I remember thinking it was unusually cold for May. I also remember thinking that I might not collect on Little John and Georgie’s tabs. Little John was into me for a pack of squares and Georgie was into me for five bucks for a tube of biscuits and a tall boy of beer. Silly that that’s what I was thinking.
I suppose if my leg actually hurt, that’d be on my mind but it didn’t hurt. It would start hurting soon, though, when my nervous system kicked into gear and the epinephrine levels returned to normal and I could be angry that I’d never walk again, not without a prosthetic.
My body. Irreparably damaged.
“Hal?” I heard Cole from my left, “You sure pulled this one off, Hal. Jesus.”
Cole. Fucking Cole. I remember telling Cole, “Shut up and find my leg.”
“Your leg?”
“Cole?” I was staring up at the sky, watching the flakes, shimmering in the light with cloudy, soft glimmers coming off of them like pearls, waft toward us, “I think my leg is gone, Cole.”
“Bullshit, Hal, your leg aint - Oh, shit.” He must have gotten up; I could hear him coming toward me.
“How bad is it, Cole?”
“It’s gone!”
I hacked something and asked, “Above or below the knee?”
Cole answered. I just didn’t hear him. I just lay there, staring up at the sky, and occasionally hacking a cough that moved my chest and hurt my throat. I then became aware of pressure on my thigh. “What’s that?”
“Closing the pod-bay doors, Hal. Putting a tourniquet on you.”
I just closed my eyes and said, “Good,” thinking that I might have gone to sleep at that moment; I’d probably lost a good deal of blood. I had to fight off sleep; I opened my eyes again to the dancing white flakes in the sky. Soon enough, gravity would have them and they’d be down here, on the ground, decorating us. Covering us.
I tried to keep my eyes open while my leg throbbed, I reached down to Cole’s shoulder, grabbed it and told him, “Gimme a smoke, Cole.”
“Gimme a minute, Hal,” and he finished tying off my leg - well, my stump, now. I could hear him moving about before he said, “Here.”
I reached out and took the smoke from his hand, ever looking up at those pearly flakes dancing and said, “I think I left my light in - in… Where the fuck did I leave my light?” and then I saw the orange flame erupt around a blue heart under my nose and began sucking through the cigarette deeply.
“You’re going to make it, Hal.”
I heard some rustling and Cole was sitting up over me, then, on a box it looked like. I told him I needed a beer.
“We’ll get you a beer when we get back. Some painkillers. Some pussy, too, don’t worry about it.” His face was blackened by dirt and soot, ash in his hair. He lit his own smoke, making a fish-face to suck on the square, and surveyed the damage. He said, “Look at the way they all dance up there,” pointing out across the sky, “You seeing this shit, Hal?”
“Yeah, yeah, I see it.” Against the smoke and storm clouds, they almost seemed to form constellations. I saw the patterns they made - No. I made them into patterns. I made the beer steins down at the Sturm und Drang Lounge. I made Angela’s naked body. I made Johnny Ramone’s guitar. Each one of them, I held for the split second they existed before they all danced apart, off to find new dance partners, new dances, different time signatures, different melodies. I asked, “Do you see my leg anywhere?” before another chest-heaving cough forced my eyes shut again.
“Lemme finish this smoke and I’ll see if it’s near, OK?” Cole’s way of saying to forget it; it’s gone. Probably blown what? fifty? a hundred yards away? “You really did it, man, I gotta tell you.” His dirty paw placed the cigarette back to his lips and he inhaled deeply before blowing out the plume of smoke. My pearls in the sky seemed repelled by the smoke even though they were probably a quarter mile up.
I found it in myself to sit up, if only just to look down at my leg. My stump, I mean. Cole saw me trying to get up and said, “Just stay down.”
I sat up and looked down, finally down, and saw the shreds of flesh below my knee and the tourniquet just above it. My knee I mean. It was an awful sight and it was then that I realized that Cole might have been right all along: No use looking for the other half of my leg. Probably disintegrated. Cole reached around to his back and grabbed his canteen. He uncapped it, took a swig, and handed it to me. “Water?”
Cole. Fucking Cole. I remember telling Cole, “Shut up and find my leg.”
“You OK?”
“I’m fine. I just - ” I looked behind me and then back to Cole and took the canteen, “I just need to lay down.” I took five long gulps off the canteen and handed it back before I laid back down and watched the dancing pearls in the sky. They seemed to be coming closer.
Tannhauser Gate
May 2nd, 2417
I open my journal and scratch at my shin only to feel the prosthetic under my fingers. Ghost itch. I tap my pen to my temple and wonder, “What to explain to my son today?” I haven’t long for this world and the doctor says it’ll be a wonder if I even see the kid born. So now I’ve got to write this thing. Tell him who I am. I may as well get around to it and finally explain how I got sick in the first place. Years ago. At the Tannhauser Gate.
