By Randy Haglund
I’ve never been a cop, but I felt like one that night as I radioed in.
Me: “KXG-575 this is 53, come in please.”
Dispatcher: “Go ahead 53.”
Me: “Looks like we have a jumper on the Monroe Street Bridge.”
It may surprise you to know the conversation above took place as I returned to the Flour Mill after delivering pizzas to the south hill of Spokane. In 1978, pizza delivery men didn’t drive their own cars with a magnetized sign on the top like they do now. Pizza Haven deployed a fleet of six Chevy C-10 pickups. We didn’t need insulated bags to keep the pizza warm; a propane-powered oven on the back kept them piping hot. Nobody had even heard of a cell phone, we were radio-dispatched.
As I headed north across the Monroe Street Bridge I saw a man standing on the concrete rail with his arms outstretched, one foot in front of the other like one of The Great Wallendas. Only not as stable. I didn’t know if he was drunk, high, or a thrill seeker of some kind. As I pulled over, I told Donna, my dispatcher, to call the police.
140 feet below, the lower Spokane Falls discharged 16,000 cubic feet of water per second. It’s a popular spot to end one’s life. I had never been trained for a situation like this, but I instinctively knew alarming the man might just make him the next Monroe Street Bridge statistic. I didn’t need that on my conscience.
Getting out of my truck, I walked to the back and casually rested my elbows on the side of the bed. Well, I tried to appear casual, anyway. I was going for Charles Bronson, when in reality my heart beat faster than Thumper’s twitterpated left foot.
Staying about twenty feet away, I asked, “Whatcha doin’?” I tried not to stutter.
He barely glanced up, concentrating while he took another step. “Walking across the bridge.” His hands wobbled up and down as he held his balance.
“You’re doing it the hard way.”
“Oh, I do this all the time,” he said, his voice as shaky as his steps.
I found that hard to believe. “What are you going to do when you get over to there?” I asked, pointing to the concrete kiosk blocking his progress about ten feet ahead. The bridge has four such kiosks, complete with iconic sculptures of bison skulls. I knew he would have to go around it, so I hoped he would say he’d simply hop down when he got to it. I thought this might be an opportunity to suggest he might hop down right now. If he did, then I could detain him until the police arrived—which I hoped would be any second.
But my question must have caused him to lose focus, because he began to wobble even more than before, teetering this way and that. I sprinted toward him—but it was too late.
He fell.
To my relief, he fell to his left, becoming a pathetic pile of humanity on the sidewalk. I laid my entire mass on top of him, not willing to let him get up again. He didn’t resist, but I did feel his body heave beneath me. When I looked at his face, I saw him bawling.
Through sobs, he blubbered, “Everyone else just drives by. You’re the only one that cares!”
At that moment, the only thing I cared about was if the cops were showing up or not. Right then, a police car pulled up behind my truck, and two officers got out.
I got to my feet, but before I could explain what happened, one of them said, “Arnold, Arnold. What are you doing now?”
Apparently Arnold had a reputation.
The two police officers helped him to his feet as he pointed to me and wailed, “This man saved my life!”
They escorted him to the back seat of their awaiting patrol car as he continued to blubber, and they tried to calm him down with soothing words. “It’s okay now, Arnold. Everything’s okay.”
One of the officers turned to me and said, “We’ll take it from here.”
Stunned, I watched as they drove off. I had expected one of them to get out a note pad and pencil and start asking me questions, but they never even asked for my name. So far as I know they didn’t arrest Arnold. I got the impression they were going to take him home.
Joe Friday they were not.
As I returned to the truck and headed back to the Flour Mill, I concluded Arnold was a man desperate for attention. But he was right about one thing. I don’t know how many came before me, but dozens of people drove right on by after I arrived, not willing to interfere. Like the priest and Levite on the road to Jericho[1], they steered clear of trouble.
But what had I done? Regardless of Arnold’s exclamation, I didn’t feel like I saved his life, though I wanted to. And I have often wondered about him since. What happened to him? I wish I could have communicated a message of hope to him.
Hey, Arnold. If you’re out there, give me a jingle.
***
Have you ever tried to help a
stranger? How did it turn out? Tell us about it.
[1] Luke 10:30-37
Great story! And great writing Randy!
Thanks, Verna!
I love the story. You’re a good storyteller and writer! This was fun and suspenseful, and had a happy ending (phew). The pictures, along with your comments, made me laugh. Good one, Randy.
Kathryn
Thank you. I appreciate the input.
Great story and certainly frightening. Love that bridge. As kids, we loved to help push cars stuck in the snow, shovel old folks’ walkways for a dime or nothing. Its a dangerous world now and you have to think twice before stopping to help change a tire or offer some other help. One very early morning I was driving to work on the Spokane Indian reservation. On highway 231 (between Ford and Reardan, WA) just south of the Spokane River, I passed a man walking north. Looking back, I saw his denim vest and shirt had a big hole burnt through. I looked around for a wreck and then turned around and stopped to offer help. He said his friends had wrecked somewhere oh the highway from Reardan after a night of drinking. He had no idea about them but wanted to go home. I drove him up to Ford and then onto the reservation to his home near Wellpinit. Four years working on the res; I have lots of similar stories. Life is rough for some.
Gripping story Randy. Just the help you gave that man might have been a turning point in his life – you never know!
I don’t know, but I sure would like to talk to him again!
The most heroic situation I can remember is when I was a young adult in the grocery store and spotted a female teenager pocketing a package of tampons. I thought certainly she will produce them at the checkout counter. When I realized she had other plans, I thought perhaps she just can’t afford certain necessities in life.
Here is where the heroism takes place. My heart pounding in fear of the danger ahead, I walked up to her. I told her I thought some things were just too expensive these days and would love to buy the tampons for her. Ready for it? She looked at me like I was a nutso but knew she was busted.
I had to stick my neck out; I had to risk it. Afterall, I was saving her life–from the store police spying through a hidden camera, or waiting outside to nab her with the “goods,” certainly from a future life of crime and imprisonment. She followed me to the checkout counter like a bad dog, tail tucked under, knowing no treats were in my pocket for reward.
I did tell her that I was proud of her for letting me help, but her body language as she left the store said, “Thanks lady. Now my friends will think I am a failure, an idiot for getting busted. I’ll have to try something bigger next time to make up for it. You really made my day. I DON’T NEED THE TAMPONS!”
Nevertheless, still shaking from the experience, I left the store with my pride intact. I had done it – “gone where no man dared to go.” I had saved one teen’s life. Her future will be bright and happy as she steps forward into greatness, her life changed forever.
P.S. No editing was done in the making of this story.
Great story, Kathryn! Well written, too. I think it took more chutzpah than what I did!