The Boy in the Denim Jacket

“Hey, what are you doing?” asked the old man.

“I’m burning down this bridge,” said the boy, as he emptied a can of kerosene on the railroad ties.

“Stop or I’m calling the police.”

“Y’all call the cops, Simon, and I’ll jump.”

“You’re making a bad decision, son. You need to think about the consequences.”

With that, the boy struck a match, tossed it, and the kerosene flared.

“Come over here, son,” shouted the man.

He lunged for the boy, missed, and fell over the edge—it was a hundred feet or more down to the creek bedrock.

The boy peered over the edge, looked down at him, and ran up the embankment for the woods.

Mr. Simon Marks woke up with a start. It was an awful dream. The same dream he had every Monday for the last four years.

He was out walking by the Butler Bridge, and this damn kid was trying to light it on fire. He’d reach for the kid and fall off. Then, for a few seconds, he’d look up—see the kid looking down at him—everything would go black, and he'd wake up.

His therapist sat across from him at her well-appointed desk. She had happy pictures posted on the walls—sunrises, rainbows, and short sayings amounting to: ‘never give up because things are getting better.’ What a crock, he thought. Sixty-five dollars a session, and things aren’t getting better.

“Well, Simon, was it the same?”

“Yes, the same bridge, and the same kid.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

“You know, Doc, you ask me that every week—I feel awful—and I want to stop having this dream.”

“I understand, Simon. Now, was there anything in your past—try to think back, perhaps when you were young—that scared you about bridges—or maybe about trains?”

“You’ve asked me that before too, Doc. No, I didn’t have any trauma about bridges or trains when I was little.”

“The thing is, Simon—we like to look for a root cause, or what we call a trigger, for these kinds of thoughts. So, I’d really like to spend some time exploring this dream with you. Would that be alright?”

“Whatever you think will help, Doc.”

“Fine. Now, you mention there is a boy in your dream.”

“That’s right.”

“I want you to think about the boy. Close your eyes and relax. What does he look like—what is he wearing?”

“He’s maybe ten or eleven, I guess. He's wearing blue jeans and one of those—I don’t know what you call them—matching jean jackets.”

“A denim jacket?”

“Yeah, a denim jacket, I guess. Anyhow, he's got red hair and freckles to match. And he’s carrying one of those red plastic gas cans, and it's full of kerosene.”

“Hmm. I’m curious, Simon—how do you know the can is full of kerosene?”

“I was a painter all my life. I know what kerosene smells like.”

“Okay, fair enough. Now, what else about him comes to mind?”

“When he speaks, he sounds a bit southern.”

“What do you mean by a bit southern?”

“I mean, when I tell him I’m going to call the cops, he says y’all. Like this—y’all call the cops, and I’ll jump. Like he was raised on a turnip farm in Alabama.”

“Do you know anyone who was raised on a turnip farm in Alabama?”

“No, Doc, I’m just spitballing here. I mean, that’s what he sounds like to me when he speaks.”

“Simon, why do you think he threatens to jump if you call the cops?”

“I don’t know… I guess he doesn’t want me to call the cops.”

“And is that when you try to grab him?”

“No. First he lights a stick match and tosses it on the kerosene that he poured all over the railroad ties. That’s when I try to grab him.”

“Are railroad ties made of wood?”

“What? Yes, I’m pretty sure they are. Why does that matter, Doc?”

“Well, I’m not a railroad expert, but it seems to me if they were made of steel, then I would think they wouldn’t burn—from the kerosene—and if that were the case, then I don’t know why he’d be trying to light them on fire. I’m sorry, anyhow, does he say anything else to you in your dream?"

“Well, in the beginning, I ask him what he’s doing, and he tells me he’s burning down the bridge.”

“That’s right, you mentioned that. Now, I know you stated that you had no childhood trauma with bridges or trains, but I want you to think about the dream some more. So, hypothetically, if you had to guess, why do you think the boy in your dream wants to burn down the bridge?”

“I don’t know, Doc.”

“Well, just take a guess—anything that comes to mind.”

“I—okay, maybe he lives close by, and when the train goes over the bridge, it makes a lot of noise, and he can’t stand it. Or maybe his cat can’t stand it, and it hides under the couch every time the train goes by—how’s that?”

“Does the boy have a cat?”

“What? No, I made that up.”

“I understand. But I’m curious as to why you chose a cat. Do you own a cat, Simon?”

“No. I hate cats. I mean, no offense, Doc—do you own a cat?”

“As a matter of fact, I own two cats. A Siamese and a Burmese. Both females.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean anything—what are their names?”

“Mali is the Siamese, and Bali is the Burmese. They’re both very smart.”

“I’ll bet they are. Anyhow, Doc, I just made the cat part up to answer your question about why the kid didn’t like trains.”

“Well, Simon, I’m a little confused, because I thought you said he wanted to burn down the bridge.”

“That’s right.”

She glanced at her notes.

“But a moment ago you said the boy didn’t like trains.”

She glanced at her watch.

 “No, Doc, I meant the bridge. Because it’s a train bridge, and so the train goes over it, but he wanted to burn down the bridge. Did I answer your question, Doc?”

“I think so, Simon. But we're just about out of time, so I think we should continue this conversation in our next session. Would that be alright?”

He paused.

“Yeah, sure, Doc. I’ll see you next Tuesday. You take care of those cats.”