Heaven Is Too Far Away, Chapter Five. Louis Shalako.

Fuck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Five

 

Where are my pants?”

 

I drifted in and out of consciousness for some time, then came to.

A hazy figure stood beside me. I was flat on my back, looking up.

“What country is this?” I whispered. “Where are my pants?”

When I tried to move, a wave of pain and nausea swept over me and I passed out again. It was a couple of days before I fully comprehended the words people spoke.

I was like a newborn baby. When I shit myself, I didn’t even have the sense or wherewithal to feel ashamed. It was beyond my ken. I just shit. That’s all.

Finally one day, and I don’t remember being in a whole lot of pain, Major Mad Dog and the adjutant were standing beside my bed.

What was that lovely smell? Was that lilac? A moment of dread, then I shook off the possibility that it was the smell of lilies in a funeral arrangement. This is a bed, not a coffin. My heart pounds in my chest. It is unmistakable. Dead people don’t have a heartbeat.

I’m alive. But how is this possible? I tried to speak, and I must have made as if to sit up in bed, and that’s when I figured out who smelled like that. She gently put her hand on my chest.

Her soft, calm voice murmured reassurance.

“Be still.”

She said it once, but it was enough. How could I resist?

Do you believe in love at first sight? I couldn’t even see her. The glare of morning sunlight from behind turned her hair into a golden halo. It was like looking at an angel.

That’s pretty powerful stuff. I remember thinking that at the time. I was young, and I couldn’t say if I even really knew what love was.

But I was soon to find out.

Love is something that you hold on to. Even when you have nothing else left, not even your sense of humor.

So I just lay there as weak as a newborn kitten and listened more or less in rapt attention. The Major told me how proud everyone was and how the boys in the squadron were all anxiously awaiting my return to duty. Then he shook my hand and stepped back. He had a nice smile, for an officer. Some of those guys could be pretty miserable little Napoleons, but I remember he was alright. The adjutant had a couple of things to say.

“You got the balloon,” for example, then they left me with the nurse.

“What’s that smell?” I asked.

“That’s the smell of wounded men.”

“No, no, I know that.” I stuttered in confusion.

You have to remember, I had just woken up from a very deep sleep. A coma, in fact.

“What’s that fragrance you’re wearing?” I asked in a whisper.

She stood up, and that’s when I realized she had a chair by the bed.

“You know, we’ve all been worried that you might not survive. The doctor will be pleased with your progress.” She was demure, but of course they all were—

She busied herself down by my legs, which quite frankly hurt. At the onset of this conversation, I really felt like being very warm, and I don’t know, like all wrapped up in soft cotton batting. 

Like floating in air, all wrapped in fur.

But the pain really dug in and bit, now that I was actually awake.

“Holy Jesus.” I stated through tightly clenched teeth, grinding my jaws as she did something again.

“We have to make sure that this one and this one drain properly.” She announced.

“What…what…?” I asked.

“The doctor will explain all about your wounds.” She said. “But you seem to have regained consciousness, and that was a major hurdle.”

“What’s that fragrance you’re wearing?” I asked in a stronger voice.

I kept swallowing and swallowing. My mouth was so dry. Like glue in the throat.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow.” She stood there, looking down with the light behind her head.

“Promise?” I asked.

“I promise,” she said. “You go to sleep now.”

“That sounds like a good plan.” I sighed, and then I finally did get to see her smile.

This was important, as it’s kind of nice to know what the love of your life actually looks like.

 

***

 

I won’t bore readers with the long story of my recovery, which I suppose has been covered by lots of other writers, (or old soldiers,) but it is probably important to say that I suffered three crushed vertebra in my back, a really badly sprained knee, a broken finger, major concussion, (in two different places,) and two Spandau bullets through the upper legs.

One bullet in each leg.

Lots of bruising, some scrapes and minor burns, and one hell of a black eye. Last, and possibly least, my lips were pretty fat. I looked like the loser in a big-money prize-fight, not that I had a pretty face to begin with. Abrasions, contusions. Et cetera.

Out of the fight. I can understand how some might have been grateful.

I felt like a failure. A couple of short, sharp blows to the head will do that to you.

 

END

 

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

 

Images. Louis does all of that sort of thing.

Louis has books and stories available from Amazon.books and stories available from Amazon.

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Thank you for reading.

 

 

 

Core Values, Chapter Five. Louis Shalako.

 

Nothing like a ball of sweat wobbling on the end of your nose.

 

 

Chapter Five

 

A trip to the loonie bin

 

After a long hot day in the sun, roasting on a roof at 30+ degrees Celsius, Chuck hit the button, and the window of his medium-metallic blue minivan rolled down. The air conditioning wasn’t functioning, and he didn’t want to spend a hundred and eighty bucks for re-charging.

He could taste the flavor of a day’s work as he drove. From that first cup of tea at five-thirty a.m., to the Blim Blorton’s coffee, a large double-double on the ride to London. From there, to the coffee out of the urn at his brother and sister in-law’s place, and the pizza slices for lunch, and the doughnuts at nine a.m. and three-thirty p.m.

A half a dozen doobies, and thirty or so cigarettes. The taste of asphalt, the taste of insulation. The taste of blood, sweat and toil. The taste of grit, washed down with warm water from a plastic jug. The smell of sweat wasn’t overly discernable, but the feel of dried sweat, the damp and tacky feel of the shirt in the armpits and chest areas was a reminder. His nose was full of crust by the end of the day, and probably not working too well.

This time of year, there was often frost on the roof first thing in the morning. On bare plywood, it was very slippery. But you wore long johns, double socks, four or five shirts and sweaters. You warmed up pretty quick. Later, when the sun came out, if you were in a valley oriented to the sun, it got real hot in a big hurry. Sometimes you would peel off a few layers.

