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Snakes and Ladders
by Feech
Jordan Milner puts down his agenda notebook
and looks around at the _Blue Window_ production
assembly.
"Okay, any other old business? New
business?..."
He does not pause but we are right with him
on what has become the meeting chant: "Hopes,
Dreams, Aspirations?"
Slight pause. Then:
"I have a dream," Gabriel says. "In it, I'm
naked in the department store and..."
His voice fades as he realizes we are all
staring at him, open-mouthed.
"What?" he asks, his dark grey eyes
regarding us sharply from a large wildebeest's
head. "What? It's just a stupid old joke. What
am I supposed to do, work up a comedy routine?
What's up with all of you?"
We remain speechless for another moment.
Even Professor Milner is struck dumb. Finally
Kent Dryer, sitting next to Gabriel and as floored
as the rest of us, ruffles the blue-grey
humanoid's mane and gives him a quick kiss on the
cheek.
"Whaaat?" Gabriel demands. "What the Hell
are you all staring at me for?"
"Nothing," Kent says, teasingly. "Shall we
just get on with the new business?"
Gabriel is grumpy for the rest of the
meeting, but the rest of us are in a _great_ mood.
I suppose I should mention that a good number
of the students at Hayden Heath learn the signed
alphabet, and a few learn morse code.
"AALLAAAN!" STOMP! STOMP! STOMP!
Most faculty members have a good knowledge of
both.
"AALLAAAN!" WHAM! WHAM! STOMP! STOMP! STOMP!
I have fair usage of sign language and morse
code and a few other means of communication, since
my father is a doctor specializing in SCABS.
"AALAAAN!" WHAM! WHAM!
And of course these things come in useful at
Hayden Heath University, where the density of
people with SCABS is so great.
WHUMMPP!!!
Alan lands with what I think must be painful
impact on the sawdusty concrete floor. He looks
up, nods in recognition, and runs a shudder down
the entirety of his twenty-eight-foot length,
dislodging hundreds of specks of pinedust from his
scales. He waits, expectantly.
I sign to Alan as I say, "Doesn't that hurt?"
The huge Burmese Python's dark, slick tongue
darts purposely in and out of the subtle groove in
his mouth. Being deaf and mute, Alan has chosen,
since the onset of SCABS, to communicate in Morse
code. He usually keeps it as simplified as
possible. "L-I-K-E E-N-T-R-A-N-C-E"
"You could sneak up on me and do your
constricting act. That serves for plenty of
drama."
"W-A-S S-O-R-T-I-N-G P-A-I-N-T"
I look up in the direction from which Alan
fell and can barely see the cans of latex paint
lining the top shelf of the paint storage cabinet.
The cabinet is what I was hitting as I called
AALLAAAN. The snake-student is often
affectionately referred to in a shout. Fact is,
he can't hear the rest of us, responding only to
vibration, and getting his attention when he's in
some unknown part of the scene shop is _fun_. So
sue us. We're theatre people.
I must admit I'm way too shy to ever take my
love of the Theatre Arts directly onto the stage.
Being a techie brings me enough outlet that I'm
pretty inhibited when it comes to acting. But
even I like calling for AALLAAAN. "Glad to
hear you've been working through that mess," I
sign and say. "Maybe you can get me the color I
need. We had a mixed cherry color for the window
frame edging, and someone rinsed my reserve
container down the drain just after I managed to
put a grand old scratch in the frame. Is it
possible we have another set of _Blue Window_
reserve paints somewhere?"
"I-L-L C-H-E-C-K"
The python moves slowly up the side of the
paint cabinet. I notice that his cream-colored
underside is smeared with black latex and that one
of his golden-brown spots is sprinkled in sky
blue. Typical Alan. Wearing the show, I call it.
Actually, my own shoes and jeans are a rainbow of
_Blue Window_ effects. I have never really tried
to avoid getting paint on myself. There's a
certain pride and satisfaction to it, as though
weeks of work have decorated the person as well as
the theatre. We _feel_ as if we have separated
out into all those colors, so we might as well be
wearing them!
