Nowadays, the A. Ferris Affair seems to have been forgotten, along with the Berkshire Incident, or the even lesser-known Ferencz Event. Sadly, this important affair no longer seems to come up in intelligent conversation or referenced in current serious thought and literature, but there was a time when, for persons interested in such matters, it played an important part in the development of our beliefs about the nature of the universe, and we spent hours discussing the intricacies and pondering insights until the early hours of dawn, entranced by the multi-faceted implications and importance inherent in its fascinating tenets.
You say you have never heard of it yourself? Well, to educate the innocent and ignorant, we must return to the beginning of the story. Let it be known that it was a Spring-like no other, just like the Spring before, a time filled with daffodils and mayflies, rosebuds, aftershave and June bugs, elephants and squid; the former due to the arrival of the circus, while the latter was the result of a burgeoning culinary trend then in vogue among the well-heeled persons of the town.
The terrapin were running that year and the streams were packed full of hard shells that somewhat resembled the lumpy cobblestone streets of the city, which had for the most part been recently replaced by pavement in the name of progress. It was said that the torrential particular tide created a platform strong enough that a man named Belmont or maybe Brown was able to twice safely traverse the river flow from bank to bank upon the backs of the bewildered beasts, although most modern experts have agreed upon the impossibility of such a feat without the use of a gyroscope, pointing out that only highly-trained gymnasts, Northwoods lumberjacks and Native American girder walkers would be able to perform such a task, and suggest that perhaps the witnesses were confused by a circus tightrope walker (Belzinni?) who was well-known to indulge in taking on dares in return for feminine company for compensation.
It was in this very same town that the fates of one young man named Gadd (first name unknown) and a young woman Isabel (last name possibly Grote or Gibbons or Grunfeld or even Webb) first became entangled. In the spirit of the season, and as the sun sunk slowly over the scaffolding of the stockyards, splayed in the shadows, the young lovers exchanged compulsory caresses. The boy advanced across the battlefield with the fervor of a Patton and, despite the obligatory “No funny stuff” the girl soon found herself gifted by the young man’s beneficence. He, not being the type to pursue ardor on his knees, nor suffer the chains of responsibility, promptly made his exit from the scene. He was later reported by an unreliable source to have been spotted living in a beaver lodge somewhere in the West, although the torn and stained daguerreotype he left behind which displayed a rather short squat man with large teeth and a protruding behind may have led to this unfortunate confusion.
Meanwhile, the man responsible for the advent of streetcars in the city was a portly man named Ellison, who was possibly related to Isobel (an uncle or cousin, perhaps? but that is mere speculation), and whose cherubic appearance belied a somewhat less than charitable nature in his nocturnal dealings with the myriad of urchins roaming the streets. But Ellison was long dead, and the streetcars now out of commission, the rails torn up or paved over by the time this story occurred, with busses taking the place of the outmoded trolley system. Or, at least that is what we are led to believe, as the exact date of the renovation is in question.
It is believed by many researchers that in the light of her burgeoning abdominal protuberance, Isobel, being a quick-witted and highly resourceful girl, turned her attentions immediately to a greengrocer’s son named Coney or Cooney, and to whom, despite his young age and apparent mental incapacity, she became engaged, married, and gave birth in the usual allotted timeframe, much to the virginal boy’s amazement.
It was only a few months later and on a foggy morning when the young woman made her way rapidly to a nearby bus stop. Her way may well have been strenuous, as she was reported to be pushing her young child in a large perambulator, although it is not known whether her intent was indeed to make her way onboard the vehicle, a difficult assignment considering the size and weight of the model of the child’s conveyance in use at the time, or rather, she had made the seven-block trip from her home above the grocery store to meet someone. It has been speculated that Isobel may have experienced unhappiness in her marriage to the young grocer boy, and in desperation, had gone to meet a lover named Buddy or perhaps Glen, but the sources for this information are questionable at best.
The driver of this bus, the number 42 in some accounts, the Mauve Line in others, usually was a man named Winston, who everyone inexplicitly called Gus (perhaps due to the rhyme?). A stern yet slovenly, thrice-married man with a large mole on his nose, who apparently liked gin and tonics and meatballs sans the noodles, Gus/Winston had called in sick on that particular day in order to attend a circus performance featuring a bearded lady he had developed an unusual attraction to (or so the official inquest later determined).
In one of those remarkable coincidences that seem to spring up throughout history, Gus/Winston’s place was taken that day by a fellow named Barton Vargas of which little is known, other than it was believed he was a hipster of some sort who frequented nightclubs and may have at times played the concertina in a small combo of some repute. It may well be that Isobel was known to this Vargas, as it is believed she was a dancer at one of these establishments before meeting the aforementioned Gadd.
