Part 2

In a gruff, yet comforting tone the man responded, "I'm looking at the last place I saw my son."

The boy, not quite understanding, grew up learning to mind his elders. He held his tongue not wanting to aggravate the older man. After all, adults enjoy talking. As if to prove the point, the man said, "My son had an accident on this bridge, and fell into the river."

The old man, pausing for an eternity, continued, "I am sorry young man, where are my manners, my name is Tommy Bahena. My friends call me Tommy Bahama, if you like."

"Tommy Bahama! What a cool name. I'm Sammy Nicholson and I live right up the road," said the young boy in a rush of words.

"I am awfully sorry for your son. My grandpa died last year too. I miss him so much. You know it's ok to cry? At least that is what my mom always says."

"Your mom seems like a wise woman. Definitely had my fair share of tears shed on this bridge. That river is filled with them," said the man with a little chuckle.

The man had a contagious laugh, and the boy couldn't help but join in. With an over-dramatic flourish of his hand the old timer presented it for a shake. At this, the duo belted out another raucous peel of laughter.

Sammy, completely forgetting his wounded hand, extended it to meet the man's.

The older man looked down and noticed the blood. He stood erect; a queer smile dancing across his face. His face seemed to slide, distorting the comfortable features.

The boy saw the man in a new light. Well-weathered wrinkles turned into sharp cracks; bags turned into shadows hiding secrets. Dim, tired eyes became hungry, seeking pits looking for their next meal.

Sammy recoiled from the man; the fear he experienced earlier being reignited.

Tommy glanced down at the blood smeared hand, a lunatic's fever burning in his sunken eyes.

The twisted man looked at the boy, thirst clearly visible on the dark landscape of his face. In the same careless estimation, a lion sizes up the buffalo; the elderly man studied the child.

When the boy was certain the man was going to pounce, the friendly face seemed to reappear as if it had never left.

The boy, unsure of what he just saw, took a healthy step back from the man.

In a voice a bit shaky, the boy said, "It was nice meeting you, but my mom will be wondering where I got off to. I should be going. Besides, I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

"It is never good to worry your mom, but it's not quite night yet. I'm sure she won't mind you chatting a bit with an old timer like me," said the man in a reasonable tone.

"Sammy, do you like stories? I love them and I'm old which means I got the best ones. Wanna hear one?" The man looked so lonely and eager to tell a story, the poor boy could hardly resist.

"You promise it will be a short one, I really do need to get home?" The boy exclaimed.

A somber looking Tommy responded, "Cross my heart." With a goofy crossing gesture, the older man had the pair laughing once again.

Sammy, starving for the old stories his grandpa used to tell, excitedly nodded his head. "Do me one favor first, look down into the river," said the serious man.

The boy looked down into the gurgling waters below. The water in the golden light of the fading sun looked red. The dark red of blood fresh from the vein. Oddly enough the boy thought of the blood running in the grooves of his palms.

That delirious mantra rushed back into his mind, "Red River, Red River, fresh blood please deliver." The undesired phrase repeated in his mind like a scratched record. The Red River flooded his thoughts, tearing at the dams of his sanity. It threatened to scoop him up in its rush of madness, leaving him stranded on the banks of lunacy.

Just as the boy thought he could not bear to hear it uttered one more time, the old man spoke once again. "The Red River is beautiful in the moments before the sun goes down. You see it's the minerals in the water that when the sun hits it just right causes it to look like a river of blood. It always tends to remind me of the mortality of the human race. If you really think about it, we are nothing more than streams of blood. We have more in common with this river than we think. When the heart stops pumping, then we end. Just like this river eventually will run its course and dead end."

The boy did not enjoy the old timer's musings. They frightened him. It was just too similar to the eerie mantra that had been living rent free in his mind.

Sammy, determined to not allow the incessant rhyme to return, blurted out, "Can I hear the story now?"

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