The strength of serpents never fails to
impress me. Even Bahni, John's boyfriend and now
also a two-foot-long garter snake, can really whip
his little body into motion when he wants to.
Alan effortlessly pushes himself upward until only
a small fraction of his long body is supporting
him against the shelves. Then with a careful
shove, he sends his chin onto a shelf and pulls
himself on up. Eventually, his
chocolate-and-gold-brown form disappears from view
among the paints. I wait for the verdict. I'd
sure like to repaint just the section I scratched,
rather than starting all over with a newly-mixed
color. _Blue Window_ opens this week and it's
just my luck that one of the freshmen rinsed my
old paint down the drain. Oh, well. Wasn't her
fault. She cleaned up the whole sink area, and I
can hardly fault her for that.
Alan reappears, his shimmering little
chocolate eyes peering at me from above. He
lowers his body until his face is level with mine.
"N-O" Pause. "A-S-K J-I-M"
Just what I need. "Do I have to?"
"Y-E-S O-R R-E-P-A-I-N-T"
"Shit. I so much prefer dealing with you."
"O-F C-O-U-R-S-E"
If a snake can smile, Alan is doing it now.
I grin at him and tickle the scales on his chin.
He lifts his head to better facilitate this.
"F-E-E-C-H S-C-R-I-T-C-H E-X-P-E-R-T" he spells
in Morse.
"Why thanks, Alan. Let me know any time
you're going into shed and I'll give you an
all-out scritching session."
"S-O-U-N-D L-I-T-T-L-E T-O-O G-O-O-D"
"Oh, stop."
I give him a final "scritch" and turn to find
Jim before I remember. "It's so incredible I
almost forgot," I sign. "You will never guess
what happened at the final meeting today."
Alan waits.
"Gabriel told a joke."
A shudder of amused disbelief runs through
the enormous python. "G-A-B-E"
"I swear. Absolutely. Unless you know any
other wildebeest-morphs on campus, Gabriel cracked
a joke. How long has it been, now? I know he was
sick before I came here."
"Y-E-A-R P-L-U-S"
"That is what I thought. IN-credible. You
should have seen us. Lucky he didn't send anyone
into cardiac arrest."
"G-L-A-D"
"Me, too. He's really a great guy. Maybe
this Griever part did him even more good than we
thought it would."
"S-T-I-L-L A-C-T"
"Exactly. Well, Alan, I guess I'd better
find Almighty Jim. Thanks for trying to help."
Alan nods and rises out of sight once more.
I steel myself for asking a question of _Jim_.
Okay, okay. So maybe I'm overreacting. But
the Great Technical Director is one of the most
humbling people on campus. And theatre people
don't take well to humility. Me, I can't take the
embarrassment of being within his line of sight.
It's impossible to understand it unless you've
experienced it.
The TECHNICAL DIRECTOR. Shit.
Ask Jim, or repaint.
I pray the Lord to make it quick.
I step over a mass of drop-cloths in the
middle of the shop floor and approach the tool
section. This room is massive, and as such has
been separated into different sections by
cabinets, tables and the like. Behind the
white-enameled metal door to the power-tool
locker, I find Jim. One tentacle is in the depths
of the locker and the others are mercilessly
coiling electric cord in some inscrutable attempt
to organize the work area. As expected, he pays
no attention to me.
"Ahem." I nervously finger a lock of my
shortish hair and cough an unsure greeting. Jim
fakes ignorance for a second and then turns to me.
This is the painful part. Those eyes. I
think that in order to be a University Theatres
Technical Director, a person has to pass a test
for Eyes That Penetrate Students' Skulls. Jim's
cold gaze sweeps over me as he waits, in silence,
for me to make my pitiful move. I almost feel
that if I say the wrong thing, one of those
suddenly-still octopus arms is going to rip open a
gate to Student Purgatory somewhere so I can learn
Humility Before the Technical Director.
