by Jan Miller
The floor number and exit signs provided the only light in the hallways of the second floor where the surgery was located. Directly over its double swinging doors, the bright "Surgery" sign illuminated that end of the darkened hallway. "Makes for a perfect shooting gallery" Radar thought. He laughed about "Boo Lou", the nickname given to the picture perfect deputy sheriff security officer who had fled the scene. Whenever the shit hit the fan, Lou hit the road…giving him the nickname of "Boo Lou". As for his own nickname, one of the nurses had likened him to the "Radar O'Reilly" character from the movie and TV show "M.A.S.H." because he always seemed to appear on cue when needed. Now he was needed but there wasn't a damned thing he could do. He was alone, unarmed, and waiting for a person who already had demonstrated that she had the will to do serious harm….maybe even kill.
About forty five minutes, two cups of coffee and three cigarettes into his watch; a shadowy figure seemed to peer towards him from the end of the hall. There was a stairwell there that a person could use to sneak unseen up to the Surgery floor. Radar didn't know what to do, so he leaned back in his chair at the waiting room entrance to the surgery and seemed to ignore the figure. It cautiously approached him and stepped under the bright "2" floor light sign. There, Radar could clearly make the figure out to be a middle aged woman wearing a rain parka. Radar took note of the parka since it was July and wasn't raining at all. He also noticed that he couldn't see her right arm as it wasn't in her parka sleeve.
When the figure was within twenty feet, Radar casually looked her way, took another puff off his smoke and announced "Sorry, we're closed. No more surgeries tonight". The woman suspiciously replied "Yeah? Then why you sittin' here?" Radar casually replied "Because I'm screwin' off and this is a good place to smoke. Nobody comes up here this time of night. Don't rat me out, OK?" The woman thought for a moment, and then replied "I won't if you tell me where Bill Biddlemeir is. He in there?" Radar took a sip of his coffee and asked "Was that the stabbing victim that came in around ten PM?" The woman nodded "Yeah, that's him. Where is he?" Radar sat up in his chair and told her "You missed all the excitement. The 'LifeFlight' helicopter was here. Landed right in the ER parking lot. They flew that guy to the University Hospital with the knife still him. It was before my shift, though.. Damn it…I miss all the cool shit." The woman paused, stunned by the answer. "University, you say?" Radar nodded "Yeah, it's about an hour from here. Must be why they flew him there. You know, I've never once seen that helicopter up close. Seen it on the TV but never up close. Just my luck it was here and I missed it. You a relative?" The woman turned partially back towards the stairwell. "Yeah, I know him. Well, good night to you. I won't tell anybody you're here." Radar smiled and replied "Hey, thanks a lot lady. I really appreciate it." She walked down the hall and disappeared into the darkness just as she had come. With the feint "click" of the stairway door, she was gone.
Radar crushed his cigarette in the ashtray on the end table next to his chair. He looked at his hand and it was still trembling. The Surgery double doors opened and out walked Warlock. She said "You lying sack of shit! Give me one of those." Radar lit her a smoke and then one more for himself. They sat together without saying a word, just smoking and taking in the moment. The phone rang and Warlock answered it. She said "Ok. Thanks" and hung up. Turning to Radar she said "Cops got her in the parking lot. She had a 12 gauge (shotgun) under her rain coat…and yeah, it was loaded. Go ahead and clock out…and thanks again."
******
That night ended with Radar's newly acquired habit of drinking half a bottle of Jack Daniels before letting his head hit his pillow. The days of bragging to his girlfriend of the good deeds he had done at work had ended long before…now he drank to forget them: the failed Code Blues, the countless bodies in the morgue…including one of his old school friends, the endless stream of maimed children injured through the ignorance of their low-life parents, the beaten wives who refused to press charges, and of course, the drunk drivers. As one young intern had told him: "The first thing they teach you in Med School is "Etiam malo quod ignorans."---"Misfortune Befalls the Ignorant".
