Chapter Thirty-Six

Birds squawked overhead. Gary stood on the front of the boat like a masthead, breathing in the salty mist and gazing into the pink sunrise. They had searched for Howard all night without success. The congressman crushed dried-up white carnation petals in his hand and then let their remains flutter down into the pink ripples. He turned around and faced the people on the boat.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll introduce your bill.”
There were no cheers. It was impossible to be happy under the circumstances.
Gary hopped off the bow, looked at the dried up flowers on the deck, and sighed.
“First things first,” he said. “I need to get a white carnation.”
“We’ve got a whole truck full,” Natasha said.
Gary shook his head. “No. I’ll get my own. I can’t accept any special favors. It wouldn’t be right.”
David realized that they had the right man. This was the Gary Ackerman they’d come searching for: the fiercely honest man, ready to stand up for what was right, no matter what the consequences.
***
The plan had been to simply roll Howard into the congressional hearing. Even though all of the congressmen had sold themselves to the Antifreeze Lobby, when they saw Howard’s sad state, they would feel so miserable and guilty that they would cast their votes to embitter antifreeze. But now Howard was gone. They considered using another dog in a bubble (one of Earl Sandwich’s hounds perhaps,) but that wouldn’t work—a purebred in a bubble wasn’t adequately pathetic to move hearts and Howard was the only bubble-bound dog without a pedigree.
There was only one thing to do to move those congressional hearts and make them rebel against their corporate masters. David would read a poem about Howard the mutt. His poem would communicate the raw emotion of a dog forced to live the rest of his life in a bubble, without petting, without games of fetch. It would be poetry at its purest.
***
Congressman Ackerman arranged for them to set up their flower show on the lawn of Capitol Hill. He thought more public exposure would help their case. (The Antifreeze Lobby wanted to keep it quiet.) At first they set up on the west lawn, but that was right across the street from the U.S. Botanic Garden. People thought they were just a special exhibit of the botanic garden, and didn’t realize that they were something special: a traveling flower caravan bringing inspiration to all the people. So they moved to the east side of the lawn.
They parked the trucks on the side of the lawn and moved the flowers out into a circle around the gazebo truck.
It was a beautiful day for a flower show. A few puffy white clouds wafted along the bright blue sky, the sun shone down approvingly, and the flowers inspired swarms of tourists from every corner of the globe to realize what was really important in life. The tourists also marveled at the freedom which Americans enjoyed: to be able to set up a flower show on the lawn of their Capitol Building!
David sat in the grass and read his new poem, My Puppy Drank Poison, to the tulips. Elizabeth eagerly explained the various species and types of flowers to her guests. The foreign tourists took photographs of the flowers, but they seemed more interested in taking pictures of Marcy. Apparently only Americans liked skinny women.
Congressman Ackerman was watching all this from a lawn chair. Derrick sat down on the chair next to him.
“Don’t sit so close to me,” the congressman said. “I can’t take special favors. I don’t want you keeping the mosquitoes away from me.”
“But there’s no mosquitoes this morning,” Derrick said. “There’re no bugs at all.”
“Just get away from me.”
Derrick stood and shuffled away.
Someone walked up to David and cast a shadow over his notebook. “Welcome to the capitol,” a familiar voice said.
David looked up and saw two figures in black suits carrying black briefcases. Agents Lugo and Black of the Department of Agriculture.
“Somebody wants to talk with you,” Agent Black said.
“Come with us,” Agent Lugo said.
The two agents turned and started to walk away. David hopped up, pocketed his notebook, and hustled after them.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“We told you, someone wants to meet you,” Lugo said.
“Who?”
“Someone important.”
But they were walking away from the Capitol Building, away from the direction of all the important people. They got to the street and started to cross.
“Who wants to talk to me?” David demanded. “Does this person have a name?”
“You’re going to meet the Librarian,” Lugo told him.
“The old lady who returns the books to the shelves?” David asked.
“No,” Lugo said. “The Librarian of Congress.”
He pointed to the impressive Thomas Jefferson Building of the Library of Congress right in front of them.
“What’s he want with me?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
They walked up through the entrance, past the reception desk, and through a large reading room. The middle of the room was filled with large table where researchers delved into dusty, obscure tomes. The bookshelves lining the walls reached up several stories to the glass dome where a chandelier hung.
