The Rhythm of the Stone

by James H Bird

  Michael looked down, he had something in his hand, a rolled up map, a rifle, he could not make it out because it changed from one to another. He wanted to give it to the man who looked like Genghis Khan. Michael seemed to be struggling against a force, a strong wind or someone pulling against his shirt. The sand began to sink under his booted feet. Then suddenly a cloud eclipsed the sun, the air chilled and the breeze ceased. All the tens of thousands of singing men stopped and stood straight up and in unison turned, facing Michael. Their faces blank. A small flock of back birds flew against the darkened sky. The General slapped himself to attention, right-faced sharply on his heels toward Michael, starring straight through him, as if he were not there. Michael struggled with the object in his hands.

  Michael awoke with a start, confused, disoriented from the foggy images; sweat perspired around his neck and chest. He showered, dressed, and on the way out, for the hundredth time in a month, saluted himself in the hallway mirror. He picked up Little T at his house. The boys drove to the Recruitment office in Denver, signed all the papers and took the pledge. They would ship out in a few months to Paris Island, South Carolina. Days ticked by, the familiar became cherished and above contempt.

  Firebird

  Two days before they were to go, Michael and Little T spent a lazy afternoon bouncing among friends. They drank a beer at the garage and shot pool in Boulder. The boys had dates for the hockey game, then a party at a friend’s in the old Baker neighborhood in Denver. Michael was nonchalant as the departure date approached but Little T's energetic persona was hitting a high C note. He was a vibrating fiddle string whipped on by a relentless bow. Around five they decided to make their way to Denver.

  They started around the long sweeping on-ramp from Table Mesa Drive to the Turnpike, making Michael and Little T lean to the left. Little T grabbed the handle above him. Michael accelerating through the turn gaining speed, the car’s suspension was tight wanting to drift making it hard to turn right. “We gotta work on this power steering,” Michael said. Finally straightening out, Michael gave the motor all the gas.

  “Let’s go man! Woo Hoo!” Anthony was growing excited his grinning eyes wild, his black hair flipping in the breeze. His elbow on the window frame, his hand clutching the roof just outside the door.

  Michael gunned the motor of the Firebird and felt the car lift as it accelerated. He moved up through the gears. Michael reached and flipped on the radar detector. Past the city limit sign around the sweeping curve and onto the straight road. Passing cars easily, plenty of room to maneuver. As they made their way toward Denver they blasted by more light traffic. A left side pass then a right side pass. Michael gripped the wheel with both hands, his jaw clinched, “I’ll pass a few more cars then slow”, he said softly.

  “Hey man! Maybe we can make Denver in under thirty! A record!” Little T shouting over the wind.

  His speedometer busted, Michael estimated from the tachometer the Firebird was running 75 or 80 miles an hour and burning high octane fuel at five miles per gallon. Climbing Davidson Mesa, shooting passed slower cars and trucks struggling with the steep hill. Swooping down the other side and over the Coal Creek Bridge.

  “We’re gonna be Marines!” Little T shouted to no one. “Jar Heads Baby! Blow things up. Save the goddamn world from these asnos!” He slapped the side of the thirsty Firebird.

  They were coming up on a truck in the left lane and a small knot of cars. A train was making its slow progress toward Denver, brightly lit by the westward sun. More traffic bunched up further ahead. The Firebird was gaining on them, Michael mapped out in his mind how he will navigate through the traffic settings his marks. Michael’s began to experience the electric bursts of anxiety in his stomach. The power transferred through the wheel to his hands and his right foot gave him more. A mixture of thrill, excitement and fear rolled through him. He was going to be a Marine! Michael Darnay the liberator and protector of freedom. His heart began to race.

  “Come on Froggy! Let’s go!” Little T’s head back, laughing, slapping the side of the streaking car.

