15 Minutes Past Sagittarius

The Sinkhole
When I walk from the locker room to the exercise floor in my gym, the whirlpool always catches my eye. After finishing the first half of my routine in the weight room I go to the cardio floor to use a couple of machines there, and for the motivation of seeing the ladies on the treadmills. Today my eyes brushed those of a woman I haven’t met before, the contact exchanging invitations for conversations of introduction.
But before we could blink, the radio station being aired broadcast an ad for a cream which ‘enhances the experience,’ and is available at a local adult store. The communication between our eyes was immediately rendered coarse, and vulgar.
Not for the first time, I go to the front desk to ask them to change the station. Well, you either understand the objection to public indecency, or you don’t. I think of the scene from ‘Apocolypse Now’, in which Chef expresses his horror at seeing hundreds of pounds of prime beef being dumped into a vat and boiled down till it turns grey. Georgia’s governor’s office confirms that broadcasts are beyond local control, and my congressmen have all written me that the standards are regulated by the FCC, implying that they have no say, either. Helpless anger in seeing the power of modern communications reducing women to a consumer product, the media teaching generations of girls that forming a family is incidental to their personal fulfillment. No doubt the civilization which replaces ours will deal with this in their turn – it’s happened before. But I’m angry for all, and angry for the damage being done to the woman I would love.

I carry the frustration to my bed. In a dream I see a man’s eyes close to this world, his light disappear into the darkness of an underground river. I have saved her, but not him. His life was in my hand, and I let him slip away.
My role in the dream is the same I played during my career – an EMS lieutenant. I was charged to coordinate the efforts of paramedic teams at several stations scattered around the county, and to that end spent most of my time in the cruiser assigned to me, listening to radio communications and responding to alarms where I deemed it appropriate for an officer to be present.
But in the dream no alarm had been given. I was simply driving newly opened streets to familiarize myself with its landmarks; a strip mall was being built atop the left bank of the road, and an exotic dance club had already opened. But just as I approached the shopping center, a geyser burst out of the pavement directly in front of me. I turned my car sideways and stopped, flipping on the strobes to warn anyone on the road behind.
With amazing speed the asphalt dropped away, seeming to feed an increasing roar. And even while I radioed the dispatcher about the sinkhole, I saw a car approaching from the other side. It’s brakes locked down, but not in time. The car teetered on the edge for a moment as if indecisive, then committed itself to the maelstrom.
Fire Rescue was given the alarm, but their station was several minutes away. What a luxury it is to have time between receiving a call and arriving on scene to get mind and body focused. What a joy it is to feel the power course through me during the emergency run. Assigned responsibility for my fellows, I have the authority, too – the scene and all the roadway to it are mine to command. I absorb the power and responsiveness of my cruiser during the run, and upon arrival the blood has filled my flesh and flushed my mind of all but the task before me. But not this night – I was thrown into the disaster cold. Trained, but not braced for an emergency.
Thankfully it was late night – no other headlights in sight, less chance that others would follow the car into the vortex. Soon enough the police would have the roadway blocked, and be dealing with drivers irritated to have their routines interrupted. Street lamps from the parking lot on the hill gave some illumination, but the bursts from my strobes rendered the scene surreal.
The pavement continued to crumble, the hole broaden. It would be derelict to run onto unstable ground recklessly, so I took the time to fetch the rope from my trunk and tie one end around my waist. Making a loop around a fire hydrant which appeared far enough away from the sinkhole to be secure, I fed myself line, and approached the precipice.
A huge water main had burst, and was spraying toward the opposite bank. The car had sunk to its windows, but I could see a woman being pushed out, helped onto its roof by a man inside. She crawled face down and grasped at the opposite side, struggling to stay atop the slippery roof. The man quickly climbed up beside her.
The torrent had apparently washed itself an outlet under the mall – a whirlpool was becoming defined. A mixed blessing – the water was leveling out in the hole, but the vortex was tugging at the car.
The couple could not hear my shouts over the roar, but as the man scoured frantically around the pit he spotted me descending its side, and tapped the woman’s back to show her that help was at hand. I was near the end of my rope – enough to play out and get me to the car, but no extra.
Looking about for options, I could see several security guards standing on the hill above. They should at least be preventing people in the parking lot from getting too close to the danger, but their backs were to the crowd – they were more an audience to the scene than participants. A cat sat on the curb in front of them, and my glance took in a dog, too, who paced anxiously, as if he already felt the pain from sirens too distant for me to hear. I had no means to gesture for help, as both hands were needed on the rope, but it didn’t matter anyway – the guards couldn’t get from their balcony box to a position to aid any sooner than the firefighters who were on the way. The car was clearly moving toward the whirlpool – all was up to me.
I rappelled away from the wall and thankfully landed hard across the two victims. They grasped my arm just as the car slid away from underneath us. I watched it circle deliberately in the whirlpool and vanish. There was nothing left on the surface but the two people facing me, clutching my right arm. I felt the water pulling their feet toward the whirlpool, turning us all. The free end of the rope was still in my left hand, at the rapelling position behind my back. With just that arm to work with, I struggled to make several turns of the rope around the loop at my waist, all the while trying not to move jerkily, lest I shake the victims loose from the other arm.
I couldn’t hear, and could not turn to see, but I felt the rope being pulled from behind, away from the whirlpool – I knew and trusted that Fire Rescue had arrived. Now I could do no more than serve as the final length, the hook at the end of the rope. Surely a firefighter was securing himself to another line, ladders were being dropped, and we would soon be joined.
I had locked onto the woman hand to wrist, with the man clinging on, but his hands were slipping down my wet arm – he was obviously exhausted. If another rescuer didn’t arrive soon.. I ached to let go my left hand’s grasp on the rope at my back and reach for him, but my body refused, seeming to know that the knot would slip if I did, and I would lose them both.
A bump to my leg told me that a firefighter was behind me, so I finally flung the left arm around to the man. He saw, and plunged for it, but so lethargically that he reached my hand with only one of his own. My fingers were hooked, cramped in their curled position from the rope, but he didn’t have the strength to lock his to mine against the pull of the water. Before the firefighter could lunge for him he slipped away. All that tied me to him were his eyes, and when his feet reached the whirlpool the lids closed in surrender, and he was gone.
Another firefighter reached us, and the two quickly got a line around the woman and worked her up a ladder, getting me out soon after. The woman was walked to my EMS crew at their ambulance. Her hair and clothing were tangled and soiled from the filthy water, but she has survived. Her partner did not.

Robert C. Flanders
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