Cemetery Street

On television, the upper deck of the Cypress Street section of I-880 in Oakland, collapsed. Reports of survivors filtered through Shannie's story.

"'You're a barrel of laughs!' Count told the cop as he scratched himself. Be quiet lover-boy,' the cop laughed at Count."

"'They're all a bunch comedians Shannie," Count told me. I had a date with those two cunts. They wanted to give me something to remember home. Something that would get me through basic training.'"

"'Looks like they did!' I told Count." Shannie said.

"'What did I ever do to them?' he pleaded."

"You pissed them off, You know, hell have no furry…' I told Count," Shannie continued.

"'Mr. Light-dick, excuse me, Mr. Lightman,' the cop said opening the cell door. 'You're free to go.' As we left the station the copped yelled after us, 'Hey Light-dick! Don't forget the boxers. I expect them back.'"

"'Yes sir,' Count faced the cop and saluted."

"Did he?" I asked.

"In spades, Just James. In Spades! Think bacon strip!" Shannie laughed.

***

Twenty miles up river from Laurel Hill; past places named Manayunk and Conshohocken, past ports named Kennedy and Providence, atop a bluff known as Indian Point, above a river named Schuylkill, was another monument - its only inscription: Angel Wind.

Count led us to Indian Point in August of '88; two weeks before he left for the army. Count parked the powder fairy blue pickup along a railroad siding and we hoofed over the tracks and across the trestle spanning the Schuylkill.

Shannie climbed atop the trestle's hand rail and crossed on the narrow, warped balance beam forty feet above the river. Her forehead etched with concentration - her eyes unblinking, Shannie took one deliberate step after another, on occasion her arms flailed. Count and I gained the far side, sat under a tree and waited.

"If I lose my balance," Shannie yelled from the center of the trestle. "Even for a second - a second," Shannie teased. "I could die."

"You will die Ortolan," Count yelled. "Cause I'm not getting off my ass to help you!"

"For what?" Shannie ignored Count. "Like there has to be a what!" Not only does she make things difficult, she has to give a speech, I thought. "Would they say I died in vain, died for a thrill!"

"Stupidity," Count bellowed.

"Yes, died of stupidity," Shannie answered. Her pace quickened. "Died for nothing, what a way to die - for nothing! I like that. There isn't any pressure in nothing."