The river can't actually be seen from his window, but that doesn't matter. He looks out and he can see it just fine. The bridge is there, in his mind, the same as twelve years before.
In his writing, he has used one image from that night over and over again -- the image of a man slowly lowering a gun, and then shoving it in a drawer. It is a good image, and it has served well, but it isn't what really happened.
What really happened is that he immediately took the pistol back out, shoved it in his jacket pocket, and left. He walked north, through Harlem. It was about 10 degrees Fahrenheit that night, and nobody much was on the streets. The few who were out took a look at him and moved away. They didn't have to see the gun; anyone barreling uptown at that hour with a crazy-mean expression on his face was not to be messed with.
Eventually he reached a disused bridge across the Harlem River. It was closed off by a fence that was in bad shape. He walked out over the river, picking his way carefully on the rubbish-strewn deck, and stopped part-way across.
Below, moonlight was being broken up by the swirling current. He stared for a while at the water. He searched his pockets for cigarettes, and found the gun. He looked at it as if it were an artifact of an ancient, but obnoxious, civilization. Then he shook his head, and threw the gun over the side. He wasn't sure, but he thought he could hear it hit the water.
The cigarettes were in the other pocket. He sat down, looked up at the moon and the few sad stars of the city night, and smoked until the sun came back.
Copyright 1995 Edward Gaillard. All rights reserved.