I suppose if my leg actually hurt, that’d be on my mind but it didn’t hurt. It would start hurting soon, though, when my nervous system kicked into gear and the epinephrine levels returned to normal and I could be angry that I’d never walk again, not without a prosthetic.
My body. Irreparably damaged.
“Hal?” I heard Cole from my left, “You sure pulled this one off, Hal. Jesus.”
Cole. Fucking Cole. I remember telling Cole, “Shut up and find my leg.”
“Your leg?”
“Cole?” I was staring up at the sky, watching the flakes, shimmering in the light with cloudy, soft glimmers coming off of them like pearls, waft toward us, “I think my leg is gone, Cole.”
“Bullshit, Hal, your leg aint - Oh, shit.” He must have gotten up; I could hear him coming toward me.
“How bad is it, Cole?”
“It’s gone!”
I hacked something and asked, “Above or below the knee?”
Cole answered. I just didn’t hear him. I just lay there, staring up at the sky, and occasionally hacking a cough that moved my chest and hurt my throat. I then became aware of pressure on my thigh. “What’s that?”
“Closing the pod-bay doors, Hal. Putting a tourniquet on you.”
I just closed my eyes and said, “Good,” thinking that I might have gone to sleep at that moment; I’d probably lost a good deal of blood. I had to fight off sleep; I opened my eyes again to the dancing white flakes in the sky. Soon enough, gravity would have them and they’d be down here, on the ground, decorating us. Covering us.
I tried to keep my eyes open while my leg throbbed, I reached down to Cole’s shoulder, grabbed it and told him, “Gimme a smoke, Cole.”
“Gimme a minute, Hal,” and he finished tying off my leg - well, my stump, now. I could hear him moving about before he said, “Here.”
I reached out and took the smoke from his hand, ever looking up at those pearly flakes dancing and said, “I think I left my light in - in… Where the fuck did I leave my light?” and then I saw the orange flame erupt around a blue heart under my nose and began sucking through the cigarette deeply.
“You’re going to make it, Hal.”
I heard some rustling and Cole was sitting up over me, then, on a box it looked like. I told him I needed a beer.
“We’ll get you a beer when we get back. Some painkillers. Some pussy, too, don’t worry about it.” His face was blackened by dirt and soot, ash in his hair. He lit his own smoke, making a fish-face to suck on the square, and surveyed the damage. He said, “Look at the way they all dance up there,” pointing out across the sky, “You seeing this shit, Hal?”
“Yeah, yeah, I see it.” Against the smoke and storm clouds, they almost seemed to form constellations. I saw the patterns they made - No. I made them into patterns. I made the beer steins down at the Sturm und Drang Lounge. I made Angela’s naked body. I made Johnny Ramone’s guitar. Each one of them, I held for the split second they existed before they all danced apart, off to find new dance partners, new dances, different time signatures, different melodies. I asked, “Do you see my leg anywhere?” before another chest-heaving cough forced my eyes shut again.
“Lemme finish this smoke and I’ll see if it’s near, OK?” Cole’s way of saying to forget it; it’s gone. Probably blown what? fifty? a hundred yards away? “You really did it, man, I gotta tell you.” His dirty paw placed the cigarette back to his lips and he inhaled deeply before blowing out the plume of smoke. My pearls in the sky seemed repelled by the smoke even though they were probably a quarter mile up.
I found it in myself to sit up, if only just to look down at my leg. My stump, I mean. Cole saw me trying to get up and said, “Just stay down.”
I sat up and looked down, finally down, and saw the shreds of flesh below my knee and the tourniquet just above it. My knee I mean. It was an awful sight and it was then that I realized that Cole might have been right all along: No use looking for the other half of my leg. Probably disintegrated. Cole reached around to his back and grabbed his canteen. He uncapped it, took a swig, and handed it to me. “Water?”
Cole. Fucking Cole. I remember telling Cole, “Shut up and find my leg.”
“You OK?”
“I’m fine. I just - ” I looked behind me and then back to Cole and took the canteen, “I just need to lay down.” I took five long gulps off the canteen and handed it back before I laid back down and watched the dancing pearls in the sky. They seemed to be coming closer.
Tannhauser Gate
May 2nd, 2417
I open my journal and scratch at my shin only to feel the prosthetic under my fingers. Ghost itch. I tap my pen to my temple and wonder, “What to explain to my son today?” I haven’t long for this world and the doctor says it’ll be a wonder if I even see the kid born. So now I’ve got to write this thing. Tell him who I am. I may as well get around to it and finally explain how I got sick in the first place. Years ago. At the Tannhauser Gate.
