The Pole

The sleek, slender form of polished brass stood still in the night illuminated by the occasional passing of vehicles. Ever so patiently it stands, awaiting, never growing weary.

Motionless, I stare at the ceiling tiles bespattered with pips of darkness. I hear the murmuring of the air conditioning coming through the ducts. The murmurs become a breath of cool air and the whispering of thoughts. These thoughts have pushed their way forward out of my subconscious and into my apprehensive awareness. In anguish, I strive to push these Freudian slips back to their hellish hole of darkness.

One car passes, casting light on the building. The wanderer catches a glimpse of fleeting brass prevailing through the obscurity.

I surrender myself to the intruding notions. Through the growing turmoil and unrest, I make out a single word in the thoughts; trouble. I grasp for the word failing to find significance. Trouble becomes a knot in my stomach growing with each repetition. Uttering to myself single syllable questions; who? what? when?

A squelch frees me from my prison. The squelch changes to a tone then to the wispy voice of the transient dispatcher. Motor vehicle accident. Scrambling from my sheets I run from the room towards the pole.

The time has come! The pole no longer waits. It sings as the men rush towards the bottom. Whooosh! Smack! One man off. Whoosh! Smack! Two men off.

Slipping through the darkness I tense awaiting the quickly coming floor. Impact. No time to think, run to my pile. Left foot, left boot. Right foot, right boot. Throw the suspenders over my shoulders. Left arm, left sleeve. Right arm, right sleeve. I clamber into the truck and fasten myself securely. In the dim red light of the cab I can make out the time as it glints off the silver dials; 2:47 am.

Whoosh! Smack! The final one off. The pole continues to quiver even after the calloused hands of the clean shaven men remove themselves from it. The brass flings crimson across the pastel walls as Engine 82 pulls out into the night.

As the engine snakes its way along the road I find a thought also slithering its way through the silence of the lights and sirens; a single, solitary word returns once again, this time, with urgency. And yet again I flood myself with questions; who?! what?

The voice of my captain snaps me back to reality. “Tyler, get cones and flares set up!” Immediately filled with purpose I descend from the truck and settle my helmet fixedly on my head. Without stopping, I fling the DPO compartment open and snatch flares, continuing towards the back to grab cones.