This was caught on film, a chance occurrence. The scene was likely repeated many times. Some might call that an exaggeration, but consider the odds that this cameraman would be present at the only place and time where an execution like this occurred. It is about as likely as the possibility that the only atrocities occurring at Abu Ghraib were the only ones caught on film. At the time, President Bush said Abu Ghraib “does not represent the America that I know,” and for once I find myself agreeing with him. It does not represent the America I thought I knew either, but maybe it does represent what America has become under his guidance. Reputations can change quickly...
Well, gather round, children, and let me tell you a story about a man on a bridge.
Yes, Johnny, you may be excused to go to the boys’ room, but hurry back!
We could call him Ray, or we could call him Jay, or we could call him Johnny, or we could call him Sonny, or we could call him RayJay, but for the purposes of our story let’s call him George.
None of you in this classroom are named George, are you?
Good.
Once upon a time, there was a caring old man who liked to help people out when he sensed they were in desperate straits. Some of you of religious persuasion might call him a Good Samaritan, others might call him Ray, but all will agree that he was a good man. Some would testify about times when he helped them out. He had the reputation of being a do-gooder, before that became a bad thing.
Now this man had no name at all, not that we know, because he did not seek credit for his good works. His pleasure came from doing them.
Do you remember the stories your grandparents told you about The Lone Ranger, how he would save entire villages, and then ride off into the sunset with his faithful Indian companion before they could even thank him? Most merely accepted his good will at face value, but at the end there was always one villager - maybe the editor of the local paper, maybe a preacher, maybe a schoolmarm, maybe the farmer whose herd he saved from rustlers, who wondered aloud who he might be.
Welcome back, Johnny! Can you tell us what exactly was that lingering question left in the minds of the villagers as the Lone Ranger and his faithful Indian companion grew smaller and smaller on the horizon, eventually to disappear into sunspots?
Yes, that’s right! “Who was that masked man?” That was the question. They would never know who he was and so, with the mystery, the legend spread. So it is with our good man, who was a very good man, but who for the purpose of our story is nothing more than a dramatic foil for our protagonist.
The mature students, wise enough to take a bathroom break at recess, were here for the preface of this story and already know the name of our protagonist, but if you pay very close attention to what he says, maybe you can figure out his name too without having to ask them who he was. We have only one mysterious character in our plot and we already know everything we need to know about him.
You see, the good man, and he was a very good man, was driving a good man’s car, let’s call it a Prius, late at night as he traveled to a great city. The stars overhead shone brightly, and he secretly wished he had a moon roof so he could bathe himself in their distant heavenly glory. But when he rolled down his window he felt a sudden ominous chill in the air. The weather report a few miles back had said nothing about a cold front and the automatic climate control had strangely not triggered the thermocouple to turn on the forced air heater.
“Odd,” he thought, scratching his chin. “Perhaps this chill emanates from a peculiar aleatoric spiritual/existential force of nature, and is not one originating from the more predictable meteorological ones.”
He looked at his watch. It was 10:43pm.
He was getting close to the great bridge spanning the great river before he arrived in his destination, the great city.
10:57pm. He paid the great toll to cross the great bridge, shifted into second, revved her up, and gloried at the sight ahead as his mighty Prius rose higher and higher above the river. He saw the skyline of a great city, framed by celestial beauty above. He eyed the speedometer, eager to reach the great city but still desiring to obey all traffic laws, and soon he reached the apex of the span.
He suddenly stopped.
That chill.
Again.
His eyes rose slowly, some would say “dramatically” as the camera panned, synchronized to their slow sweep of the great skies over the great city and the great bridge.
Silhouetted above, visible only to the eyes of a very good man, something was moving at the very highest point of the bridge. It was too large to be a bird but, paradoxically, way too small to be a moose.
It was a man!
A man in trouble!
He got out of his car, located the ladder built into the framework of the bridge for routine maintenance, and began his climb.
11:04pm. Gasping for breath, he reached the man on the bridge and immediately noticed he was crying.
No, Johnny, sometimes men do cry. Sometimes, Johnny, the stars that appear to universally shine brightly upon all of us will conspire to bring inconsolable grief to some individuals they have chosen not to favor. Tough knocks, for sure, and I pray you never experience that inner despair of the darkest corner of the soul, but cheer up, it’s not happening to you or me, not right now. This is only a story, albeit a very important one.
