The Boy Lay Dying

The Boy Lay Dying - a short story [1871 words] by Joanna Pogwash

"What the hell now?" I swore as I delivered yet another blow to the defenseless steering wheel. I wondered if the traffic ever flowed in this city. If it did, I've never been in it. Perhaps it waits until I'm asleep, but I work all hours of the day and night. Weekends? What's a weekend? I've never had a nine-to-five Monday through Friday job in my life.

I'm a detective, but I don't work in homicide or narcotics. I should have known this when I applied for the job, but I didn't read that part. After six years in traffic enforcement, I jumped at the first opportunity to move up. At least I thought it was a move up, but the only differences are that I don't have to wear a uniform, I drive a car that was seized from a very unsuccessful drug dealer, and I spend even more time in it than I did in the Crown Vic. I also got a five percent raise for only half again the hours. My raise doesn't even make up for the added expense of cleaning my suits, which I must entirely pay for myself. No uniform means no uniform allowance. At least I have a badge that looks like I work in homicide or narcotics, if I flash it quickly enough.

What other kind of detective is there, besides homicide and narcotics? I ask myself this question every day. I'm assigned to the County Executives' Office, which apparently means that every one in that building gets to tell me what to do. I'm a glorified go-fer that reports to every politician in the County. Just what do I go-fer? Everything that can be put into the form of a question apparently needs a detective to find the answer. I haven't been sent to find out why Mrs. Smith's cat won't come down from up in a tree yet, but I'm expecting it any day now. I am routinely sent to find out which hooker is detaining some commissioner, whose vote is essential for the preservation of the County.

"Detective, we need to find out who's behind these power outages! You'll need to do some serious investigative work here. We must have a strong response and reassure the public. The people look to their leaders at a time like this and we're not going to let them down, are we?" The Deputy Director of Public Utilities for the County was grave and emphatic as he sent me forth on my latest quest for Truth, Justice, and the American Way. It was all I could do to resist the urge to ask why he didn't think to call an electrician for this most important assignment, but somehow I always do. One day I will explode and I'm looking forward to it.

The traffic lights are out in this part of town again. You know this has been happening a lot when people almost immediately turn off the engine and get out of their cars to stand around and bitch. Perhaps someone will set up a grill and I can mooch a dog or burger for lunch. If I stand with my hands on my hips just right so as to expose my badge and gun, I just might get lucky. Some people still like cops in this town and it's not beneath me to afford them the privilege of showing it. I assume the pose and have no difficulty looking exasperated, not that I've seen a grill yet, but I always want to be ready. It looks like Michelin Man is ready too, just in case there's free food to be had, that is, if he can stop talking long enough to eat.

Something is different this time. I don't know what it is, but I can feel it and so can the people standing around me. Even Michelin Man has shut up. They've all noticed it. Silence. It's never silent in this city in the middle of the day and certainly not in the middle of a gridlock like this. The lights are off in the shops along both sides of the street and the people have drifted out onto the sidewalks. It's just a power outage and everything runs on electricity, I reassure myself.

Michelin Man clutches at his chest and collapses to the street. The silence is broken. People are quickly moving in to help him. Someone is calling for a doctor or a nurse, anyone who knows CPR. I had to take the course, but I'm not your best shot, buddy. There had better be a nurse nearby or you've had your last Big Mac and Ronald is going to miss you.

A kid who looks like a pin cushion begins pumping the guy's chest like a pro and giving orders for assistance. There may be hope for the guy yet. I can at least call 911, but my phone is dead. As I reach into the car to call the dispatcher, I see that others are looking at their cell phones in dismay. Lost power at the cell tower too, I suppose. No service. It's a good thing I have the radio.

I lean in to see that the face of the radio is dark. It's just off. I must have turned it off when I got out of the car. I punch the knob. The battery can't be dead. It just blew a fuse. Not a problem. There are four cabs nearby. It's still your lucky day, buddy. I was worried for you, but somebody up there must like you.

I walk over to a cabbie who looks like Potato Head and suggest he call his dispatcher, but his radio is dead too. Something is definitely not right here. Recognition is spreading around me. I can see worry in their faces: strange suspicions creeping in.

