Bertie by the Pond
A. Sheltering in place, weary from hours of online grading and a spouse making loud sounds in the house again, you change into running shorts and matching headband in search of mid-day, phantasmagoric adventure. You could run the shadeless neighborhood blindfolded, so instead, hatch a plan to drive to your favorite leafy park, recently reopened under your state’s aggressive reopening guidelines.
Water bottle, check; towel, check. Not getting any younger, the virus has you uneasy. A mask for the run? You believe the President’s vanity keeps him from wearing a mask, even at an Arizona mask factory or Ford ventilator plant, blowhard goes nose-free. Not you. If you toss a mask into the car, go to B. On the other hand, you’re so vain. Sure, you wear a mask hefting your eggplant around the produce aisle, but no sooner clear of the last bagger, you drop your mask like your spouse drops the (now daily) five o’clock jug of sangria. If the mask stays behind, go to C.
B. Really? Why are you even here? You will never wear a mask in the great outdoors. Ever. Not in town. Not in NYC. Not even Wuhan. Under martial law. Enough pretending poster child for toxic mask-ulinity. Proceed to C.
C. You can enter through the main gate and park near the outdoor exercise area, a popular stopover for fit parents to stash strollers near the playground. Or you can drive past the gate and park on the street, a short walk to the small pond just inside the park, a gathering place for filthy geese, fishers, and portal to a parallel universe. Rumored portal, that is. You are undecided: it’s mostly the surface scum and no swimming sign, but also a fear of bottomless depths and toothy abyssal creatures that keep you from a curious, impulsive plunge. Of the geese, you’ve no doubt.
Known virus carriers, you’ve tiptoed through their deviously plotted cigarello garden of e. coli, been further harassed by their aggressive, grass-chewing swagger, their honky, bacteria-laden sneezes. Sour odors could have you longing for that mask. If geese microbes scare you, enter through the main gate, go to D. If it’s toddling, pre-K immu-ninos and immu-ninas and their buff, virus-shedding mommies you fear, park on the street, go to E.
D. You live in the burbs of a large southern city where confederates, conspiracy theorists, Pelosi fans, Kemp lovers, and phantasm-seeking joggers come together, united in their belief, in their goddam right to co-mingle peacefully in their favorite park, eager to express, or escape, their politics with a fresh air stroll.
Inside the main gate, the parking lot near the outdoor fly machine, sit-up station, and pull-up bar is jam packed, cars queued, waiting for a spot to open like it was Yellowstone’s Grand Prismatic Spring in July. Inching along, you see the distant playground overrun with mucousy, raucous, immune tykes, while nearby, a young woman in a black tankini ties off her double stroller, jumps up to the pull-up bar, your pull-up bar, and after 12 reps, exhausted, you stop counting. Next up, her shirtless husband. Then, their trainer. Not a single young Republican wipes down the bar. And how would you know that? Because nobody had a towel! Come on! Peel out to E.
E. You start your run at the pond. If you decide on two laps around the orange loop for a quick three miles, go to Z, your story is over, ends before it can begin, because you’ll return too early and miss your impending collision with fate, your moral and ethical fate in this shifty, pliable spacetime at the portal to another universe (spoiler alert, it is the pond! The rumors true!). Unfortunately, your cosmic clash will never happen, quite an event, really, shame you missed it, whole point of this story. If you decide on three laps around the orange, go to F.
F. You finish your run with a cooldown walk around the pond, careful to space out, fit in amidst the pond people: walkers, fishers, youngsters feeding the ducks and turtles from the scalloped concrete perimeter. You’re feeling old and stiff, lamenting the endangerment and possible extinction of your sub nine-minute mile, yet justified: the only runners you’ve seen in masks are dorks in fluorescing shoes and matching headbands.
Perfect day. Not a cloud, cool in the shade, a soothing sunheat. Father and son in ballcaps cast lines in soft curves, bobbers drop beyond the shoreline’s reedy sway. Mallards dunk, surface in shimmers, drip perfect emerald beads. You scan the shallows for fish, keeping your social distance when a sound – an ugly shriek, like a trapped animal, slices apart the heavenly air – up further along the shore, an elderly woman has tripped over a tree root and face-planted in the dirt. A ring of dust rolls across the pond, unfurling like a bedsheet. If you sprint to her, animal instinct, adrenalized, morally upstanding citizen, vault to K. If you bend to retie your shoe, lightheaded, thinking – no, knowing – yourself unequipped for what lies ahead, go to G.
