Chaos on The Tobin

Boston, MA | Tobin Bridge

Swaying in the wind, while balancing the balls of his feet on the icy railing, sirens and horns screamed in a symphony behind him. His right hand was frozen to an adjacent rail while he reached out with his left, spreading his fingers as wide as they could stretch. His eyes were glued shut while he was mumbled under his breath, repeating the same mantra over and over. This wasn’t a form of prayer, this was closer to a summoning, or a sacrificial offering. Tattooed in the center of this left palm, was a lily sprouting from three flames.

Foot long icicles fell around him from the steel beams above. The horns and sirens continued their rampage, when frightened voices joined in. Submerged in meditation, he was oblivious to the world and the buzzing sounds around him. As the noise grew louder, so did his mantra. Slowly peeling his right hand from the frozen rail, patches of frostbitten skin tore away from his palm, exposing the rosy flesh beneath. Immune to the pain, he reached out his right hand to meet his left and continued his rant.

He knew what he had to do. He knew he couldn’t carry out the order assigned to him by his master. He also knew that any disobedience meant death. Ignoring the buzzing cell phone in his pants pocket, he finished his verbal offering and opened his eyes. He turned his head slightly behind him and saw concerned pedestrians exit their vehicles and approach him with their hands up, clearly not wanting to witness a suicide. Unable to grant them their wishes, he spread his arms out wide and with one final step forward, he fell.

Nearly rear ending a Mercedes Benz, Theodore slammed on his squeaky brakes with rage. He had just turned fifty, and was heading to the Cambridge Fire House to celebrate his retirement as captain from the department. He had proudly served the city of Cambridge and Boston, for twenty long years, risking his life numerous times as a member of the coveted search and rescue division.

The traffic this morning had been ruthless. It was bumper to bumper, starting on Storrow Drive and stretching all the way across the Tobin. The radio had alerted him of a multi-car accident a mile in front of him, and now a man had just jumped from the same bridge. He plucked his cellphone from the magnetic dash mount, and dialed the station chief. He was going to be late to his own party.

After he finished informing the chief of his situation, Theodore dialed one more number. The operator on the opposite end was quick to answer, “911, what is your emergency?”

Theodore rapidly and professionally informed the woman that a man had just jumped from the Tobin, most likely a suicide attempt. Theodore knew that the bridge stood a towering one-hundred-and-thirty feet above the earth, and he was confident that the poor man had no chance of surviving the long fall into the hard, cold water. Concerned bystanders jumped from their idling vehicles, and raced towards where the man had fallen. This only further infuriated Theodore. The crazed man was gone, and these curious people were only causing more traffic.

Utilizing his authority, he donned the hidden red and blue lights in the grill and rear window of his truck, honked his emergency horn and proceeded to clear a path to the jump site. He may have been retired, but he still kept his fire-house truck as a perk of the job. It was a supercharged Chevy Silverado, and the emergency lights and sirens seemed to constantly come in handy.

As the beast approached the protective rail of the old bridge, Teddy threw the truck into park, radioed the station captain that he would be arriving late, then exited the truck; keeping his bright, neon lights on and flashing.

He stepped with caution, being mindful to avoid the deadly patches of ice. Placing his hands firmly to the dirty, rusty-green railing, he snugged his feet into the bottom slits and peered his head over the edge. Hoping to see a pool of blood enveloping a body, or a nearby boat rushing to aid the fallen victim, Teddy was shocked when he saw neither of those things. There was no blood, and no body. He thought hard for a long moment, “There’s no way in hell he could have survived that damn fall,” he mumbled to himself with a hint of confusion.

Theodore dismounted the rail, and headed back to his truck. He opened the front passenger-side door, and rummaged around for a few seconds in the glove compartment. Finding what he was looking for, he shut the door and cautiously made his way back to the railing.

Anchoring his thick boots to the slits in the rail, Teddy leaned his overweight torso out over the top of the rusted metal, and peered out through the high-powered binoculars that were dangling from his neck. From his perch, he could see all of East Boston, Chelsea, the Logan International Airport, and if he adjusted the binoculars just right, he could see the flashing red and white lights of the Deer Island Lighthouse. He was fixed on a passenger plane which had just taken off. His daydream was cut short due to incessant honking and shouting from impatient townies. Focusing back on his task, he shifted the lenses downward and started scanning the brackish hue of the Mystic River.

Piles of floating garbage, cute families of ducks, and a wide variety of tugboats, sailboats and harbor tour boats were all enjoying the perfect weather of the hot summer day. Teddy watched on as the ducks dove beneath the rowdy waves as they hunted for crustaceans and plants. Scanning back and forth across the brine, Teddy finally found what he was looking for. The half floating body would have been impossible to see if it wasn’t for the large white trash bag wrapped around its legs, making it stick out against the bright blue.

Needing to shut down all of the shipping lanes, Teddy popped his iPhone from his pant’s pocket and called his buddy Ron, a retired sergeant with the Massachusetts State Police, who’s now the harbor master, and quickly informed him of the body’s location.

“Ron. I don’t know what’s taking the Staties so long to get their asses down here. I called in the jumper over fifteen minutes ago, and I have yet to hear one siren. I have eyes on the body. It’s floating about a hundred yards out from the tip of Menino park. It has a large trash bag tangled around the legs, you can’t miss it. I highly suggest you shut down the harbor and get the coast guard out to retrieve it before one of these sightseeing tour boats passes by and causes all of the tourists and children to expunge their breakfast.”

“The troopers have been notified, Teddy. They are tied up right now on Boylston street. The Engine 33 firehouse is on fire, and it’s out of control. Boston PD as well as the majority of the troopers have been sent to shut down the entire area and evacuate any injured civilians and firefighters who got caught in the blaze.”

“Say again, Ron? The firehouse is on fire? How the hell is that possible?”

“Still unclear. I’m only getting bits and pieces of intel as the situation unfolds. Apparently a pedestrian, dressed in a black robe, strolled his way inside and ignited some device, which caused the entire house to go up in a raging fire. Engine 4, Engine 22 and Engine 3 have all been dispatched to help put out the blaze. I will let you know more once I do. For now, do the best you can to get your ass down to Menino park and secure the area. And for the love of God, do not lose sight of that body. I will contact the coast guard now and have them shut down the shipping lanes.”

A hard click snapped in Teddy’s ear, indicating that Ron had ended the phone call. He took a moment to digest the situation that had just been described to him. He knew most, if not all of the firefighters stationed at Engine 33. His heart started to sink into his gut at the thought of dead firefighters perishing in their own house by the rage of an uncontrollable fire.