The Avalanche

22 07 2008

……………………

Slave Trade

Slave Trade

………………….

THE AVALANCHE

Ford Harvey knew it was a mistake. Like looking up a mountain side and seeing the heaving snow clinging to the side. And yelling. Honeydripper! Ford Harvey had his own word to yell. Shall we tell you what that word was? Does it matter? Maybe. Ford Harvey sneezed. Loudly. And toilet paper is not unlike snow. Even one ply. It came rolling down. We’re talking row-ling. Bouncing. Tumbling. Right over him. And filled the aisle. And underneath it all, he lay. Ford Harvey. Wondering. Should he move? Would another avalanche be initiated with his cry for help? And perhaps this time it would be something heavier than fluffy white soft tissue. Maybe it would be cans of coke. And maybe they would explode. Their thick juicy carbonations absorbed by the toilet paper. Sealing him there. Forever. He had lost all confidence in survival. In rescue. When a voice reached out to him. Not a heroic voice. A squeaky voice. One that broke on the silent vowels.

“Sir, are you alright?”

Should Ford Harvey answer? He felt so foolish. But if he did not answer, would he be left? For eternity? Or caught up in the inevitable clean up? And then they would ask. Looking down at his mummified remains. Ford Harvey, why didn’t you respond?

Quiet as a mouse, Ford Harvey responded, “Yes.”

“That’s good.” The voice sounded so young. Ford Harvey wondered if he could be trusted. Kids are so unreliable. What if the kid messed up his rescue. And sent those boulders of Cola down on him.

“We’ll have you out of there in a moment, sir.”

“Thank you,” Ford Harvey said, the words barely audible.

“Sir?” the voice asked.

“Yes,” Ford Harvey replied.

The voice cleared his throat.

“Are you crying, sir?”

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