Bucky's Time Capsule; Part Three
The Mural
West Point, California, May 27th, 2017
Under the New Town bridge in West Point, there is a mural. Painted by everyone who has been underneath the unseen part of town. There you can find no profanity or bad habits, only people and their stories. I know all the stories listed on the bridge, for a homeless man who has been living under that bridge since it's been built, I can say that I've had many people visit me. Local authorities know I'm under the bridge, they just don't bother with removing me because New Town bridge is the only tourist attraction here.
A large portion of the mural on the north side of the bridge was painted by someone different. I never thought our best artist who contributed to the mural would be a killer. The multicolored swirls outlined multiple circles and shapes in an Ombre pattern. The hands of an artist will always amaze me, and who the artist is will around me more, especially James Buchanan Barnes, an assassin, who secretly created the best-known mural in California. Only I know the truth.
West Point, California, June 18th, 1985
I had over one-hundred tourists today, each wanting to do the same old thing to the same side of the river. I gave them a paint can and a brush and told them to keep it appropriate, which is the one rule everyone, EVERYONE, follows. Even the high school seniors who visit me almost every day after two-thirty follow that rule. The north side of the bridge was left blank, because nobody dared to cross the river, even in the summer. It was a usual day I suppose- until night fell.
I was sleeping in my sleeping bag, I wasn't that warm on that hot sticky night- which was surprising for a summer day in California. I hear a small crunch on the other side of the bridge, which was new for me. No one came here after dark, if you did- the bridge would be shut down. I sigh. Tiredly, I grab my flash light and cross the small, dried-out stream of a river.
"Alright, I know we don't have regular hours, but you can't be here past dark," I say to the darkness. My eyes have adjusted enough to see a silhouette of a woman under the north side of the bridge. When I get over to the north side of the bank, I hear a small click and her breathing speeds up.
"Don't come any closer!" She screams at me. I put my hands up in defense.
"Woah lady, I don't know what you are doing here, but I'm sure the police can help, ok?" I say to her. My eyes have adjusted enough to see her face clearly, and I can tell her eyes go wide.
"No! You're him! You're him!" She screams at me.
"I'm not... ugh... I don't know who you are but, you are obviously on drugs Lady," I say to her.
One more scream sounds out in the night. Following that is a bang, coming from the bridge. The lady collapses, dark liquid runs from her unnatural resting place on the ground. This time my eyes go wide as I rush to her side. Not a single breath comes from her. I start searching her for something, anything, that could tell me who she is. I find a wallet in her jeans pocket, stating the following information:
Anna Grader
DOB: 2/4/61
SHEILD Agent: 28108618
The rest was in a different language, I only know English so naturally I had no idea what most of the badge said. I shake my head and get up. I need to call the cops, this is way out of my experience level. Then it hits me: whoever shot Anna- I guess I can call her that now- is probably still on the bridge. My breathing quickens as I paste myself to the north side of the bridge. I don't know how long I wait, but soon I hear a splash and the sound of footsteps approaching Anna. The man was living in shadow, shrouded in mystery and danger. A figure dissolves from the mess of darkness around him and a man steps forward to examine the body. He pokes Anna with a rifle, just to be sure she is dead. I hear a sigh escape from him and he turns to leave.
Instead of leaving, he stops to look at the mural on the south wall. Then without warning he looks over his shoulder at the north wall, at me.
"Whoa whoa whoa! Buddy!" I put my hands up. "I won't say anything to the cops 'kay?"
He points his gun at the mural of names surrounding the underside of the bridge.
"What is this," he mumbles.
"It... it's a tourist attraction- the ONLY tourist attraction in West Point," I answer.
"Can I do that," he asks me. I scratch my head.
"Yea sure... I have paint... if... you... want any," I add. He nods his head and continues to look around. I scramble to the other side of the bank to grab all of my paint cans and brushes, then with an armful of art supplies, I stumble over to the other side of the bridge. The man puts down his gun.
"Let me help you..." He says. The man grabs six paint cans from the tower in my arms and sets them down on the bank next to the north side of the bridge. The man sits down next to the cans and takes his face mask off. For the first time, I realize that he is a person, a HUMAN BEING. And I'm scared of him because he could end my life, it might not even be his intention to end it- no human as gentle as he could intend that much harm... can they?
The man takes off his gloves to reveal a shiny, metal hand paired with a normal one. I take another deep breath and approach him.
"Here's a few brushes too," I say. I hand him the brushes and for that moment I was face to face with the manic who was painting calmly next to a dead body he killed. This is way out of my level of experience, and there is no way I'm charging him.
"Thank you..." He starts.
"Oh, I'm Lester, just the guy who runs this place," I say. The man smiles.
"I'm James... no call me Bucky," he says back.
"Alright then Bucky, do your thing I guess," I say.
I turn on my heels and head straight back to my sleeping bag and fall asleep, turning the sleeping bag ever so slightly so that I don't have to face Bucky.
The next morning, he was gone, the only sign of him was left on the north side of the bridge. A freshly painted pattern of circles in many colors continued down the twenty-foot span of the bridge. For hours I looked for some sort of signature, and finally I found three words,
"For Steve,
-Bucky"
Upstate New York, December 12th, 2017
"Cap!" Sam threw a file in front of me.
"It regards your friend," he said.
I open the file to unearth a picture of a mural, painted in West Point, California. I close the file back up again and take a deep breath. When I slide the file back to Sam, a small picture skids out.
"You were right Sam, it is him," I say.
The photo has only had three words on it, located somewhere on the mural.
"For Steve,
-Bucky"