On the Bridge

He’s here again- I sense him before he finally steps into view, the top of his face obscured by his ever-present camera. The bottom half, of course, is swathed in his black mask (he wears this particular one every week, so I have come to think of it, He’s here again- I sense him before he finally steps into view, the top of his face obscured by his ever-present camera. The bottom half, of course, is swathed in his black mask (he wears this particular one every week, so I have come to think of it, unimaginatively, as his “midweek mask”). He’s trained his camera on the tallest section of the bridge with its international orange towers and bulky cables that point skyward. The air is brisk, despite the dazzling blue of the sky with its puffy “what animals do you see?” clouds.

The chill has prompted him to don gloves, which obscure my view of the intricate tattoos that adorn the backs of both hands. I’ve never gotten close enough to study the designs or try to decipher what appears to be wording that encircles one wrist. I wonder, not for the first time, what significance they hold for him, and if the intention in getting them was to invite interaction, or perhaps dissuade it?

He’s been here every Wednesday afternoon since last September, which is how long I’ve been watching him. I started coming here initially to escape the sameness that is day-to-day life in suburban Santa Clara County and to face my dual fears of heights and bridges (acrophobia and gephyrophobia, respectively). I first noticed him when I had intensified my efforts to conquer my fears by first driving on the bridge, then standing and, eventually, walking on it. Consequently, what began as an effort to slowly expand my world has evolved (devolved?) into a fascination with this elusive man and his camera.

I know almost nothing about him, nonetheless something I have yet to identify has held my attention week after week. I have given him the name of Tenebris (Latin for “dark”), for both the color of his clothing and (I imagine) the language of the words that dance across his wrist. His age would be hard to guess even without the mask and telephoto lens, and he is dressed in black from head to toe each time. His clothes are utilitarian, appearing neither expensive nor cheap, and the one bit of flair in his distinctive porkpie hat. I wonder, as I have countless times before, where he arrives from and what his life away from the bridge consists of?

I watch in interest as he unhurriedly lowers the camera and gently releases it to rest on its fabric strap. He reaches into his pea coat and extracts something square and sturdy looking from an inner pocket. I draw in my breath as he slowly squats down and leans it against the metal fencing that borders the side of the bridge. He straightens, thrusts his gloved hands into his pockets, then turns and begins strolling in the opposite direction from where I’m standing.

My mind starts to race- I want so badly to follow him, but I’m equally curious to know what he’s put there, and why. I wait a beat, then approach the area he has just vacated warily, not wanting to draw attention to myself. As I get closer, I realize that the object is a small book with a black leather cover. Intrigued, I pick it up and turn it over in my hands, wondering what would have provoked him to abandon something so seemingly personal in such a public place?

My conscience kicks in, and I chastise myself for even considering looking inside it- wouldn’t I hate it if someone I didn’t know read my private thoughts? But again, he left it here and didn’t appear to be under any kind of duress, so doesn’t that suggest that he wanted it to be found? I cradle the book against my chest and breathe in deeply, trying to weigh his right to privacy against both my inquisitiveness and the fact that he intentionally left it in broad daylight, for anyone to find.

My curiosity wins, and I lift the cover to find…. nothing? I flip through the pages, and one page after another is blank- no writing, no drawings, etc. I’m incredulous at first, and then a little amused- what would possess someone to leave a blank journal in a public space? Just as I’ve decided it’s a joke that only Tenebris knows the answer to, I spot it: a URL scrawled on the back side of the very last page in tiny, precise letters. Deciding that I’ve come too far to turn back, I pull out my phone and enter it into a search engine.

What comes up is a stark white screen with no graphics of any kind, simply the words “Are You Worthy?” in bold, black letters. I examine the page more closely but don’t see any images, other text, or bookmarks. This strikes me as odd- surely no one would have taken the time to create a web page with no content? Out of curiosity, I tap on the word “worthy” and when I do, it morphs into an image of the number 20,000 against a background of rippling blue water. Intrigued, I examine the graphic more closely and realize that the last zero looks more like a round door or, on closer inspection, a porthole. What did that mean, and what could it possibly have to do with the blank journal?

