The Yellowstone Conundrum

by John Randall

  Seattle Public Library, night. Photo contributed to Wikipedia Commons by SarekOfVulcan, 1 November 2006

  Limping and beaten from the day’s exertion and looking for all the world like a ragamuffin beggar, Ray peered into the building, then seeing nothing, tapped on the door.

  The revolving doors were, of course, stuck. Nothing revolves without electricity. Designed by German engineers, the entrances into and throughout the Library had been railed-upon by the public because of its total insensitivity to handicapped; this in the “green” capital of the U.S., the most liberal forward-thinking city in North America; how the fuck did they allow Germans to build entrance doors that couldn’t be handled easily by the handicapped?

  Well, ya; so sorry. Next time don’t be so fucking blind or need a dog. Don’t blame me that the revolving doors lead into a fucking vacuum chamber (like at airports) and the emergency buttons re on the left side instead of the right. Ya, well. Tough shit. Oh, I see, just because 90% of all people are right-handed, you think we should apologize and move the “help” buttons to a place where 90% of the people using the fucking doors instead of the center of the revolving doors. Ya, well, fuck you.

  Oh, those rascally Germans!

  Ray tugged at the doors, but nothing moved. He then went to the side doors which were used for the handicapped, except that instead of opening into the building, they opened toward the street, meaning if you were in a wheelchair, you had to move your chair so you wouldn’t get whacked by the opening door. Or, if you were blind and were using a trained good dog to help you; your good dog was trained to get in the way of anything that was directly in front of you (like an opening door) and protect you. By force of habit he poked at the buttons, expecting nothing because the electricity was off.

  But the glass door opened; Ray jumped back as not to be hit.

  Huh?

  The electronic eye in the door counted to seven, then seeing nothing, closed back up.

  Whoa.

  Ray tried again, the door responding effortlessly. In his brain he could hear Buffalo Springfield.

  Something’s happening here, it ain’t exactly clear.

  Ray stepped inside. Being no man’s fool, Marmaduke did the same.

  OK now, we’re on the inside and not the outside. The doors had a built-in battery back-up.

  “Hello!” Ray cupped his hands and shouted. “Dave!” Nothing. “Hebron!” Nothing. “Skinny Mike!” ditto. “Shirley!” no answer.

  While there was broken glass everywhere outside the building, inside there was nothing but jumbled library chaos; books, tables, more books. Library crap scattered everywhere; kid’s books, Seuss up to your butt. More Seuss than a reasonable person would want to know about—74 copies of Green Eggs and Ham.

  The Seattle Library without power on a rainy day was less user-friendly than normal. No one responded to Ray’s shouts. It just seemed so fucking odd that nobody would be there. It was a big building and a city/state treasure, but there had been budget cutbacks; the library was only open 10-7, a single shift; and, he was one of the first employees to get to work every day; getting off at 4:30. Ray started climbing the escalator, which normally would whisk visitors through Level 2 staff area and land them on Level 3, the first book area, called a “Living Room” area, a massive open space with tables and comfortable chairs, individual lighting, all with the backdrop of the spectacular city, water and mountain views outside. Marmaduke followed, although he was not at all thrilled with having to climb an escalator, with the same reason cattle don’t cross a cattle guard, their feet (paws) don’t like open spaces. But, he was a big enough that by brute force he made it behind his new master.

  “Marmaduke, I don’t think anyone is here,” Ray turned to his faithful companion, speaking in a soft voice.

  “Hello!” Ray shouted again, this time up the escalator that cut through the library’s automated assembly area to the main Reference desk on the 5th Level. He cupped his hands to his ears. Nothing.

  Son of a bitch. Ray thought. There’s no power and nobody is here to protect my building. Computers are dead out of commission, no sense trying to get the network back up and running. The thought of going all the way up to level 11, without an elevator or escalator, only to be greeted with no power, was daunting. The UPS units in the server room would be barking at him, anxious for power to be restored from the outside. So would the “patch” panels, an old term still used to describe a centralized wiring system. Fortunately, the rack-mounted Uninterruptable Power Supply boxes provided for an orderly shutdown to the 400+ workstations scattered throughout the building, a process that would have been completed hours ago. Also out would be the book sorting system, an automated process similar to baggage handling at airports—returned books were sent through a conveyor system, scanned by barcode readers, and returned to the appropriate part of the building for re-stocking.

