I hate to get things started and immediately jump into a couple weekend days of shorts, but that’s the nature of October starting on a Friday. I’ve got a 12-hour gig today and 11 and a half tomorrow, so it’s short ones today and tomorrow. Speaking of which, I could use some breakfast myself…

Chad checked his Rolex. Twenty minutes. He’d placed his order twenty minutes ago. He surveyed the packed tables in the makeshift “Parklet” that had sprung up on the street in front of restaurants to accommodate outside dining during the pandemic.

“Excuse me,” he caught a waitresses attention as she was hurrying back inside after setting plates down at another table.

“Yes, sir?”

“It’s been twenty minutes since I’ve ordered…”

“I’m so sorry. Let me go check on that for y—”

“I would like to speak to the manager.”

“Sir, I can go check on—”

“Your manager. Now, thank you,” he said as curtly as he could while he cradled the latte cup in his hand.

The waitress took a beat and swallowed down whatever she was going to say and replied simply, “Yes, sir. Let me get her,” before hurrying off.

Chad barely had time to pull the restaurant up on Yelp to leave a bad review before a tall, skinny woman in the black slacks and button-down shirt appeared beside his table.

“Sir, I’m Amanda the manager. How can I help?”

“Amanda, you said?” she nodded “Well, I’ve been here twenty minutes and I haven’t gotten my order yet.”

“I’m sorry for the wait. I believe the hostess explained when she sat you that we are really shorthanded right now and things are taking a bit longer.”

“Bah,” he said, “Everyone is shorthanded. You make do.”

Amanda’s lips pressed together in a smile that held back a lot she’d like to really say. “We’re doing the best we can, sir. We’re like a family here and we’ve lost people.”

“It’s the ‘Great Resignation’ isn’t it? Young people just don’t want to work. They’d rather accept unemploy—”

“Two cooks and three front of house employees have died since the pandemic started, sir. No one has quit.”

“Oh, I… uh…” he stammered as his cheeks went red. “I didn’t know…”

“How would you?” Amanda said. “But you’re right that it’s tough to find good people to replace the great people we’ve lost. That is something going on everywhere.” She pulled out the chair opposite Chad and sat down, and stared directly into his eyes. “We’re all working extra shifts trying to make sure we can make ends meet, trying to keep this place we love afloat, all while trying to be as safe as possible in an environment where we’re exposed to everything. Yes, we’re all vaccinated, but breakthrough cases happen – have happened. And we have to make up for being shorthanded. It’s thankless, but we’re all here every day. In the greater scheme of things, I don’t think the twenty minutes you’ve waited is asking too much. Please have some empathy.”

She stood up. Before Chad could get his thoughts together to retort, she said “Let me see where your order is…” and walked away.

Chad sat there rolling around what she’d said. He didn’t mean to be insensitive, but…

“Sir, here’s your steak and eggs,” The short woman set the plate in front of him. “And your toast,” she set another plate down. “My name is Michelle, I’m the manager. I’m sorry about the wait. We’re really shorthanded right now – I comped your double latte to hopefully make up for it.”

He gave her a quizzical look. “Michelle?”

“Yes?”

“You’re the manager?”

“I am, yes. Is there a problem?”

“I just talked to someone else who said she was the manager. She said her name was Amanda…?”

Chad watched Michelle’s face go white. “Amanda?”

“Yes, she was just here…”

“Amanda died last November. She was the manager here for years before she caught Covid…”

Chad knocked over his latte.

Happy October everyone! And with the changing of the leaves and arrival of pumpkin spice everything comes another month of 31 Ghosts – the fifth annual 31 Ghosts, I might add! In the middle of September, 2017 on a whim I thought it might be a fun challenge to celebrate October with a month of ghost stories. It’s been tough but a lot of fun – I mean, clearly it’s had to be fun if I’ve managed to come back year after year, right?

Last year I opened the month writing about how I was out of first-hand ghost stories, but instead talked about the ghosts we’ve all picked up after the better part of a year in a pandemic. I wish I could say that was all behind us but, hey, you know the score – things are starting to look up as we enter fall, but they should – could – be a lot better. As a result, we’ve picked up a lot more ghosts, I’m afraid.

But I don’t want to start on that kind of an existential dread.

No, in just a few days we get to celebrate the first birthday of Ms. Allison Lynnette Bonner Jensky. I’m proud to share my birthday with this puppy, even if she can be a royal pain in the ass sometimes. But she’s adorable. 

I wasn’t ready for a puppy – or a dog for that matter – last year when my old friend, Kirk, messaged me saying one of his dogs gave birth to a litter. He wasn’t trying to convince me to take one, either. He had a service helping him place the tan little hellions. And by the end of November all but Ernie – who he was going to keep anyway – and the little runt of the litter were left. I’ll spare you the machinations I went through to actually decide to bring her home, suffice it to say in early December we brought Alli home.