It is unknown what may have created the distraction that caused Vargas to swerve upon his approach to the bus stop on that fateful day. Some insist a stray dog lumbered into the vehicle’s path, and that the driver, being an animal lover since youth, veered the bus off its usual proscribed path to avoid hitting the dismal creature (a Dalmatian by some accounts, a rabid Bassett by others). Other investigators adhere to the theory that Vargas, a notorious caffeine addict, spilled a scalding hot cup of the liquid upon himself and in pain, panicked, but this is disputed by most serious enquirers as there are no reports of spilled coffee at the scene. This leads several to speculate that Vargas was indeed the person dear Isobel was meeting that day, and the fact that some present swore the driver aimed the bus directly at the young mother and child presents the possibility of a prior relationship between the two, maybe even one that had produced an encore in the young woman’s body for which the disreputable young man wanted no part of and sought to end in a violent and final manner. I find this theory quite ludicrous, as it is nearly impossible for the girl to have known that the dissolute young man had been called upon to take the place of the usual Gus/Winston. Additionally, there isn’t even any evidence that she was waiting for a bus. and she may have only innocently been passing at the time.
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What isn’t in question is that the bus hit the curb and launched itself into the air, scattering the assembly in all directions across the sidewalk and itself flying across space directly at the girl and her innocent babe who apparently froze in terror at the sight of the encroaching steel bus grill. The faces of the observers surrounding the pair registered their shock and amazement as though they were watchers arrayed in a stadium viewing for the first time a black man running very, very fast.
As the bus seemingly hung in mid-air, just seconds before a crash, A. Ferris serendipitously glanced at the unfolding event out of the corner of his eye as he turned the corner without a second thought, being much more concerned at the moment with the treatment of a fungal infection currently bothering his right toenail. It was only later, in the privacy of his bathroom in a small apartment believed to be located beneath a gas station, since torn down in the riots, that he realized the importance of what he had witnessed.
Did the bus really crash? he asked himself. He did not remember hearing the sound of a crash but then again, he was getting a little deaf and had been busily rushing along home from the drugstore with a tube of ointment distracted by his own thoughts. If there was a crash, did the woman and the little girl survive? Or did the woman survive and her child (was it a girl or boy after all?) die crushed beneath the metal hulk? Or did girl expire, and the poor child live, an abandoned orphan at the whims of a cruel world. Was it a bus, or was it a streetcar that he saw? He wasn’t even really sure of that since some streetcars still seemed to pop up here and there in parts of the city when he least expected. Although, after all, he may have been dreaming when he saw them, resplendent in red and gold. And maybe he just dreamed the accident after all too? Besides his fungus issues, he was a confirmed narcoleptic and often experienced vivid dreams involving mermaids and goats, though generally not at the same time.
Regrettably, there is no record of a bus crash or even a streetcar crash found in the annals I have examined that lists an Isobel as a victim, but of course, reporting at that time was spotty at best, and as we do not know the name of the exact city in which the incident occurred, her survival cannot be considered the final verdict on the matter. Indeed, there are similar stories throughout the archives involving multiple Isobels, Isadores, Bellas, Sables, Tabbies, and even a Hester or two. I have, in my research, visited the gravesites of many such individuals, alas in vain.
Even the identity of A. Ferris is unknown, with some believing the A to stand for Abner, while others vote for Augustus or Abe. What is known is that A. Ferris never was able to determine whether the young lady and her infant were killed or not, although he apparently either discovered some of the names involved or made them up. He rarely frequented the neighborhood in which it may have occurred and was violently loath the read the local papers, believing them to be filled with mind-rotting misinformation and dangerous propaganda.
To give the philosopher credit, a thorough examination of the newspapers of the day reveals his suspicions may not have been too far afield, as the headlines are awash in scandal and light entertainments. The latest anarchist love plot vying with the results of the big ball game, death and viral contagion with slippery soap stars up to no good, while funny bones were tickled and hearts set to racing by the adventures of one Speedy McDoo, whose comic strip frames were left primarily blank with only a few puffs of smoke to indicate the velocity of this beloved character.
Despite the oppressive atmosphere surrounding him on all sides, we can only be thankful that Ferris took the time to jot down a few of his thoughts on the back of a page featuring the cryptic words: Milk, Eggs, Bread. This piece of paper, attributed to the mysterious seer A. Ferris has been lovingly restored and is housed in a small private museum outside of Philadelphia, treasured and guarded by my cousin Bruce, and where its very existence still inspires the few intrepid explorers who still seek the answers that plague us all as we attempt to unsnarl this tangled net we seem to be trapped within.
Indeed, as I sit here in a thoughtful mood, listening to a chorus of parakeets and stroking my ferret, I feel disquieted by the observations of A. Ferris and find myself muttering to myself, those words written by the great thinker himself, Isobel, Dear Isobel, doesist thou live or die?” Of course, you died, as we all must, but was it now or then or even later? Did you rock your child to sleep or lie under a carved stoned?
Such thoughts passed down from the prophet consume me even still, and in the end, it is only the trampling of turtles over the river of time that gives me peace at long last.