  “OK Beans”, Michael said, inspired, “Let’s go!” He lifted off the gas, mashed the clutch and slipped the shifter into third, the power gear, popped the clutch and stomped the gas pedal. The car dug in hard. The tachometer jiggling near redline the powerful motor growling. Michael aimed the car onto the shoulder to pass, jammed it into forth and stomped the gas again. The car exploded past the traffic, vibrating, floating over the rough pavement. The brown fields and silver-green sagebrush whipped by in a dithering gush. Michael had no idea how fast they were going 95? 100? Ahead was an opening where he could slide back onto the turnpike with plenty of open road beyond the clutch of vehicles. Michael began to ease the Firebird onto the highway; a slight lip made the car wiggle as the left side tires moved onto the road. As the right side tires popped over the lip, the car wiggled again. The Firebird hopped, and shuddered. Michael felt something pop through steering wheel. He turned against the sudden jerk with all his strength.

  The Thing I Fear the Most

  I sensed it first, heard a dull thump and the bus jumped and quaked; the effects delivered sure as judgment, quick as a snap of a guitar string. I startled awake with a gasp and spontaneous jerk. Harsh scraping and crunching with squeals of tortured metal and the muffled explosions of glass. The rapid deceleration tossed me forward into the seat back, then bounced hard against my own seat and eventually heaped me to the floor. On the way down, I hit my head just behind my left ear on the sill. Squeezed my eyes in pain and saw bright specks like a swarm of lightening bugs against a black sky.

  Violent shaking accompanied by a grating screech of tires against reluctant pavement, the great motor, for moment accelerated to high RPM screaming like a jet and at once died. Screams and cries filtered through, creating a crescendo of terror. In an instant we had stopped. A dampened jolting pop and thud behind the bus. More sickening thumps and thuds further away, the sounds of metal slapping meat. A second of breathless silence followed by more cries and rapid excited talk. I felt the bus move slightly and began settling as if it where sinking to the bottom of a muddy chasm. A sound of a slow crunch like crushing a can in my hand.

  I lay still, taking inventory, forcing in a breath, waiting for the pain. Opening my eyes, I saw the blurry roof; my reading glasses had somehow remained balanced on my face. I dragged myself onto the bench removed my glasses. I could see now. I tended to my pack, shouldered it and stood slowly, determining my state of intactness. The bus at a peculiar angle, as if it were going up a curve, made for awkward walking. An emergency exit window hung a jar, swung outward. Debris strewn about, papers, books, coffee mugs, and a bicycle helmet. The air smelt of burnt motor oil and diesel. Thin rancid smoke of burnt rubber swirled, caught by the sun's low rays. Cars around the bus stopped in various degrees of disarray many completely off the road and trapped next to the barrier, occupants unable to get out. People jogging through the tangled mess. I was unable to see behind the bus, smoke veiled the view out the front windshield.

  The redheaded guitar player two rows ahead of me had jammed hard under the seat. His ankle broken. I helped him as he cursed mightily I pulled him out to the aisle. His foot pointing outward at a sick angle. I got him back to the seat and sat his guitar case next to him.

  He sat, coughed, “What the hell! Jesus, what the hell!” He had a small cut on his right cheek from the frame of his broken glasses.

  “I don’t know yet man. We got hit,” I looked into his angry eyes. “Your leg is broken. Don’t move. I'll be back, I got to check on somebody,” I said. I rubbed the back of my head where I smacked the seat.

  I moved forward. Other riders leaning on their hands squinting out the windows. Heads swaying to see the damage. I did not see Bonnie. The lower half of a middle aged man hanging from the emergency exit window, his legs scissoring trying to wiggle out. A woman outside reaching her arms toward him. I coughed the vile taste of rubber and oil and continued. I overhea
rd excited talk and car doors slam. Someone pounding on the side of the bus. A horn blared near. I got to Bonnie, about halfway toward the door of the bus. She lay across the seat holding her wrist her hair draped to the floor her legs drawn to her chest. She was looking down, her hair covering face. Her arm cocked at an angle where no joint exists. People kept bumping into me in their hurry to get to the door.

  I knelt. “Damn, You alright Bonnie? Hang on girl. Someone will be here soon.” Instinctively, I put my arm around her shoulder. She was shaking. The skin on the arm was not broken. I leaned in to see if she suffered from anything else. She began to stir the color was gone from her face. “Oh it hurts,” she whispered.