I’m convinced Winston was still hanging around. There were a number of mannerisms that Alli picked up uncannily quickly. I’m sure Winston was still here telling that crazy little puppy, “Look, little one, this is the way things are done around here…” I haven’t felt him for a while, though. I think he stuck around to make sure she was okay – and I was okay, too – and then he decided all was well. Well, Winnie, she’s a pain in the ass. And an adorable joy. She’s so different from you it’s ridiculous. And, in some ways, she’s exactly what I needed.

I returned to the office at the beginning of August, much to the chagrin of that energetic puppy that harbored a pandemic-inspired case of separation anxiety. The advice boards all recommended a good walk both before you leave for work and after you get home. That’s all well and good, but given I have to be at my desk at 7am, that means that any meaningful walk is going to start at 0-dark thirty. Even in August, as we crisscrossed the streets of downtown Guerneville the sun wasn’t even licking the horizon. Add in the frequent blanket of fog, and walking the gloomy streets could be a little creepy.

Winston liked walks, but he also liked non-walking; he was a very, very chill soul.

Alli cannot be tired out. She is pure puppy energy packed densely into a little package.

In an effort to add steps, we decided to stretch a little beyond the streetlights of downtown onto the two bridges that cross the Russian River. The old green iron truss bridge was built in 1922 and it served dutifully for seventy odd years until Caltrans built an unassuming concrete span next to the old bridge. The new bridge is wider, more stout in earthquakes, and most importantly both sides of the bridge are well above record flood level. The relative frequency of even minor floods rendered the old bridge useless when the waters spilled the banks.

So the old bridge closed to traffic but remains the stately edge of town and provides pedestrians a gorgeous view of Johnson’s Beach. At least it’s a gorgeous view during the day. At 5am, however, it’s nothing but blackness on either side of the bridge. Given how many years that old iron bridge has stood above the River and how many devastating floods it’s presided over you’d think this would be the river crossing mentioned in the title.

It’s not.

No, while it’s old, it’s really well lit with old fashioned streetlights. I won’t lie, it’s frequented at all hours by homeless folks, but most don’t bother anyone. Certainly not a big guy with a little dog in the pre-dawn hours.

We decided we’d come back across that bridge, heading out of town across the car bridge. The first thing you notice as you round the corner from River onto the bridge that becomes highway 116 is the darkness. The streets of downtown are very well lit, as is the old bridge. Despite sidewalks on both sides of the roadway, maybe they just assume cars headlights are enough. That first morning going this route, I didn’t bring a flashlight – I hadn’t needed it on previous mornings. So I paused as Alli and I stared into the dark. But, it’s a straight shot, I thought, and the way back along the old bridge is bright. Alli shuffled impatiently… We started off into the darkness.

Since then we’ve walked that bridge in the after-work walks in the light of day. And I noticed that there are distance marks painted on the bridge railings. The first, barely visible in the weathered concrete about a quarter of the way out says “700.” At that point in the morning darkness and fog, the last light behind has vanished. But, again, it’s a straight bridge – what is there to worry about?

The 500-foot mark is just before mid-span and that’s when the hairs on the back of my neck started to stand up. I slowed and looked around. Upriver to the east I could make out wan starlight playing over the black river. To the west the lights of the old bridge shone looking much farther away than the span really is. Alli and I kept moving.

By the 300-foot mark we were well past the midpoint, but now the otherwise oblivious puppy noticed something was wrong. She started looking over her shoulder looking upriver nervously. She didn’t miss a step, but her she started cheating sideways a little too get a better look back into the darkness. I can feel something behind me, watching us. I know no one followed us onto the bridge. The headlights of the car that drove past us into town a moment ago illuminated the empty sidewalks on both sides all the way back into town. We were most certainly alone. But when we reached the 200-foot mark both Alli and I knew we weren’t the only ones on that bridge.

Ahead, we could make out a streetlight. It’s on the south bank and marks where the footpath from the old bridge rises to meet the sidewalk we were hurrying down. We moved quickly, happily letting the light dispel the darkness and uneasiness behind us.

I didn’t hesitate on the turn down to the old bridge. We gladly marched onto the bright walkway. Still over land, I heard an animal stir in the branches of one of the trees up against the span. Didn’t phase me. Halfway across our movement caused the cold iron of the bridge to creak just a little. No big deal. Looking upriver past the lights I could see the concrete bridge looming and let out a little shiver.

Alli and I have been across the bridges in the darkness a few times after that first time. Even with a powerful flashlight illuminating the sidewalk, that same creepy feeling always steals over me at about the same point. Alli always starts looking over her shoulder at the same place… I don’t know what happened on that bridge to cause that sensation. I know from canoeing under it that even with Johnson’s Beach dams up it’s still a really shallow waterway. If someone had jumped from that bridge…

Here’s what I do know: Alli and I will walk right up to the foot of that bridge almost every morning and we stare into the darkness for a moment before making a hard turn and making quick steps back into town.

Happy October!