“Why don’t you tell me what this is all about,” David said.
“Shhh.” Lugo raised an index finger to his lips and whispered, “You’re in a library. People are trying to read.”
“Sorry,” David whispered.
They walked on in silence. David tried to step lightly, so his shoes wouldn’t make noise.
They turned into an office area, where people sat at desks and typed away at computers, but even they seemed to obey the library rules of quiet. They looked up at him and stared silently. David felt important, going to his meeting with the Librarian.
At the end of the hall, a small woman sat typing at her computer. The nametag on her desk said: Secretary to the Librarian. She gave them a small smile of recognition, gestured with her hand, “one moment,” and picked up the phone. “The gentlemen from the Department of Agriculture are here to see you.” She waited for a response, then said, “Yes sir,” and hung up. “Go right in. The Librarian will see you now.”
Lugo opened the heavy wooden door to the office and walked in, followed by David. Agent Black brought up the rear. The office was spacious but had no windows. All of the walls were filled with bookshelves. A straight-backed old man in a blue suit stood to greet them. He had a thick mane of white hair and the pink, pasty skin of a man who had never been in the sunlight—a man who stayed in libraries. He walked around his large oak desk, held out his hand, and smiled without opening his mouth.
“David,” the Librarian said. He spoke through his nose and his voice sounded like a kazoo. “Pleased to meet you.”
They shook hands. The Librarian’s hand was as dry as paper.
“I’m glad I finally got the chance to meet you,” the old man said, motioning for them to sit on the leather chairs. “I’ve heard a lot about you, about your flowers, and about your poetry.”
David, Lugo, and Black sat down. The Librarian leaned back against his desk and folded his arms.
“We’re the largest library in the world,” he said and then proceeded to explain all about the Library of Congress, its history, how the Congress relied upon it for information, how the library was organized, how the Dewey Decimal System worked. David tried to nod in all the right places.
“My job is to administer the Library of Congress,” the Librarian said. “I’m responsible for overseeing over four thousand employees. And I have one other very interesting responsibility. Do you know what that is?
“Appointing the Poet Laureate?” David said.
“That’s right,” the Librarian kazooed. “As the Librarian of Congress, I have sole prerogative in selecting the national Poet Laureate.” He sat down at his desk and crossed his hands. “The Poet Laureate is the most important poet in America. He’s the lightning rod for our national poetic inspiration. We don’t pile a lot of responsibilities on his back. We like to give him the freedom to work on his craft. So we give him a stipend of thirty-five thousand dollars. Some Poet Laureates write poems for major events like inaugurations, but it’s not required. He’s the cattle prod for our nation’s enthusiasm about poetry. It’s his responsibility to get schoolchildren excited about poetry again. And it’s been a long time since schoolchildren were excited about poetry.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Agent Black said.
“You,” the Librarian pointed at David. “You’re quite a poet.”
“Thank you.”
The old man nodded. “Your poetry makes people think. And feel.”
“Thank you.”
“Now I personally haven’t read any of your poems, but Agent Lugo here tells me he was quite impressed.”
Lugo tried to keep a straight face, but his eyes rolled a little.
“And I trust Agent Lugo’s opinion when it comes to poetry,” the Librarian continued.
David remembered Lugo’s reaction when he had read his poem. Agent Lugo had hated the poem. It had made him physically sick.
The Librarian turned to Lugo. “What was that poem?”
“The Fire of Flowers,” Lugo responded.
“Fire of Flowers,” the Librarian repeated, testing the feel of the words on his tongue. “F-f-fire of f-f-flowers. A fine alliteration. Most of these new poets nowadays couldn’t alliterate to save their souls. Some of them don’t even know how to rhyme.”
David nodded politely.
“Ordinarily the job isn’t given to someone so young,” the Librarian said. “It’s awarded to someone more established, with a collection of published works. But in your case…”
“I’ve been published,” David said.
“Really?”
“I have one poem called Help Wanted. It was published.”
“H-h-help w-w-wanted,” the Librarian said, testing for alliteration. He didn’t find any. “Help wanted. We all need a little help sometimes. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to help you, an aspiring young poet. I think you’d make a fine Poet Laureate.”