Sometimes he brought his shorts and changed in the truck. To be too hot was just plain irritating. Bru absolutely despised the tickle of a ball of sweat, hanging on the end of his nose, wobbling back and forth as he tried to do something.

Such was the lot of a roofer. Yet he liked it well enough. He sucked on a skinned knuckle. That one would heal just fine. When the edges sealed up and began to heal, you had to make sure to let the pus out once in a while. Basically just lift up the edge of the scab with the tip of a clean pocketknife and push out the pus.

Cruising out of London’s north end on his way home, he used the cell phone to make a call. He felt like a good son, although he hated talking on the phone in traffic. After thirty rings or so, as he held on and gritted his teeth, finally the old man answered. Bru glanced at the dash clock as he greeted his father.

“I’ll be home by about six or six-thirty.” Bru reporting in to the old man...

The elder Brubaker hemmed and hawed.

“That’s all right, and I’ll wait until you get here before I start cooking.”

Spaghetti night, Bru recalled.

Fuck, why not start now?

But he kept silent.

“There were a couple of cops around here asking about you.” His father told him in a stronger, more lucid voice as his post-nap grogginess dissipated.

“What?” Chuck grunted, unsure if he had heard correctly. “Did they have a warrant? A piece of paper?”

“They said someone was worried about you.” Mr. Brubaker told him clearly, although Chuck’s ears always had a hard time with cell phones.

The wind noise and the sounds of other vehicles interfered with comprehension, and added a level of stress.

“Aw, for fuck’s sakes.” Brubaker groaned. “Okay. I’ll call them and see what it’s about.”

His dad made noises.

“Anyhow, I’ll be home in any case. And don’t worry.” He spoke in as strong and confident a tone as he could muster.

Then he rang off, mind racing.

“Jesus, fucking, Christ. That fucking waste-of-skin doctor.”

He briefly considered staying in London. But he simply couldn’t do it. Think of how upset his dad would be. Think of how worried his mom and step-dad would be, or his kid sister Diane, (hard to believe she was hitting forty next month.) He was hit with some kind of inspiration. A man has rights, doesn’t he? Pulling over, he made another quick call.

Predictably, he got a secretary just leaving the office.

“Mr. Hendricks was in court today. He’ll be long gone by now.” The middle-aged female voice advised. “But I will try and contact him.”

His Ford minivan.

Chuck gave her his number and waited by the side of the road, thinking furiously.

What the hell could he do? They’d stick him in for three days for sure, maybe longer.

But he seemed to remember that it took a board hearing or something to keep you any longer than what, ninety days?

“Fucking hell.” He groaned, guts rumbling with hunger and other things.

Within seven or eight minutes his phone rang.

“Hello? Mr. Hendricks?”

After the briefest of courtesies, they got down to the point.

“I think they have one of those Ministry of Health forms for me.” Hendricks had been his attorney in a minor brush with the law on a previous occasion.

“Why do you think they’re after you?”

“Fuck, Bruce. I just went to the doctor and asked for some pills. I’ve been depressed for like a year and a half, but I went to the man for help. I don’t know what the hell his problem is.”

“You pretty much have to go with them. Anyway, if you have any other problems give us a call, and uh, maybe in the future, you should be a little more careful of what you tell your doctor.”

Then he rang off.

The decision was Chuck’s and Chuck’s alone.

“Aw, for Christ’s sakes.” He fired up the motor and put it in gear.

Chuck was getting tired of this shit, and that was putting it mildly. Dr. Blatherie, he was at the walk-in clinic. Brubaker would never go back to his old family doctor. Not after that last episode. But he had more important things on his mind right now. Poor Brubaker had a lot to think about, as he drove the hundred and thirty-two kilometres to his home town.

Raging and yelling at the dashboard, he fought against the urge to turn around and go back to London. He calmed himself down as he entered the Lennox surface streets from the superhighway.

He parked in the driveway, shuddering inwardly.

Sure enough, his old man met him at the door.

“Can I have a smoke?” Bru impatiently handed him the pack from his left shirt pocket. “Are you going to call the cops?”

“After my shower, I will.” Bru responded in a determined, yet morose fashion.

“I’ll start supper. As soon as I finish my smoke.”

Lift the scab and squeeze that old pus out.

Might as well, figured Brubaker. It would keep the old man busy. There was no telling if he would actually get to eat it or not. Still, the old man had to eat, being a diabetic and all. He chucked his grubby work clothes onto the laundry room floor and headed for the shower.

By the time he dried off and dressed, the aroma of tomato sauce and hot steam from the kitchen made the place so steamy, it felt like he was back up on the roof again. He reached for the phone, and dialed it. Suddenly his mother was at the door. At that exact moment, the dispatcher came on the line. Cheryl was taking off her coat, putting her shoes by the door, and waiting for her hug. She was suddenly bug-eyed by the one-sided conversation.

“It’s Chuck Brubaker. You sent a couple of officers around to my house today…yes, I’ll wait…”

“Chuck.” She gaped. “Oh, honey, are you in trouble. Have you done something?”

“Argh.”

He waved her away with impatience.

He wasn’t having a good day anymore.

“Where are you calling from, sir?” The dispatcher, all so very polite.

“I’m at home.”

“The officers will attend to your residence shortly.”

“I know.” Brubaker said it, in a kind of quiet, Canadian desperation. “I know.”

 

 

 

END

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

 

Images. Louis.

Louis has books and stories blah-blah-blah. Whatever.

 

Thank you for reading.