The Overpass on Thorn Street

David Sanchez

December 2005

The twilight began to take hold over the hills.

I stood in the middle of the overpass on Thorn Street and watched the traffic rush under my feet. I did that frequently when I was younger, idle moments and a whole desert spread out across the Upper Valley.

When I was younger the thought flashed through my mind. It always sent chills down the back of my legs. It was almost like a dare, the thought of jumping off the overpass onto traffic below. It was never a death wish, because back then it never crossed my mind that I could die if I tried it.

I stood on the overpass and watched the traffic flow, the old flirtation with the dare that never died. The goosebumps of fear still coursed down my legs whenever I leaned forward to look straight onto the asphalt of the freeway. The encroaching twilight made more drivers turn on their headlights before they rushed under my feet. Whenever the 18-wheelers rushed past, they shook the overpass. Some blared their horns if they saw me wave to them. My hands grew colder with the steadily decreasing temperature, my fingers intertwined with the chain link fence. The concrete of the overpass wall exhaled the trapped heat of the now-dying sunlight.

I used to pick up gravel from the sidewalk and place it on the edge of the concrete wall of the overpass. Through the gap between the wall and the fence I flicked gravel pebbles into the flowing traffic and kept an ear out for the tiny impacts on passing windshields and car roofs. One day I used larger pebbles and nudged those over the edge, and I managed to hit some 18-wheelers with them. Apparently one of the truckers alerted the police, and a black and white cruiser stopped behind me. When I heard the driver-side door open and close my heart leaped. "What’s your name, young man?" the officer asked, his clenched jaw a sharp contrast to the frightened gaze of my reflection in his mirror-tinted sunglasses.

"Max Romero," I said. I wanted to give a different name, but guilt overpowered my thinking. I put my hands behind me and cleared the last few gravel pebbles off the edge. I did not want any incriminating evidence against me.

"You know it’s a felony to flick rocks onto traffic," the officer said through the clenched jaw. I never knew if that was true, but at the time my breath seized up.

"No, sir," I wheezed. The officer kept a hard gaze upon me.

"Now you know," he said. "I don’t want to see you doing that here again, or I’ll call your parents."

"Yes, sir," I stammered. "I won’t do it ever again."

"Okay," the officer said, his voice and jaw softened by pity. He walked back to his cruiser, turned on the headlights and drifted across the overpass toward Doniphan Boulevard.

The increasing twilight reduced the stream of red and white lights to a slow trickle of diamonds and rubies on a black velvet road. More 18 wheelers rushed under the overpass, and I felt more tiny rumblings under my feet. The concrete and the fence were colder against my skin.

The thought I dismissed as an imaginary scenario for a bored young mind slowly built up strength, and I looked down into the darkness of the asphalt. I felt the old goosebumps of fear through my legs. It was still not a death wish, because I felt I could cheat death and survive. I mapped out the process by sight: climb the fence, perch myself on the edge of the overpass, wait for the perfect moment and make the jump. If I aimed for an 18-wheeler, all the better, I thought, because I would land on top and hang on. It sounded simple. I decided to take the dare.

The fence on the overpass was curved, probably to deter others from attempting what I planned that early evening and past evenings when I was younger. It just made the climb over and onto the edge of the overpass a bit more time-consuming. There were a couple of cars that honked to protest my actions as they passed behind me on Thorn Street. I paid them no mind and straddled the top edge of the fence. I saw the traffic rush by faster under the overpass. I had a brief moment of doubt, but that was overruled by the growing sense of fearlessness as everything happened as I had visualized before and at that moment.

I scaled down the fence toward the edge of the overpass with greater caution. If I slipped, I would have fallen and been hit by a car. I made it to the overpass edge and felt around with the toe of my sneakers for sure footing. I turned myself around, kept my heels squarely on the overpass, and faced the oncoming traffic. The hills were not a distant part of the black night sky.

Now came the difficult part: I had to wait for an oncoming 18-wheeler and then calculate the perfect timing for the jump off the overpass. I felt my fingers intertwined with the chain links of the fence.

The goose bumps of fear coursed down the back of my legs, stronger than before.

Is this really within possibility? Yes. A thousand times, yes.

You do know you will die or be severely injured if you follow through, don’t you? I won’t die. Adrenaline will dull the pain or stop it altogether. At worst I’ll break a leg.

You’re convinced everything will turn out just fine? Yes, otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten to this point in the first place. I know I can do it. I know.

My heartbeat quickened and my chest constricted, as if I had fallen in love. My fingers kept their grasp on the chain link fence as a soft desert breeze blew up into my shorts and the chill kissed my thighs. And then it happened.

The sharp motion forward happened so quickly it didn’t register until I felt myself cut through the air. It felt as if I dove into a pool of thick molasses. The sense of movement was slowed and I saw everything at once. There was the elementary school where I went to play basketball for hours until I could no longer see the hoop against the darkness of the backboard. On the other side of the freeway were the rich people’s houses. I had friends who lived in that neighborhood, but I didn’t think about what they did at that moment. I caught the faint smell of sagebrush from the hills just above the rich houses and the elementary school, along with a brief biting chill of a breeze.

Three cars passed just below me: a white 4-door sedan, a red minivan, and a gray truck like the one my dad drove. The 18-wheeler I targeted began to get closer to me, and I saw the eyes of the driver move from the road up to me. There was a sudden change from jaded to deathly frightened in his stare while my body flew just above him.

My body crumpled like a rag doll hitting the floor after sliding off the bed. My legs hit the trailer roof and they gave out on me. I hit the metal roof of the trailer with a thud. I bounced once, then slid from the front of the trailer to the back before my instincts kicked in and I made a frantic clawing for grip. I took hold of a metal edge, but the momentum of my lower body overpowered my fingers. I flailed off the roof of the trailer and hit the warm asphalt below in a tumble. I saw and heard the 18-wheeler’s tires bounce and smoke in braking. I then heard a car horn honk frantically while I stayed frozen on the freeway asphalt. I felt my neck cringe as I turned my head from the 18-wheeler to the sight of a petrified woman driving a Chevy minivan. My body sprang up from the freeway and went into a frantic fun, away from the screeching brakes and angry honks of the traffic. The pool of molasses gave way to the feeling of being flung out of a slingshot as I ran home.

A week later I woke up and walked to the overpass on Thorn Street. The traffic from rush hour made its way under my feet. Whenever the 18-wheelers rushed past, they shook the overpass. I caught a faint whiff of exhaust fumes and ran my fingers on the chain link fence. When I looked down to the asphalt of the freeway below, I expected to feel the goose bumps of fear course down my legs. That morning was different, because I smiled and laughed, as the approaching sunlight began to take hold upon the hills.

David Sanchez is a 1998 graduate of the University of Texas-El Paso with a bachelor's in creative writing, and a 2004 graduate of California State University-Los Angeles with a master's in American literature. He lives in Glendale, California, working as a subtitler in Burbank, CA.

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