Still 11:04pm. The man on the bridge, frightened at first, is surprised to see another human arrive at the climax of his heretofore subordinately plotted dramatic arc, coincidentally at the highest point of the arch of the bridge – and at the very moment he was contemplating a swift resolution to his irresolvable inner conflict! Can you feel the tension building?
The good man saw that shock, so he spoke in quiet Mozartian Magic Flute tones so as not to further trouble the man on the bridge.
“Pray, good brother, what is the nature of the irresolvable inner conflict that brought you here, at this peculiar moment of time and space, to the highest point on the landscape overlooking the great city when all above, and all below, is well and good?”
Then, in the manner of all dramatic foils, he locked his features into a sensitive and heart-rending expression for the freeze frame, and spoke no more.
The camera now shifts to the man on the bridge. Now, at last, we can see him. He is well dressed, but his expensive suit is not pressed, neglected. He reaches into his vest pocket and removes an awkwardly crushed cigarette. His eyes are slightly sad, but not slightly bloodshot. He maneuvers the cigarette to his mouth, hand shaking visibly, and spits some loose tobacco into the cold water far below. The camera follows as the specks of vegetable matter disperse on the long journey down, giving us both a visual perspective on the distance involved and the random dispersion of particles.
He pulls out his prized Zippo. We hear its familiar rasp and the soft music of evaporated gases igniting.
No, Johnny, the man on the bridge does not really smoke. He is not intended to be a role model and, at this point of his career, he would probably prefer to be remembered as a negative example of one. He realizes smoking is a filthy habit that causes forest fires, contributes to ever-escalating health care costs we non-smokers must subsidize, and corrupts the lungs of good children - with vile fumes of carbon monoxide, tar, and carcinogenic agents!
He is merely an actor playing a man on a bridge, using his twisted cigarette as a prop to extend the climax of our story – perhaps, more accurately, a parable – and we are only momentarily suspending our revulsion willingly for those people who continue to pollute our air with horrid substances, even after our government has discontinued subsidizing the people who manufacture them - thereby certifying their disgust for them now that their lobbies have been bankrupted - to bring our story to a nicely-anticipated finish.
Still 11:04pm. That man on the bridge finally speaks.
“You see that skyscraper over there?”
He points and the good man nods. “Well, I designed that building. I drew up all the plans. I submitted them to the great council of the great city. It was an ambitious and revolutionary design. I had to convince the great ones of their soundness. Then I had to sell the idea to the great ones who would finance it. Then I had to hire all the people to build it, keeping the cost under budget and still meet deadlines. It was not an easy task.”
For a moment, they both looked at the great skyscraper, and a special effects halo appeared around it. They both nodded.
“Still,” he continued, “No one ever calls me George The Architect.”
They nodded again, for the good man had never heard of anyone named George The Architect.
“Now look over there.” The good man saw a port on the great river, a focal point of bright lights and the busy arrival and departure of sailing ships, some bearing goods, some bearing people.
“I built that port too.” He said, taking a long imaginary draw on his imaginary Camel. "I built many ports."
He exhales.
“Nobody calls me George The Port Builder.” The good man nodded again, for he had never heard of any George The Port Builder either.
“This bridge. I designed and built it too.”
It was a sturdy bridge and had an exceptionally ingenious design, even to the untrained eye of the good man. No further words were necessary as their eyes met, but still, under his breath, the man on the bridge whispered.
“Many bridges...Nobody…no, Nobody…”
The good man clasped his jacket more tightly about his chest as he suddenly felt that eerie chill again - and maybe heard some highly dramatic (but still understated) distant thunder in the background as well.
Then, of course, a little silence that seems too long, and we look into the eyes of the man on the bridge. The music rises.
He speaks.
“But suck one cock…”
No, no, no, no, Johnny! This is not about moral values or the evil homophobic stepbrother they keep hidden in the attic. It’s really all about morals! Put down the axe and listen to me! Do I have to explain it all to you?
It’s about your reputation. How it flies on gossamer wings that you spend a lifetime piecing together with feathers and beeswax, like Icarus, only to see it plunge into the cold waters like a wounded falcon the very first time you fuck up!
You’ve ruined the whole story! It must never be explained.
8:24:47 PM 
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