What the old man thought:

The wheels on the guerney go round and round,

round and round, 

round and round.

The wheels on the guerney go round and round …

He couldn’t get the damn song out of his head. It played round and round, over and over, again and again, until he thought he’d go mad.

And then he remembered: I am mad.

“Institutionally speaking,” he said. Crazy as a fox, he thought.

And he wondered, When did mad come to mean the same thing as crazy? He knew that mad also meant angry, and that crazy people sometimes seem angry to uncrazy people.

He avoided the word sane because it smacked of self-righteousness: only someone secure in their “sane” little world would ever call the rest of us “insane,” he thought. We all know the line between rational and crazy is always shifting, that what makes perfect sense today may be utterly baffling tomorrow.

He envisioned sanity as a narrow ledge at the top of a dangerous cliff, and all it takes to push you over is a small nudge, a slip in memory, a bump to the head, or a few volts of electricity.

So he accepted it: he was crazy. But mad? He didn’t feel mad. He felt … lost, disconnected, adrift. But not mad. Not like he wanted to hurt anybody. He just wanted …

What did he want?

For a moment, he didn’t know. Then he heard sirens and he remembered. They were coming to get him, to tie him down and wheel him to the Shock Shop for another dose of electricity before they locked him in his room.

He couldn’t do it again.

What he wanted, he realized, was to become invisible.

So when he saw the smoke billowing before him, he stepped into it. And he was gone.

Though if you listened carefully, you could hear him humming:

The wheels on the guerney go round and round,

round and round, 

round and round.

The wheels on the guerney …

 

What the firefighter saw:

He seemed to be running INTO the fire. Surely it was an illusion. 

Those were confusing times and I often got confused. But it was the first time I saw him, of that I’m certain. And he was running, no doubt about it. Into the fire? Well, it certainly appeared that way, but when the smoke swirls about you and the heat presses against the glass of your oxygen mask, and the weight of the fire gear makes you feel like you’re swimming in slow motion, well then, objects have a way of appearing and disappearing, of taking on other shapes and colors, of becoming something quite different from what they are, or were.

I’m not explaining this very well. Let me start over.

We were fighting the fire on three sides of the hospital grounds. Flames were lapping at our feet and occasionally a spark would ignite a tree or bush across the street we stood in, on the side the hospital buildings were on, and suddenly we’d have to turn our backs on the fire and put out the spark before we had fire on both sides of the street. Turning your back on a major brush fire is a Big No-No in my profession, but sometimes there was no choice.

It was one of those times that I saw him, when we had to turn our back on the fire to put out a small flame starting up a palm tree that brushed against the hospital administration building. He was running. But instead of running away from the fire and into the central quadrangle where the other patients and most of the staff were assembling in the safe grassy area surrounded by the old Spanish Colonial buildings, he was running TOWARD the smoke and flames, across the narrow street and into the dense undergrowth where the fire was blazing.

I didn’t know what to do. I pointed him out to my partner, who was helping hold the water hose we directed toward the palm tree where the spark had landed, and he was as amazed as I was to see an old man in a hospital gown running into the smoke. My partner gestured to redirect the hose toward the old man, but I wanted to make sure we had put out the spark in the palm tree—those buggers can explode into flame if you don’t put them down completely—so it was 5 or 10 seconds before I turned back toward where the old man had been moments before and began laying down the fire across the street with a stream of water.

But he wasn’t there.

He’d vanished into the smoke. If he was ever there. Later, I began to doubt myself, doubted that I’d actually seen the old man. The heat and smoke will play tricks with your eyes, not to mention the dehydration and exhaustion you deal with fighting fires. And brush fires are the worst of the lot—not as dangerous perhaps as a forest fire, where flames passing overhead through the top branches of the trees can suddenly drop a limb of fire into your lap, but plenty dangerous still and much more exhausting because of the speed with which brush fires move.