You think I'm overreacting? Try this
yourself sometime.
"Um, Er... Jim?"
Maybe a nod. Probably not. Hard to say.
"I was, I mean... I asked Alan if--
actually, I lost the reserve paints for _Blue
Window_. Someone cleaned the containers."
Now the vodor kicks in. It's not what Jim
says, but what he _doesn't_ say that gets to me.
It's like that now. "<<You need _Blue Window_
paints?>>"
Why? I fill in for him as his all-powerful
gaze encompasses me. What do you need _Blue
Window_ paints for? Haven't you finished painting
that set yet? Aren't there enough freshmen
slaving under you? You screwed up, didn't you.
You left a freshman alone with the paints. And
then in your infinite gracefulness, you scratched
the finish on a set piece. Students. I swear,
none of you ever learn.
"Yeah. I, um, need _Blue Window_ paints.
Need the cherry mix for the window-frame border."
Even though you should know this yourself you
pitiful excuse for the future of Theatre, I am
going to tell you because otherwise you will not
leave me in relative peace so I can get on with
the mysterious, vital tasks I am accomplishing.
"<<There's an extra set in my Office>>"
His Office. Great. No one has ever seen Jim
enter or exit it. He leaves that to the rest of
us, yet somehow manages to spend equal time both
in and out of the Office. As far as I know, he
transports using some other technology he learned
along with the Eye trick. We mortals have to use
The Stairs.
The Technical Director's office perches at
the summit of a ladderlike stair that climbs two
stories, from the floor almost to the ceiling of
this cavernous shop. I take a deep breath and
start up.
Let the other techies have catwalks. Let Jim
have his Office Stairs. I can't abide heights.
These Stairs aren't any ordinary steep set,
either. They're flimsy metal things, riddled with
little diamond-shaped holes and made with just
barely enough space to put a sneaker on each step.
The Office. I made it. On the table is a
neat pile of plastic, lidded bowls with the name
of a _Blue Window_ set piece printed in indelible
ink on each lid.
I feel like I've just reached the end of a
movie quest or something. Mixed cherry color in
hand, I face up to the final battle, the Descent.
At the bottom of the Stairs I meet Gabriel.
He laughs at what I know is my very pale
face. "Way to go, Feech. Jim's Lair yields its
treasure unto you. Did you scratch a set piece or
something?"
I nod. I notice that Gabriel is holding a
blue denim garment in his left hand as if he's not
quite sure what to do with it. He follows my gaze
and holds it out to me.
"I got something for you."
Suddenly I realize and I put down the paint
I'm carrying. I don't reach for the jacket,
though. I can't. "Gabriel," I say.
"Take it."
"No. No. I can't."
"I owe you."
"Gabriel you can't give me anything for--
for--"
"I can too. I want to." I can hear the old
stubborness creep into his slightly grunting,
organlike voice. He pushes the jacket into my
limp hand. "I wouldn't be alive now if you and
Kent hadn't gotten here when you did. I hope it
fits. I know the other one was the only one you
ever really liked."
"Gabriel don't be ridiculous. I would like
anything you gave me."
"Then take it!" he snorts. It's a command.
I put on the jacket.
Mall smell. Even a human nose can pick up on
that! The startling freshness of new clothes.
Suddenly, another smell hits me from months ago
and against my will I see red on the blue.
The black box theatre floor. Gabriel's
blood. Kent's hands. My old jacket... My stupid
old jacket that I liked so much. How the Hell
could he remember? He must be one of the most
sensitive people I've ever known... screams...
Gabriel's blood. The jacket fits.
"Oh, Feech. Don't cry. Don't do that to me.
I hoped I could find one that would fit you. Do
you like it? I'll take you shopping for another
if you don't like it."
"Shut up!" I say, rather harshly, as I hug
him. "I like the jacket."
"Don't cry." He pats me awkwardly.