  “Where are the guards, ‘duke?” Ray asked Wonder Dog.

  Marmaduke was too busy sniffing the floor; to him the library was filled with new and interesting odors; shoes that had been in every smelly place in town left their scent on the floor.

  The computers, the pay-for-print system, the copiers; all were powered off, the book distribution system, all off. From an IT standpoint there was little to do except neaten up the various areas, and inventory any damaged equipment.

  Ray wandered over to the Fifth Avenue entrance which was the same design as the one on 4th; the library was built to fit into the terrain of the city. Fifth Avenue was 40 feet higher up the hill than Fourth Avenue. On the south side of the building was Madison Street, running downhill. On the north side of the building was Spring Street, one-way uphill.

  As on 4th Avenue, the handicapped doors opened easily; well, I guess we’re handicapped. Ray stepped outside onto Fifth Avenue; Marmaduke was more interested in the Starbucks coffee cart area. Outside, the noise level had been ratcheted up; sirens blaring. The dreary cloud layer had settled onto the city like it was taking a nap; vision now limited to no more than three or four blocks. The amount of glass was staggering as was the debris from where the outside skin of nearby buildings had split, peeled and fallen onto Fifth Avenue.

  Retreating into the building, Ray followed Marmaduke to the Starbuck’s kiosk. A cup of hot coffee would have hit the spot. No electricity, no coffee. However, the display cases that held a variety of breakfast goodies didn’t require electricity. Ray found he was ravenous, eating a huge bran muffin, followed by a blueberry muffin, followed by something sticky and gooey—food that should have been banned. Once you touch a sticky bun, it’s like your hands become instantly covered, even though you swear you only used two of your ten fingers. Nine times out of ten those hands then went to a computer keyboard. Ray and the five other I/T specialists spent an inordinate amount of time cleaning keyboards and screens from food and fingerprints.

  From out of nowhere he heard a click-clack-click-clack sound like gunfire; and then came woof woof woof woof woof, followed by a short pause and a second series WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF! Much louder. Can you hear me now? Marmaduke demanded. Ray wiped his dirty hands on his filthy clothes, in essence making his pants cleaner than they were before.

  “Where are you, boy?” Ray shouted as he ran across the third floor “Living Room” toward the escalator. Peering into the dim of the afternoon funk, there was Marmaduke back at the bottom of the escalator, back on the first floor. The huge beast anxiously peered up, then seeing Ray appear, barked three more times, the sound reverberating upward. The big dog was upset and was ordering Ray get your lazy butt down here, NOW! As fast as he could, Ray began to step-step-step—double step-triple step, racing down the escalator as the dog continued to bark.

  With twenty steps to go Marmaduke turned and bounded toward the metal detectors at the Fourth Street entrance and began to furiously dance back and forth as he barked.

  Three men of indeterminate color were in the process of raping a young white woman, who struggled fruitlessly agai
nst overwhelming strength. One of the men towering above her relentlessly beat on her arms, face and head; difficult to see whether he was black, white, Asian or Hispanic; it didn’t matter. It was only a matter of minutes before control would be complete, the multiple rape begun, and probable death afterwards. The woman’s jacket had been ripped in front, and drawn back so that the jacket itself was controlling movement of her arms; she writhed on the glass-strewn street, kicking against the other two, one of whom was in full exposed manhood, ready to administer pain. The third man began to roll the woman over onto her stomach as he wrestled with her pants; she was a minute from being sodomized.