David wondered if accepting the Poet Laureate would compromise his status as a workingman poet. No. Probably not. And it would certainly impress his father.
“Even I need help,” the Librarian continued. “In fact, there’s something you could do to help me.”
“What’s that?”
The Librarian grinned dryly. He lowered his voice to a whisper even though no one in the room trying to read.
“This antifreeze bill. David, I need your help to make it go away. This is America. We’re supposed to be the freest country in the world. We don’t need the government sticking its big nose in private business. People can’t just blame businesses because they don’t want to be responsible for their own children and pets.”
“I don’t understand,” David said. “What do you want me to do?”
“I know about the poem you’re writing. About your dog in the bubble.”
“You don’t want me to read the poem?”
“I want you to read the poem. I just think you should make a few changes. For example, you could make the dog a Rottweiler. And give him rabies. Make us afraid. Make us glad that he’s in a bubble. The bubble is protecting civilization. Just don’t make us feel bad for the dog.”
David felt dizzy. It was worse than Dr. McGee had thought. The Antifreeze Lobby had gotten to the Library of Congress. Even the Department of Agriculture was in on this. Was there no limit to the radius of the Antifreeze Lobby’s tentacles?
David shook his head. “You asking me to take a fall? To deliberately write a bad poem?”
“Listen to me. I didn’t get to be Librarian of Congress by being a complete idiot. I know a thing or two about poetry. I’ve read quite a bit more than you and I’ve even written some poetry myself. Poetry is a business. The road to becoming a great poet is not always straight. It’s not as simple as doing your best and always writing the best poem you can. You have to play the game. You need a strategy. Sometimes, one bad poem can lead to great things. Just write one poem that falls flat. Something without heart. Something cold. Something that doesn’t make us feel bad about dogs in bubbles. And you can go on to great things. And the position of Poet Laureate isn’t a bad place to start. You can become the greatest poet America has ever produced.”
Maybe the Librarian was right. If David was Poet Laureate, he would have a wide audience. He could do a lot of great things. More than just bittering antifreeze. He could make the workingmen wake up. He could change the world.
No. He couldn’t sell out all those children and puppy dogs. He was ashamed for even considering it. There were so many people counting on him. Not just the children and the dogs. Howard floating around the Atlantic in his bubble was counting on him. Congressman Ackerman who always stood up for what was right, no matter what the consequences, was counting on him. Natasha was counting on him.
“I won’t do it,” David said.
The Librarians lips grew hard and he snarled. The two agents looked away and shook their heads.
David added hopefully, “Can I still be Poet Laureate?”
***
כ''א באדר הראשון
ירושלים
February 27, 2008
Jerusalem

Chapter Thirty-Five

During David’s first and only semester at college, he took a Political Science course on American Government. He learned that you couldn’t just walk in off the street and make a law—you needed a member of the Senate or the House of Representatives to sponsor your bill, which would then be debated and had the chance of becoming law. But where would they find a politician willing to introduce a bill mandating bittering agent in antifreeze? Where would they find an honest politician in Congress—someone who wasn’t corrupt, who wasn’t in the pocket of the Antifreeze Lobby?
There was one man who was perfect: the only homeless member of Congress. He had nothing, so there was nothing the Antifreeze Lobby could take from him.
Gary Ackerman had never had any great ambitions to become Congressman. He was happy as a simple high school history teacher in Queens, New York. Every day he would show up for work with a fresh white carnation on the lapel of his suit. Then everything changed when his wife gave birth to their first child. Gary wanted to spend time with his newborn daughter, so he decided to take some time off. If his wife was taking maternity leave, then he would take paternity leave. At this time no one in the United States had ever done such a thing. Paternity leave didn’t yet exist.
His wife begged him to return to work. She was nursing the baby, and they had many expenses and no income. But Gary wouldn’t give in. There were some things more important than money. He had to stand up for what was right, no matter what the consequences. It was a matter of principle. Why should women be able to take time off and not men? It was sexism.
His wife understood and accepted his decision. Her husband was a man who always stood up for what was right, no matter what the consequences. That was why she loved him.
