RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,117
(philosophy at every turn)
One time, it was late at night, and
I was in the middle of Vermont
somewhere in the area of Rutland,
or Florence/Proctor. Hubbardton -
in that area but the exact location
forgotten - and a great, rumbling
freight train was creeping by. I
guess they did all that stuff late
at night - dead of night, in fact -
so as not to disturb the day roads.
This was on a long, flat, very
dark, plain between high hills.
The train stopped us, in the car,
of course, but it seemed that it
would be so long that we shut off
the car, and got out. It was a little
eerie, being deeply lost in the
darkness like that, not sure of the
night geography or anything.
Anyway, we're standing there,
just looking at things as they
went by, and talking, and we
looked up and realized there
was a man approaching, with a
lit railroad lantern. He was sort
of swinging it as he walked. He
came up to us and began to say
something. But as he talked he
touched or pressed something
at his neck and a weird, almost
artificial, voice came out. It
threw me for a loop, and the
I realized I'd seen or heard
about this before - artificial
voice boxes and such, for people
who'd lost their vocal chords
or whatever or illness does that.
Once I got his limit, I was able
to hear and listen better. But
still it was strange. He was
going on about how he had
to protect the road, and any
drivers, from the oncoming,
long, freight. The he said that
we had, by standing there as
we were, startled him as much
as he had startled us; how he'd
been doing that for 14 years
now, the only job they gave him
after the accident but it suited
him fine, and how he never
much saw any people, nor
expected too, on these late
night runs. Then he said it
could be another 15 minutes,
maybe, before the train got done,
so we could either enjoy it or
turn around 'whence ya' came,'
as he put it. 'Some folks do that.'
-
We waited, and he walked away,
over to the other roadside, and
when the last car did come, which
is what we'd waited for anyway,
with a quick half trot and a nice
hop, he was up on that caboose
stair in a jiffy, and waved us along.
It was pitch black, nothing to be
seen, and quite the experience too.
Old Hubbardton Road was where
we were headed, to this other
person's little home, and so off
we went. Thinking back now I
can't remember why we were
out so late, where we'd come
from, nor where my friend's
wife was either.
-
Funny how memories fade. And,
speaking of Vermont still, I recall
another bizarre episode. We'd taken
a small little motel cabin, along the road,
by that old Lake again, Lake Bomoseen
(I never got to know much about it,
but it was a big local draw) and my
wife and my, oh, 8-year old, son,
were out on the little porch. I saw
a bug of some sort, large and one
I'd never seen before, up near the top
of the curtain rod, at the window. I
went up to see it, by standing on
a chair, and it jumped at me, yes,
and apparently 'stung' me, just at
the base of my nose, where it meets
my cheek. (I can't recall what
happened to it after that. Flew off?
I killed it?). It burned like a fire on
my face. The next morning, I awoke
with a huge facial swell in that area,
throbbing, hot-red pain, and a weird
black mark in the middle of the swell.
Neither of us knew what to make of
this; it was pretty strange. When it
got to the point that I almost has
trouble opening my mouth, we
decided to find a doctor. One was
found, and we went over. He was,
as well, a bit concerned; asked a
bunch of questions, put on some
salve, and probed the area. A few
minutes later he brings out, with
his nurse, some weird thing that
for all intents and purposes looked
like an Exacto-blade and some kind
of pliers. (Pretty basic, Vermont,
medical equipment, I suppose). I
instantly thought of that guy with
the voicebox, wondering if this
could not be the same Doc!...
-
Anyhow, he cuts a little and hits
with the pliers, and he pulls out
what much have been a stinger, we
guessed, that looked more like a
long, slender, thorn. It was maybe
an eighth of an inch long, really
sturdy and stiff, and black. That
excision, whatever it was, did
immediately ease the pressure,
and it relived the throbbing pain.
In a day or so the redness and
swelling was gone as well. Near
miss? Had I been close to some
bizarre bug death, with a poison
soon to be hitting my brain had
the spike not been removed? The
craziest thing was, the Doc had
said, "That thing has to be removed,
they tend to work their way inward,
not out." Jeepers! Vermont country
philosophy at every turn.
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