drivel from her? The dog snuffed at his hand again and he wanted to push it away but it wasn’t the dog’s fault that its owner was annoying.

He started to pet the dog. It was the kind of dog that probably loved catching Frisbees in the summer, the kind that would play happily by when a person was fishing. It was older but had friendly loving eyes.

“I had a dog once,” he said out loud and then cursed himself for saying it.

“Yeah?” she encouraged.

“Yeah,” he sighed and reluctantly continued. “Her name was Lady. But when we moved to the city we had a very small yard and nobody had time to walk with her and she was unhappy. I had to let her go.”

And suddenly he wasn’t thinking of the dog anymore.

“That sucks. It’s hard to give them up. Just like I have to give up Tarzan here. I mean, I just don’t have a big enough place for him.”

“You have a friend with a farm?” he asked. Lady had gone to a buddy’s farm all those years back.

“No. I have to bring him to the shelter.”

“WHAT!? But he’s too old! People don’t adopt the older dogs they adopt the young ones. He might not get adopted and do you know what they do to the dogs that don’t get adopted?”

He imagined Tarzan, this friendly energetic looking dog, lifeless and being tossed into some dumpster. He was sick with the thought of it.

“I don’t have any other choice. I don’t know anyone here and I just can’t keep him. I’ll just have to hope that someone sees in him what I see.”

“That’s a death sentence.”

“I don’t know what else I can do.”

He looked into Tarzan’s big brown eyes and the solution was clear.

“Better to come home with me,” he said to the dog as they walked together off the bridge and away from that girl.

He wasn’t allowed animals in his apartment so he had to sneak Tarzan in when they got there.

“I’ll take tomorrow off and see if that place is still for rent,” he told Tarzan. He hadn’t wanted to move to the house he’d once been interested in because it was a place that he’d imagined he’d be sharing with someone else. Things had changed, though, and he needed a place that accepted animals and had a back yard and he needed it fast. That house might just work out.

He had no dog food, no nothing, he realized. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day.

In the bedroom he thought he’d best get what sleep he could. 3:11 already? He was exhausted. He sat down on the bed and sat up with a shot. He’d sat right on that picture.

He picked it up and turned it over and started to lose himself in that familiar smiling face when Tarzan interrupted by hopping onto the bed.

“Oh no you don’t. Forget that,” he told the dog. He put the picture away in the top drawer of the dresser and then put some spare blankets on the floor and guided Tarzan onto them.

“You can sleep here tonight.”

The dog listened. What a good dog! And that girl was going to take him to the shelter? Impossible!

*****************************************************

The next morning at the animal shelter was typical in most ways. Sandy, who worked at the front desk, ran through her routine in preparation of opening for the day uneventfully.

When she unlocked the main doors at 8 am she was surprised to see a familiar face waiting just outside.

“Hey. Back so soon?” she said.

“Yeah,” said the purple haired punk chick. “I guess I’m gonna need another one.”
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