Happy Birthday to … Who?
It was his birthday, but as he walked up his driveway, Adam Gibson was frowning. Carrying the Sim-Pal doll under his arm, he still didn’t know how to tell his daughter, Clara, that their dog, Oliver, had died. He kicked the asphalt. “Dammit, Oliver! Why’d you have to die?”
As if in answer he heard a loud barking. Adam walked to the fence and looked over into the backyard. Oliver barked at him and ran toward the fence.
Adam backed away, puzzled, repulsed—and angry.
“Natalie…!” Fists clenched in anger, he walked toward the front door. As he started up the steps he heard a chorus of happy voices from inside. “Happy birthday to you…”
Adam stepped off the porch and peered in the front window. Natalie, Clara, and all of Adam’s friends and neighbors were standing in the living room around a birthday cake. But one figure, wearing an aloha party shirt, was bending over to blow out candles. Adam couldn’t take his eyes off the man in the aloha shirt.
The man was—himself.
One
The sky was dark as velvet, pierced by stars.
Stars no one, on this planet anyway, was watching.
All eyes were on the grass, which was that bright, electric, astro-green seen only in football stadiums, on network television, with the contrast set on HIGH.
Stadium green.
Sunday grass.
The crowd surrounding the football field was agitated, excited, but murmuring rather than screaming. Taking a deep breath, as it were, between plays.
While the two opposing teams huddled on the field, a sparkling Chrysler 300 sedan, two and a half times normal size, slowly spun in the air over the fifty-yard line—a holographic display, visible not only on TV, but from every one of the twenty-two thousand seats in the stadium as well.
Football was big time; advertising was big business.
The announcer’s voice reached twelve million (12.1765 million, to be precise) sets of ears via TV consoles, headsets, car radios, and stadium speakers.
“Big third down for the expansion Road Runners! Their playoff hopes could hinge on this play. A lot of pressure for quarterback Johnny Phoenix!”
The subject of the eulogy (or was it a premature elegy?) confirmed the play, nodded to his receivers, and dismissed the huddle.
“As if being the first player to break three hundred million isn’t enough pressure!” another announcer added as the teams faced off on the line of scrimmage.
The burly center leaned over the ball.
The quarterback, Johnny Phoenix, cupped his hands and spat on his fingers; looked left, looked right. His linemen were poised like hammers, ready to strike. His receivers were coiled like steel springs, ready to dart into action.
With a flick of his eyes, Johnny Phoenix checked the head-up display inside his helmet: “6-4 flex. Danger: Possible blitz.”
What else is new? he thought wryly.
The crowd fell almost silent as the quarterback called the numbers in a tense monotone:
“Red 26, red 26 hut! Hut! Hut!”
Smack!
The ball was in his hands … and Johnny Phoenix’s hands knew just what to do.
His feet knew just what to do.
He danced back from the line of scrimmage as the two teams collided—tons of groaning, grunting, grinding flesh, canvas and plastic.
Wham! Crack! Ungh!
There’s the receiver, right where he oughta be!
All of Johnny Phoenix’s dreams, skills and ambitions—all his years of training and practice and work—narrowed to a blinding point of light as he pulled back for the throw that was going to win the game …
Whamp!
Then everything went dark as he was blindsided by a 271 pound tackle who had sashayed and twisted his way between two defenders.
Sacked! was his last
grim thought as he fell.
And fell and fell …
Down into a darkness that was silent and still.
Too silent. Too still.
Why doesn’t it hurt? Johnny wondered as the darkness lapped over his mind, like waves erasing a sand castle.
There was not enough pain. Not nearly enough pain.
* * *
The gurney was pushed down the corridor on whispering wheels. The man on it lay perfectly, eerily still.
An electronic display on one side of the gurney showed heartbeat, respiration, all the vital signs.
All of them were within range, but barely.
The respirator over Johnny Phoenix’s mouth and nose expanded and contracted as he breathed.
In. Out. In. Out.
The yin and yang of life itself, thought the team doctor pushing the gurney. He watched the young man’s face, then the monitor. He was breathing, but that was about all. He wouldn’t even be breathing without the respirator.
The man walking on the other side of the gurney looked worried. Marshall was with the team’s front office. What he had to tell the doctor, the doctor already knew.
“The owner wants Johnny to get the best of care.”
“He’s going to need it,” the doctor said. “His sixth cervical vertebra is crushed.”
The doctor touched a button and the electronic monitor on the gurney printed out a damage scan.
He handed it to Marshall, who took it without a word.
“With proper care and animatronics,” said the doctor, “he’ll eventually walk again.”
Marshall wadded up the scan and stuck it deep into the inside pocket of his $2200 Milano suit. “We’ll be getting a second opinion,” he said. “Perhaps it’s not as bad as you think.”
The doctor shrugged, and turned the gurney over to two ambulance attendants at the end of the corridor. Quickly, in one practiced move, they collapsed the legs and shoved the assembly—electronic monitors and all—into the rear of a waiting ambulance.
Marshall jumped into the back with the injured player.
The
team doctor started to join him.
Marshall slammed the door in his face.
* * *
Sirens blaring, the ambulance raced through the night.