******
Wild Bill slurred his words as he loudly mumbled about "…case of beer…get me a beer…what tree…I'm Wild Bill". Radar played along "Sure Wild Bill, we're all going for a cold one… but you can't drive this time. OK?" Wild Bill just recited the same drunken gibberish over and over: "…case of beer…get me a beer…what tree…I'm Wild Bill".
The young intern was obsessed with Wild Bill's distended stomach, not being able to determine the cause of the distension. Radar remarked "It's probably one big beer fart waiting to happen." Nurse Ann agreed and pushed on the Bill's stomach in an attempt to palpate the gas release. At that particular moment, the distinguished older ER physician from Radar's first day on the job just happened to be walking by the exam room. The young intern called to him "Pardon me doctor, could you take a look at this patient. I can't understand this distension of the stomach. He only has a little bump on the head."
The older doctor pulled his pen light from his pocket, shone it into Wild Bill's eyes, and then turned to walk out of the room. The intern followed after him, asking "What did you see?" The older doctor said over his shoulder "That's a dead man. His brains are scrambled. He'll be dead in a minute or two. Nothing you could have done." The intern looked back in disbelief at Radar and then at Wild Bill. He watched the old doctor walk away, and started muttering "There must be some mistake. It's just a little bump on the head."
With that, Wild Bill glanced up at Radar who was still holding Bill's head in his hands. Wide eyed, Wild Bill exclaimed "Well, I'll be damned!" and he died…just in that instant. Radar lied Bill's head down on the pillow, pulled the sheet over it, walked out of the exam room and through the electric ER double doors into the arrival dock's overhanging roof. He lit a smoke and leaned against the wall staring off into the distance, drained of any last sign of emotion. The doors opened again and out walked the young intern, tears streaming down his face. He leaned against the wall next to Radar, and then slipped down into a crouched position with his hands cupped over his tear-stained face as he sobbed uncontrollably.
They weren't that far apart in age: Radar at age twenty, and the intern at twenty-five. But the gap in real life experience that separated the two young men that evening was vast. At the top of the caste system stood the intern with his college and medical school degrees. At the bottom stood Radar with his high school degree; baptized by so much blood, sorrow, and human tragedy witnessed in a single year. The young intern looked up at Radar through his tears and pleaded "Why? It makes no sense. There is no reason. I…we were just talking to him. It makes no sense!" Without looking down, Radar took another puff of his smoke, exhaled, and replied "Tell me about it."
They were interrupted as a sheriff's cruiser pulled up to the Emergency entrance. The driver's side window rolled down and the deputy inside called out to them "Do you have a Bill Biddlemeir in there?" Radar and the intern looked at her with blank faces. Radar managed a subdued "Who?" From inside the cruiser, obstructed from view by the shadows, an angry female voice was heard yelling "Don't believe a word that god-damn liar says! He's a god-damn liar!" Radar put his hand up as a visor to block the light so he could get a better look at the angry woman in the cruiser. He knew that voice from the past. Then in realization of connecting the dots, he called back "Do you mean 'Wild Bill'?" The woman's voice retorted "You're damned right…that's who." The intern had managed to control his crying, no doubt aided by the curious exchange between Radar and the deputy's passenger. He was even more surprised when the female deputy put the cruiser in park, went around to the passenger's door, handcuffed the passenger and led her up to him and Radar…in her orange jail jump suit and flip-flops.
The prisoner paused to face Radar and angrily muttered "Yeah, it's you alright. Now you tell me the truth, is that no good drunken bastard in there?" Radar chuckled…surprising the intern…and then he said to the prisoner
"Yeah, he's in there… but you just missed him…again."
The intern asked "What the hell?" Radar looked down at him and replied "You might say we've met."
"BB Boy"
The grass was dripping with dew, and steam slowly wafted upwards from every leaf, branch, and petal creating a waist high cloud layer of fog. The late night tropical dampness soaked through every article of clothing where it blended with his sweat. His limbs ached as the adrenaline began to give way to the exhaustion, muscle cramps tugged at his legs from kneeling so long in such a constricted space.
