Week Forty Six

The Walk

I meet Tilo Gomez at his place of business; 604 feet above the Hudson River. Wearing a blaze orange vest trimmed with a day-glo green border, it's easy to spot him behind the gray-blue grating of the bridge tower. Leaning against the metal ties, his eyes are pointed out across the span toward New Jersey. He turns his head slightly when I advance, holding out his hand sideways though remaining vigilant to his duty.

With "security" stamped across the back of his vest, I wonder what he's actually protecting. 

"There's ten or so a year. That's the number that actually hit the water. Most weeks we'll get one or two people who stop and look out at the skyline a bit too long. That's when we start the long walk out toward the middle of the bridge." Tilo's shoulders sink in the unmistakable indication that "the walk" is the worst part of his job. 

Like all suspension bridges, the George Washington Bridge shifts and sways as its load and the wind currents change. This movement is especially noticeable closer to the ends of the bridge. Tilo doesn't seem to notice it anymore. He's been working security on the bridge for the past three years, before that he'd worked for a private security company guarding children at a public high school in the Bronx. He does not know the exact numbers of "jumpers" he's talked back down over the years, a term I find confusingly used. 

"This gig is much better," he says, turning his head toward Inwood and over to the Bronx. "I live up here, so the commute is easier." Tilo was born here, and grew up just off Dyckman Street. His parents came over from the Dominican Republic, a place whose name invokes a large smile from Tilo. He is bilingual, and his Hispanic heritage is reflected in his accent. His voice is quiet, but certain. It could be the ten people a year, but there's a reflection and a purpose to each word he sounds out. They fall off his tongue with a silent prayer affixed to them. As if there's always the possibility that those gentle tones might be the last ones someone may hear. 

Tilo laughs when I ask why he doesn't carry a gun. "No, there's no need. You don't pull a gun on a jumper." I realize the stupidity of this question and subconsciously look out and down toward the river. As if to make up for my error, I ask what he'd do if a terrorist wanted to blow up the bridge. He points to his walkie-talkie indicating that would be his first line of defense. "Plus," he says with a knowing smile, "this sucker was built really well. Stuffing a backpack full of explosives would only kill the person wearing it and flake some paint off the side of the bridge." 

We walk out on the bridge and I ask him about his family. He tells me about his older brother who is a patent attorney downtown. "He's traveled all over the world. He loves to talk about it, and his feelings and ideas on politics. Mostly I just sit and listen. It's him showing off for himself. Making him feel better about the choices he's made." 

"And the choices you've made?" I ask. "How does he feel about you up here on the bridge?" 

"He thinks I'm wasting my time. Wasting my life. But he doesn't understand the feeling you get when someone steps back over the guard rail and gives you a hug for saving their life. That's something you can't bottle or get from a tour guide. And no college book can adequately explain that feeling. It's genuine."

We're in the middle of the bridge now, the green waters of the Hudson rush past the submerged rocks of Jeffery's Hook. The River looks both serene and menacing. 

"Do you ever get jealous of your brother and his travels?" 

Looking back toward the Manhattan tower, Tilo takes a moment and smiles "No, that walk is the longest trip I ever want to make."