c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(8-26)
After the end of his professional career, and upon the advent of disability, T. C. Lincoln developed a routine that was literally set in stone. One governed by the ticking clock, and his own mature biology. He would rise early in the morning, surrender to the impulses of his weakening bladder, and work at his desk after breakfast, with a chair nap at some point. Then once his creative urges had been satisfied, a thirst for beverage alcohol would take over. On his front porch, regardless of the season, he found the sort of refuge that allowed him to survive being socially isolated in terms of interacting with other members of the neighborhood. He did not seek to be popular or well-liked by anyone. Instead, quiet moments alone were his medicine. In those hours of solitude, he felt content with still being alive.
On a Monday afternoon, he had begun this ritual of embracing debauchery and distance. With a predictable amount of brain fog arriving quickly. But as he swallowed repeatedly from his bottle of Kentucky bourbon, something tightened in his chest. His breathing became labored and shallow. He swooned a bit on the wooden bench which was his vantage point to observe those passing by the narrow strip of rented acreage. His lot was weedy and overgrown. Yet few members of the park staff were courageous enough to approach him about being more vigilant in its upkeep. It was enough that he always paid his lot fees on time.
The shaggy hermit never bothered anyone. In a sense, he was invisible and forgotten.
As the restriction in his torso grew with intensity, the weary hermit found himself struggling to maintain balance. He grasped outriggers on both sides of the crude furnishing, for support. Vertigo made him rock from side to side. He nearly inhaled larger portions of southern whiskey, hoping that it might ease his discomfort and steady his balance. But an opposite effect resulted.
His eyes bulged from their sockets. His chest heaved mightily, to inhale breaths of air.
“GAWDAMNNNNN, WHAT THE FRIG IS WRONG WITH MEEEEE?”
Lincoln hit the floorboards in front of his entrance door with a hard thud of finality. His face had turned pale. He could not see clearly, or speak intelligibly. The container of brown juice skipped off his porch, and toppled in the yard, below. With a complete loss of bodily control, he soaked his trousers. The glow of daylight turned darker, until at last, his consciousness ebbed into a dream-state of confusing images.
Somehow, he managed to click the emergency icon on his cellular device. The reaction was one of surprise and shock, followed by an immediate rush into action. The local EMT squad arrived in a matter of minutes. They stripped his camouflage hoodie and T-shirt away, and positioned an AED device to restore his cardiac rhythm.
The fireman who lived next door stood over him, and provided supervision for this team effort of offering a miraculous rescue.
“LINK! DO YOU HEAR ME, OLD MAN? YOU’RE GOING TO BE OKAY, JUST STAY WITH US! CAN YOU UNDERSTAND ME? NOD YOUR HEAD OR WIGGLE YOUR FINGERS. JUST GIVE ME A SIGN!”
The contrarian boozer had drool dripping from his beard. He saw a cloudy landscape more appropriate for the realm of eternity than a county near Lake Erie. His grandparents, mother and father, and a sister who were all deceased stood at his bedside. He could not discern what part of this vision was real, and what existed as a projection of his sudden illness.
With a great amount of effort, he groaned audibly.
“I feel like shitttttt...”
The alcoholic loner weighed over 300 pounds. His limbs were always stiff and sore, but now had gone flaccid. Still, with the expert training of their department, the crew lifted him onto a gurney and then rolled him down the access ramp to their vehicle. Assessment and care continued as a siren howled for attention. All along the street, there were gawkers staring from open windows and secluded awnings or redwood decks.
Maylene Jefka, a widowed matron who was the most senior resident of their rural community, watched from her trailer. She cried softly and whispered a prayer while clutching the folds of her floral robe.
“Don’t let him die, Lord. Not now, not when he’s still got work to do in your name!”
The motorized force of spinning tires scattered gravel all along the paved road out of Evergreen Estates. Flashing lights heralded their speedy exit from the secluded development. Traffic went right and left, to avoid hindering this lifesaving jaunt up the hill. Animals cowered in the shadows, under shrubs and in between storage barns.
Lincoln felt the touch of a hand on his cheek. His sister had ben dead for almost a year. But her voice sounded strong and insistent.
“Townie, this isn’t your time, brother, Not right now, not so soon. Do you hear me?”
In his half-conscious delusion, the encounter seemed oddly genuine. It might have frightened him under normal circumstances. Yet as he lay on the EMT bedding, it offered a measure of comfort to be with someone he missed so much.
“Rhubie, you weren’t ready to pass, either. So, who’s to say whether this is my time, or not? You don’t know it, and I don’t know, either...”
The ghostly apparition smiled with familial affection.
“I do know, Townie! When you’re on this side of the veil, there are a lot of things to learn. More than I can tell you right now. Because this isn’t the end, my brother. This is something else, a second start. A second chance. What you might call another roll of the dice.”
The cranky misanthrope shook his head.
“That bastard on the corner would say that I’ve got this coming. He calls it ‘the wages of sin’ or something of the kind. For living like a crazy-ass hillbilly! I never took him seriously, he’s a dope and a dumbass. But maybe there was something to his damn opinions after all...”
The middle-aged woman hovered over her sibling, and stroked his long, tangled, mass of gray hair.
“No, I disagree. When it comes to sin, the other side of that coin is forgiveness. You can do better. I know it’s inside of you. Maybe not in the same way that other people show their faith, but you’ve got your own path to tread. Do you get it? You’re going to survive this episode, and get better. You’re going to go back home again! You’re going to be okay!”
Lincoln had been wandering in the afterworld, as medical technicians fought to save him from a total loss of cardiac function. And as their work bore fruit, he awakened on the gurney, and opened his eyes. All of the other personalities from his past had disappeared.
“I DON’T FRIGGING BELIEVE IT! I’M STILL HERE! BY GOD’S GRACE OR A STROKE OF LUCK OR WHATEVER YOU WANNA CALL IT, MY BUSTED HEART IS PUMPING AGAIN!”
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