G. You convince yourself you are not what this old lady needs. Afraid your back may seize, you finally quit the laces, find not one pond person is helping. Dust settles on the water. Mallards paddle past the fountain to the pond’s far side. A goose boldly approaches the prone lady and tugs a strand of hair. If the goose triggers your heroic instinct, hump it to K. If you are distracted by a shapely young woman in mint yoga pants, go to H.
H. On the heels of the goose walks a shapely young woman in mint yoga pants holding her son’s hand. Relieved, you watch as the young woman lifts her son’s hand, and together, they step right over the old lady. Do they know her? No. They walk past, toward the giant metal sculpture you’ve never cared for, a modern, burnished aluminum monster insect, jointed legs sunk in concrete beneath pine needles supporting a body of geometric impossibility, scaled as it is, an arachnid or preying mantis, hard to tell, towering fifteen feet at least. Suddenly, the giant insectoid rotates its head, fixes its glowing red eyes on you. If you need a minute to clear your head, take a seat on a park bench. Go to I. If the microbes crawling over the bench frighten you more than the sculpture, go to J.
I. The brass plate dedication riveted to the bench reads, In Memory Of, and reminds you of the public transportation train seat where you suspect your COVID-stricken neighbor picked up the virus. Your neighbor has confessed to you, at his low point in the hospital ICU, exhausted, straining for every breath, that he felt himself ‘circling the drain’. He is your age. Don’t sit. Don’t touch your face. Proceed to J immediately.
J. You are terrified, not by the red LED eyeballs or metal head movement – the fact of head rotation, you chalk up to a strong breeze and hidden roller bearings – but by the penetrating, menacing look. Its bug face is sizing you up. The woman in mint yoga pants forms a stirrup with her clasped hands, her son touches her shoulder before stepping, and she lifts him atop the shiny insectoid. High in the saddle, the boy seems transported and emits a wild cackle. Mom strokes the insectoid’s knee. They face you, looks of maniacal joy. Still time for you to confront your moral complacency, go to K.
K: Oblivious to the mantis head tracking you, you sprint, tunnel vision. A dark cloud blocks the sun, chill air finds the old lady’s wild, yellow-gray hair in wiry tangles splaying across her shoulders, hiding her face. One arm is bent awkwardly, trapped beneath her bulk. Heels together, the toes of her white therapeutic walking shoes point outward, parallel to the hardpan. You imagine a chalkline, evidence at a crime scene, although chalk would never mark up this silty hardpan. Spray paint. Orange used to mark underground cable. Kind of a weird thought, actually, not like she’s dead, body right there, heaving a little, a soft moan.
You notice her phone rests in the dirt behind her head. If you take her picture with it, go to M. If you do not take her picture, go to L.
L: Take her picture? Weird. Who does that? Have you suddenly turned crime scene investigator? Medicare claim agent? Negative. More like, agent of ineptitude. Pic happens. Go to M.
M: Her water bottle is still secure in a sling pouch wrapped around her torso. Her left hand is trapped beneath her body, elbow askew. You take a knee, wondering if she knows you’re there, withholding touch, hoping you’re not a spreader. Addressing the gray mat of hair, you say, are you ok, where does it hurt, can you move, do you need an ambulance? The old lady barely lifts her head, a puff of breath stirs the dirt, says, my shoulder, it hurts. I hit my nose.
Ok, breathe. No rush. Try to relax. Are you by yourself? You dropped your phone, is there someone I can call, an ambulance? Call Jim Sunderson, she says.
Residential homes surround the park, you hope maybe she’s walked here. The sun is bright now, can’t see a thing on her dark screen. A distant voice asks have you called 911. You look up to see mint yoga pants, black hair pulled back, dark sunglasses, she looks astonished – or is it anger – she mouths the words, is she ok? You’re confused as her lips continue to move, more words, mouthing unfathomable words: she’ll die soon, die soon, soon anyway, to decay.
