queenofubc-blog

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3. Doorway to Another World

Bernie lived a good life, but he wasn’t much for reflection. There were still hours left in the day and his ticker kept on ticking; there is still time to make a little trouble. He saw no reason to lie around waiting for the pearly gates to swing open, feeling his cells collapse in sequence.

The escape was masterful, he had to say. The orderlies were so predictable with their checkups, and they got stiffer and more rigid with them as he started eating less, sleeping more, and shitting almost not at all. His wasted muscles needed plenty of time to make the getaway, especially the move from bed to chair. But that’s why he left the care package, full of fancy jams and curated crackers and single-wrapped sweets he’d never eat, smack dab in the middle of the check-in station the night before. He had thrown out the card--Fiona hadn’t written it herself, anyway. She’d laughed about it with him tomorrow.

Getting his chair outside was easier than he imagined. The hospice was so accessible that it almost cheapened the thrill of his breakout.

It was a beautiful day. People were wearing coats but he didn’t feel the chill, even when his robe flapped open and exposed the clear medical tape stuck on his chest. Birds were singing and there was a pleasant smell of smoke in the air. It all felt very magical and quaint, like a walk through the Shire without any inkling of the grand and terrifying adventure ahead.

Second Chance Books. Bernie laughed out loud, then wished he hadn’t as the coughs wracked him. The logo was like he remembered, that milkshake diner logo Fiona insisted on calling retro.

Getting inside the old bookstore was harder than getting out of round-the-clock care. Bernie struggled with the door, pulling it into his footrest at first, then straining forward to reach the handle once he’d backed off. Eventually, the young man behind the desk heard the commotion and held the door for him.

“I’m looking for... The Hobbit,” Bernie told him, gulping in air. He quite enjoyed the look on the young man’s face as he saw his robe, the tape, and his bracelet.

To his credit, the young man shook it off and let his training take over. He moved easily through the narrow aisles and plucked a shiny hardcover edition from between two cardboard boxes. “Frodo lives,” he grinned.

“Bilbo,” Bernie said softly, taking the book in his hands. “Can I read here awhile?”

The young man shook his head. “Gets pretty busy in here. You’ll have to take it home.”

Bernie stared at the cover for a few moments, like a door to another world. He had no money. “Another time, then,” he said lightly. The boy’s mouth press into a straight line.

“Let me help you out.” The young man wheeled him to the door and pushed it open, gentle as an orderly, as Fiona on her smoke breaks.

Only once he was outside with the sun on his face did he realize the book was still in his lap.

The care package Bernie left at the nurse’s station.

Second Chance Books & Comics in Oklahoma.

[queenofubc-blog]

2. The Weight of Second Chances

HIGGINS INDUSTRIES, INC. Bernie must have read that ten thousand times, etched into the plaque on the steel ramp separating him from hell and duty. There was little else for his eyes to do. He certainly wouldn’t watch the faces of the soldiers packed around him, all terrified and grim and seasick. And he couldn’t bear to look at the flimsy plywood walls at port and starboard. They used plywood targets at the rifle range in Basic.

DESIGNED AND BUILT BY HIGGINS INDUSTRIES, INC. Bernie’s mind kept busy between readings, scrambling away from the crump of mortar shells and machine guns barking. He kept thinking back to his quarterfinal fight at the Oklahoma Military Academy’s SWAAU, the closest he had ever been to feeling this way. He had fixed the dressing room door with the same petrified look, waiting for it to open with his whole body flexed. But once the first punch cracked into his nose, training kicked in and his nervous energy was replaced with a strange sense of momentum, as though he were only watching the action rather than stuck in it. Somehow, Bernie doubted this would go that way. He fought the urge to bounce around on his toes, unsure of his feet on the choppy sea.

“Two minutes!” the helmsman bawled from the back of the LCVP.

NAVAL DIVISION. NEW ORLEANS, LA. Bernie’s hands ran over his kit: scissors, embossed tin stuffed full of dressing and sulfa powder and safety pins, a box full of morphine ampoules, even amphetamine--Bennies again, which figured. And here he was again, waiting for another door to open and show him what’s next. This time there would be people needing his help. Bernie flinched as a tracer round zipped overhead. Somebody yelped behind him. This was the burden of second chances.

Bernie heard somebody praying. It reminded him of his mother. She had been so proud the day he left for Basic, called it a grand adventure like he was a character from The Hobbit. Was this what Bilbo felt? A burglar thrust into something bigger. He had watched his friends die, too. But he had a magic ring to keep him safe.

