Chapter Thirty-Seven

The U.S. House Commerce Subcommittee on Environment and Hazardous Materials would listen to their testimony and decide whether or not to send the antifreeze bittering bill to the House. According to Gary, the entire subcommittee was enslaved by the Antifreeze Lobby, so the flower caravan would have its hands full getting the bill through.
Dr. McGee flew in from Milwaukee to explain the science of antifreeze poisoning to the committee. The science was on their side, but moving congressional hearts to revolt against the Antifreeze Lobby would be difficult. They had planned to roll Howard’s bubble into the committee meeting. One look at him would be more powerful than the entire Antifreeze Lobby. But now Howard had floated out to sea. They considered showing another dog in his place, but Howard was the only mutt in a bubble, and purebreds in bubbles just didn’t pull the heartstrings the same way. David would have to write a poem, something that described the plight of dogs in bubbles. Maybe a poem would be even better. True, they wouldn’t see Howard’s poor pitiful mutt face, but when David described it, through the magic of words, each congressman would imagine his childhood puppy encased in a bubble.
David composed the poem using his workingman style. He didn’t want to confuse them with metaphors; he had to communicate. He couldn’t blame the congressmen for being too obtuse to understand him. What he was trying to say didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was the result: whether they voted to embitter antifreeze or not. This was functional poetry at its purest.
***
David wanted to go to the subcommittee hearing dressed as a workingman, work boots and all, but Gary Ackerman vetoed that and insisted that David wear a suit. They had to impress the subcommittee. They were trying to make antifreeze bitter, not stand up for the working man. It was functional poetry and functional dress. All the men wore suits. Even Dr. McGee shed his scrubs for a conservative gray pinstripe suit. The women wore conservative, serious dresses. Also, to impress the subcommittee, Gary pinned green carnations to everyone’s lapel. To his own lapel, he pinned a white carnation, of course.
They arrived fifteen minutes early and entered the conference room where the subcommittee meeting would be held. Two men and a woman stood at a table at the side of the room, chatting quietly. The table had a pot of tea, a pot of coffee, a large glass pitcher filled with cream or milk, and two silver bowls heaping with mounds of sugar: one white and one brown. A large silver platter overflowed with bagels, croissants, and other pastries. There was cream cheese, vegetables, lox, and other fish that David didn’t recognize.
One of the men turned and smiled at them. He was hefty and had slightly graying temples.
“Hi there,” he said in a friendly Southern accent. “I’m Dick Gabler, congressman from Georgia. Have some lox. The others will be arriving soon.”
Everyone introduced themselves and there was a lot of handshaking.
“I’m Bobby,” said the only member of the flower caravan with Downs Syndrome as he shook Dick Gabler’s hand. “I’m going to be the president.”
“I admire your ambition, young man,” Congressman Gabler said. “You remind me of myself when I was your age.”
“Can we close the window?” Derrick asked.
“But it’s such a nice day out,” the congresswoman said.
It was indeed a nice day out. The sky was clear and blue with a few puffy white clouds, the weather warm, and the air dry. It was too bad they couldn’t hold the subcommittee meeting outside.
“There’re bees,” Derrick said. He swatted at the bees buzzing around him. “They won’t leave me alone.”
“Well what do you except?!” the congresswoman said. “You’ve got a flower on your shirt!”
Derrick tore off his green corsage and threw it out the window. It didn’t help—the bees kept buzzing around him.
“Leave me alone!” he shouted. “I don’t have any pollen!”
But the bees didn’t leave him alone. They kept buzzing around him. He tried to avoid making any sudden movements that would startle them into stinging him.
Congressman Gabler took a sip of his coffee, made a sour face, and spit the coffee on the Persian carpet.
“Too hot?” asked the congresswoman.
Gabler gagged and clutched his throat. “Aaaaaa!” he screamed. “Was this strained through a dishrag!? It’s the worst coffee I’ve ever had!”
“Only one drop in the whole pot,” Dr. McGee said, grinning. He took out his flask and tapped the side of it. “Denatonium benzoate: the bitterest substance known to man.”
Gabler knocked bagels and pastries to the ground, grabbed a spoon and frantically shoveled brown sugar into his mouth as tears poured down the sides of his face.
“What’s the idea?!” he shouted, wet gobs of brown sugar falling down his chin. “You trying to poison me?”
“It’s not poison,” Dr. McGee said. “It may taste bad, but when you put it in antifreeze, it can save the lives of small children and dogs, the most vulnerable part of society. On the other hand, ethylene glycol, the active ingredient in antifreeze, tastes sweet but it really is poison. “
“Ethylene glycol!?” Congressman Gabler screamed. “That’s the chemical used in snow globes!”
“It’s one of the chemicals in snow globes,” Dr. McGee said.
“So what do you want to do? Put your bitter drink inside every single snow globe?”
“Well, now that you mention it, it would be a good idea.”
“So the government should get involved in what goes on inside snow globes?”
“If a snow globe shatters, a dog could lick it up. Or a small child.”
“Any small child that licks up snow globe juice deserves what he gets! Parents should be responsible for their own kids! My son Jason doesn’t do his homework, but you don’t see me trying to pass a bill about it!”
“Look,” Dr. McGee said. “Antifreeze tanks leak. They leave puddles in the driveway or garage. It’s nobody’s fault. But dogs drink it. Sometimes people use antifreeze as a cleaning product. They clean their toilet bowl with it. They shouldn’t, but they do.”