And this one was moving. In the time it had taken us to kill the flame in the palm tree and return to laying down the fire across the street, the smoke had filled the street as the fire consumed the dry brush and moved up the hillside opposite the hospital. One moment we could see him as clear as day, running in his slippers and gown, running away from the hospital and toward the fire, and the next we couldn’t see a damn thing: no fire, no hillside, no street and no old man.

My partner and I spread the water round as fast as we could, dispersing the smoke in hopes of catching another glimpse of the old man, but no luck. In another moment, the brush fire had moved on, away from the buildings, up the hill, and the street was filled with nothing but ash and black water and us. Two fire fighters with no fire to fight. And the memory of a man disappearing into the smoke.

 

What the old man did:

He ran like the wind, like a racehorse, like a river of white water, like … the fire itself. He ran until his lungs ached, his legs ached, his back ached and he had a headache. He ran all of 20 yards into the smoke and stopped. An old man gasping for air in the middle of a fire.

Even he knew this was not a good idea.

He started to cough from all the smoke. He looked around. Nothing but smoke, and the silhouettes of a couple burned trees. He looked back where he’d come from, but the smoke had erased the hospital buildings.

Good, he thought, I’m invisible. And he sat down right where he was, pulled his gown over his head to cover his mouth and nose, and breathed as best he could through his makeshift mask. He was naked, except for the gown on his head, but he didn’t care. He had given up caring.

The smoke covered him like a blanket.

 

What the hospital staff saw when they searched for their missing patient:

 

 

 

 

What the old man saw:

He may have fallen asleep, he wasn’t sure. But as the smoke began to clear, he saw a bunny rabbit. It seemed to be hopping toward the fire. Why would a rabbit do that? he wondered.

“Don’t go into the fire!” he said aloud.

The bunny kept hopping, like it was in a hurry to die.

The old man struggled up from where he had been sitting, tied the hospital gown back around himself, and took off after the rabbit. To save it from the fire, he told himself.

But he was an accomplished liar, and even he didn’t believe himself.

 

What the rabbit became:

“I’m late, I’m late,” said the rabbit, wrapping its yarmulke around it. “It’s a very important date.” For emphasis the rabbit tapped on the book it was carrying. “Shabbat waits for no man,” it said as it walked out of the smoke and into a clearing.

In that moment, the smoke dispersed and the sound of accordion music filled the open space, and the rabbit found itself in the midst of a party—a very strange party, to be sure, but nonetheless a party. And tea was being served!

 

“Join us,” said the creature pouring tea. “Plenty of tea for thee and me and me and thee!” And with that he—or it, for what it was was not at all clear—cackled aloud. “But oh no,” the creature said to the rabbit, “not dressed like that. Something … more formal!” And it cackled again, a loud and ominous cackle, more like the sound of the earth opening up than the twitter of a small creature with a tea pot in its hands, or paws, or feet, or whatever it used to hold tea pots.

The creature’s cackle became a rumble, the rumble became a roar, and the rabbit became a rabbi.

That’s insane, thought the old man in the hospital dressing gown, rabbits don’t become rabbis!

But this one did because that’s just the way things happen in stories: inexplicably, inexcusably, unpredictably and allatonce.

Voices joined the accordion music and the smoke lifted to reveal people seated around a plaza, waiters running hither and thither, hot food wafting on the breeze, and a thin boat arriving at one of the small arched bridges over a murky canal. A man with a long pole pushed the boat forward while singing in a very large voice.

Volare, oh oh

Cantare, oh oh oh oh

Let’s fly away from the smoke

Away from all hospital folk

We can sing in the glow of a song that I know of

Where GMs enjoy peace of mind

Let us leave their electroshocks and their drug therapies behind

                                   Like rabbis to brethren, a seder together we’ll find …

Volare, oh oh …

 

The rabbi asked something of the man and woman sitting in the bottom of the boat being poled by the man with the large voice. They pointed back to where they’d come from. The rabbi bowed to them and hurried away.