Suddenly, the lights are on, the radio is on, horns are honking, there is noise all around, coming from all directions--just the way it should be here at this time of day. People are talking, calling, moving, getting back into their cars, engines starting, life resuming its chaotic pace, all but the few huddled around Michelin Man. He gasps and tries to sit up, but relaxes, finally taking in air for himself. Pin Cushion rocks back on his haunches, breathing hard.

The crisis has past and the strange suspicions quickly dismissed. I'm not a doctor, but I suggest Michelin Man stop by the hospital just to be safe. Even though I knew my consultation was completely unnecessary, I gave it anyway--free of charge. I like to be helpful when I can, because I'm just that kind of guy.

The hospital is only ten blocks away. Still, it will take a while for this mess to clear out and an ambulance to arrive, but before I can offer my logistical advice, Michelin Man is stuffed into the back seat, Pin Cushion climbs in, and a woman who looks like Barbie pats the hood of my car, like a pit crew chief signaling me to get back into the race. I can't let Barbie down, so I stick the blue light on the roof and begin nosing my way through the traffic.

Four blocks to go and it happens again, except this time I didn't turn off the car. It stopped by itself. Everything has stopped and a grayness has descended. I get out and look up. There isn't a cloud in the sky. Everyone is looking up, except Pin Cushion, who is bouncing up and down in the back seat, desperately working to keep Michelin Man alive.

Time seems to have slowed to a crawl, but as suddenly as it all stopped, everything starts moving again. Even the sun has broken through whatever haze had obscured it. The car starts by itself and we continue on. I don't understand any of this. It's as if I have been caught up in a wave, headed for the hospital.

We're all just focused on keeping Michelin Man alive. That's all it is. I'm letting all this excitement get to me. I'm just not used to excitement. It's Boredom Withdrawal Shock Syndrome. We'll get Michelin Man to the hospital and then I'm going to have a drink. A double. Two doubles. As many as it takes to forget this ever happened.

Half a block to go and it happens again, except this time the sun is so obscured that it's almost night. Panic is overcoming me and all I can focus on is getting Michelin Man to the hospital. We all seem to share the same frantic drive to save Michelin Man, as if the world will come apart if we don't.

Others are joining us now. We are all carrying Michelin Man toward the hospital. We can't rely on cars or traffic lights or anything else, but our own hands and feet. We must save Michelin Man! It is as if all of our lives depend on saving this one man.

We finally reach the hospital. The doors open automatically before us. Inside there is nothing but chaos. No lights. No power. People screaming. Nurses rushing back and forth. No one makes any attempt to stop us. They just continue their own individual frenzied efforts as we push through them. The ER is just ahead. We will make it in time! We burst through the doors and into the ER.

Once again everything stops. Time itself stops. The scene before us is not at all what we had expected. Instead of a team of doctors and nurses poised to receive Michelin Man, ready to save his life, we see before us a small gurney bearing a small boy. We stop and stand as if frozen. Our eyes are all fixed on the boy, lying on the gurney, surrounded by nurses and a doctor.

"Two hundred Joules... Clear!" the doctor calls out. The nurses step back and the boy's back arches upward. "Two hundred again... Clear!" the doctor calls out again. The nurses step back again and the boy's back arches upward once more.

The strength drains from my body as if it were running out onto the floor. The others fare the same. Our arms fall limp to our sides. Michelin Man slumps to the floor. My knees buckle and I sink to meet him. Blackness sweeps over me and I lose consciousness.

The nurse silently entered the room and softly said, "we were all so hopeful that this last bone marrow transplant would be successful. We are all so sorry. We loved him as if he were our own." After a pause, she resumed, "he had so many friends. I think every one of them brought him a toy. What would you like for us to do with all the toys?"

She didn't look up, but slowly replied, "the Detective and Michelin Man were his favorites. I'd like to keep them. Mr. Potato Head and Barbie are his sister's. She'll want them back. Give the rest to the other kids. It would be such a shame if no one played with them."