  I looked at the floor. This is tough, I thought and sighed. It reminded me of the time I saw a teammate break his leg on the football field. The illness in the stomach. The team crowded around him, his screams made us turn our heads and cover our mouths. The stands quiet. They heard his screams too. I did not want Bonnie to scream like that.

  I imagined her anguish over what she must have seen. From her vantage, she had a clear view out the front window. Bonnie must have witnessed the incident helpless and afraid. I looked forward. People were in a panic trying to get out. The aisle was like a debarking airplane late for connecting flights. Heads bobbing outside the front of the bus. The driver appeared motionless, a commotion of passengers around her. A female voice barked out orders to “make room and give us some air!” I turned to see the other side. The light better here, away from the sun’s glare. Wrecked cars strewn about like a crowded parking lot with one exit. I sat Bonnie’s helmet on the seat.

  “Can you sit up Bonnie? Do you hurt anywhere else?”

  “No, umm…” She was breathing hard. “God it was horrible” That poor …” She started to cry but held it back. “My arm hurts”. Her eyes squinting hard. “I don’t ... know… umm”. She coughed and leaned back holding her arm against her waist. I studied her face, the gentle curve of her jaw line. The high cheek bones and button nose. She glanced down at her arm, and I saw the neat part of her hair, just off center right that covered that side of her face. She usually had it tied back but not today. I looked at Bonnie the injured woman not the silly mysterious girl in marketing. She looked into my eyes searching, personal. A desperate intimacy pleading in a way, vulnerable. Sad. She pursed her lips and shivered.

  “Sorry. I have no coat. I'll get help soon,” I said trying to read her. It was coming, I knew, I had been here before that little pang in the gut. I have always been a sucker for damsel in distress and usually come away with an emotional attachment. I didn’t want this, not now, not this way. I clenched my jaw. “You’ll be alright. There's a guy there with a busted leg”. I motioned with my chin like Native American’s do. Bonnie nodded her head.

  Other people queuing in front forming a tight pack. Somebody bumped my foot. I looked at Bonnie and bit my lower lip. I rubbed the back of her neck, warm and moist. She sat up. Her hair draped over my arm. The color had drained from her face, she took a deep breath and winced.

  “I'll be alright,” she said, hushed and resigned. Women are tough, I thought. They have high pain tolerance for childbirth. She began speaking in quick spurts, “I saw the wreck … what happened … it was so quick! … We hit that car really hard, she turned toward the window. “It just disappeared. We hit the…” Her voice trailing off her head shaking. I sensed she didn’t want to describe what she saw, the horror of it. She glanced toward the front again closing her eyes tightly and leaned against me. I put my arm around her. I was nervous, first date nervous. Bonnie was calm now and we sat silently for a few minutes. I did not want to say anything before she did. I wanted Bonnie to deflate to know that she would be safe that everything would be better soon. I wanted her to see what I saw. The two of us eating lunch in a café in Boulder or a few drinks at the Irish pub. Anything, but the awfulness outside, the broken people and pain. The dreadful memories she will carry the rest of her life. I wanted this moment right now to be a good memory. One she will want to keep not forced by events out her control. I wanted her to sense safety in my arms. I felt her head move against my chest, her body expanding when she breathed.

  She reached to unclasp her fanny pack.

  “Here, let me do that. You stay still.” I unbuckled it while she held on to my shirt, tugging it. She cleared her throat. I saw her face peering at me and she put her arm on my shoulder so that I could reach the pack. I pulled it around and put it on my lap. She reached down and unzipped it.

  “I can help. What’d you need?”

  “That’s OK, I get it,” her voice was calmer.

  Her hand digging in the pack, I rubbed her back. She was still probing, I detected things moving, her fingers exploring her fanny pack on my lap.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to do that?” I said and rolled my hips. I rested my chin on my hand and surveyed out the window to take my mind off the sensation in my groin. It didn’t work. I tried to think of her entry in the employee contact sheet. I tried to think of the few projects we worked. I lost my concentration by her hand moving in the pack on my lap.

  “Bonnie, I…”

  “I need my phone … call my sister,” she said in a voice soft as a lover’s.

  I laid my hand on hers to help find the phone. I was sure she didn’t know what she was doing to me. If she kept at it much longer she would. I grinned at the irony. I avoided looking at her twisted arm. It was not a terrible break but bad enough to snap me back. Bonnie found her phone in time and sat.