But if neither of them were working, did they have to live so luxuriously? Did he have to wear a white carnation on his lapel if he was just staying home and playing peek-a-boo with his daughter?
He did.
Well then could he at least cut back a little? Did he have to buy a fresh-cut white carnation every morning? Maybe just once a week he could get a fresh one and then keep it in the refrigerator in some water at night to preserve its freshness.
Nothin’ doin’. He would keep buying a fresh carnation, each and every morning.
She understood. He was a man who stood up for what was right. That was why she married him.
Unfortunately the school board was less understanding. They fired him. Now it wasn’t just paternity leave; it was permanent leave. So Gary sued the school board, demanding his job be reinstated.
A long, dramatic court battle ensued. At the end, the court found in Gary’s favor and forced the school board to give him his job back.
They reinstated Gary as a teacher and he immediately quit. He didn’t want his job back, had never wanted it back. But there was an important principle here. A man should have the same rights as a woman. And Gary had to stand up for what was right.
Now he was unemployed and wife gave birth to their second daughter. Gary showed no signs of looking for gainful employment. It seemed the only thing he could do was buy expensive fresh-cut white carnations to put on his lapel and stand up for what he believed was right, neither of which were marketable skills.
His wife gave him an ultimatum: get a job or get out of the house. He reluctantly took a clipboard and notepad, and went door to door collecting signatures to get his name on the Congressional ballot.
Election time came and Gary Ackerman was the surprise winner! The voters had liked his straight-shooting style, boyish good looks, and white carnations.
He arrived in Washington D.C. and it turned out he had a knack for being a congressman. He quickly gathered a reputation as someone who stood up for the downtrodden and stood up to the lobbyists.
He had now been in Congress for seven terms and served as the head of the House Committee on Middle Eastern Affairs as well as the India and Pakistan committee. While his family lived in Queens, he lived on his boat (christened the Unsinkable 2) in Washington Harbor. He had never bought a proper home in Washington D.C. and that was how he came to be known as the Homeless Congressman.
***
At night in the small towns where they showed their flowers, the constellations lit up the sky. But here, in Washington D.C., although it was a cloudless night, the pollution blocked out the stars and they could only see a blurry crescent moon. The flower caravan drove slowly along the Washington Harbor docks and they searched for the Congressman’s boat: a needle in a haystack. All the fishermen had gone home for the night; the only sound was water slapping against the wooden dock. A cold fog hovered. The smell of salty, rotting fish filled the air. The tide was pulling out, trying to drag the boats to sea, but sturdy ropes held them fast to posts on the dock.
“There it is.” Natasha pointed to an old dirty boat with peeling green paint. It was about ten meters from bow to stern. Light poked through the boarded up portholes of its small cabin. On the side of the boat was written with black paint: Unsinkable 2.
The caravan stopped and they got out of the trucks. David climbed down from the gazebo. There was no doorbell to the boat, so he shouted, “Congressman Ackerman!” His voice echoed through the empty docks.
No response. He yelled again.
The cabin door popped open and a man climbed out. David almost didn’t recognize the congressman; he didn’t look like his pictures. The congressman’s pictures made him look happy and cherubic, but this man hadn’t shaved in days, several days worth of graying stubble lined his face, his gray suit was rumpled, his unbuttoned oxford shirt was yellowing. Most shocking of all, he didn’t have a white carnation on his lapel. Maybe they had just caught him at a bad time.
Congressman Gary Ackerman walked towards them, stood up on the edge of the boat, and screamed, “GO AWAY!”
“Mr. Ackerman,” David said. “We heard you’re a man who loves flowers.”
Gary scowled. “What of it?”
“We’re a traveling flower show,” David continued. “We thought you could help us. We want to talk to you about sponsoring a bill.”
“Is this about the Middle East?” Gary asked. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“It’s not about the Middle East,” David said. “It’s about something close to home, something we can do something about. Every year, four hundred children in America die from drinking antifreeze. That means that over a child a day dies unnecessarily from antifreeze poisoning. Every year, ten thousand dogs in America die from fatal antifreeze poisoning. And the solution is so simple. Just a single drop of bittering agent, which costs next to nothing, in each bottle of antifreeze will stop all antifreeze fatalities.”