  Ray felt the adrenalin of combat and the weird sensation of PTSD biting at the inside of his skull; while this wasn’t Fallujah, the eeriness of the surroundings added a wartime feeling; torn, beaten streets, mean people who killed for no reason; the same adrenal taste in his saliva pipelined action to his brain. A graduate of Parris Island and a decorated, but bruised veteran of Iraq and Afghanistan; Ray had been thankful to leave while his soul was still semi-intact. Now 38, his retreat to Bainbridge Island, I/T re-training through Seattle University, and settlement into what he hoped would be “real life” was greatly appreciated. Ray was well-respected for his work ethic; several times management had encouraged him to apply for various openings; no, management isn’t for me he’d said. I’m a grunt, a doer, a worker. Give me a job and I’ll do it right.

  Ray opened the Fourth Avenue handicapped door with the simple punch of a button. Why would the side doors be operating on battery and the main doors weren’t? Go figure.

  Marmaduke leapt out of the door and was on top and in the melee in an instant.

  It’s really difficult for a man to fight when he has a hard-on, which Third Dude quickly lost as the 145-pound dog with the gigantic head went straight for the first rapist. The woman shrieked and continued to fight as Second Dude’s attention was drawn to Ray; five-foot ten, slim, hard-as-a-rock; wiry even, a man with fearless determination in his eyes; someone who must have looked like a premonition from Hell, as slimed as he was from the day’s efforts.

  Second Dude already had the woman’s pants ripped down to her knees, again, her clothes pinned her ability to struggle, and exposed orange weekend underwear of the thong variety, and an obviously shaved pubis area. Scattered off to the side was her purse and an expensive ($650) Nikon D3100 camera. Ray hit Second Dude with his shoulder and knocked the man to the pavement, while at the same time grabbing First Dude by his jacket, pulling downward toward the pavement, knocking him off stride; the blows to the woman stopped. Ray grunted as he took care of Second Dude by breaking his arm at the elbow in a quick, nearly lethal move; rolled to his right was on his knees, briefly entertaining Hard-On’s probable attack but saw that Mr. Dick was occupied with a slobbery beast. Back to the man beating the woman mercilessly about the head and shoulders, Ray laid into him with fists that didn’t miss; groin, double fingers into the nose and eye, chop of the neck.

  Meanwhile, Marmaduke knew from his relationship with Ray that the people they were attacking were bad because The Man was good. The enemies of The Man were bad. ‘Duke went after Hard-On body and soul, not just scaring the crap out of the big bad dude, but making him fearful for his life. Fighting an angry dog is a whole lot different from fighting an angry man, because the dog doesn’t give a shit. The dog will fight until you die or he dies. The two combatants were roughly the same weight, except Marmaduke was all legs and body, a humongous head, and a jaw that was at least twice that of a human being. The battle between Marmaduke and Hard-On was short lived; perhaps five seconds into the battle Hard-On backed off, tumbled and fell backwards across the glass-strewn street, his stately manhood long since headed for cover. After a lunge and several angry barks, Marmaduke returned his attention back to his owner.

  Second Dude was clearly out of the picture, unable to move, arm broken, eye socket gouged; he slinked off toward the downside of Fourth Avenue. First Dude was getting pummeled, soon to have a life and death choice of running or staying; fortunately for him, he was able to gain footage on the glass-strewn street, scramble and run to the south along Fourth headed past Madison, seriously injured. Their attack on the young girl hadn’t been their best choice of the night.

  Marmaduke barked in victory and Ray wasn’t inclined to stop him; the dog danced around the pair, now Ray and the unknown young woman with the orange thong panties and shaved pubis. Ray reached down and pulled the woman up to her feet, shifted his head toward the quickly exiting thugs, enough to allow the woman some dignity to pull her pants up and straighten her jacket.

  Ray simply pointed toward the library entrance and the woman followed, but not before she picked up her purse and camera. Marmaduke followed in a yeah, yeah we’re bad kind of prance, easy for a 145-pound dog to pull off.

  Inside the relative warmth of the Seattle Public Library Ray began in anger. “What the fuck were you doing out here on a day like this!” he shouted.

  The young woman, not more than 22, beaten and scarred, and scared, and from what had happened was clearly not prepared for her savior’s response. She was a long brunet with a cutesy touch of fake blond up top, pretty, slender, a sharp New Jersey nose and not enough body and bones to occupy a breadbasket.