David nodded. If only everyone knew about nontoxic Ghetto Traveler. It was great for cleaning your toilet and you could drink gallons of it with no ill side-effects.
“I agree that people should know better,” Dr. McGee said. “But why should the dog suffer because their master cleans the toilet with antifreeze?”
“And you think it’s the government’s job to put down the toilet seat lid?”
“It wouldn’t help. The dog could lift up the lid with his snout.”
Gabler looked around incredulously, his face turning bright red, his voice going an incensed falsetto banshee shriek. “So flush the antifreeze! You want the government to flush the toilet for you?!! IT’S NOT THE GOVERNMENT’S PROBLEM!!!”
“Yes it is,” Gary Ackerman said. “You’re the Subcommittee on Hazardous Materials. It’s your job to regulate hazardous materials.”
“Yeah, well I wish it wasn’t,” Gabler said, his voice breaking. He covered his face, embarrassed at his tears. “You think I want to be on this stupid committee?” he wailed. “It’s not even a committee. It’s a subcommittee.” He looked at Bobby. “Son, take my advice. Stay out of politics. It’s not like you see in the movies and newspapers. It’s not all glamour. When I started out, I thought I’d be the next Gary Ackerman. I thought I’d be on all the big committees: Middle East, Pakistan, India. But it’s not like that.”
He walked to the door.
“I QUIT!!!” he screamed and slammed the door behind him.
***
They had fresh coffee and bagels delivered to the conference room. The rest of the committee showed up, about a dozen in all. David didn’t see anyone there to represent the antifreeze companies, although he supposed they were well enough represented by the congressmen themselves.
Dr. McGee opened a portfolio case, took out a cross-section picture of a dog with its internal organs exposed, and set it up on a music stand. He cleared his throat, pointed at the chart with a conductor’s baton, and explained what happened when a dog ingested antifreeze. The liver separated the antifreeze into several parts, one of them chloroform, which it sent on to the kidneys. The kidney’s were destroyed and couldn’t efficiently clear out wastes from the body. This led to a slow and painful death. The only cure was an organ transplant. But even with a successful organ transplant, the body might still try to reject the foreign kidney, so the dog had to take immunosuppressive drugs for the rest of his life. There was no protection from even the simplest germs, and so the dog had to stay inside a bubble.
As soundproof as his science was, it was still science. It lacked heart. Every congressional eye remained dry.
Doctor McGee gathered his visual aids, walked to his seat, and sat down.
David rose and walked to the head of the table. It was his turn to testify. Now he had to make these people feel. He gulped. His legs felt rubbery, his hands trembled, and his mouth was painfully dry. He felt as if he were approaching the electric chair.
This was strange. He knew that people were more afraid of public speaking than of death, but he never got nervous before reciting poetry before an audience. So why were his hands trembling? Probably because this wasn’t a coffeehouse or a garden party. These were very important people and the most important poem of his life. Lives depended on the success of this poem.
He didn’t sit down; he wanted to deliver his poem standing. His heart was racing and he needed to calm down. He had heard that it helped to imagine the audience in their underwear, so he tried that, but it didn’t work. It made him even more nervous. For some reason, his imagination created sailor tattoos on everyone. And everyone had seven belly buttons.
He tried something else. Instead of imagining them in their underwear, he imagined that they were flowers. Giant flowers. Natasha was a rose. Dr. McGee was a lilac. Derrick was an orchid. Elizabeth was a bouquet of poppies: yellow, orange, and blue. Down Syndrome Bobby was an African Moon Flower. Gary Ackerman was a white carnation (of course. What else would he be?) The congressmen and congresswomen were big sunflowers.
When David saw them as sunflowers, he relaxed and his hands stopped shaking. They weren’t his enemies, someone for him to conquer. They were beautiful (although misguided) sunflowers. His poem would show them the truth. His workingman poem. He would just tell them what happened. He calmly began to recite.
My puppy drank poison
And was locked in a bubble.
He bowls three-hundred,
but can’t lick a hermit’s face
He drank sweet poison.
Sweet like a candy cane
Hooking his soul and dragging him to sea.
Like a sea monster—an untoward undertow
Suddenly the door to the conference room burst open and pageboy ran in.
“EVACUATE!!!” the pageboy screamed. “EVACUTATE!!!”
Gary Ackerman grabbed the pageboy by the collar. “What’s this all about!?” he demanded. “We’re trying to hear a poem here! There’s poetry happening here!”
“We’re evacuating the building!”
“Why? What happened!?”
“Please sir, I can’t breathe.”
Gary loosened his grip on the pageboy.
“What happened?”
“There’s gonna be a terrorist attack,” the pageboy said, rubbing his sore neck. “Everybody has to leave right away.”
The congressmen ran for the door, trampling each other.
“Orderly!” Gary yelled. “In an orderly fashion! Have we been having weekly evacuation drills for nothing!?”
Everyone ran after them.
“Come on, David.”
David reluctantly followed them. It seemed he would never get to finish reading a poem. He couldn’t believe it. The Antifreeze Lobby had called in a bomb threat just to stop him from reading his poem.
***
ב' באדר ב תשס''ח
קרית משה, ירושלים
March 8, 2008
Kiryat Moshe, Jerusalem