Inside, Johnny Phoenix lay breathing in and out. The respirator hissed:
Yin. Yang.
Yin. Yang.
Marshall sat at Johnny’s head, speaking into a cell phone. He didn’t bother to lower his voice. Johnny Phoenix was out cold. But even if he were wide awake, and listening, and understanding—what did it matter?
“The status?” Marshall spat into the phone. “We have a lifetime contract with a guy with a broken back!”
Marshall leaned over and flicked Johnny’s ear. No response.
“Maybe we could trade him to LA…” Marshall joked into the phone. “Sure, I’ll get right on it.”
He clicked the phone shut and put it away in the pocket of his suit.
Then he reached for the electronic monitor on the gurney and found the button marked RESPIRATOR.
“Sorry, Johnny,” he said in a soft, matter-of-fact voice. “You gotta take one for the team.”
He hit the button and turned off the respirator. The hissing stopped.
The yin, the yang … no more.
Marshall looked toward the front of the ambulance. The two attendants were watching the road. They couldn’t hear what was going on in the back anyway.
Marshall watched as the heart display on the monitor fluctuated wildly, peaked … beep beep beep … and flat-lined.
Then he looked away, already thinking about something else.
Two
Adam Gibson wiped the fog off the bathroom mirror.
He studied his face. He looked ordinary, he thought—though some might have said handsome. In need of a shave.
Intelligent. Resourceful.
Determined—though some might have said stubborn. He looked like what he was: a man at peace with himself and his life.
But not this morning. Anxiety and vanity overtake even the most sensible, the most resourceful, the most contented men at least once a year, and Adam was worriedly looking for signs of the great destroyer, age.
“Do I look different to you?” he called out.
No one answered.
He poked his head around the door and looked into the bedroom. His wife was just stirring on the big double bed.
As usual, Adam felt overwhelmed by Natalie’s beauty. His aesthetic senses were amplified by the fact that her quilt had fallen off her sleeping form, and her curves—even at forty—were lush and full.
“Huh?” Natalie yawned sleepily, covering herself with the quilt. She studied her husband. “You shaved your mustache?”
Adam shook his head ruefully. “I never had a mustache.”
“Then, no.”
Adam gave up. He pushed the defogger below the bathroom mirror, and the whoosh of air quickly cleared the glass.
He resumed the study of himself in the mirror. “I don’t feel any different.”
In the other room, Natalie sat up in the bed. “Is Clara up?”
“She’s watching TV with Oliver,” said Adam.
Natalie let the quilt fall from her shoulders. “Are you going to spend the day looking for new wrinkles? Or are you going to come on in and give me a kiss?”
“Oh, well,” said Adam, heading into the bedroom. “I suppose I have to.”
Whack! He was hit on the side of the head with a pillow.
Before she could launch another pillow, Natalie was toppled over onto the bed by Adam. He held her down with both hands while he nailed her with a kiss.
“You don’t look any different,” he said. “You look exactly … no, you look better than the day I met you.”
Natalie dropped the second pillow and looked at her husband with slightly misty, laughing eyes. “If you’re trying to get your present early—it worked.”
She reached behind her and pulled a wrapped package from the drawer of the bedside table.
“Happy birthday, honey.”
Adam sat up and smiled, surprised, then delighted. He unwrapped the package quickly, greedily—more like a kid than a middle-aged man.
His face lit up with delight when he saw what it was: A cigar butt and a Zippo lighter.
He smelled the cigar tenderly, reverently, passing it slowly under his rather large nose.
“You like it?” Natalie asked.
Adam was speechless. Like it? He smelled it again. “How’d you get it?”
“I found it a couple of months ago when I cleaned out the attic. Must be ancient. Might be a little stale.”
Adam put the cigar in his mouth and rolled it from side to side raffishly.
“We could get arrested for this,” he said.
“I know,” said Natalie.
She snatched the cigar from his mouth, put it back into the box, and replaced the box in the drawer. “You can smoke it tonight. In the garage. After Clara goes to bed.”
Adam grabbed Natalie and pulled her to him. “You know how cigars make me feel…”
She lay down and surrendered to his kiss.
Adam’s hands were just beginning to explore the familiar and yet always interesting curves of Natalie’s body, when she sat up suddenly.
“What about Clara?”
To silence her, Adam pushed her back down on the bed.
Natalie pushed him away playfully. “Lock the door.”
Adam tiptoed across the bedroom. He was just about to shut and lock the door when it burst open, nailing him painfully in the groin.
“Happy birthday!” yelled Clara, his eight-year-old daughter, as she ran into the room.
Adam was doubled over with pain, which made it easier for Clara to throw herself up onto his back.
“Honey, get down,” said Natalie. “You’re too old for that.”
Clara pouted. “I am not!”
“I meant your father,” said Natalie.
“Very funny,” said Adam as he set Clara down. “Honey, isn’t your show on?”
But it was already too late. Behind him he saw Natalie, putting on her robe.
“That show’s for little kids, dad,” said Clara, taking the tone of a precocious child who is amazed at the obtuseness of grown-ups. She tugged at her father’s hand. ...
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