The quiet ambiance of this pieds à terre in Manhattan, has been obliterated by the clamor of my own thoughts. Developing literary characters has me wondering about who I am, what have I accomplished and what is my purpose? I need to escape this funk of introspection so I set out, on this beautiful spring day, to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge.

My first challenge is to descend into the murky labyrinth of New York’s subway system. It’s a long ride downtown from South Harlem and I must stay alert lest I miss the stop, or become trapped by the ever-present crowd and exit on the wrong side to find myself lost somewhere in Battery Park. I finally arrive at City Hall station and emerge from the subterranean dimness into blinding sunshine. Once my eyes adjust to the light, I see the Promenade entrance to the bridge just up ahead and join the throng of people headed in that direction, eager for the visual delights that await. I feel a certain sense of comfort in being among the pack of like-minded people.

The first tower is before me and through its iconic Gothic arches I see its identical twin. I am impressed by the cable wires strung in great loops, from one tower to the other. Leaving terra firma I saunter onto the pedestrian deck and as the buildings of Lower Manhattan recede, the grand expanse of the Hudson is suddenly before me. My pace is steady, robotic, as I am drawn toward the vortex of cables. The rhythm of treading feet and the vibration of cars zipping along the lower deck have a hypnotic effect. I am blissfully empty-headed. Joggers and cyclists whiz by in their designated lanes and pedestrians march past me at their own robotic paces. Some stop to enjoy the view and I pass them, only to be overtaken by them again further on. We smile and greet one another as fellow travelers.

At the point where the Manhattan Bridge comes into full view, I sit down on a bench to take in the spectacular panorama. Once again I begin to ponder the meaning of my life when I notice a man I had spotted earlier, near the entrance. He seems a little peculiar, buttoned up in a black tailored overcoat from a previous era, despite the warm spring weather. He walks with authority and seems to survey the bridge as if it were his personal turf. I picked him out immediately, like an aberration in those puzzle games where you have to find the thing that does not belong. Unlike the other pedestrians who are occupied with gazing at the majestic Hudson or snapping selfies with the Statue of Liberty, this man gets up close to examine the bridge itself, fingering the steel cables as if rating their gauge. With one eye shut he squints to follow their rise to the apex of the tower. I mimic him to try and see what he sees and I note the perfect symmetry of the cables anchored at intervals on the deck and soaring to the center point at its height. Then he sits down beside me and produces a little moleskin notebook in which he begins to scribble. I sneakily venture a peek and see that he is drawing diagrams, noting angles and details of construction. When his attention is diverted by my prying presence I get up hastily, embarrassed at having been caught spying. But he gets up too and I sense him close behind me as he says;

“The sun on your hair is brilliant!”

I am jolted by his deep voice. He is so close that I can almost feel his breath on my neck. He articulates each word clearly, with a guttural pronunciation and a hint of an accent I cannot quite place. At this point I should bolt but I am intrigued.

I turn to him and now that we are face to face, I immediately understand that this is not a corny come-on but rather an enthusiastic expression of appreciation. I am suddenly self-conscious and want to move away but am mesmerized by his eyes – lumps of coal glinting in the sun. Intense eyes that peruse, register, and evaluate every detail of me, assessing my strengths and exposing my structural weaknesses. His scrutiny abashes me and I cannot seem to come up with a clever riposte.

Like him, I also try to evaluate people, imagining their backstories, describing their traits, endowing them with talents and guessing at their careers. As I observe him I think that he must be an engineer. Engineers have an air of assurance about them as if they are supremely in control of the material world. This mysterious man in the ancient frock coat, who sketches bridge struts and captures me in his intense gaze might be from the immaterial world, a ghost as old as the bridge itself.

Perturbed, I walk briskly to the next bench and quickly sit to see if he will pass me. Once again he sits down beside me and persists in his exploration of me.

“Who are you?

I am taken aback by his earnest, need-to-know query as if who I am is of utmost importance to him. Uncannily this is the same question I have been asking myself lately. Who am I? Am I anybody or nobody? What can I tell this strange man about me that is true? I respond by revealing my legitimate personas to him.

“I’m a mother….and a wife.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m retired.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

His impatience unsettles me. Somehow I feel compelled to satisfy his curiosity so I inadvertently utter words I have not said to anyone;

“Well, recently I’ve written a book.”

“So you’re a writer?”

“Well, no…”

“You’ve written a book?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re a writer!”

For reasons I cannot explain this affirmation based on simple logic, from this earnest man who exudes authority, elates me. I smile and he beams with a great wide grin, his eyes sparkling with the satisfaction that his appraisal was correct, that he has won some surreptitious game he played in sizing me up. I wonder who he thinks I am.

We have reached the Brooklyn side and as I head for the stairs he turns and heads back toward the City to re-examine the cables and girders of his bridge, and perhaps to play another game, sizing up another stranger. I walk away to explore Brooklyn thinking that I have crossed a bridge and learned something about myself today – I am a writer.

Then it occurs to me that I haven’t a clue who he might be so I turn and call out to him;

“Who are you?”

He turns and bows formally;

“I am John Augustus Roebling, at your service,” and then he disappears.

John Augustus Roebling, the original engineer of the Brooklyn bridge, died in the early stages of its construction.