It turns out that there are four primary colors, not three. Once the fourth color is known, it's easy to understand the mistake that even artists of such caliber as Rembrandt and Picasso made. They were concerned with combining colors, making new ones, exploring the shades, hues, and opacity of their subjects. And since their subjects were, typically, life itself, they naturally wanted to capture what they saw.
Red, blue and yellow are sufficient for almost all situations that a painter would want to represent. But imagine, for a moment, that Munch is peering over Herbert's shoulder when the bus door closes. Munch came as close as any painter to challenging the prevailing pigment wisdom. It nagged at him, and, under Herbert's tuteledge he would have seen the truth in an instant--in fact, the instant that Melinda stood up from her encounter with that behemoth of mass transit.
There are four primary colors, and they are: red, blue, yellow and rage.
Herbert wasn't as capricious as Puck, less inclined to do mischief for its own sake. And, he was nearly always as willing to intervene for good as for . . . not evil, really. Not cruelty, though that depends on one's point of view. The child who roasts the beetle on the steaming manhole cover is cruel only when he becomes a serial killer, but is lauded when he becomes a tough-nosed senior manager with a reputation for "getting things done". Likewise, Herbert's more questionable actions had often lead to great achievements by those involved. Well, those who had survived.
Here was an opportunity, he was certain. He needed only four ingredients--his own version of the primary colors. They were opposites, chance, music . . . and rage.
Rage was present, in spades. One down.
"What the hell is your stupid, fucking, shit-for-brains problem!?" asked Melinda. (Author's note: you'll hopefully laugh at me using the word 'asked' rather than, for example, 'shouted' or 'demanded' or 'screeched'. I admit, it's a fun contrast. But, pragmatically, haven't I already emphasized her tone and volume through the use of the exclamation point and question mark? Wouldn't a stronger verb be redundant? I've found that little good comes from usurping the authority of puncuation.)
"Oh, gee, lady, I'm sorry. I . . . didn't see you. Are you okay?"
Herbert was impressed. The bus driver was as straight faced as the rocky sides of Devil's Tower.
Melinda glared at the driver. "My scarf is torn. My thirty dollar perm is mussed. My Van Leon purse's strap is scuffed and frayed. My right forefinger nail is chipped."
The driver adopted a well-practiced empty expression that was useful for people like Melinda, as well as people who didn't--couldn't--wouldn't understand why he didn't make change.
"Those things are important, I bet. But, you know lady, you're bleeding."
Melinda froze. The Sphinx would have flinched. The normal city noise paused in the same way that all sound is sucked up by an impending tornado. Every passenger craned to see what would happen next. Except Reginald. Our unexpected hero (well, no, that's not right, but we'll let it pass) was already standing, haven given up his seats to an elderly woman, a handicapped woman and a beautiful woman. He walked forward, then down the steps, reached into his backpack that he'd owned for twenty-two years, and pulled out a small packet of travel Kleenex. He handed this to Melinda.
Chance.
Herbert's non-existent nose twitched.
"Did I ask for your help, pebble head?" snapped Melinda, nevertheless dabbing a Kleenex over her bleeding teeth.
"No," said Reginald, "but . . . sorry . . . you didn't ask to get hurt, either."
Melinda clearly couldn't believe her ears, nor Reginald his mouth.
Opposites, thought Herbert in his non-existent brain. It would only take a little nudge, but it would have to happen quickly, while these two game pieces, one from chess and the other from Chutes and Ladders, were momentarily stunned at their most recent actions.
The bus driver later swore that his radio hadn't worked for a month, that the guys in the depot wouldn't fix it because he'd sworn at them a few weeks ago over an incident regarding a window and the graffito "Lazy Galloot" that the driver had insisted was too offensive to remain, despite assurances that its meaning was beyond the average passenger (and possibly the driver). He, furthermore, swore that it couldn't have been tuned to WPNY--the oldies station. The driver swore frequently, in fact, but at this moment he just gazed stupidly at the radio (even though the sound was coming from the speakers).
A drummer leading a band, a lady with dark hair and a sultry voice, the miracle of Karen Carpenter, ". . . there is wonder in most everything I see . . ."
They all heard it. ". . . And the reason is clear, It's because you are here . . ."
Melinda and Reginald stared at each other, unable to stop the flood of absurdity that was about to pour into their lives.
". . . I'm on top of the world looking down on creation and the only explanation I can find, Is the love that I've found ever since you've been around, Your love's put me at the top of the world. . . ."
Melinda and Reginald. Cromwell and Boone. Their lips twitched (blood-tinged, in Melinda's case), they each remembered hearing that song decades ago, when they were children, one in an ice cream store licking Watermelon Ice, the other riding in the back seat of a Malibu on a dusty vacation through Arkansas. A melody that warmed the Grinchiest heart, and beckoned a time of insipid earnestness. When Karen Carpenter sang, nothing was more important, and the current moment gave up its clutch. Melinda smiled, then grinned, then cackled, while Reginald eased into laughter. Herbert sighed at work well done, patting himself on his non-existent back for providing the last, critical ingredient.
Music.