I click on the porthole, and the word “YES” appears in enormous red letters. Yes… what? I feel a prickling on the back of my arms and sense that something- or someone- is behind me. I turn and guardedly look over my shoulder to find Tenebris himself standing right behind me! I’m overjoyed, as I have fantasized about this meeting for months, but suddenly feel at a complete loss for words. “I have your journal,” I finally stammer, holding it out to him. Without a word, he shakes his head slightly, reaches into his pea coat and withdraws a bulging white envelope, which he extends to me in his now bare hand. I manage to catch a glimpse of his tattoo, and I read without comprehension the word “iustitia.” I take it from him and watch in dismay as he turns on his heel and within a few steps has disappeared into the crowd.

I stand perfectly still for a moment, not sure how to proceed and kicking myself for not asking any questions. Then I realize I’m still holding the envelope, so I peek inside and am absolutely astonished to see a huge stack of hundred dollar bills! My jaw drops open and I stuff the envelope and journal into my backpack and briefly consider following him, but instead I hurriedly walk toward the stairs leading to the underpass that snakes beneath the bridge to the parking lot.

Once I’m safely inside my car, I get on the freeway and take the first exit I see, where I pull over to the side and lock my doors. I discreetly pull out the bills, count them with trembling fingers, and am astounded to realize that I have been given $20,000! What on Earth is going on here, and why would a total stranger give me this amount of money?

I hear a chiming sound and dig my phone out of my backpack. I’ve received a text message from a blocked number that simply reads, “I have been watching you as you have been watching me. I trust you to do good and kind things with this money, and to help see that justice is meted out to those who have not benefited from it so far. My identity is not important, so please don’t try to find me or discover who I am.”

So many questions spring to mind: What is going on here? Who is this person, and what does he mean by “he’s been watching me?” How does he “trust me to do good”? I must be in a mild state of shock, because I can’t seem to form a plan of action. After an indeterminate amount of time has passed, I check to see where my nearest bank branch is located. Whatever I end up doing with this money, I need to put it in a secure place and I don’t want to hold onto it long enough to figure out where to hide it (in my house? my back yard?) or try to open a safe deposit box.

Getting back onto the freeway, I tune in the local news station on the radio. If something untoward has just happened with my receiving this money, maybe there will be an announcement? Catching the implausibility of this scenario, I chuckle to myself and shift my thoughts to what variety of “good and kind” things to spend the money on. A charity of some kind is an obvious thought, but which one(s)? Then it occurs to me: am I allowed to spend part of this on myself, and if so, what would I buy?

As I’m pondering this last question, I pull into the bank parking lot and see that the ATM is out of order, but the bank itself is still open for another hour. I weigh the pros and cons of seeking out another branch, but realize I would have to have the money in my possession for that much longer, and that feels too nerve wracking to me. I enter the bank, envelope and backpack clutched tightly in my hands.

“How may I help you today?” the teller asks as I arrive at his window. I fish out my bank card and explain that I have a deposit. His eyes widen when I slide the envelope to him and he sees its contents. He gives me a quizzical look and says, “I’ll be right back.” He returns a moment later with a woman who introduces herself as Susan, the bank manager. She tells me that, by law, she has to file a report with the IRS any time someone deposits more than $10,000 and asks me if I want to continue.

I tell her, “Yes, I need to deposit this and I’d like to do so now.” I sense that both of them want to ask me where I got the money from, but etiquette and/or bank policy doesn’t allow it. I offer up a simplified version of events, and when I mention Tenebris, they glance at one another meaningfully. Susan asks me to describe him, and when I do, she smiles and says, “He’s at it again!”

I wait for an explanation, and when one isn’t offered, I ask what she’s referring to. She tells me, “The man you described is a long time client of ours. His late father inherited quite a sizable estate from his own father, and raised him, our client, to be a philanthropist. He is quite well off and enjoys giving out money in unusual ways, and it sounds like you are his latest recipient!”

Not sure I’m understanding her correctly, I ask, “You know this man? Who is he? And how did he pick me out of all the other people who were there today?” She hesitates briefly, and then tells me, “If he chose you, you must have done something to gain his trust and goodwill, as he only chooses beneficiaries that he is confident will use the money in a responsible and respectful way, that will benefit the greatest number of people. Now, I’m not at liberty to reveal his identity, but I’m happy to make the deposit for you.”