You wipe the sweat from your eyes. A bundle of nerves, you’ve forgotten how to use this older model phone, fumbling, desperate, finally a swipe, the screen unlocks, no password required. The camera app is open, and there, nicely framed and perfectly in focus is the whole sweep of the old lady’s body. Nearest the lens, her white walking shoes loom large. Frantic, you swipe, push buttons, seeking her phone contacts when you hear it, a soft ka-tsshh. You’ve just taken a picture of her dirt-crusted body. Ka-tsshh. That’s two. A swipe, tap, now a flipped camera view, where a big pale melon wearing a headband above bewildered eyes looks at you, never quite making eye contact. Ka-tsshh. Oh no. If you ditch the evidence and throw the phone in the pond, dashing from the park in disgrace, go to Z. If you plod on, go to N.
N. Just beyond evil in yoga pants, her son perches like a possessed prince on the mechanical mantis. He pulls a crabapple from his pocket and drops it to a ravenous goose below; a mid-air snatch, the goose shakes its gullet, spreads its wings and runs straight at you, honking and flapping, a leap, its webbed feet leave the ground, clear of the old lady, a rough bony wing comes down hard and knocks the phone out of your hand as the goose soars, the phone leaves behind a sliver in the pond scum, plunging like a brick. If you jump in after it, go to O. If you lie in the dirt, stunned, curl into a ball and faint, go to O anyway, this part of the story works fine as fever-dream.
O. A plunge, head first, the shock of cold never arrives. Like bathwater, milky and deep, the pond invites you deeper, you kick, the water clears and you spot the phone sinking an arm’s length away, and dig, stroke hard, harder, the water thinning, the light shifting and now you’re inside a slick, spiraling tube, sliding head first, around and around, you feel a push up one last swale and fling into the air to land softly on sand by a tantalizing indigo pool. The pool perimeter is edged in scalloped concrete, stained in vibrant reds and yellows. Paddling on the smooth indigo surface are mallards, or rather, mallard cousins, an odd species, same size, shape, but their heads are ivory, a stripe necklace of canary yellow delineates the head from the green body. Here, it’s their bodies that are shimmery, verdant green – color inverse of a mundane mallard – this fantastic duck seems dressed in the species’ away uniform. Far, far away uniform.
The old woman is still beside you, dressed in the same, loose-fitting clothes, facedown, motionless and coated in white beach sand. The metal insect sculpture is gone, replaced by a magnificent opal horse, a body twice the size of a thoroughbred, magnificently proportioned, a coat like velvet that shifts dark and light with every muscle twitch as it mills near a fruit tree, stretching incandescent rainbow wings. With every gentle fold of wing, a scent of tea olive casts into the air. With every golden-hoofed step, a burst of paisley tulips and checkerboard daffodils spring from the earth.
If you are enchanted by this world and wonder what’s next, go to P. If something deep within you aches, unsatisfied, an unquenchable desire for more, leap into the vivid indigo pool, portal to a third universe. Go to X.
P. A boy runs toward you from the direction of the winged horse, so excited – look, look what I caught! – a goblet-sized, golden turtle in his hands, he grips the lip of golden shell, holds as if presenting a gift, the turtle head stretches like a divining rod, claws straining for purchase, swimming in air, suddenly the claws gain hold, the boy’s feet peddle inches off the ground, higher now, above the fountain, flying higher, the turtle tows the boy up, the soles of his shoes sail away over the tree tops and out of the park.
A languid, silky voice says, she’s not getting any younger, you know. You turn, look down to see one of the ivory head mallards, exhaling a smoke ring. It waddles near the old woman, taps cigarello ash onto her shoe, and in a sleepy voice says, what are you waiting for, buddy? Her shoulder still hurts.
If the loquacious, debonair mallard bothers you, dive into the indigo pool. Go to X. If you suddenly remember your mission, why you’re here – the old lady’s phone! – go to Q.
Q. From within the pool’s fountain shower of liquid silver, a mermaid emerges and swims to shore, black hair, wavy, slick. She glides up and rests her curvy hips on the concrete edge, shapely tail half-submerged, scales glistening, shedding water, reflecting mint green to you. The phone is in her hand.
The mallard warns, careful buddy. Less than thrilled with the buddy moniker, you dismiss the mallard. You reach out to her as she accepts your hand and tugs, almost pulling you into the indigo pool. Wouldn’t go if I were you, daddy-o.
