SLOW MOVER by Stephen Shooster,
Friday, 3 July 2009 at 4.30 pm, Houston, TX written while my dad was having major surgery
Once upon a time I wanted a roaring engine with red and white stripes, a fast mover. I would roll down the main street revving my engine at stop lights; all heads would turn, a fast mover. Then one day my dad finds out he has a ticking time bomb in his chest, a weak- ness in the artery. Within a week my world is upside down, finding my mom and brothers playing scrabble in the ICU waiting room while my dad fights for his life. I let my mom win every time, to lighten her spirits and because she’s way better than me. With a tube in his throat and heart exposed, body cooled down, we laugh irreverently, nervously, full belly laughs. We held hope in our thoughts, no other choice. Finally eight hours later... alive... repaired. Thinking back, all I wanted was a fast mover. Now, for my dad, the only way back was through the chasm. The only way back to our world for him was through a deep valley, being tested by 1,000 challenges. Bang! Restart the heart, stitch by stitch. Thwack, thwack, staples in the chest. Stitch by loving stitch, pronto. Rolling down the cavern into the cave it’s dark; he can’t see a thing... The cave, the Intensive Care Unit, the first step, no windows, lots of attention. He hears a noise. A subway assault. He thinks, “How am I breathing?” Intubated Lights flash drip, drip, He thinks, “The enemy must have me tied down.” His leg twitches... no energy... sleep. The only way back is through the chasm. Bang, awake again. Can’t talk. Drugs manage him, a little of this... awake, that... asleep Haze, noise. He thinks, “Who am I? Who is he?” The robot in him responds. He thinks. “I must be captured.” Rest, torture, rest. Hands flail, he thinks “I must escape, can’t talk, can’t warn my buddies. Marshaling strength I have broken my handcuffs.” He thinks with no thought other than freedom, jerks the tube from his throat, FREE, I... I can’t breathe, dying, trapped, medic! Saved! Oxygen, saved. Regrouping, he thinks, I have to escape. Under fire. Keep your head down. Grenade! They got me. Captured. Truth serum. Can’t... Can’t fight, delirium. Name, Rank and Serial... slurrr, taking punches. I’m here, kind of... delirium... I hear fellow prisoners, “Get out, I tell them to get out... Resist!” It’s futile - unconscious.
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