Ernest Shackleton and co., traversing mountainous and glacial terrain on the island of South Georgia by foot, 1917. Alan Parker, beset by treacherous whiteout conditions on subantarctic Macquarie Island, 1968. And now Rudy Jenkins, waiting in line at the Del Taco in Framingham, 2024.
All three, touched by a rare phenomenon. In a miracle of spiritual, psychological, or otherwise mysterious nature, they each have been joined in their hour of calamity by a benevolent, unknowable presence rooting for them to make it out alive. Rudy doesn't feel very good about this.
He's heard of Third Man Syndrome, and he knows when it's supposed to strike: in the most extraordinary of survival situations. Visitation by an otherworldly helper is the privilege of shipwrecked explorers. Hapless victims of natural disasters. Wounded mountaineers. Not suburban customers awaiting service in a fast food joint on a comfortably warm Tuesday evening.
It's true that Rudy's body, currently halfway to the peak of a panic attack and climbing, is reacting to this scene of benign normalcy as though it were a matter of life and (most likely) death. But his mind sees plainly that it is not. His mind fully grasps the incongruity of what's happening.
The third man stands to his left, more of an impression than a person. If Rudy tries to look directly at the figure, it shifts just out of perception; certainly no one else can see it. Ernest Shackleton's men each beheld their third man because they each shared in a profound crisis. None of the other Framingham Del Taco occupants are undergoing the stress of impending annihilation at present.
Rudy takes his eighth steadying breath since getting in line. It's not as though he hadn't already been aware of the state of his mental health. He'd been trying to get himself in the presence of a medical professional- therapist, general practitioner, psychiatrist, or any kind, really- for months. When they say that taking the first step is the hardest part of getting help, they leave out how often that first step is crumpled up and tossed out the window by clerical error, institutional indifference, and inscrutable insurance policies. Every system Rudy is meant to navigate seems designed to be hostile toward him, specifically. What should have been irrational fears of the slightest wrong move derailing everything were fully realized time and again.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
The urgent care clinic that told him he'd come to the wrong place for anxiety, but he could call such and such a number to set up an appointment with a clinic. The clinic that canceled his appointment because he hadn't provided information on his form that the form did not ask for. The emergency room doctor who laughed in his face when he said he'd been too anxious to make the several required phone calls and appointments it would take to get him a PCP that could then refer him to a psychiatrist in that clinic so he wouldn’t have to pay out of pocket.
Standing beside Rudy now is as much undeniable proof that he is in profound need of treatment as it is a reminder of how poorly that same need has been considered by those holding treatment at arm's length away from him. That doctor would be rolling on the floor with laughter if he could see the scene playing out now.
Mercifully, he can't focus on that for long. Rudy is next in line for tacos. He wants the grilled chicken stuffed quesadilla taco, every single word of which is squirming out of his brain with the determination of a cat that doesn't want to be held. He won't be able to say it correctly. The cashier will be annoyed with him for making their job harder, and he'll end up slowing down the entire line, inconveniencing everyone, and none of this means anything, but it feels nonsensically dire, and it will take the rest of the day to recover from this moment that should not even be difficult, let alone impossible, and now of course Rudy can no longer remember the name of his order. He wants to leave. Desperately.
The third man forges on ahead.
It's Rudy’s turn. His stalwart companion radiates encouragement, drawing him forward to the counter in spite of himself. It does not judge him; it will not mock him; it has come to him of its own accord, caring not for the circumstances of Rudy's need for help, only that help be given when it is needed. Something, whether from beyond the veil or from the depths of his own mind, sincerely wants him to pull through.
A voice in Rudy's mind that's not quite his own gently reminds him of his order.
Rudy clenches his sweaty fists and says, “I'll have the grilled chicken stuffed quesadilla taco, please.”