The Bridge

“You can’t fire me! I started this company…”

But they could. And the Board of Directors of Nashville’s Twang Publishing did.  They voted unanimously to fire their founder and CEO, Theodore Lawrence III. Defeated, Theodore carried his office possessions to the curb.  “We are looking to go into a new direction.” He could hear their cruel voices rattle in his head as he unlocked the door of his leased Mercedes. The smell of leather wafted up and tickled his nose. He drove toward his house in Franklin in shock. As he entered the gate of his home he noticed a strange car in the driveway.  This couldn’t be good.

And it wasn’t.  He caught his wife red-handed and bare-assed in the worst betrayal possible. Theodore soon lost not only his job but his wife and his accountant, too.  A violent storm rolled in from the west, covering his mountaintop home  — and his heart — in a dark shroud.

Something snapped that morning. And when it did, Theodore Lawrence lost his will to live. He got into his car and began to drive.  Soon he was heading down the Natchez Trace — a parkway from Nashville to Natchez once known as the Devil’s Highway.

Theodore Lawrence was heading to Natchez, Mississippi. There he’d leap from the massive Mississippi River bridge he had seen in a magazine. There he’d put an end to his miserable life. There he’d check out once and for all.

Soon he had passed into Alabama and then Mississippi. His car roared past Tupelo, the birthplace of Elvis. Then on past the tornado damage near Highway 82 and by the Ross Barnett Reservoir.  He cruised near Jackson, Ridgeland and a stop in Clinton for gas. Each passing mile was one mile closer to his escape from the pain he felt. He saw the cooling towers of the nuclear plant called Grand Gulf off in the distance.  Natchez was only a few miles ahead. It was the end of the Trace and end of the road.  One quick leap and his body would be swallowed by Old Man river. He’d never be heard from again.

A buck and doe scrambled across the Trace, knowing the black Mercedes was on a one-way kamikaze mission. Leaves blew across the roadway like a yellow and orange blizzard. They too had fallen to their deaths.

Theodore Lawrence thought about his failures. His job. His wife. His accountant. His pride — all gone in a flash. His foot pressed down on the gas pedal. Natchez couldn’t arrive soon enough.

Natchez is the 25th largest town in the state of Mississippi and sits high on the bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River.  Known for its antebellum homes and Southern charm, its breathtaking beauty could warm even the coldest of hearts.  Theodore parked his car along the small park on the edge of the bluff. Below sat Natchez Under the Hill.  And off in the distance was his final destination.  There, tying the two river banks together was the massive Highway 84 bridge.  All he had to do was cross it. Theodore paused and appreciated his last moments on this earth as a slow barge fought its way north against the river’s current.

He could relate to the barge. He was tired of pushing against life’s unrelenting current.

Then it happened. The setting sun broke through the slate gray clouds, illuminating the sky and surrounding landscape.  It set the Mississippi River on fire. The muddy water glowed like embers — there was something powerful about it all.

Theodore felt a strange peace wash over him. All sound faded out as he watched the sun sink slowly beneath the Louisiana horizon.  As night tucked in the world around him with a blanket of darkness, lights on the bridge came to life.

A warm, white light bathed the iron beams. How could he jump off something so beautiful?  Theodore’s pain released in a sudden burst of emotion. He felt safe in Natchez.  He felt at home.

A year later, you can visit Theodore if you’re ever in town. He owns a small antique shop near the Convention Center downtown and is the president of the local chamber of commerce.  Occasionally you can see him sitting in the park on the bluff watching the sun set.  If you ask him, he’ll tell you how the bridge off in the distance saved his life. And how he has never crossed it.