If you see this mermaid as a gratuitous test of your libido, perhaps a test of your views on ageism, and cannot forgive the manipulation, go to Z. If you are the forgiving sort, a firm believer in free will, confident in your character, your ability to resist this siren call, but mostly just annoyed by that bossy, oily mallard and want to unload a piece of your mind, go to R.
R: What is your problem, mallard? Ain’t the way home, my homey, says the mallard. That’s the way to a third universe, parallel to this one, which makes it, geometrically-speaking, a confounding and inhospitable perpendicular to yours. The political, economic, and social geometry is too complex for you. Perils abound. It’s a world of conspiracy theories and youth culture and unlimited freedom and volatility, a stock market that skyrockets to dreamy heights one week, plummets to black Monday depths the next. A rising quality of life is a perceived right, no matter the cost. But there is cost. Social security gone. Medicare gone. Assisted living gone. Consumerism rampant. Public health inequity, income disparity as policy goals. Factory-farmed, POTUS-brand steak delivery by Boeing drone to every party doorstep. Discounts for party vote.
Don’t get me started, buddy, you sure as hell don’t want to know who the president is down that rabbit hole.
Spare me mallard, how bad can it be, you say. The suave mallard watches cigar ash float to the ground, raises an eyebrow, says, you dive into that universe, wonderbread, you’ll find the president none other than Donald Trump.
If this non-news from the smug mallard convinces you the mermaid really is the ticket to a better home, but reluctantly decide to attend to the old lady anyway, good for you, go to S. If you are so disappointed in the political tone creeping into this story like some lame version of Animal Farm or a late-night, pontificating Rachel Maddow, go to Z.
S. The mermaid hands over the phone and slips beneath the water. You call Jim Sunderson. After seven rings, he answers, “Hello honey.” Jim is in the park walking the hills with his schnauzer but on his way. Meanwhile, the mallard is to the side of her weak ear, to aid and instruct you. Make the old lady comfortable, homey, you haven’t even introduced yourself, ask her name.
What’s your name? Bertie, she says. Get her to trust you, mallard says, tell her your mom is her age, falls all the time, Alzheimers.
If it dawns on you that what this woman needs isn’t advice from a mallard, but trained EMTs, go back to M, ask Bertie again, would she like an ambulance. If you are smart enough to realize that going back to M does not advance the story or absolve you from a responsibility to your elders, go to T.
T. I wish my mom would walk more, you tell Bertie, she fell a few years ago in her garage breaking down a cardboard box. Broke her wrist. Bertie opens an eye and shares, I broke my hip five years ago, I’ve been doing good since. I usually walk at the gym. But it’s closed. I do water aerobics there. I do water aerobics, puts in the mallard. Bertie can’t hear the mallard, tells you to go, you don’t have to stay, Jim will be here soon. Her heart’s not in the request. Bertie says, my Jim walks the hills with the dog, I do seven times around the pond for my two miles. I’m a retired nurse. Don’t do hills. I have four daughters in four states. Mallard pipes up, lie down, my man, mirror her, show her what to do with her legs. Do it myself, if I had legs.
You lie in the dirt, face Bertie. Bertie, can you draw your knees up, like this? Good. Ready? Roll to your good shouder. Good. Can you get up? All her weight is on one knee, she shrieks. Shoulder? My leg. Cramp. She drops her head. Dizzy? No. She stands. Jim appears with the schnauzer. You’re a mess, honey. Bertie is unsteady. She looks at Jim. They communicate without words. Jim says, we’re ok, we got this, thanks for everything, we can get to the car. If you accept Jim and Bertie’s offer to leave, looking forward to the mermaid, go to X. If you consider your duty incomplete, go to U.
U. You and mallard each take a shoulder and steady Bertie. Do this for me, Bertie, not you. On the excruciatingly slow walk up the hill to the car, Jim tells a story of Bertie falling from an Amish chair at her daughter’s family reunion in rural Ohio. Or Illiniois. Who can remember. You’ve known Jim for twelve minutes and it feels like twelve years. Jim starts another story of his daughter in rural Michigan, something to do with cheese curds. Remarkably, he lags behind, finishes telling the story to his schnauzer.
Bertie is safely in the passenger seat. Before Jim closes the door, he starts another story. If you politely listen as Bertie slumps forward, go to V. If you tell Jim goodbye and to please get Bertie medical care immediately, go to W.
