Ferber's Quandry

CHAPTER THREE

Polly Brubaker's alarm clock went off at 7:15, and nudged her softly from sleep.

Polly had programmed the clock's CD player to fade in each morning on a version of "Stella Blue" that she'd seen the Grateful Dead perform at Shoreline in 1995. Now, each time she stirred, her first mental image was of a road-weary and vulnerable Garcia, chin tucked into his breast, a sublime flurry of notes taking flight from his guitar like turtledoves arcing into the evening breeze...somehow.

Admittedly, Polly had heard more technically accomplished versions of the song, both before and since; in particular, the "Stella" that she'd seen in Seattle in 1998 was positively heroic. [Like most Deadheads, she saw 1995 for the musical nadir it was, yet she was thankful for the year when Jerry kicked the junk for good, and rediscovered the clarity that carried him and the Dead boldly into the new millenium.] But the Shoreline version held a sacred place in her heart and spirit, and never failed to send her right-minded into the day ahead. It made her blood flow.

As she rolled out of bed and set her feet on the hardwood floor, Polly felt a damp tongue lapping at her toes, and glanced down to see Cilantro, her terrier/Dane/poodle/shepherd mix, gazing lovingly into her eyes. "Up," she thought, and Cilantro leapt obediently into her lap.

She never needed to say anything. To Polly, canine telepathy was perfectly natural, though she understood if some were a bit skeptical of her gift. Polly had first realized that she could communicate with animals at the age of nine, when she stared into the eyes of her spaniel and he told her that he wanted a slice of buttered toast.

Over the years, telepathy begat empathy, which in turn begat sympathy. When Cilantro was sick, Polly felt her symptoms, and often came to understand that the dog's illness was borne of some conflict or unease within herself. When she addressed the conflict in her mind, Cilantro would make a complete recovery, and her own body regained its health.

This fine morning, all was well with the world. Polly drank her customary half-cup of herbal tea, showered, and tucked several begonia flowers into the curls of her hair. She fed Cilantro and, as the forecast called for clear skies, put the dog outside for the day. Heading out the door, she chose two shows to smooth her commute to Spunderville: the Dead at the L.A. Staples Center (featuring the triumphant return of "St. Stephen" after a 16-year absence) and an obscure show by Phish, a Vermont bar band. Polly liked Phish a lot -- "Divided Sky" made her think of the Canadian Rockies, "Reba" reminded her of her little pigtailed niece, and "McGrupp" suggested "Court of the Crimson King" on mescaline -- but she was fairly certain Phish would never be more than a novelty act. They were too weird for the big time.

Riding the eastbound Mauve Line, eyes closed in deference to her music, Polly got a chuckle from Phish's reading of Styx's "Grand Illusion." She imagined how front man Tommy Shaw might react to hear such an inspired and naked send-up of his bombastic, pseudo-metaphysical opus. She opened her eyes as a handful of passengers debarked at Brainsley Station, and noticed a stanza that a graffiti artist had scrawled indelibly onto the opposite wall of the car:

One for you and two for me
Things I hear and things you see
Help me find the price of free
And I will teach you to undry

Polly frowned. It wasn't that she didn't like poetry; she practically knew Blake's Marriage of Heaven and Hell by heart. But this verse felt more like a riddle than a poem, and it was too early in the morning for riddles. Besides, the last line didn't seem to fit the rhyme scheme at all. Somewhat annoyed, she closed her eyes, and turned her attention back to her headphones. Welcome to the Grand Ee-loo-zhun! Come on in and see what's hap-nin'! Pay the price, get your tickets for the shooow! Now that's poetry.

When the train wiggled to a stop at Spunderville Station, Polly stepped off the platform onto Sycamore Street and hitched her bag onto her shoulder for the four-block walk to DataTronixCorp, where she worked as the mail room supervisor. Though she'd taken the position as a paycheck -- a way to make ends meet while she pursued her art -- she'd come to rather like her job. She knew everything that happened at DTC; the hirings and firings, the meetings and bleatings of the office body politic. Her finger was truly on the pulse. She knew of the CEO's sexual harassment suit before his wife, the poor soul.

Crossing 12th Street, Polly nearly fell on her face. Her bag swung off her shoulder and clobbered her on the opposite arm just as she caught her balance and righted herself. Looking back, she realized that her shoe heel had caught in the groove of the old railroad track that ran along the new line, and was stuck there. She was pulling her foot from the shoe and reaching down to pluck it from its steel trap when she heard it.

It was something like a whisper, though no one was in whispering distance. It seemed to Polly that she didn't hear it so much as feel it. And even though it seemed to come from no particular direction, it compelled her to look into the intersection just as child met truck.

Unable to watch the first team attending desperately to the little boy's shattered frame, she had instead watched the jump-suited rescue workers defibrillate Bob's heart (and found herself strangely amused that they actually shouted "clear" before they administered the shock paddles, just like Randolph Mantooth).

When the third shock took and Bob regained consciousness, Polly recoiled as a frothy orange liquid spewed from his mouth. He flopped about like a dazed fish, unaware of what had happened to him, and oblivious to what he had wrought from behind the wheel of his Ford Enormous. Suddenly, Polly felt an undeniable pity for this poor man, knowing the terrible guilt he'd endure in the months and years to come if the boy's injuries were as severe (lethal?) as she imagined.

As she pondered the stranger's future, a fireman by the name of Quint Whimford touched her on the shoulder. She turned to find Quint holding her other size 7, and smiling with masculine assurance. "I believe this is yours," he said, motioning to her bare extremity.

At a loss for words, Polly nodded, took the shoe, and slipped it onto her foot. She noticed that she'd become accustomed to standing in one shoe, so that donning the other one made her feel uneven again. Behind them, the ambulance holding little Louie sped away with a blap from its siren. "Did you witness the accident?" Quint asked.

"Yes. I mean, sort of," she tried to explain. "I looked up at the last second. Is...is the little boy...dead?"

"Not yet," Quint replied, realizing instantly the sour connotation of his response. "What I mean is that he's holding on, but he's hurt pretty bad. But, hey, I've seen a lot of these, and if there's one thing I know, it's that you never know." Quint smiled, his teeth gleaming.

It was no accident that Quint had found Polly to give her comfort. He'd always found trauma sites to be fertile ground for romantic conquest, and Polly seemed like promising quarry. He dug her curly red hair, and wondered whether it was the same color in her pants.

"Ma'am," he said, "my name's Quint. Quint Whimford, SFD. You see that engine over there? As soon as you're finished giving your statement to the police, I want you to come over there and find me. See, I'm a bit of an expert on witness trauma, and I'd like to help you assimilate what you've experienced. I'm here for you." Quint had a manner of accenting terms he'd learned recently. He was always bettering himself.

Polly nodded and smiled thanks. His work done, Quint sauntered off.

Then, as the second team of paramedics lifted Bob Ferber into the ambulance, his eyes found Polly's from forty feet away. Bob sat up, straining against his reinforced nylon restraints, and screamed into the morning fog.

"UNDRY!"