In the modern era, the pendulum shows up in works of art, say Poe’s The Pit and the Pendulum * , or the more modern Foucault’s Pendulum by Umberto Eco * . But what does that matter when it is more important to help your fellow man, especially with other peoples’ money. This my life’s purpose. To spend your money. But sometimes I cannot, and today is one of those days. A rainy day in the park in London, London Ontario.

The baby was in a car, and it was asleep. I ate an ice creme cone, then had a cigarette (do not tell the woman I love this, because she disapproves of my smoking), watching. Nobody seemed to be around. Not in the park. Not close, anyway.

Yes, it was asleep. The car had some sort of security computer running it. The engine was running, idling, powering some sort of Hepa air recycling system. The poor, trapped baby, I said to myself. I watched the baby for a while, and had another cigarette. Nobody walked by, or even looked in my direction from the distance, through the trees of the Victoria Park, in London, in the light rain.

In the deserts of Arizona, it was too hot for a baby to be left in a car. In the deserts of Arizona. This was not the case in this case. I could have cried. I looked for valuables inside. Shopping under the seat? A fat ladies wallet full of credit cards? Some candy? Just a baby. Hmmm. The door was locked, even with the slippery grip I have when I wear my black leather gloves.

Set, the Snake God loves children. As an underfunded non-Christian, a victim of the legacy of colonialism in Africa, I struggle every day against the financial inequality of the system. But, in small ways, I can strike back against climate injustice and corporate over-capitalization. I took out my taser and fried the car’s computer brain. Then I opened the door. I had to save the baby. If the baby had been in Arizona, it would have needed rescuing.

Doctors agree, the best way to get a baby to cry is to spray mace at it. A Baby will always cry when maced. There is something magical in the curing herbal properties of cayenne pepper. It is Gaias’ way. I wanted to save the Baby, even if this was a rainy day in London, and not Arizona. How to get the baby to cry? Should I spray mace in the car, even if it did not have shopping, a wallet, or even a cell phone beside a four pack of Chocolate almond bars? How to make the Baby cry?

I sparked up a smoke, thinking, and dropped my ashes in the unused ashtray. Not a smokers car. I blew smoke in the Baby’s face for a bit. It woke up, and looked cute. So, I parked the smoke in the ashtray, and got out. The door would not close. How could anyone know the crying baby could have been trapped in the car in the deserts of Arizona, here in rainy London, if the door could not close? I had to use some gum. I jammed the door lock mechanism with gum.

The baby started to cry real good right around the time this lady walked by with her two yappy poodles. She freaked out. The smoke seeped out of some crevice or the other. Her mommy spirit, her chi (or is it urad dal?) was speaking to her. I walked up, like I cared, an innocent passer by, someone like a socialist social services sector worker up for a walk, but without a dog.

The Emergency Response Professionals would not come. The baby cried, and the gum kept the door closed, even as I pretended to apply force to open it. The lady gave her name and identity number to the Emergency Response Inbound Call Center. They would not come, the lady had not convinced them that there was a crying baby trapped with a smouldering cigarette (a potent Camel) in rainy London. The poor baby. I had to help rescue it. I leaned over the lady (who was firmly identified to the voice on the phone) and shouted ‘That is an N-person baby, it is trapped, and you are an evil white person’. All across town (if you were in London, you probably heard it this rainy day), sirens began to wail.

I walked away. The lady looked at me like someone accused of racism when they were not a racist. She could not walk away. The Emergency Response computer knew who she was. I walked away. They came, in a howl, and took her away, the evil white racist lady. But, the Emergency Response Professionals could not open the car door. The gum stuck door was stuck too tight.

I walked back, again. The Emergency Response Professional had a gold chain around his neck, and his pants were around his arse. He was scented, which in my culture, that sort of eye watering pong was considered girlish. He stared at the car door, stuck with gum, like a raccoon contemplating the screen door between itself and a forgotten bag of groceries. How to get that bag of apples? The organic carrots and that thawing bag of peas?

Mind if I try? I suggested, offering the fellow a smoke. I hefted the hammer I carry in my man bag, and bashed the left, rear tail light. That did not open the door. I bashed the expensive rear door, and put a dint in the metal, scratched the paint, and bunged the door lock. That did not open the car. Finally, after a front right head light, we got through the drivers door window. A small hole, but enough to convince me to pull open the door over the mighty resistance of the bubble gum. The baby was saved! And I cleaned the Emergency Response Professional out of cash, in exchange for some hashish I carry for such occasions.

Have you helped someone today, like I did? I care.

This entry was posted on Sunday, September 26th, 2010 at 6:51 pm and is filed under Abilityism, Accidents, Fenris, accomodation. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.