Then it hits me- I can either choose to accept this money on good faith, or insist on knowing who Tenebris is and risk losing it. Is it more important to know his identity, or to have a once in a lifetime chance to make a significant impact in the lives of people around me? I choose the latter, and from there, my life begins….

, as his “midweek mask”). He’s trained his camera on the tallest section of the bridge with its international orange towers and bulky cables that point skyward. The air is brisk, despite the dazzling blue of the sky with its puffy “what animals do you see?” clouds.

The chill has prompted him to don gloves, which obscure my view of the intricate tattoos that adorn the backs of both hands. I’ve never gotten close enough to study the designs or try to decipher what appears to be wording that encircles one wrist. I wonder, not for the first time, what significance they hold for him, and if the intention in getting them was to invite interaction, or perhaps dissuade it?

He’s been here every Wednesday afternoon since last September, which is how long I’ve been watching him. I started coming here initially to escape the sameness that is day-to-day life in suburban Santa Clara County and to face my dual fears of heights and bridges (acrophobia and gephyrophobia, respectively). I first noticed him when I had intensified my efforts to conquer my fears by first driving on the bridge, then standing and, eventually, walking on it. Consequently, what began as an effort to slowly expand my world has evolved (devolved?) into a fascination with this elusive man and his camera.

I know almost nothing about him, nonetheless something I have yet to identify has held my attention week after week. I have given him the name of Tenebris (Latin for “dark”), for both the color of his clothing and (I imagine) the language of the words that dance across his wrist. His age would be hard to guess even without the mask and telephoto lens, and he is dressed in black from head to toe each time. His clothes are utilitarian, appearing neither expensive nor cheap, and the one bit of flair in his distinctive porkpie hat. I wonder, as I have countless times before, where he arrives from and what his life away from the bridge consists of?

I watch in interest as he unhurriedly lowers the camera and gently releases it to rest on its fabric strap. He reaches into his pea coat and extracts something square and sturdy looking from an inner pocket. I draw in my breath as he slowly squats down and leans it against the metal fencing that borders the side of the bridge. He straightens, thrusts his gloved hands into his pockets, then turns and begins strolling in the opposite direction from where I’m standing.

My mind starts to race- I want so badly to follow him, but I’m equally curious to know what he’s put there, and why. I wait a beat, then approach the area he has just vacated warily, not wanting to draw attention to myself. As I get closer, I realize that the object is a small book with a black leather cover. Intrigued, I pick it up and turn it over in my hands, wondering what would have provoked him to abandon something so seemingly personal in such a public place?

My conscience kicks in, and I chastise myself for even considering looking inside it- wouldn’t I hate it if someone I didn’t know read my private thoughts? But again, he left it here and didn’t appear to be under any kind of duress, so doesn’t that suggest that he wanted it to be found? I cradle the book against my chest and breathe in deeply, trying to weigh his right to privacy against both my inquisitiveness and the fact that he intentionally left it in broad daylight, for anyone to find.

My curiosity wins, and I lift the cover to find…. nothing? I flip through the pages, and one page after another is blank- no writing, no drawings, etc. I’m incredulous at first, and then a little amused- what would possess someone to leave a blank journal in a public space? Just as I’ve decided it’s a joke that only Tenebris knows the answer to, I spot it: a URL scrawled on the back side of the very last page in tiny, precise letters. Deciding that I’ve come too far to turn back, I pull out my phone and enter it into a search engine.

What comes up is a stark white screen with no graphics of any kind, simply the words “Are You Worthy?” in bold, black letters. I examine the page more closely but don’t see any images, other text, or bookmarks. This strikes me as odd- surely no one would have taken the time to create a web page with no content? Out of curiosity, I tap on the word “worthy” and when I do, it morphs into an image of the number 20,000 against a background of rippling blue water. Intrigued, I examine the graphic more closely and realize that the last zero looks more like a round door or, on closer inspection, a porthole. What did that mean, and what could it possibly have to do with the blank journal?