"I'm not crying. Yes I am. I'm sorry, Gabe.
It's just... Relief. I don't know if you realize
what a scare you gave us."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize." I wipe my eyes. "I'm
just so glad you made it okay. You're really
doing well, Gabriel."
"Thanks." He smiles. His dark blue-black
lips curve up in the shadowed African face. "Kent
has helped a lot. I've spent a lot of time
talking to him. But I wanted you to know I
haven't forgotten."
"I don't know what to say except that it
fits, and therefore you have accomplished what I
myself have not been able to do in over nine
years. Maybe I will go shopping with you
sometime. I know we 'Normals' are supposed to
have it easy, but it is beyond me why the cuts of
the shoulders in so many jackets have to be so
damned annoying."
"Say the word and we'll spend a Saturday
putzing around in clothing stores."
"Thanks, Gabriel."
"Thank _you_."
He turns, his tall stature still a startling
difference from the tortured form I knew last
semester. I stop him, not feeling like I've said
enough. "I'll wear it under my winter coat now
and then I'll wear it all Spring. This is a
Sacred Jacket."
That smile again. So unfamiliar, but so
_good_. "I think I know how you feel," he says,
and strides easily from the shop.
I adjust the jacket as its meaning continues
to sink in. Clothes shopping. Gabriel, shopping?
Gabriel, whose body never stopped changing and
twisting long enough even for the costumers to get
him properly measured? His outfits are all new,
now. Last semester he was wearing (and regularly
ripping) odd wardrobe pieces thoughtfully offered
by larger students. Now he's bigger than he ever
was, but so... well-formed. It's a nice thing to
let sink into the brain, but can be almost as
startling as a negative change.
I pick up my paint and head through the
massive double doors into the black box. I shall
celebrate my victory over Jim and the Stairs by
painting over that damned scratch.
The jacket hangs where I can see it while I
finish the relatively quick job. I suppose it
really wouldn't do to splatter _Blue Window_
colors on the Sacred Jacket. But at least it can
pick up the scent of the theatre. Once broken in,
it will do quite nicely.
_Blue Window_.
A drama of destruction, rebuilding, fragile
facades and delicate humor overlaying deepest
grief.
It's a good show.
Gabriel, Bethuel and Juliet are visions from
the playwright's mind. The rest of the cast is
pretty darn good. And I'm having a ball watching
their feet tread upon, their shadows fall upon,
the pieces my Crew and I worked so hard to
perfect. The light, the emotion, must play
perfectly off of colors and textures the Set
Designer (our own Kent Dryer) has instructed us to
apply.
Paint Crew Head.
So what, you say?
Hell. _I_ _did_ that.
I watch in my Sacred Jacket and feel smug.
Kent, tall and fine, looks about as smug as I
feel. He ought to. His boyfriend is slaying that
audience. At least I think Gabriel's his
boyfriend. I know they're going together to the
Theatre Department dance week after next. I can't
think of many better-looking couples. Amber eyes,
grizzled-blond hair, and blue-grey fur go together
so well.
You can tell my color sense has been
heightened by this project. I'm on an absolute
high.
Sunday afternoon is the last show. After
that we strike the set, and then many of the
professors are taking advantage of the lull to
give us Big Assignments. Then the dance, and soon
Spring and Park Play.
But for now, Sunday evening, we have a world
to destroy.
That's what it feels like. The furniture,
the apartment rooms, the hanging window that was
never noticed by the characters living their lives
but was nevertheless a key part of the set. All
must be removed as the black box is transformed
into an empty cube again.
All that can be used again as-is, such as the
dresser, the couch, the chairs, is taken on
dollies to the stock cave below the Performing
Arts building. All that is specific to the world
of _Blue Window_ is taken apart.
We get to play with power tools.
There is some sense of guilt as the drills
work in reverse to unscrew and disassemble the
black box's latest features. Loss. Fleeting life.