Gary frowned and shook his head. “There’s nothing I can do,” he said helplessly. He turned and started back to his cabin.
“Mr. Ackerman, this is Howard!” David shouted. The Congressman stopped walking, turned, and looked. “Take a good look, Mr. Ackerman. Howard drank antifreeze. Now he has to live in a bubble. Toby here used to be a hermit. Then he met Howard and it really brought him out of his shell. But he might as well have stayed a hermit. He can’t even pet him or play fetch with him. They can only go bowling. Howard had his kidneys removed and had to take immunosuppressive pills so his body wouldn’t reject the new organ, but the immunosuppressive pills destroyed his immune system, so now he has to live in a bubble, and no one can pet him or play catch with him.”
Gary looked at Howard’s sad mutt face, locked inside a plastic bubble. It was dark on the docks, but David thought he saw the twinkle of a tear in the Congressman’s eye.
Gary picked up a worn plank of wood and dropped it like a drawbridge between the boat and the dock. “Come on up.”
David started towards the boat.
“Take off your shoes first,” Gary said. “No shoes allowed on board the Unsinkable Two.”
The narrow plank was water-worn and jagged splinters stuck out from it. It looked dangerous to walk on without shoes.
“You’re wearing shoes,” David pointed out to the congressman.
“I’m the skipper of this vessel,” Gary said. “I’ll wear shoes if I want.”
David took off his shoes and set them down on the dock. He stepped across the splintery bridge, wincing as the long splinters pierced the soles of his feet; his socks offered no protection. He leapt onto the boat, crunching down on what felt like dried leaves underfoot. Looking down, he saw hundreds of dried-up white carnation blossoms strewn all over the deck along with empty soda cans and bags of chips. David knelt down and started pulling the splinters out of his feet.
Derrick took off his shoes and scurried across the bridge. When he stepped on the boat, he immediately began to wobble. “I think I’m seasick,” he moaned. He rushed to the far side of the deck and leaned his head over the side.
“Try to projectile,” the Congressman said. “If you’re going to vomit, I don’t want it on the side of the Unsinkable Two.”
The others took off their shoes and filed across the splintery plank.
Suddenly Derrick leapt up and made a mad dash for the cabin. “Shark!” he screamed. “I saw a shark!”
David looked down in the water and saw a large shape moving along the surface.
“It’s a manatee,” he said.
“It’s a great white shark!” Derrick screamed from inside the cabin.
“It’s just a manatee,” David assured him. “A sea cow.”
But Derrick refused to leave the safety of the cabin.
Now it was Howard’s turn to get onto the boat. He demonstrated the bubble-navigation skills the he learned at Happy Acres Rehabilitation Center and rolled at the narrow plank. He hit the edge of the plank and began to roll across, tottering along the side. Everyone held their breath, mentally willing the bubble not to fall into the water.
Howard made it. His bubble fell into the boat, crushing some dried white carnation blossoms, then bounced up and over the far side of the boat. He splashed down into the water.
Everyone rushed to the edge and looked down. Howard was floating in his bubble on the water and barking fearfully. Fortunately the splinters hadn’t poked any holes.
They couldn’t reach his bubble; it was too far down.
“Do you have a lifeboat?” David asked Congressman Ackerman. “Or a big net?”
“I got rope,” the congressman said. “You know how to lasso?”
Another manatee was swimming past Howard. When Howard saw it, he panicked. He yelped and ran as fast as he could, spinning his bubble away from the Unsinkable 2 and towards the open ocean.
“Come back!” Natasha yelled. “It’s just a manatee!”
Howard tried to stop running, but the bubble kept rolling across the water, and tossed him all around inside. When the bubble finally stopped spinning, Howard stood up dizzily and tried to run back to shore, but the strong current wouldn’t let him. It pulled him out to the dark, open sea. Soon he vanished into the fog, out of sight, and his muffled whimpering couldn’t be heard anymore.
“All hands on deck!” Gary shouted, unhitching the rope that held them to the dock. The last few stragglers leapt onto the boat just as the plank fell into the water. Gary ran down into the cabin, and came out carrying long wooden oars in one hand and pulling Derrick by the ear with the other hand. The Congressman handed out the wooden oars.