The old man followed, conspicuous in his hospital gown among the well dressed tourists and restaurant staff that filled the plaza. But he didn’t care. He had to follow the rabbi. Why? He didn’t know why. The rabbi doesn’t know why either. Nor the strange creature pouring tea. No one knows, not even the teller of the tale, so stop bothering with such silly questions.

The old man ran after the rabbi. That’s the who, the what, the when and the where, and that should be enough for anyone out there.

The rabbi ran, the old man followed, though running is not quite what rabbis do. They shuffle,  but in a great hurry. They hasten, as quickly as their old legs will let them. They don’t mosey or meander or wander or amble. Rabbis are, by nature, in a hurry, at least when they cross crowded plazas on their way to …

The old man had no idea where the rabbi was going, though it did seem urgent that he get there soon. The old man hastened after the rabbi, down the alley adjacent to the murky canal, through poorly lit squares (where no one would ever hold a tea party), down more and darker alleys, until they spilled, if spilled is the word, into a lobby, if lobby is the term.

It was empty. Except for a security guard, tying his shoe near an escalator. The rabbi crossed the lobby to the security guard and asked him something. The old man, doubled over to catch his breath, couldn’t hear what the rabbi asked. He watched the rabbi do a little bow again and then step on the escalator going down.

Do rabbis take esclators? wondered the old man. This one did, two steps at a time. The old man crossed to the security guard and asked, “Where is the rabbi going?”

The security guard looked strangely at the old man. “Where are you going?”

The old man realized he must look out of place in his hospital gown, here in the lobby of some hotel or something, so he explained it all very slowly and very carefully to the guard.

 

What the old man said:

“There was this rabbit, see? Well, first, you need to know I didn’t escape. No no, we all ran out, patients and nurses and orderlies, everyone. To save our skins, see? And I got lost in the smoke. The smoke from the fire. Didn’t I mention the fire? Well, there was a fire. All around the hospital. Yes yes, that’s why I’m wearing this hospital gown. The hospital was on fire and I ran out to escape the fire—not escape from the hospital, no no, of course not! And in the smoke everything was confused and I saw this rabbit, a cute little bunny rabbit, but it was running the wrong way. I mean, it was running INTO the fire. Now why would a rabbit do that, do you suppose? I have no idea either, but it doesn’t matter, you see, because the rabbit—this is where it gets just a little strange, but bear with me—the rabbit turned into the rabbi.

“You can understand that, right? Happens all the time in stories, right? Rabbits turn into something else, not always rabbis, I grant you, but that’s not the issue here, is it? The real question is whether rabbits can turn into anything—except rabbit stew, maybe. But they do, I mean, animals do, all the time, in stories. They are forever turning into other things: wolves into grandmothers, tigers into butter, frogs into princes. Right? It’s commonplace in stories. And if something is commonplace in stories, well, it stands to reason it must be at least possible, at least imaginable, in the real world, that is to say, the world where stories come from. Right? Ah, you see, it does make sense, doesn’t it?

“The rabbit turned into a rabbi and I followed him here. That’s all there is to it, see?

“Now what I need to know is … where was the rabbi going? Down the escalator, where does that go to?”

 

What the Security Guard said:

“Huh. Well, uh … let me just make a call about that for you, okay? Just a moment,” he added, as he pulled out his walkie-talkie.

The old man realized what was up—his game was up, that’s what was up—so he bolted (if old men can be said to bolt) for the escalator and hurried into the pit of the empty hotel after the rabbi.

 

What the old man discovered:

Stepping off the escalator, the old man could hear voices, strange voices, not speaking voices, but voices whispering together, or maybe chanting together. And then he realized, it was voices praying together. He followed the sound.

Deep in the bowels of the hotel, the old man stumbled upon a group of men, young and old, all wearing yarmulkes and dark suits, standing in the hallway as they greeted the rabbi, who had arrived moments before. The old man, feeling very out of place in his soiled hospital gown, stood aside and watched, fascinated. The other men either didn’t notice the old man or they ignored him. They huddled about their rabbi, smiling and touching his shoulder, glowing in the presence of the man they’d been waiting for. They were all drinking tea. But it wasn’t a party, exactly.

