Undercurrents

Most of you know that after yesterday's long work schedule, turning the car ignition key resulted in continued dark and silence; no rumbled hum, no check engine light that's been on over half a year.  My car battery was dead.  Triple A, which has been with me for 27 years, amused themselves with a three a.m. chance of rescue; I had my phone and charging cord so I sat down inside on the yellow linoleum of the school, plugged in and got my thumbs busy to pass time.  Once Canada had gotten the call, she hastened with determination and love to the rescue.  Many, many other offers had come, people are so kind; Diane arrived in record time.

We aligned cars, and tried with no success.  Weather was becoming bitter, so we hopped back into her car to warm up and text our Auto Parts expert; fingers were not working well, the phone was slow.

There was a tap at the window, and I recognized the older man standing there; he was the sex offender whose arrest I had found on a crime link two weeks ago, a rapist who had attacked a 74 year old woman.  "Crime reports" is a website introduced through a local news station; every reported crime is listed, and I check every so often as to who are the people in my neighborhood.  Within a close radius of the school are three convicted offenders; two have involved children as young as six, the third was standing in the street outside of the car window, asking if we needed any assistance.

He was polite, cordial, 78 rpm chatty, and knew which terminals were the correct ones; after three tries my friend's car powered up mine.  That's what neighbors are for, he said. You're the teacher, aren't you?  Uh, yes, you know who I am?  He related that he sees me walk up the street to work, and knows that the red car is mine.  My brain is trying to keep up, trying to decide if my recognition of this memory were true.  Two girls, one high school age, and the other about nine exit his house in the morning, I presume to be on their way to school, so it wouldn't be too odd for him to see teachers walking past with their cloth briefcases.  Was this him?

He asked if we needed anything else; we said no, but thanks for the help, and I slid into Diane's car to see if she wanted to go grab a drink and to tell her who I thought our benefactor was, as I had related the story of my investigation to her earlier.  We decided to go to Gabriel's Gate in Allentown.

The temperature had dropped from a pleasant mid twenties into frigid crispness that fox-bit bare hands and cheeks; the city streets became slick with black ice, as Di followed me in her car.  We traversed a roundabout into the narrow street of destination, and suddenly surrounding us at an intersection was fire, captured within thousands of brilliant spherical glazings: the Bubble Man was out.  I hadn't seen him in ages.

Behind a window in the third story of a hundred year old building lives the Bubble Man, a retiree who needed something to do.  What he decided upon was to send bubbles out into the world where Allen Street intersects Elmwood using gallons of solution, bubble wands, and a circular fan.  Here he was, ten o'clock at night, inventing bubbles that became glowing orbs, illumined by the sodium street lamps into orange and gold baubles of flame, rising in murmurations, then this: they froze.  Became glassine ice and descended slowly, bouncing off car roofs and car hoods and people walking and the steak sub shop  greasing the first floor.   It was enchanting, a wizard's effect on everyday life traveling over everyday pavement, a pulling back of the curtain.  Oh, thank you, Bubble Man.  A glissade of magic, a telling of fortune, the opening of a treasure chest.  People lifted their faces to catch them.

We arrived at Gabriel's Gate, warmed up, and eventually both of us were grateful to be on our way home about midnight; I decided to drive a short ride to boost the charge and took the expressway that edges the rim of the city.  Got home, and sent my friend the crime link with a photo.  It's him, she said.  She also checked on his vehicular plates, registered to the name recorded in the report.  This morning, as the two girls were leaving the house he was there, to drive them.  Good morning!  How's the car?  The car's running well; I can't resolve your history, particularly with my own and for so many other reasons.  I will be civil, but guarded.

I have had a total of 11 hours of sleep over the past three days;  tonight I will be under the covers ten minutes after this story is posted and slip into the realm of the unconscious, amid mists and layers of breath.  A grateful sinking into the pillow, untethered and floating softly free.  Next week is a mid-winter break, a very good idea as far as I can tell.  Wait and see what I do.  But now, bring me to sheets pulled up close and heavy quilts on top,  I am tired.  My arm is pretty banged up, but it works.  Sleep, lend me your grasp, pull me under.  Good night, my dear, dear friends.  Good night, Canada.  Love you.