David took one questioningly. “Why don’t you use the motor?”
“It’s solar power.” Gary said and pointed to the solar panels on top of the cabin. Then he waved up at the sky. “You see any solar?”
“Isn’t there a battery?”
“I’ve been meaning to get it fixed. I’ve been busy. Between the Middle East, India, and Pakistan, I haven’t had time.”
Gary ran down into the cabin again and brought out flashlights which he gave to the women. They used them to comb the waters while the men rowed. Congressman Ackerman used his oar to beat on one of the solar panels and keep the beat for the rowing. David could see why the solar panels had broken.
Every once in a while, someone shouted out to Howard, but in general they stayed silent and listened for the sound of Howard’s muted barking. Nothing. All they heard was the wind rustling over the water.
***
י''ז באדר ראשון
ירושלים
February 23, 2008
Jerusalem

Chapter Thirty-Four

Dark clouds drowned out the sunlight, the wind howled, and sheets of rain blew through the open sides of the gazebo. The mourners screamed and rushed for the house, running in a zigzag pattern to confuse the lightning. Elizabeth slammed Howard’s coffin shut and ran after them.
Inside the house, the electricity went out. They lit candles, saw the lightning show in the garden, and heard the wind cackle. Elizabeth lit a silver candelabrum and took it up the stairs with her to go change out of her drenched mourning clothes. The other people didn’t have spare clothes, so they dried off as best they could with towels from the bathroom. Tyrone loosened his tie and took off his jacket; wet sackcloth was quite uncomfortable.
Derrick examined himself by candlelight in the television screen’s reflection. He licked his hand and tried to flatten his frizzy, electrocuted hair, but it was no use; electrocuted hair was hard to tame. Then he tried to angle himself so he could see the reflection of the lightning burns on his back.
“Dat ain’t so bad,” Tyrone said, hanging his wet sackcloth jacket on an umbrella stand. “You gots nuffin to worry ‘bout. Ghetto Traveler’s an excellent salve.” He pulled out the bottle and slathered a generous amount on Derrick’s back.
“IT BURNS!!!” Derrick screamed.
“Means it’s workin’.”
Loquacious lifted up her skirt and scratched her knee. “I have a rash,” she said. “Do you think Ghetto Traveler could help?”
“Couldn’t hurt,” Tyrone said.
“Yes it could!” Derrick whimpered.
Elizabeth came down the stairs wearing dryer and more cheerful clothes: jeans and a Hawaiian shirt. She turned to the man who had given her the bouquet. He was sitting on a sofa, holding a blue candle, and staring absently out at the garden. When he noticed Elizabeth staring at him, he quickly blew out his candle and tried to be quiet so she couldn’t find him. It didn’t work. Elizabeth touched her flame to his wick, relighting his candle.
“You,” she said. “You tried to give me my own flowers.”
“Now look, I said I was sorry.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Fine. I take back my apology.”
“I’m the one who should apologize to you. You were right. They weren’t my flowers.” She turned and gazed out at the lightning storm. “They belong to everyone. I was just keeping them locked up in my garden all for myself. And look what happened.”
“Well, okay,” the man said. “That’s very big of you. I accept your apology.”
***
The gray clouds parted and a beam of sunlight shone on the gazebo. The wind died down and a rainbow spread across the brilliant blue sky. David opened the sliding glass door, stepped out onto the patio, and saw that the wet grass had never looked so green. Birds chirped cautiously. Flower petals floated through the flooded lawn. All the flowers seemed to be dead; there was no one left to hear David’s poems. After all his work helping them grow, they were gone. The greenhouses were metal skeletons, their glass roofs shattered. Hail scars pitted the gazebo’s wooden roof, chipping away the white paint and exposing flecks of raw wood. The storm had blown open the coffin and filled it with rainwater. Howard did the back float.
Elizabeth pushed past David and splashed through the flooded lawn. She tripped and fell, going completely under the water and soaking her hair. She leapt back up and ran to the gazebo, ran up the steps, up to Howard’s coffin where she cupped her hands and bailed water. David ran into the gazebo and helped her bail the water. Others joined in. Soon the water level dropped and Howard began to descend back into his coffin.