V. If you are here listening to another of Jim’s stories, you have found yourself in a dangerously boring, but escapable, story loop. Go back to U and tell Jim goodbye already.
W. A ruby mist rises from the indigo pool. The mermaid sparkles in the sun as she swims through the fountain shower and waves at you. That’s not the way, says mallard. Trust me. But Donald Trump, you say, he is my world’s president too – how bad could the third universe be? Mallard snuffs its cigarello and before flying away, says, “Donald Trump? Did I say Donald Trump? I meant Donald Trump Junior.”
If this terrifies you, go to Y. If it does not, well, there are no other sane options. If voices in your head say things like, a ruling Trump family can’t be worse than the Clintons, just go already, see for yourself. Go to X.
X. The mermaid lifts her mint tail out of the water and waves for you to grab hold. Head first you go, into the indigo pool. Shocking, brutal, Lake Michigan cold. Spiral tube. Around you go, pop out, and land in mud beside a swamp. Is that sweet smell marijuana? A muscovey duck flicks away a burnt stub, picks up a clipboard, asks, what party are you? You pause. Umm, keg? Funny. No really, wise guy, what party? Why, you ask. Because, the duck says, how quickly and confidently you answer determines where you live in this universe, what you pay for rent, your job, your friends, your salary. Besides, you chose this place, not like you came here chasing a phone. By the way, if it helps you answer the question, remember who the president is here. Shall I put you down for Rep—
Lightning cracks. All around the drainage swamp are scarred, dead trees, thorny vegetation. Ash gray rabbits. Sooty geese. Mud-stained turtles flop in the bubbling mud pots. Every mud bubble bursts a horrendous sulfur gas. No pond people. The color, where did it go? you ask. Drains into the swamp, the ugly duck says, stifling a yawn. Color is unnecessary in this universe. This place turns on homogeneity. Junior’s policy objective is color it white. Color it white! Color it white! But he’s got to plug the swamp first. Even the white is draining. Which is why there’s only one answer to the party question. So, last chance, my good man, what party are you?
If you answer keg, for real this time, wipe the muck off that turtle over there. You’ll reveal a shiny golden shell. Golden-shell turtles know the shortcut wormhole out of here. Go to Y. Still think you might stay? Seen your mermaid lately? She gone. Come on, trust your instinct, join the keg party. Not much time. Foam didn’t fall in a day. But it will. Please. You’re so close. Go to Y.
Y. The turtle tows you out of the swamp through the wormhole and drops you back at the indigo pool. Along the shore near the sunbathing mermaid, the winged opal horse is dazzling, canting. Neither are bothered by your approach. You pull a bouquet of sweet-smelling gardenias from the horse’s path near the mermaid. You approach, but she slides into the pool, blows a kiss, swims away. Holding the bouquet, you walk to a tree and pluck a ripe red papaya and present it to the horse. The horse is preposterously tall. It lowers its muzzle, snorts gently and accepts the fruit. Its coat shimmers as it deftly drops to four knees unlike any horse and extends a rainbow wing for you to walk and mount. You lean forward into its sugary mane. The flowers morph into reins.
You snap the reins and the winged horse gallops toward the pool, skips off the water and through the fountain spray, up into the cobalt sky, climbing higher, the horse’s muscles tense and rushing air turns to mist, the sugary mane dissolves and you lick sweetness from your lips and you’re sliding around a slick tube, shot out to land on your feet back at the pond.
You’re waving to Bertie and Jim up the hill in their car. Next to you, a woman, maybe 50 years old, is also waving. She looks familiar. You ask her name. You point to the root you think Bertie tripped over. You say, thanks for your help, Mallory, not sure I could’ve got Bertie upright without you. You explain how Bertie and Jim kept asking you to leave, even with Bertie lying there. That’s their generation, Mallory says. Been through tough times. Proud. Independent. We can learn from them. Go down fighting. Mallory is dirty from mirroring Bertie, showing her how to draw in her knees. Mallory brushes away the last bit of dirt and starts her run. You notice her headphones are Beats, ivory and shimmery green. Go to Z.
Z. You leave the pond and walk to your car. On the drive home, you wonder if you’ll ever see Bertie at the pond again. She has miles to go before her walk is over.