Every surviving flat piece of board will be saved
in the scene shop for use in the next show. But
for just a moment, it feels as though that re-use
will be grotesque, akin to animation of the dead.
Mostly, however, Strike is a blast and a
half.
Once the blocks are taken apart, I join the
Lighting Crew in taking down the instruments and
stringing them on their wheeled metal rack. Alan
helps, and, as I hand him a lighting instrument to
put into place with his mouth, he gives me a
flirtatious flip of the head that I know perfectly
well is referring to "scritches". I laugh.
"Alan," I sign after giving him the light, "If
you don't pay attention to what you're doing,
you're going to end up wrapped around that rack
yourself."
The full python-morph haughtily places his
piece and turns solemnly to me.
"Y-O-U A-S-S-U-M-E W-H-A-T I T-H-I-N-K" he spells.
"Sure, but don't I assume correctly?"
An amused expression. He nods. We continue
working.
Long abouts late dinner-time we begin taking
the last of the boards and tools into the shop.
The instrument rack is wheeled to a corner of the
mainstage wings. I'm carrying a blue-painted pine
board and Alan has a drill held carefully in his
mouth.
I drop the board.
Please understand that Alan _is_ twenty-eight
feet long. It is extremely difficult to keep
track of the entirety of his whereabouts at any
given time. So, while I do drop the board on
purpose, I do not drop it on _Alan_ on purpose.
His tail is just in the way. I could have
sworn I looked, before adding the board to the
pile. But his brown tail is covered in dust and
the other ninety percent of him is clear over by
the power tools, and I don't realize what I've
done until the huge serpent whips around in
surprise and discomfort. He yanks his tail from
under the board and looks at it briefly, then
turns away again.
I hurry to get his attention. I practically
pull his face sideways so he'll see me sign:
"Alan! I'm so sorry! I dropped the board. I had
no idea. Show me where it hit and let me take
care of it."
Alan noses me, in his usual calm manner.
"S N-O-T-H-I-N-G"
"I really should look at it. Or let someone
else. We should at least clean the spot. I'm so
sorry."
He shakes his head pleasantly.
"I-L-L C-L-E-A-N L-A-T-E-R N-O W-O-R-R-Y"
I am a worrier. I sign, "Alan, don't keep
looking at me like that just to be nice. I made a
stupid mistake. I'm sorry."
"N-O F-A-U-L-T" spells the snake. He's
still giving me his best, gentle expression (and
no, I don't know how he does it). He leans his
head sideways under my hand and I smile, giving
him a little rub as tacitly requested.
I always feel so awful, even after a minor
accident like that. I guess it's the thought that
it could have been much worse.
The next week is empty in a relaxing way,
with memories of the show fresh in our minds and
our creative desires temporarily sated.
I'm in the Department office, skimming a
textbook assignment, when I notice that John,
slouching in a chair across from me, has begun
quietly muttering something to the little serpent
curled in his lap.
"John," I ask him, "What are you guys
doing?"
"Discussing monologues for next Fall, now
that we have a moment, you know."
"Why don't you just let Bahni see the pages?"
I look at the yellow-striped dark figure, who
stares intently at John.
John doesn't look up. "Well, I was, but my
arm got tired holding it that way so I'm just
reading to him at the moment. Does my voice
bother your studying?"
"No, John. That's fine." I go back to my
book and the muttering continues.
Finally I look up again. "John."
"What?" This time he faces my way, and Bahni
does also.
"You did know that-- well, that Bahni is a
full-morph garter snake."
He looks at me as if I've lost my mind.
"What are you getting at, Feech? Of course he's a
garter snake. Goodness knows I've done enough
pounding of _that_ fact into my head."
"But, John, snakes are entirely deaf."
"Oh, I know that. I know good old AALLLAAAN!
is stone deaf. But I read to Bahni regularly."
Bahni has turned his impish colubrid face
back in John's direction. I say, "Hey, Bahni!
Look at me!"
Of course he doesn't.