“That’s the end of the garden,” Elizabeth said, breathlessly bailing water.
“You can rebuild,” David said. “You can get new flowers.”
“No.” Elizabeth shook her head. “After all the tragedy that’s happened here, I couldn’t stand to see the garden anymore. Too many bad memories. Howard choking, Howard dying, Howard’s funeral rained out. I don’t like being here any more.”
David figured she was going to give up the garden and dabble her way on to some new hobby. She was firing him. He would be unemployed, forced to go back to Reggie and beg for his dishwashing job back.
“You can’t fire me,” David said. “I quit.”
“I’m not firing you.”
“I rescind my resignation.”
***
***
It was dark outside, late in the evening, and the bright stadium lights were turned on so the dogs could practice their bubble navigation in the yard. David and Dr. McGee stood on the roof of the administration building and looked down at the dogs rolling their bubbles around the green grass. Howard came rolling at the pins and knocked them all down. A strike.
“He’s getting better,” Dr. McGee commented.
Howard had been practicing for several weeks now and was able to literally run circles around some of the other dogs. Soon he would be ready to leave the rehab center and the flower caravan could continue.
Dr. McGee reached into his pocket and brought out a small, unlabeled plastic bottle with a clear liquid inside. “One drop’s all you need.”
“What’s that?” David asked although he had a feeling he already knew the answer.
“Remember that drink I gave you?”
“The bitterest substance known to man?”
Dr. McGee nodded. “Just put a drop in each tank of antifreeze, in all of your trucks. Then, if you get a leak, no dogs or small children will drink it.”
“Thanks,” David said and put the bottle in his pocket. “How come the antifreeze at the store doesn’t have this in it?”
Dr. McGee laughed sadly. “Antifreeze is made by heartless corporations. For them, antifreeze isn’t about regulating engine temperature—it’s about money. The fraction of a cent extra per bottle is worth more to them than the children and dogs that die from drinking their product.”
Down in the yard, Howard rolled at the pins. His aim was great; he hit the head pin and went straight through the middle, but two of the pins didn’t fall—they just wobbled and stayed upright. A seven-ten split.
“There’s got to be some way to change this,” the poet said. “Some way to make the corporations put bittering agents in their antifreeze.”
“They’ll never put bittering agents in the antifreeze,” the doctor said, “until there’s a law that they have to.”
“So why isn’t there a law?”
“Who do you think controls the government?”
“Who?”
“The Antifreeze Lobby, that’s who.”
“The Antifreeze Lobby?”
“Antifreeze is big business. Everything with a motor uses antifreeze. Cars, buses, trains, airplanes. They’ve got all the money they need.”
“Yeah, well there’s one thing they didn’t count on,” David said.
“What’s that?” the doctor asked.
“The Flower Lobby.”
Howard hit the side of the seven-pin and sent it flying at ten-pin, picking up the spare.
***
י''ב באדר תשס''ח
ירושלים
February 18, 2008
Jerusalem

Chapter Thirty-Three

David was washing his hands at one of the truckstop diners when two men entered the bathroom and locked the door behind them. They wore blue jeans, faded flannel shirts, and had several days of stubble on their faces. They looked exactyly like truckers, except for their matching black briefcases. It was agents Black and Lugo from the Department of Agriculture."What do you want?" David said. "We don't have any illegal flowers."Lugo raised his hands in a harmless expression."Didn't say you did. We're here for something else."Agent Black pressed the button on the electric hand-dryer and it blew out hot air. David didn't want to accept any special favors, so he wiped his hands dry on his pants."Write any new poems?" Lugo asked.David doubted they had come to hear his poetry, but he wasn't going to turn down a chance to read for a human audience. He pulled out his notebook and cleared his throat."This one's called The Fire of Flowers.""Give it here." Lugo held out a pudgy hand."I'll read it to you.""No. I'd rather read it myself."David had become used to reading his poems to others. (Flowers couldn't read to themselves--they were illiterate.) But Agent Lugo was right: a poem had to stand on its own and couldn't depend on a poet's stage presence. Ultimately, a poem was just words on paper, alone against the world.David flipped to the finished version of The Fire and Flowers and handed Lugo the notebook."Thanks," Lugo said. "I needed some reading material." He walked into a toilet stall, closed the door, and dropped his