Sanders Sanderson
(1)
Trying to comprehend his place in integral ecology, Sanders Sanderson’s brain melted – just a little – leaking – just a little – out of his left ear. As the warm ooze filled the targus, concha, and external auditory meatus of the external ear, Sanders’ center of balance suddenly shifted left. If Sanders had been sitting down or even walking, his sudden tilt-a-whirl would have gone unnoticed by the world-at-large. However, Sanders had chosen to ponder his existence, exploring not only his internal nature but also his external nature, at a red light at – arguably – the most trafficked intersection in Minneapolis during the season’s first snowstorm.
The snow, incapable of pondering the importance of the moment, went about its seasonal imperative. The cold arctic wind mixing with relatively warmer – moist – air from the south to create the perfect conditions for snow to accumulate in the troposphere, meanwhile the concrete and asphalt still radiated enough heat to slush-up the snow making driving more akin to trailblazing in thick bush – and cars make poor machetes. The stop light – red, still for Sanders – could see the impeding accident as Sander’s car lurched forward into the intersection, slightly to the left, even though he was in the center lane.
Perhaps, if the light would have changed at that moment – and been green for Sanders, the accident would have gone better for all parties. However, it was the first snowstorm of the season and newcomers to northern not so experienced with sudden weather events – especially involving slushy snow – were late and driving as if it were still seventy degrees, sunny with clear skies.
The on-coming Chevy Blazer knew what it meant to drive in tough terrain and had gone though a deep-depression – seemingly since rolling off the production line – being owned by a small, slender woman – seemingly afraid of everything – whose idea of adventure amounted to short trips to the coop for organic, vegan cupcakes while suffering in earnest from period cramps. However, the Chevy Blazer – after a long conversation with a rusting Ford of some unknown persuasion – had emerged for its depression knowing that it would finally get to use its all-wheel drive. Perhaps the Chevy Blazer was more than a little excited to see snowdrifts bust through and icy ruts in the road that would test its shocks and struts.
Opposite the on-coming Chevy Blazer, the number 4-bus – heavy with a mix of rush-hour executives and University of Minnesota students – lumbered through the snowdrifts and slush like a subarctic veteran. If asked, this specific number 4 would tell tales of the Halloween Blizzard of 1991. While other lesser buses had pulled over or gotten stuck in the snow, this number 4 had delivered out its passengers to their various destinations. Unlike some of the newer pussified busses – hybrid, flex fuel, and such – this number 4 still ran on diesel. Oh sure, its interior had been given an upgrade, but it still out torqued all the newer – supposedly eco-friendly – models.
Meanwhile, ghosts freely floated around the intersection. Their mouths gaped open, reliving past accidents that dated back to the horse-and-buggy 1880’s. A select few that had overcome their personal traumas – seeing Sanders unique predicament – tried to intervene by creating an ethereal tidal wave of spirit. The kinetic spiritual confluence of ghost, snow, blazer, bus, and stoplight mixed with Sanders Sanderson’s focus on his place in an integral ecology worldview sparked awake an antediluvian awareness that could do no more for Sanders than any of the others about to merge in the knowledge each other.
Bang!
As soon as the sound echoed, sending waves of energy through the sea of air, filled with snow, the antediluvian awareness realized Sanders Sanderson’s importance – that it wouldn’t – now – be awake if it hadn’t been for the transcendent reach of his melted mind. In accordance with its feeling that this Sanders Sanderson was important, it moved slightly through time taking up the passenger car seat next to Sanders Sanderson just before his brain leaked through his left ear. It held time in place.
The antediluvian awareness said, from the cloud of its existence, “Sanders Sanderson, I know you not.” The cloud simmered gold then silver. “Do you know me?”
Sanders wasn’t used to magically appearing talking clouds interrupting his moments of stoplight transcendent thought. First, he looked in the ashtray. His joint was still there, unlit and un-smoked. Yet, perhaps this was the moment that he’d been searching for, a moment where the physical, material world intersected with the internal, spiritual world and stopped being separate. Perhaps, he was finally whole.
“I don’t even know myself. How can I know you?”
The antediluvian awareness simmered in puzzlement. It had expected an equal in this Sanders Sanderson.
“How is it that you don’t know yourself?”
“I don’t know.”
“But it was you that woke me from my slumber. You called out to me.” Then the antediluvian awareness took in – at the same time – the moments before the accident in slow motion, its own awaking, the accident, the year following the accident, and the year prior to this moment. “It seems that you and I are linked in a way that I can’t see, which is a shame because you only have moments left to live.”
“What!”
“You die seconds from now.”
“Can you do something?”
“I can see it.”
“Can you change it?”
“I can only see it.”
“How does it happen?”
The antediluvian awareness – although having only just woken – was stating to bore. This Sanders Sanderson didn’t seem to be so special. However, it wouldn’t be satisfied until it understood their connection.
“Look. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, you did wake me from a long slumber, but you’re really no help.”
Sanders, trying to take in the talking cloud, the snow, the light, the traffic – how it was standing still –, and the suspicion that there were others watching him that he couldn’t see, decided to go with the situation as is.
“I’m Sanders.”
“Yes.”
“Now you tell me your name – that’s usually how this goes.”
“Names have power too much power and you wouldn’t be able to correctly pronounce any it with your fleshy tongue.”
“Okay then. I’ll call you Ernie.”
“Ernie?”
“Ernie - definitely.”