John's face registers dim surprise. He looks
carefully at the young man lying in his lap.
"Bahn, can you hear me?"
I stifle a chuckle as Bahni gives his head an
emphatic, negative shake. Then John asks, "Well,
then, Bahn, can you _understand_ me?"
Another emphatic headshake, this time a
positive one. John gives me a slightly sheepish,
yet decidedly smug, crooked grin. I laugh. "You
guys got something going, there," I say, and
John's expression changes to one of pride.
I leave my textbook on my chair and touch
Bahni's "shoulder." He looks up and nods as I
say, "See ya later. You, too, John. This reminds
me that I haven't seen Alan all week, and there
were some paint containers I threw in the wrong
cupboard on Sunday. I know he'll appreciate it if
I ask him where they're really supposed to go."
"See you later, Feech," John says, and turns
back to his monologue, but not before he has
carefully hoisted Bahni to his shoulder where the
snake can see better.
I step out into the Lobby, and from there to
the hall where there's a small door to the scene
shop.
Bethuel is entering the scene shop from the
other direction. "Well, hello, Feech," he smiles.
He has a soft smile that offsets the powerful
clarity of his blue eyes. I like him. "You're
not in here to _work_, are you? I thought they
ran you ragged for _Blue Window_."
"You guys helped a lot," I tell him, "and it
wasn't so bad. Today I just have to ask Alan a
question."
"Hope we can find him. I wanted to talk to
him, too. He seemed a little quiet, for Alan,
yesterday and day before that. He didn't stop in
at the office on his way out yesterday and I had
been going to give him this order for Jim from the
Design Lab."
Cold feeling. It goes away before I can
identify it. Beth notices. He notices
_everything_. "Is there a problem, Feech?"
"No, I don't think so."
He looks at me concernedly, but even I don't
know anymore what it is that he saw. So we just
start calling Alan.
"AALLLAAAAN!!!" STOMP! WHAM! WHAM!WHAM!
Bethuel really gets into this.
"AALLAAN!"
All the time that we call, wreaking
vibration, we scan the shop for signs of the
approaching tech assistant. But no
brown-patterned figure comes into view.
"AAALLLLAAAAAN!!!" STOMP!STOMP!STOMP!
WHAM!WHAM!WHAM!
"Bethuel, do you suppose he might not be
here?"
"AALLAAN!" WHAM! STOMP!
Pause. Silence. No swish of snakeskin on
cement.
"I suppose it's possible. Maybe he went home
sick yesterday and never came in today." There is
something in Beth's voice that I find deeply
disturbing. And the words, "home sick."
"Beth, I dropped a board on Alan's tail
during Strike." I'm shaking again. Worrier
Feech.
He looks at me with a pity I'd really rather
not see. I can see his mind working, figuring out
the past days, where Alan has been seen, why, at
this moment of all moments he, Bethuel, might have
chosen to come and look for Alan. Why now? Why
here?
Because Alan is not home sick. Thank God
Beth is here with me.
"Start looking," he says.
I screw up my courage and grab a ladder.
I'll check the paint shelves first.
Bethuel climbs The Stairs to Jim's Office and
emerges with a deeply concerned Technical
Director. I imagine I see a softening to those
ever-stern Eyes.
Jim can really move. Despite being a large
octopus, he has little trouble at work because of
a special water-based lotion he wears surrounded
by a thin layer of oil. He is able to breathe and
hear like the rest of us, but speaks only through
the vodor.
But I only glance at the Technical Director.
I'm busy fighting the nausea that's rising in
my throat. Not only am I terrified of heights,
but I don't see a sign of Alan. He may be at
home, I tell myself.
Then I look once more at the anxious Beth and
Jim and know that Alan is here. Somewhere.
N-O F-A-U-L-T
Every corner of the scene shop. Every shelf,
every cupboard. I go into the black box and ask
Shadow, the Swallowtail dramaturg, to please help
out by searching the box. Then I return to the
shop.
