dnlfn:

St. Nepomucene’s Gang of No-Good Do-Gooders hung out on the Brooklyn Bridge ‘cause that was their spot. They were a highly moral bunch, but wicked, and dedicated to the destruction of all peace and goodwill through random acts of kindness. Many times did they set a man against his enemy by politely holding the door and bidding them both into the same coffeehouse. Many times did they help an old lady cross the wrong street, leaving her stranded and lost when they departed. “This is for St. Nepomucene!” they would shout after each deed. “A good man thrown in the river! If there will be no justice in this world, we will not be just, though we may seem to be!”

The people of the City, because of those few who were good for badness’s sake, became terrified to accept any favor from their neighbor. “No, thank you. I can carry the bags myself. I’ll make two trips, or three if I have to. Thank you, but leave. Please. Just leave.” And so it was that the City came to be filled with grumps and skeptics, I suppose. Years upon years of unending suspicion that every well-seeming act will end in confusion and/or misery takes its toll…

St. Nepomucene’s Gang has long since dissolved into the general population and the Do-Gooders haven’t held a meeting in decades. Still, Brooklyn Bridge holds their memory and their spirit, and I suspect a few card-carrying members still walk around amongst the crowds. Okay, I more than suspect.

Once, while on the Bridge, I was walking alongside, as usual, a stranger. We got to talking about the state of things: how people defy categorization, how corrupt everything is, how pure everything wants to be, how mixed-up and inseparable our competing desires for justice and wealth are. “Let’s remember that Satan himself was an angel, is an angel, is a devil, was a devil,” he says to me.

Just then, an attractive couple walks up to us. “Will you take our picture?” one of them gushes. “It’s our first time in the City. We’ve been going picture-crazy trying to capture it all. Magical place, isn’t it? You don’t mind?”

The stranger, in a most accommodating smile, takes the camera, turns it on, and begins instructing the happy couple to scoot over, back up, almost, just there, okay, now lean together, smile! They try so hard to do exactly as he says. But, when I look over his shoulder, I notice that the stranger has not been, as it would seem, preparing the perfect-postcard-snapshot. He has been flipping through past photos—albums upon albums of memories that nodoubt mean something special to these two people in front of us. Don’t these people ever clear out their memory card?

And then, in the middle of my confusion, the countdown begins. “On three,” says the stranger. I, feeling like something is wrong, continue to watch the camera over the stranger’s shoulder. He knows I’m watching. He doesn’t care. 

One! Delete? Two! Delete all? Three! Deleting.

An enthusiastic “cheeeeese!” muffles the electronic rendition of “crumbled paper entering the trash bin” coming from the camera’s tiny speakers.

A quick return of the camera to the couple, a brisk turn towards Brooklyn, a quiet exclamation, and he is gone. Do you know what he said? I can tell you. I heard him: ”This is for St. Nepomucene!” he said. ”A good man thrown in the river!”