their wanting to bring in new acts as about Arthur’s age or health.
Still, it was the man’s tone and manner—as if his life were effectively over—that bothered Eddie. And when he talked about starting over, “like in Brooklyn”—Arthur wasn’t from Brooklyn, was he? And “better to be out of the picture”—what the hell did that mean?
Eddie walked on, and it wasn’t for another ten minutes that it came back to him: the story Arthur had once told him about how he’d gotten his start as a high diver, how he’d made a name for himself.
He had jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge.
Eddie made a fast about-face. Arthur was now a distant figure making his way up Palisade Avenue, already having passed the strip of roadhouses and hot-dog stands, like Costa’s and Hiram’s, on each side of the street.
Eddie knew with a cold certainty that there was only one place he could be heading and began hurrying after his friend. He called out to him, but either Eddie was too far away or Holden chose not to hear. Eddie quickened his pace, trying to close the gap between them.
Arthur veered to the right, onto a side street.
Eddie ran as if he had a railroad bull hot on his heels. When he finally turned onto that same side street, he knew, of course, what he would see.
He was standing on the shoulder of the concourse that led to the George Washington Bridge, its latticed steel tower looking uncomfortably like a memorial arch in a fools’ graveyard.
Scores of cars were being funneled through that arch. Amid the noise and commotion, Eddie saw no sign of Arthur; but there was only one place he could have gone.
Eddie ran up to the bridge, flipped a dime into the toll booth for the pedestrian toll, and hurried up the walkway on the right. He had no idea whether Arthur had taken the right-hand path or the left, so he tried to take in as much of the other side of the bridge as he could through the shifting kaleidoscope of cars whizzing by on the roadway.
Eddie had to stop for breath a few times, having been running flat-out for the past fifteen minutes, but when he was a third of the way across the bridge he saw someone up ahead at about the halfway point—standing at the low pedestrian railing, looking down at the river below.
Eddie redoubled his pace as, up ahead, Arthur began peeling off his clothes, stepping out of his shoes, unbuttoning his shirt.
“Art! No!” Eddie shouted over the traffic noise.
Somehow Arthur heard him and looked up—but though he appeared surprised to see Eddie, it didn’t give him any pause. He shrugged off his shirt and began unbuckling his belt.
“Jesus, Art!” Eddie cried again, drawing closer. “Don’t do it!”
Arthur’s trousers fell, revealing his white diving trunks underneath.
“Eddie,” he called out, “I’ve got to!”
Arthur stepped out of his trousers just as Eddie ran up, winded and pleading, “Art, please, it’s got to be a three-hundred-foot drop from here!”
“Oh no,” Holden corrected him, “only two hundred and fifty-seven.”
“You’ll be killed, is that what you want?”
“No, no! I’m just going to show the Rosenthals I’ve still got what it takes, that’s all. Like when I jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“Yeah? How high was that?” Eddie asked, stalling desperately.
“Hundred and nineteen feet.”
“My God, Art, this is twice as high!”
“Well,” Arthur said brightly, “I’m twice as good as I was then.”
Eddie was groping for a reply when he heard the wail of a siren and turned to see a police car weaving in and out of the bridge traffic, cutting off at least two cars before it pulled to the shoulder with a squeal of brakes, just feet from where Arthur stood. A uniformed cop immediately jumped out of the car and called out: “Mr. Holden, stop! Fred Stengel, Fort Lee Police!”
“Aw, hell,” Arthur said dejectedly, “what is this, a convention?”
“Don’t do it,” the officer told him as he approached. “Your wife
Still, it was the man’s tone and manner—as if his life were effectively over—that bothered Eddie. And when he talked about starting over, “like in Brooklyn”—Arthur wasn’t from Brooklyn, was he? And “better to be out of the picture”—what the hell did that mean?
Eddie walked on, and it wasn’t for another ten minutes that it came back to him: the story Arthur had once told him about how he’d gotten his start as a high diver, how he’d made a name for himself.
He had jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge.
Eddie made a fast about-face. Arthur was now a distant figure making his way up Palisade Avenue, already having passed the strip of roadhouses and hot-dog stands, like Costa’s and Hiram’s, on each side of the street.
Eddie knew with a cold certainty that there was only one place he could be heading and began hurrying after his friend. He called out to him, but either Eddie was too far away or Holden chose not to hear. Eddie quickened his pace, trying to close the gap between them.
Arthur veered to the right, onto a side street.
Eddie ran as if he had a railroad bull hot on his heels. When he finally turned onto that same side street, he knew, of course, what he would see.
He was standing on the shoulder of the concourse that led to the George Washington Bridge, its latticed steel tower looking uncomfortably like a memorial arch in a fools’ graveyard.
Scores of cars were being funneled through that arch. Amid the noise and commotion, Eddie saw no sign of Arthur; but there was only one place he could have gone.
Eddie ran up to the bridge, flipped a dime into the toll booth for the pedestrian toll, and hurried up the walkway on the right. He had no idea whether Arthur had taken the right-hand path or the left, so he tried to take in as much of the other side of the bridge as he could through the shifting kaleidoscope of cars whizzing by on the roadway.
Eddie had to stop for breath a few times, having been running flat-out for the past fifteen minutes, but when he was a third of the way across the bridge he saw someone up ahead at about the halfway point—standing at the low pedestrian railing, looking down at the river below.
Eddie redoubled his pace as, up ahead, Arthur began peeling off his clothes, stepping out of his shoes, unbuttoning his shirt.
“Art! No!” Eddie shouted over the traffic noise.
Somehow Arthur heard him and looked up—but though he appeared surprised to see Eddie, it didn’t give him any pause. He shrugged off his shirt and began unbuckling his belt.
“Jesus, Art!” Eddie cried again, drawing closer. “Don’t do it!”
Arthur’s trousers fell, revealing his white diving trunks underneath.
“Eddie,” he called out, “I’ve got to!”
Arthur stepped out of his trousers just as Eddie ran up, winded and pleading, “Art, please, it’s got to be a three-hundred-foot drop from here!”
“Oh no,” Holden corrected him, “only two hundred and fifty-seven.”
“You’ll be killed, is that what you want?”
“No, no! I’m just going to show the Rosenthals I’ve still got what it takes, that’s all. Like when I jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“Yeah? How high was that?” Eddie asked, stalling desperately.
“Hundred and nineteen feet.”
“My God, Art, this is twice as high!”
“Well,” Arthur said brightly, “I’m twice as good as I was then.”
Eddie was groping for a reply when he heard the wail of a siren and turned to see a police car weaving in and out of the bridge traffic, cutting off at least two cars before it pulled to the shoulder with a squeal of brakes, just feet from where Arthur stood. A uniformed cop immediately jumped out of the car and called out: “Mr. Holden, stop! Fred Stengel, Fort Lee Police!”
“Aw, hell,” Arthur said dejectedly, “what is this, a convention?”
“Don’t do it,” the officer told him as he approached. “Your wife
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