I click on the porthole, and the word “YES” appears in enormous red letters. Yes… what? I feel a prickling on the back of my arms and sense that something- or someone- is behind me. I turn and guardedly look over my shoulder to find Tenebris himself standing right behind me! I’m overjoyed, as I have fantasized about this meeting for months, but suddenly feel at a complete loss for words. “I have your journal,” I finally stammer, holding it out to him. Without a word, he shakes his head slightly, reaches into his pea coat and withdraws a bulging white envelope, which he extends to me in his now bare hand. I manage to catch a glimpse of his tattoo, and I read without comprehension the word “iustitia.” I take it from him and watch in dismay as he turns on his heel and within a few steps has disappeared into the crowd.

I stand perfectly still for a moment, not sure how to proceed and kicking myself for not asking any questions. Then I realize I’m still holding the envelope, so I peek inside and am absolutely astonished to see a huge stack of hundred dollar bills! My jaw drops open and I stuff the envelope and journal into my backpack and briefly consider following him, but instead I hurriedly walk toward the stairs leading to the underpass that snakes beneath the bridge to the parking lot.

Once I’m safely inside my car, I get on the freeway and take the first exit I see, where I pull over to the side and lock my doors. I discreetly pull out the bills, count them with trembling fingers, and am astounded to realize that I have been given $20,000! What on Earth is going on here, and why would a total stranger give me this amount of money?

I hear a chiming sound and dig my phone out of my backpack. I’ve received a text message from a blocked number that simply reads, “I have been watching you as you have been watching me. I trust you to do good and kind things with this money, and to help see that justice is meted out to those who have not benefited from it so far. My identity is not important, so please don’t try to find me or discover who I am.”

So many questions spring to mind: What is going on here? Who is this person, and what does he mean by “he’s been watching me?” How does he “trust me to do good”? I must be in a mild state of shock, because I can’t seem to form a plan of action. After an indeterminate amount of time has passed, I check to see where my nearest bank branch is located. Whatever I end up doing with this money, I need to put it in a secure place and I don’t want to hold onto it long enough to figure out where to hide it (in my house? my back yard?) or try to open a safe deposit box.

Getting back onto the freeway, I tune in the local news station on the radio. If something untoward has just happened with my receiving this money, maybe there will be an announcement? Catching the implausibility of this scenario, I chuckle to myself and shift my thoughts to what variety of “good and kind” things to spend the money on. A charity of some kind is an obvious thought, but which one(s)? Then it occurs to me: am I allowed to spend part of this on myself, and if so, what would I buy?

As I’m pondering this last question, I pull into the bank parking lot and see that the ATM is out of order, but the bank itself is still open for another hour. I weigh the pros and cons of seeking out another branch, but realize I would have to have the money in my possession for that much longer, and that feels too nerve wracking to me. I enter the bank, envelope and backpack clutched tightly in my hands.

“How may I help you today?” the teller asks as I arrive at his window. I fish out my bank card and explain that I have a deposit. His eyes widen when I slide the envelope to him and he sees its contents. He gives me a quizzical look and says, “I’ll be right back.” He returns a moment later with a woman who introduces herself as Susan, the bank manager. She tells me that, by law, she has to file a report with the IRS any time someone deposits more than $10,000 and asks me if I want to continue.

I tell her, “Yes, I need to deposit this and I’d like to do so now.” I sense that both of them want to ask me where I got the money from, but etiquette and/or bank policy doesn’t allow it. I offer up a simplified version of events, and when I mention Tenebris, they glance at one another meaningfully. Susan asks me to describe him, and when I do, she smiles and says, “He’s at it again!”

I wait for an explanation, and when one isn’t offered, I ask what she’s referring to. She tells me, “The man you described is a long time client of ours. His late father inherited quite a sizable estate from his own father, and raised him, our client, to be a philanthropist. He is quite well off and enjoys giving out money in unusual ways, and it sounds like you are his latest recipient!”

Not sure I’m understanding her correctly, I ask, “You know this man? Who is he? And how did he pick me out of all the other people who were there today?” She hesitates briefly, and then tells me, “If he chose you, you must have done something to gain his trust and goodwill, as he only chooses beneficiaries that he is confident will use the money in a responsible and respectful way, that will benefit the greatest number of people. Now, I’m not at liberty to reveal his identity, but I’m happy to make the deposit for you.”

Then it hits me- I can either choose to accept this money on good faith, or insist on knowing who Tenebris is and risk losing it. Is it more important to know his identity, or to have a once in a lifetime chance to make a significant impact in the lives of people around me? I choose the latter, and from there, my life begins….