  “Alright. I'll make sure somebody comes soon. Hold your arm still in your lap. It’ll be good. They’re coming soon. I can hear them,” I said.

  “Thanks, I have a jacket on my bike” She was calmer now and trying to smile. She shivered.

  “I’ll get it for you. I’ll be right back.”

  Bonnie gave me an expression of which I had never seen from her. It froze me for a second. She was no longer the cute mysterious woman in marketing. She was Bonnie with a broken arm, I cared for her. I desperately wanted to help her. I wanted to get to know her, to carry her off this bus in my arms and away from this mess. To heal her arm with a magic wand and take her to dinner. I smiled at her, “Let me get out of here. It’ll be a bit of a struggle. Something’s going on toward the front.”

  I patted her shoulder, slid to the aisle and moved forward. My throat tight, my mouth dry. The aisle blocked. Nobody exiting. I was struck by a tinge of anxiety. I crooked my head to check on Bonnie, her brows crossed in concerned. I smiled and nodded my head. I forced my way towards the front stepping over the seats. I made it to the second row. Out the front of the bus the smoke and fading light made little sense of the carnage. Vague human forms scampering in confusion. Patches of colors fading in and out. I noticed the driver slumped over the wheel. They, as far as I knew, do not wear a shoulder harness, I never checked.

  The driver was a tall elegant black woman, with sharp carved lines and relaxed hair. She had serious eyes and always displayed a slight mischievous cocky smirk. She was one of the better EXPRESS drivers, never running over curbs, graceful and gentle applying the brakes. Below me the two Mexican women were crumpled on the floor in front of their seats. Their small bodies intertwined. The wine-cheeked woman who sat next to the thin man was trying to comfort them. I looked toward the driver. She had smacked hard and was lying across the wheel, bleeding slightly from her mouth and nose. I thought best not to move her.

  The thin man staggering toward me, babbling words I did not understand at first. He held tightly on the seat back, swaying circularly a scarlet-red welt forming on his forehead. There was a small drop of blood working its way from his left ear. Someone was down on the steps trying to kick the door open.

  The thin man continued to say things like “Marty! We got to get corn, don't forget the corn! Marty!” And so on. His thick eyebrows arched in the middle, his deep-set eyes piercing hard down the long thin bridge of his nose. He looked straight through me. A
stuck car horn stabbed my ears. The sounds of sirens wailing the distance. I wanted this frantic madness to go away. I wanted to go back to Bonnie. She should be out for a bike ride. I should be in the pub drinking whiskey and stout and talking football. I don’t want to pull mangled bodies out of burning cars or dealing with an underfed semi-conscience Ukrainian refugee.

  Marty, apparently the thin man's woman was still on the floor with the Mexicans. One was moving gently, crossing herself, and speaking in rapid Spanish through a broken and bloody mouth to the other, who did not respond nor move. The driver leaned back in her seat. The door successfully opened several people began moving forward. I placed my fingers on Marty’s back.

  “You might want to sit him down,” I said pointing toward the thin man, “I believe he has a concussion.” Her eyes widened as she turned to evaluate her companion. She sprang to her feet.

  “Eric!” she held him by his left elbow. “Eric, you must sit down you're hurt. Please Eric, please sit down!” Eric, not showing promising signs of total comprehension, crumpled heavily onto a seat his hand still clutching the back of a seat, his eyes fixed on a point only he saw. “I’m a nurse,” she said, glancing quick and hard at me.

  “I'll see about some water, or err, blankets and …” I fumbled for words. Then regaining my composure, “There's a guy with a busted foot or something back there”. I thumbed toward the rear. The redheaded man was sitting upright in the aisle talking on a cell phone. He scowled and gave a thumbs-up. Marty glanced around me. “And that girl has a messed up arm,” pointing toward Bonnie, who sat quietly, staring out the window with a blank far-away stare her phone to her ear. “I don't know about anyone else.” I turned and surveyed the commuters. Quasimodo was now lumbering between the seats, grimacing, grabbing a seat back with each step. He was limping.