Trucks rumble louder and rougher than cars. Their wheels click differently over the concrete seams and sounds bigger a few feet above my face.
A bridge is a roadway first, but a roof second, and as Andrea’s long, spiral arms reached out with the first drops of rain, I scrambled up the crease of rubble and wedged myself under the concrete to hide. It felt almost cozy when I closed my eyes and forgot where I was.
But closing your eyes isn’t easy under a bridge, even one with no graffiti or any sign that anyone ever comes underneath. It’s loud and there’s always a bit of fear.
I stare up at the grey slabs for hours. I listen to people pass by, counting them by the hundreds, imagining where they’re going. Rain rushes in rivers off the edge of concrete and splatters in the bay. Waves pop against pylons and spit foam into the air. Water soaks through cracks and drips down in little streams. The world feels wet.
Sometimes I see Ocean City on the far side of the bay, its Ferris wheel quiet and still. Sometimes grey rain swallows it whole. I watch and stare and wait.
The storm licks around the edges, scratches at me, but can’t reach. I cook dinner in a lull. I study maps and read a book about old portage routes in Canada. I pace under the concrete and watch the tide. I catch choppy handfuls of sleep. I go a bit mad waiting for sunshine and the chance to move again.