pants."Hey!" David shouted. He kicked the stall's door, but it was locked. "Give that back!""There's no toilet paper," Lugo said."Use your socks!"Agent Black popped open his briefcase and pulled out a pocket-sized packet of tissues, which he slid under the stall's door to his partner."Thanks," Lugo said.Black pulled a black binder out of his briefcase, slammed it down on the corner of the sink, and started flipping through pages of photographs. This time it wasn't pictures of flowers, but rather pictures of people."Do you recognize her?" Agent Black asked.The woman in the picutre had her arms upand was screaming, her long blonde hair fluttering behind her. She was on an amusement park rollercoaster. David had never seen her before so he shook his head."You're sure?" Black pressed. "She wasn't at the protest?""What, you're spying on them now!? It's illegal to protest!?""When did you join the ACLU?" Lugo grunted from inside the stall. "From what I hear, you hosed them down pretty good.""I didn't have a choice. They made me join the fire department.""It's a volunteer fire department," Lugo said. "Of course you had a choice.""David," Agent Black said softly. "Do you know what the PLA is?"David shook his head."It's an acronym," Black explained. "It stands for Plant Liberation Army. It's the militant wing of the so-called Plant Freedom Movement. They're terrorists, the prime suspects in a string of flower shop burglaries. They "liberate" the flowers." He made quotation marks with his fingers. "Take them from "captivity" and "return" them to their "natural environment," off in a forest or meadow. Most of the flowers can't even survive in the "natural environment.""He flipped to a picture of an obese, florid man walking along a beach and eating a submarine sandwich. Agent Black glared at the picture hatefully."This is Terry "the terrorist" Grawgowski," he said. "The brains behind and spiritual leader of the PLA. A notorious terrorist. He's number one on the most-wanted list.""I thought that was bin Laden.""That's the CIA's most-wanted list. We're the Department of Agriculture. We have our own list.""Number one on the most-wanted list?!" David scoffed. "For a couple broken windows at a couple flower shops?!""They don't just want to free flowers. They want to abolish agriculture. They think growing corn or wheat in rows is a form of captivity.""So why don't you just arrest them?""We can't find them. They live in the forest. They subsist by hunting and gathering and refuse to eat anything grown by agriculture. Only time they leave the forest is to do a terrorist attack. Makes them hard to catch. That's why we need to find a connection between the terrorists and the portesters.""Don't you think you're overreacting? I mean, spying on protesters? Even if they want to abolish agriculture, how much damage can they really do? Shoplifting a few potted plants?"Agent Lugo burst out of the stall, hitching up his pants and waving the notebook wildly."They're terrorists!" he shouted. "They want Americans too afraid to set foot in flower shops, to drive hardworking florists out of business. The Red Chinese'll take over the global flower market. Is that what you want?" He poked David in the chest with the notebook. "Whose side are you on, anyway?""I'm on the side of poetry and flowers.""Well if the terrorists get their way, there won't be any more poetry and flowers. When the PLA abolishes gardens, you'll have to go out in the forest if you want to read poetry to flowers."David gulped. This was exactly the type of poet he didn't want to be: a Romanticist, sitting on a log in the forest, writing poems about Nature. There weren't even any workingmen in the forest for him to inspire. Except for lumberjacks, of course.Of course! He could be a poet to the lumberjacks! By day, he would chop and saw and shout "Timber!" In the evenings, he would write poetry to inspire his fellow lumberjacks; make them realize that the forest really belonged to them."Do they think lumberjacking is a form of agriculture?" David asked.The two agents shared a confused glance."The PLA," David said. "Do they consider lumberjacking a form of agriculture?"Lugo shrugged. "They only attack soft targets like flower shops and botanical gardens. They don't bother large men with axes. The terrorists are cowards."David remembered how the protesters had scattered when Gimpy Barry came at them with the axe. Cowardly."There's more," Lugo said. "We suspect they're trying to develop a nuclear weapon.""They're hunters and gattherers," David said. "How are they going to develop a nuclear weapon?""It's a chance we're not willing to take."***כ''ח בשבט תשס''חירושליםFebruary 4, 2008Jerusalem