The chatter---those damned monkey-like voices--their voices --continually filled the dark thick air, blended with the noise of the distant artillery to make dull, white noise that surrounded us in a tiny bubble of silence. He gasped for air, flexed his knees for circulation, shook off the cold dew, and waited for them.
******
They were Japanese or Germans back in the home-made cardboard shooting gallery he'd set up in the dank, bare concrete basement of his childhood. Then it was just them, him, and his rifle. Shy, sickly, and introverted as he was as a child, Father thought the new BB gun would be just thing to draw his only male child out of his imaginary world and deliver him into the sunlight. Sports hadn't worked, but they require more than one person. Father was rarely around due to his traveling sales job and due to his preference of spending time in taverns instead of with a boy who lived in a pretend world. When home, Father's patience was as short as his temper when it came to a pudgy, tow-headed son who just couldn't seem to do anything right.
Instead of delight, Father was again disappointed when the Boy invited him down to the musky dank basement to view his creation: an indoor shooting gallery. Father tried a couple of shots with the new BB gun, but then left to pour out his disgust to buddies at the bar of the local American Legion hall. One of his listening buddies suggested that they gather up their boys the next morning and drive into the country to an old abandoned gravel pit to teach them some real target shooting---with real rifles. Bolstered by several beers, Father and the other men agreed.
The next day, Father grabbed his 22 caliber rifle and a sack of empty beer cans and the boy, then they drove to the Legion parking lot and met up with the others. Father was pleased to see how thrilled the boy was to be in the company of others his age and how unexpectedly elated the boy was to go shooting. At age six, the 22 was too heavy for the Boy to fire from a standing position, so Father had him lay the rifle across the top of a discarded bridge handrail. The boy's first shot missed, but just as Father was about to write the day off as another failure, the man who suggested the outing leaned over the Boy. "You got your thumb in the way of your sights. Try holding it like this". In World War II, that man had been in the Army infantry, and unlike the Boy's Father, had fought using a rifle. With a few minutes of expert coaching, the Boy was taking down pyramids of beer cans one can at a time from top to bottom.
"By God, he's a natural" the Army veteran announced to the others. Father was both somewhat proud and somewhat confused by what had just transpired. He had taught the Boy to shoot, but this interloper suddenly worked a miracle. The day was such a success that the group agreed to make it a regular Sunday morning activity. Other men, some of whom had no boys of their own, soon joined the group.
When the Boy wasn't shooting real rifles with the men, he was in his basement with his BB gun or else watching TV, soaking up war movies, cowboys, World War II documentaries, and kiddie shows. The kiddie shows were designed to sell toys, and one commercial seemed to leap out of the tube and right into the heart of the Boy. Its sponsor was the manufacturer of his BB gun, and it announced a national shooting contest for boys age six to ten. The winner would receive a special edition, one-of-a-kind BB rifle and get to appear on TV commercials for the company. The Boy was mesmerized by the idea and had his mother help him to complete his application.
******
The only persons not surprised that the Boy won the competition were his coach, the Army veteran, and the Boy who knew in his heart he was meant to shoot. All through the whirlwind process of transforming the Boy into the "BB Boy", the television kiddies show trick shot artist, the Boy remained introverted and alone. He did exactly what he was told to do at the public appearances and on the TV commercial set, but then disappeared from the view of the public. It seemed that wherever he went, there was always some kid who would yell "Phony Freak", sending BB Boy into a fit of rage and tears. "I am real. I do what I do for real." He would cry, and then run off to sulk and swear he would never perform for them again. Until the next time his managers said so.
The public watched him grow in size and in skill every Saturday morning on TV, at state fairs, and large toy store openings. In his signature red cowboy hat and red leather cowboy vest, chaps, gauntlets and bright blonde crew cut hair; he had become one of the most recognizable celebrities in America. In spite of his fame, he was never paid more than a fraction of what an adult actor would make. The BB gun manufacturer held the rights to his image, and so when the BB Boy commercials ended just before his thirteenth birthday, his parents were relieved. The strain of the travel and the cost of replacing the costumes as he grew had left them with only a meager return over expenses. Perhaps BB Boy could become a "normal kid" and do the things normal kids do…they hoped.