“Thirty seconds!” Somebody spewed watery vomit onto the deck. It splashed on his boots. Bernie’s grand adventure was about to begin.

HIGGINS INDUSTRIES. DESIGNED AND BUILT--

The ramp dropped abruptly and the plaque fell away with it. Machine gun fire snaked down the beach from emplacements up high, kicking up puffs of sand.

“Move, move, move!” Screams surrounded him and he was driven forward by the press of bodies. Gunshots cracked off to his left and right.

Bernie threw himself against the crossed bars of the nearest tank trap so hard the air knocked out of him.

“Medic!” Momentum took over and Bernie set his hands to lift his burden.

3:48 until 3:59 --Bernie disembarking at Normandy. 

Bernie and the rest of the Oklahoma Military Academy’s SWAAU boxing champions.

The Higgins Industries plaque Bernie read over and over on the LCPV. 

[queenofubc-blog]

1. Smart as Smaug

Bernie’s whole world was cast in the red glow of police lights--his domain, as Eerie saw it: three telephone poles tethered together, lines hanging over two squat buildings, dirty sidewalk slabs, bits of broken glass, old newspapers, and a patch of dead turf. And there, arranged neatly by the curb, his three bags--loose reefer, Bennies, and cash, all Eerie’s, all lost--alongside his most prized possession, a worn copy of The Hobbit he bought with his own money and read every day.

Now it was gone, along with almost everything else. Copped. Just his luck; behind the eight ball again. For the first time since he left home, Bernie had been making money. Sure, he had a bad feeling about Eerie from the day they met (with a name like that, who wouldn't), and time only made it worse. But he paid, and the work was dead easy. Bernie made $18 dollars last week.

The handcuffs pinched and both shoulders screamed as Bernie was made to stand and turn. Every bit of white on the patrol car was washed red, like exposed bone. Then the door clicked open, and Bernie was plunged into darkness by a strong hand on the back of his head.

Bernie wriggled around just in time to see the door slam in his face. Through the glass, he watched the fat officer dump Eerie’s bags unceremoniously in the trunk while his partner sat on his haunches, flipping through his book. They were talking now, about him. Bernie couldn’t much out, but they spoke with an easy rhythm that seemed at odds with the sharp commands they issued before. Maybe they were deciding where to take him.

Bernie stared sullenly at the door. Eerie wouldn't let him back, might even try to do him harm. A dry voice spoke codes on the radio.

“What kind of guardian?” the fat officer was saying. They were on either side of the car now, talking over the roof, bellies pressed up against the glass. The other office was silent. Rightfully so. Guardians. What kinds of guardians were they, picking on a boy for feeding his family? And if they meant Eerie, they had it all wrong. He was as noble a guardian as Smaug. No, worse; at least Smaug was all evil, never tried to be your friend, just blew fire all day. And he knew how to hoard his gold, not strap it to boys on the street to get copped. The radio chattered again, and they climbed into the car without a word.

The car was moving. Bernie’s domain rolled away. Watching felt like dropping a full plate of food, so he stared at the door instead, wondering what might appear when it opened.

“We wouldn't normally cuff a boy your age, Okie or not.” The fat one was watching him in the mirror. “But we don't take no chances with Bennies. Hey, aren't you a little young to be peddling?”

The ride went on for hours. They stopped once for gas but his door stayed shut.

Somehow, the back seat was less comfortable than the bare metal boxcar he rode into town. Of course, he wasn’t restrained then, with metal poking into his low back and his shoulders bunched up by his ears. And he’d had his mother’s blessing. That was no small thing, though his pride at being chosen to help the family had long since given way to the reality: with him gone, there was one less mouth to feed.

Sore as he was, Bernie was more tired, and thinking of home made it worse. Sleep hit like a hammer.

Bernie’s dream started with a shake. The door was open and the gentle cop was smiling. The fat one uncuffed him. “Do you know what kind of burden comes with a second chance, boy?” The Hobbit dropped onto his lap and the gentle cop stepped aside. From behind him, Bernie’s mother appeared. Her brow was furrowed and her lips trembled. “Go on.”

Only once he smelled her hair did Bernie realize he was awake. His face flushed but he did not cry.

“Time to come home, Bernie,” mother said. “We have a long trip ahead.”

“We need to make one stop, mum.” The words were tumbling out. “I have something for us.” He could just imagine the joy on her face when saw it: $192 dollars, stashed, smart as Smaug. But for some reason, that made her cry most.

The OKC PD car Bernie ended up in.

Bernie’s original edition of The Hobbit, bought with his own money.