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3AM
It is with great trepidation that I join you this morning, dear reader, as my mission here is twofold.
First, I seek to do as I always do – share information with you, my cherished constituency, and detail the ebbs and flows along the banks of our tiny hamlet – without fear, favor, malice, or bias.
Second, of course, I seek to do this without creating alarm or unrest.
All of this is to say that today, Middle Valley, tragedy has arrived on our doorstep.
Our beloved Bernie Rossie – man of the people, man of the page, recorder of records, the scribe to our most recent quarter century – has experienced a medical event.
And how do I know this, you may ask, at this hour and so quickly?
As you know, I’m always upping my source game, and so it was with that in mind that I brought into the manse a state-of-the-art police scanner, even more capable than those used by our own men and women in blue.
Now, I’m not normally “one with the gadgets,” if you will, but in this case, particularly given the shaky state of affairs in the Sheriff’s office and the lack of media presence here these days, I figure it’s part of my civic duty to give a listen once in a while.
In just five short minutes, I was up and running, receiving signals from across the bands. Crash on the interstate at mile 222. Disabled vehicle on state route 17 between First and Second avenues. Drunk and disorderly at the DolFinn Diner.
Immediately, I wondered … was this, perhaps, too much information.
I decided to turn down the volume and pull my bottle of choice for the evening from the fridge, a beautiful 2025 organic rose that set me back less than a twenty-spot – a bargain for a girl on a health jag, and a budget, I thought.
And then I heard it.
Respond to 2631 East McMaster Street … that’s two six three one East McMaster Street … male, 64, unresponsive …
I would know that address anywhere.
One evening at the Riverside a few weeks back, I’d just settled into my cabernet as Bentley arrived carrying a package, asking Cassie if he could leave it there. Its recipient, he explained, would be out of town for a time, so he’d called Bentley to ask him to take it there and he would pick it up there on his return.
“Who’s it for?” she asked.
Bentley looked at the label. “A Bernie … Rossie?”
Cassie smiled. “Oh, sure. Where do I sign?”
Turns out it had been delivered during Bernie’s trip out West, probably something from Amazon that he didn’t want sitting out on his porch for several days. Cassie was happy to oblige.
Of course, those of us gathered there that evening began to speculate wildly on what the old boy could be ordering that had him go so far as to hire Bentley to be sure the package was safe.
“A present for Elyse,” I speculated.
“Why? What have you heard?” Cassie pressed.
I shook my head. “Nothing, of course.”
“I don’t believe you,” she shot back. “I think it’s a hotplate or something … some gadget that a single man might need to make dinner.”
“A hotplate?” Shirley Scott said, incredulous at the suggestion. I hadn’t seen her for a while and it’d been pleasant to catch up. “Who buys hotplates? I think it’s a book. That’s where I’d put my money.”
This went on for an hour, so, with nothing further to add, I remember glancing toward the box that had been sitting to my left the whole time.
The address label on the box read: Bernie Rossie, 2631 East McMaster Street, Middle Valley.
I remember entering it into my phone for no particular reason, just to have it.
I heard it again tonight on the scanner for a very particular one, which leads me to this moment.
“Valley General patient line, may I help you?” a chipper girl’s voice exclaims on the other end of my line.
“Yes, hello, my name is Marjorie Hughes. I’m a … well, an extended relative of Bernie Rossie and I believe he may have been taken there this evening. Do you have an update on his condition?”
“Just a moment,” says the operator. I hear a click and the Musak version of The Girl from Ipanema begins to play.
The music stops and the girl returns. “Um, yes, he was admitted. He’s in our stroke unit in stable condition.”
“Oh my,” I say. “Well, is he speaking?”
“There is no communication as yet,” she says. “His vitals are stable. That’s all I can tell you.”
I thank her and hang up, dissatisfied with that answer.
Friends, say your prayers as it appears our dear Bernie has had a stroke. The path forward is, to say the least, very unclear.
Gunnar Olafsson