  His reaction was unexpected. She paused for a pregnant moment and clearly measured her words.

  “Thank you very much for helping me,” and extended her right hand. “I’m Molly Abrams. I’m in a great deal of pain. I’m so sorry,” then she started to cry. Men are pussies when women start to cry, especially when it’s in earnest. Ray’s face scrunched up into a don’t-you-dare-do-this-to-me look. Ray looked at Marmaduke, who pretended he didn’t have a clue while prancing back and forth across the front of the security gate.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Ray muttered as he hugged the young woman he and The Beast had saved. “Do you think anything is broken?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Molly replied, although she was bleeding in multiple places on her head, neck and shoulders where Dude One had been beating her. A closer examination would find several places on her legs that were bleeding; her pants, torn in multiple places were absorbing the blood.

  “Why the hell were you out here? Didn’t anybody tell you that you could be in danger?”

  “I’m a freelance photographer for the P-I,” she replied. “I’m the Metro Desk. I spent the night developing pics from a high school dance at Ballard High School.”

  After an 88-year run, the Seattle Post-Intelligencer stopped publication in 2009, switching to a web-based business only; leaving Seattle with the Times, the only hard-copy newspaper.

  “My friends are dead,” she said simply. “You know where the P-I building is, right?” she asked.

  Ray shifted gears. “Yeah, yes, I do.”

  “Sorry, I meant where the building was. It’s gone now.” Molly took a deep, sad breath. “I was composing shots on my computer from 1 to 4, pictures of a dance at Ballard High School, some late-night tourists locks, Space Needle at night; whatever I could that might be of interest,” Molly started a stream of consciousness. “Then my boss came in and said that he was going to reboot the server and my stuff wouldn’t make the morning edition (internet) except for two pics of sluts dippin’ and doin’ at the High School, and that I should go home—try again tomorrow. You know, it’s February and nothing is going on. If the fucking Sonics were here at least we’d have big black guys we could follow around to see what dirty stuff they’re getting into.”

  Ray’s eyebrows perked, not expecting what he was hearing. She was 22 going on 35. His thoughts flashed to the orange thongs.

  “So it’s 5:30 in the morning and I’m not ready to go home. I’m pissed that nothing I shot was going to work, so I go up Pike Place to see if there’s anything interesting. You never know with those guys; flying fish, who knows. Even though it’s only five blocks, I take my car.”

  In 1986 the P-I moved into its new building on Elliot
t Avenue, a five-story beauty with a curtain wall of windows that offered a spectacular view of Elliott Bay and the Olympic mountains in the distance. In 2009 after the printing presses stopped, the 20 remaining staff, including freelancer Molly Abrams, moved to a broom closet a half-mile south on Elliott Avenue.

  For rent or lease or purchase

  101 Elliott Avenue, Seattle In 2012 the globe was donated to the Washington State Museum of History and Industry

  “I take my car and park it on Western, then hike up to the market; which, is busy as shit, like it is every morning. I take some shots; some decent, some stock; you know, Pike Place is like nothing else. Some of the fish they have were in the water an hour ago; can’t get any fresher. Whack! Off with the heads. It’s not just a show; it’s a way of life. If it was a show, it would be on TV—maybe cable; like the Pike Place Market Whacka Fish show,” Molly allowed herself a laugh, although bleeding from several places on her face and neck.

  “It was six-twenty, I know because I looked at my watch. Jesus fucking Christ! The market started to rock and roll; nothing like I’d ever felt before. Then I saw it. I swear to Christ I saw it. Like it was a movie or something; the fucking Space Needle snapped and the restaurant fell, like a dead dodo; then wobbled itself back and forth, wappa-wappa, rolled this way and that, but never completely fell because of the cables or something.

  “That had to have been a minute, at least a minute before it stopped. I fell to the ground, fish fucking market was everywhere, food, fish, everything had been neat one minute than was fucked the next with everything flying everywhere,” Ray’s estimation of the young girl was rising by the second. She’d been there like he had.