* * *
Gil heard the echoes of Kurtz’s roar and winced.
“What’s that noise,” worried Marisol.
The sound of axe against wood was enough for Gil to get a good idea what was happening. Kurtz was always supposed to tell him when he would be mounting an assault against the bridge. Kurtz knew that Gil’s bad luck often extended to those around him and that Gil should be as far away as possible from any event that demanded success.
Gil’s bad luck was legendary in Stansbury. Even when he was a kid, people somehow knew to stay away from him when they were attempting anything dangerous. Gil figured that old Mr. Bixby, the local carpenter, was the first to start telling folks about him. Gil’s father had hired him to add a new room, an office for his father’s special case file. It was one file, but a big one and it needed its own room. So the old guy came around with his tools and whatnot and Gil, then just about four years old, would often be nearby with his mother while the man worked. Gil always believed his mother was the only real cure for his bad luck because nothing bad ever seemed to happen while she was around. He was wrong about that. She couldn’t always be around and occasionally, when she would leave him alone to play nearby the carpenter, bad things would happen. The first time, it was a simple slip of the hammer. Actually, the hammer slipped from the man’s hand and sailed thought the air, eventually finding its home on Gil’s hand. It was a clean break and no one blamed old Bixby but Bixby himself. But fairly soon, Bixby started telling people that it was the boy who kept bringing harm upon himself from flying splinters to the two-by-four that somehow put Gil into the hospital for a week with a concussion when it fell from a scaffolding and bounced a good twenty feet from its starting point. Bixby eventually demanded that Gil not be in the general vicinity of the project and Gil’s parents agreed that it was probably for the best. Gil didn’t know why he had been selected for bad things to happen to, but they did and quite often.
And quite often others suffered as a result of his misfortune. There was the guy he worked with in New Jersey at the chemical processing plant who loved to fish. Gil couldn’t remember anyone who loved to fish as much as this guy. Gil couldn’t remember the guy’s name. He couldn’t remember it when he was standing next to the guy. The guy was just one of those people who you couldn’t interrupt long enough to ask his name when you forgot it. This guy used to brag about his fishing prowess though and said that he never failed to catch a fish. One day he invited Gil along and while Gil had tried to beg off, fearing for the man’s track record which seemed all he had in the world, the guy would hear none of it. He seemed to think that Gil, from the mere fact that Gil was the only one who would listen to his fish stories, was his best friend and best friends fished together. Best friends also knew each other’s names. While the guy certainly knew Gil’s name because it was related to his beloved fish, Gil, stuck out in a river on a boat with the guy, still couldn’t come up with a name. With Gil in the boat, the guy couldn’t come up with a fish. He had never failed to catch a fish. Going back to his earliest childhood trip with his estranged father who had died of some exotic skin condition, he had never left the boat without something in his bucket. He couldn’t understand why, on this day out with his best friend, Gil, he couldn’t bring one out of the river. He told Gil it was his lucky spot. He told Gil it was his lucky reel. He told Gil it was his lucky lure. Gil believed him because Gil believed in luck. But Gil believed in the power of his bad luck more than all of the little tricks the guy had in his tackle box. Morning fell to night, the day having been eclipsed in the silence of the calm waters, and no fish bit. Gil had seen it before when people don’t believe that their luck can change. He did kind of see the humor of the guy’s denial being played out on a river, though. Actually, Gil always found the humor when things went wrong. Things weren’t always supposed to go right. Fish weren’t always supposed to bite. The guy didn’t understand it, though. When he dropped Gil off at home, he was very quiet. Gil told him that he would be sure to get one the next time. The guy turned to Gil with a hollow look in his eyes and said there would be no next time. Fishing was the only thing he had ever been perfect at. It was his life and his pride and he didn’t have it anymore. Gil never saw the guy again. Gil never knew the guy’s name so he never found out if anything happened to him. Plus, he left Jersey shortly afterwards. The state had a weird smell he couldn’t place but didn’t like and he figured there had to be a reason that every tunnel and bridge leading into the state was free but they always charged you to get out. Gil never went fishing again. Well, not sport fishing anyway.
Even though Gil heard the chopping and knew that he was bound to upset any plans Kurtz might have made, he had the nice couple with him who were generous enough to buy three bridge models. He was also insanely curious as to how his friend planned to destroy the bridge. In the past, he had tried fire, a cannon and, Gil’s favorite, the trebuchet. All had failed for one reason or another. None for lack of planning. All for lack of luck. All due to some supernatural force according to Kurtz. Still and all, Gil had warned Kurtz that his bad luck would most likely ruin even the best of plans. Recently, Kurtz told Gil that his newest plan was his best, but wouldn’t share any details. So Gil led the couple on towards the bridge because he had promised them a tour and because he wanted to see it destroyed.