I'm wandering now, trying to keep control as
much as trying to find Alan. I meander through
the wings, onto the mainstage. The
yellow-and-orange cushioned folding seats are dull
in the half-dark. The curtains a dull burgundy.
I look up into the fly equipment, high above
in the gloom.
A shape.
Some barely-there glow... of a cream-colored
belly.
"Jim! Bethuel! Come quick! Please!"
Immediately Jim is climbing the metal
scaffold to the ceiling. Bethuel gives me a
quick, reassuring pat on the shoulder and goes to
call the ambulance.
The ambulance.
Jim has reached the python. I can see his
shimmering, multicolored form as he works to
gently extricate Alan from his
instinctively-chosen hiding place. Alan you shit,
I find myself thinking, why couldn't you have
chosen a ground-level lair like any normal python?
Beth comes back, looking grim, and takes my
shoulder to back me out of the way while Jim
lowers his Tech Assistant to the stage.
And I thought _Alan_ was strong.
Alan. The three of us move to his head and
each take a tentative touch of the brown face.
Glazed eyes. "Alan?"
A pulse is there, just barely, but my gorge
rises again as Alan's obsidian tongue slips from
between relaxed jaws and lolls to one side. Human
hands and octopus tentacles pat the body, begging
a reaction. "ALAN?"
From outside, somewhere, the sound of sirens.
I swear this hospital should have a waiting
room just for us Hayden Heath University theatre
folks.
We shuffle our feet and say things none of us
will remember. I stand against a wall and tick
off hospital visits in my mind. Gabriel,
Bahni.... Alan. All in one year. But this one is
my fault. You can try to talk sense to me later.
This time, intelligently, they let us in as
soon as the antibiotics began to be administered.
I practically throw myself down on the bed,
barely avoiding the equipment set up around Alan
to stave off the infection. Snakes are very prone
to infection... Once again, I find myself
involuntarily cursing Alan for not having gotten
attention sooner. No response from Alan yet. But
the doctor says he's going to live. Even though
it was a close call.
We sit through the afternoon, until they
insist that we take a break and give the
still-unconcious Alan an undisturbed rest. They
assure us that Alan's getting state-of-the-art
care, that they'll be bringing in a herpetological
specialist to treat the realtively tiny cut that
went toxic and caused all the trouble. Then they
practically shove us out the door.
I go to Bethuel's dorm room with him. I
don't think I could handle being alone right now.
He gives me the talk I know he will, about how
there's nothing I could have done and how Alan was
just a little too careless but at least All's Well
That Ends Well, but I only nod in a disconsolate
way. Nobody but Alan can forgive me for this.
When he's communicating again, maybe I'll listen.
Alan is not, however, coherent for two more
days.
In that space of time I nearly go out of my
mind.
Whenever someone can take me, I'm at the
hospital. And at the end of the weekend, one week
following _Blue Window_ Strike, Alan's eyes
finally clear as they focus on me.
"Alan."
I sign his name and he actually-- the nerve
of him-- puts on his best amused expression and
leans blatantly into my hand.
"S-C-R-I-T-C-H"
"You shit!" I'm laughing and crying at the
same time. I think there are other people in the
room, but I'm not even certain. "You could have
DIED! I TOLD you to let me help. Oh, Alan, I'm
so sorry."
"W-E-L-L L-I-F-E-S L-I-K-E T-H-A-T"
"Like what?"
I am now fully aware of several classmates in
the room with us, and several of them have placed
hands on varying parts of the Burmese python-morph
in silent relief.
"W-E A-L-L M-A-K-E M-I-S-T-A-K-E-S"
"Not mistakes like THAT."
"S-C-R-I-T-C-H F-O-R P-E-N-A-N-C-E"
So I give Alan a good scritch and a rub, and
several of his friends join in. He really basks
in it.
For a penance, this is really quite an
enjoyable activity.
Okay. _Now_ if you want to tell me that
everything's okay, I might be ready to listen.