That didn't happen. At school, BB Boy was taunted so much that his parents had to move to a different city where he went by a different name. Try as hard as he might, sooner or later he would hear that old familiar "Hey, I know you!" and the teasing and taunting would start over again. Girls his age would have nothing to do with him since he was viewed as an outcast and as a 'has-been' child commercial actor. The jocks ridiculed him because he had never learned any sports other than shooting, a skill he maintained privately through participation in a skeet club and also a private arrangement with the local police department shooting range manager.
******
By age seventeen, he had aggregated enough school credits to graduate at the end of his junior year. BB Boy wanted nothing more than to escape high school and his tormentors, so with his parents' permission he enlisted before his eighteenth birthday just as his Father had done. BB Boy however chose to join the Army where he thought his rifle skills would be appreciated. What BB Boy had not anticipated was how much physical strength, endurance, and coordination he lacked. The taunting and humiliation BB Boy had experienced in school were nothing remotely close to the badgering and bulling the Army could dish out. "If I could just shoot for them" he prayed under his breath as he staggered to catch up to the rest of his trainees during five mile runs.
His drill instructor was convinced that BB Boy was a total lost cause and wanted to have him discharged as being a hazard to his own health and that of the unit. Before the paperwork could be processed, the day finally came when the recruits cycled through to the target range. At first, the drill instructor held back on letting BB Boy fire for fear he might accidentally hit one of his own recruits or even the drill instructor. As all of the other favored recruits finished, he finally let the bottom of the barrel recruits fire their weapons.
Instructed to fire from the prone position, BB Boy struggled with the bulky M14 rifle. It appeared that he would not qualify and the drill instructor had seen enough. BB Boy then unexpectedly stood up with the M14 and fired another few rounds at the target, infuriating the DI. "Who gave you permission to stand and fire, numb nuts?" the DI shrieked into BB Boy's face, oblivious to the perfect bulls eyes BB had just scored.
A voice boomed from behind the firing line "Have him do that again, Sergeant". Spinning around, the DI saw two officers standing beside a jeep. He had no idea of why or how long they had been there, but he did as instructed. "Reload and fire at will, numb nuts!" the DI barked and BB Boy responded. His bullets obliterated the black bulls eye of the target, making a near perfect cut-out of the black circle. "Jee-zuzz K -rime-eny!" blurted out the DI. "Just where the hell did you learn to do that?"
The two officers smiled and one ordered "Sergeant-we would like a word with the private." The DI barked "You heard the man. Move it numb nuts." Reaching the two officers, BB Boy saluted and snapped to attention. The older officer, a major, spoke: "Nice shooting son. Or should I say "BB Boy". The Army has a job for you."
******
The DI was more than relieved to have his most undesirable recruit removed from the squad. Where ever he was headed, the DI figured BB Boy was someone else's problem and good riddance. No one was more surprised to learn BB Boy's true identity when another of the recruits on the firing line blurted our "Well, I'll be damned-it's the BB Boy! I remember him" and he and a few other recruits burst into the BB Boy theme song:
"…Cold blue steel in his hands,
He's the champion of the land,
It's a rifle-not a toy,
He's our hero, BB Boy"
The impromptu sing-along was not lost on the two officers as they drove off in their jeep. The major looked at the other office and grinned "I told you they'd remember him". Back at the base headquarters, the two officers sat at a table with a couple of well-dressed civilians. BB Boy thought to himself "TV show people". He was right.
The major laid out the situation for the lowly private. "Son, the Army has a public relations problem and these gentlemen think that you're the key to solving it." Looking over the table of participants he added: "And I concur". He then explained that problem in terms an eighteen year private could grasp.