As the group started to move out of the hallway and into an adjacent room, the rabbi turned to one of the younger men and asked in a voice loud enough the old man could hear it clearly, “What’s the latest score?”

The young man pulled his phone from his pocket and gestured toward it, saying, “No reception. The last score I got was in the second inning. Zero to zero.”

“Zero to zero is a good score,” the rabbi said. “Maybe the Umpire of All will hold the game scoreless until we finish shabat, who knows?” The other men laughed. “But if you can’t wait,” the rabbi said to the young man with the phone, “ask him.”

He pointed to the old man.

“Him?” said the young man. “Why him?”

“Ah,” said the rabbi, “do not be fooled by his appearance. Remember the story of Isaac who does not recognize his eldest son, Esau, and is tricked into giving his blessing to his younger son, Jacob, who is disguised as Esau. Do not be fooled like Isaac. Even wise men can appear in disguise.” The rabbi nodded toward the old man. “He knows the score.”

 

What remains to be revealed now that we’ve reached the heart of darkness that inhabits every story:

Cell phone in hand, the young man in the yarmulke approached the dissheveled and bedraggled old man in the hospital gown. Two epochs, two worlds, two universes of discourse, faced each other in the bowels of the basement.

For a moment, neither spoke, then the young man asked the older, “Do you know the score?”

“Me? Why would I —?”

“The rabbi says you are a man who knows the score.”

“Well, I used to, that’s true, but lately? I have trouble keeping track of the days of the week.”

“The rabbi is rarely wrong. He sent me to you.”

“Does your rabbi follow baseball?”

“Is that so hard to imagine?”

“I guess not,” the old man said, “but I don’t keep up with baseball anymore.”

“You managed in the P. E. B. A.,” the young man said, pronouncing each letter separately. “Is that right?”

“General manager, yeah. And we call it the PEBA. Like one word.”

“Your team, I believe, set records for losing, yes?”

“You know your PEBA history.”

“The rabbi does,” said the young man. “And anyone who knows so much about losing must have something to teach, yes?”

The old man thought about that. “Something to teach? Yeah, I guess so. But does anyone want to learn it?”

The young man smiled but said nothing.

“Are you trying to teach me something?” the old man asked.

“Are you in need of a lesson?” the young man replied.

“Not today. I’ve had enough adventures. Rabbits and rabbis are more tiring than you might imagine.” The young man turned as if to leave. “But I would like to know how to get out of here.” The young man stopped. “If that’s something you can teach me.”

“How did you get in here?”

The old man laughed aloud. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me,” the young man said seriously.

“Suffice to say I got lost in the smoke, from a brush fire—but that’s another story. I fell down, or maybe I inhaled too much smoke, at any rate, I got lost. Maybe …”

“Maybe what?” the young man asked.

“Maybe I’m dead and all of this is an apparition.”

“Is it an apparition you want out of?”

“I guess so … I mean, yeah. If I’m dreaming, wake me up. If I’m dead, well, I guess I’d like to know that too.”

The young man took the old man’s hand and held it for a moment. Then he said, “If you dreamed yourself into this moment, you can dream yourself out of it. It’s your dream.”

He let go the old man’s hand and, as he turned to rejoin the others, he said, “My rabbi calls. When your rabbit calls, follow.”

And with that he was gone.

 

What the old man did:

The old man looked around, but he couldn’t see the escalator that had brought him down into the basement of the hotel. There were no security guards to be found. In fact, the basement was now empty, all the men with yamakas having secreted themselves in the private room. The sound of their prayers buzzed in the old man’s ear.

He turned round and round, looking for a way out. Round and round again, but nothing. Round and round, he thought, and a familiar tune jumped into his head.

The wheels on the guerney go round and round,

round and round, 

round and round …

That damn song! He looked desparately for a way out and saw in the corner of his eye a white blur.
Was it …? Nah, how could it be? Not down here. Then he saw it again. A definite white something bobbing down a dark hallway.

What could he do … but follow?