The Digger's Rest

by K. Patrick Malone

  Simon looked puzzled, he’d never experienced the thing called jet lag, so he had no idea what to expect.

  “Sure, sounds great to me.”

  “But just one thing,” Mitch said to him, looking at him with an intentional seriousness. “We’ve known each other a long time now—over six years isn’t it? And you’re a Doctor in your own right now, all but for the paper to hang on your wall. So please call me Mitch. If you want to call me Doctor in public for the sake of professionalism that’s fine, but in private or among friends, it’s Mitch. Okay?”

  Simon didn’t know how to respond. Even though it had been almost seven years, he never once considered himself to be Mitchell Bramson’s equal, as a person or a scholar, not even close, and although their relationship had grown far beyond that of traditional student and teacher into something more akin to a left hand’s relationship to the right, he wasn’t sure he could ever call him by his first name. It just didn’t seem right somehow.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, Dr. Bramson. It just doesn’t seem right,” he said shyly, shrugging his shoulders slightly. Mitch looked at him closely, deep into his eyes, sensing Simon’s very real discomfort with what he’d asked.

  “Okay. I’ll tell you what. Just think about it for awhile. I would never look on it as a sign of disrespect. I would look on it as a sign of friendship and what would the world be like if we all went around calling our closest people “Mr. Jones and Mrs. Smith or Dr. Blue or Officer Black?” Then he jabbed Simon playfully with a left hook and a right cross and laughed. “Just think about it, will ya?”

  “Yes, Dr. Bramson,” Simon’s replied, his voice filled with light laughter as if he were being tickled.

  “Cool; that’ll do for now. Now let’s get out of here. I’m feeling restless. How does the Tower of London sound to you?”

  Simon’s eyes got wide with excitement. “Off with their heads!” he said, pointing at the air commandingly as if he were Henry the Eighth.

  “Off with their heads!” Mitch repeated laughing as they headed out the door.

  After they took the tour of the Tower of London where Mitch made a fool of himself by putting his head on the same chopping block where Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard lost theirs so Simon could take a picture, they walked through the gallery where the crown jewels were kept without Simon ever closing his mouth, then went to Buckingham Palace and took the tour there. Mitch, of course, had seen it all before so it was really all for Simon’s benefit, to see the world, feel a part of it and have some fun with it. Maybe it was the early onset of Mitch’s own jet lag or the fact that it seemed like he was seeing it all again, except this time through Simon’s eyes, but he felt unusually lighthearted.

  When they got to the throne room, Mitch suddenly called out loudly, “Yo! Lizzie. I’ll be by for tea at four. No need to break out the good china, but you’d better lock up the jewels to keep them away from Simon,” and gave Simon a deranged smile.

  Simon just blushed and laughed bashfully, saying to him with ghetto cadence, “Dr. Bramson, you so crazy.”

  From there, they went to dinner in Chinatown. By the time they were finished with dinner, both their energies seems to be dwindling, but Mitch, never one to pass up an opportunity for a good time, took Simon to a real London pub close to the hotel on the way back. After three pints, Mitch, who was well used to strong English ales, had gotten his second wind and was becoming the life of the party, chatting animatedly with the bartenders, the locals, anyone who would listen. Simon, on the other hand, was not used to English beer, and as a matter of fact, wasn’t used to drinking beer at all, so it had a decidedly different effect on him.

  After three, he started to sway. After four, he became introspective, thinking about where he was and how far he’d come from being that misfit of a boy at Holy Family and how he’d gotten there. By the end of the fifth, he was drunk. For the first time in his life he was officially drunk.

  He looked out of the window at the flashing lights along the streets. One neon light stood out more than the others and it suddenly came to him like thunder from heaven, giving him a courage he’d never felt before. He told Mitch that he was going to step outside and get some fresh air and maybe pick up a few postcards, then staggered out the door onto the street, the neon sign beckoning to him more and more the closer he got. Finally, when he got right up underneath it, he looked up. “Ageless Tattoos and Piercing,” and he went in.

  When he came back into the pub no more than fifteen minutes later, something about him had changed. It was small, hardly noticeable because of the length of his big black curls, but it was a monumental step for him nonetheless, because when he walked back in the pub, he was just a little bit more like him with a tiny gold hoop earring in each ear. When Mitch saw him, he was too drunk himself to notice the earrings. He was just relieved that Simon hadn’t gone out and got himself lost.

  “Simon! Where the hell have you been? I was just about to send out a search party to look for you,” Mitch said, struggling to focus the double-vision Simons he was seeing into one, relief washing over his face. “C’mon, I think it’s time we went home, if we can find it,” he laughed, putting his arm around Simon’s shoulders.

  After they’d walked only a few blocks, Simon suddenly stopped in his tracks. Mitch staggered a few paces ahead before noticing and looked back. “Simon, what’s wrong?” he slurred, seeing Simon standing still, swaying left and right. He asked him again, “Is something wrong?” Simon looked up, swaying more and more, looking like he might tip over.

  “I jus’ wan’…to tell yooouuuu, Dr. Mitchell Bramson…” he said, looking like he was holding back a waterfall of tears. “I jus’ wan’ to tell yoooouuuu,” he started again, pointing his finger at Mitch, “…how much all you’ve done for me has meant to me in my life…” He stopped to wipe his face on his sleeve “…and how proud I am to be with you wherever you go…and be your friend, and how you’ve always made me feel like…a person.” He stumbled, falling against the wall behind him. Mitch jumped up to grab him.

  “Come on now, Simon, it’s time for us to go home,” he said, taking the boy by the arm and guiding him down the two remaining blocks back to the hotel, Simon’s words echoing through his head as they walked, “How proud I am to be with you where ever you go…and be your friend, and how you’ve always made me feel like…a person.” It made him feel closer to him than having Simon call him by his first name ever could.

  When they went through the door of The George, Mitch just smiled at Robert half dozing behind the reception desk and said, “My friend here isn’t used to the strong beer,” as he pulled Simon into the elevator. Once he had Simon back in his room, he sat him down on the bed. Simon looked up at him, his eyes swimming with alcohol and started again. “I jus’ wan’ to tell yooouuuu…” he said pointing at Mitch the same way he had done earlier, “…how much…” then fell over on the bed— out cold.

  Mitch went over and straightened him out, unstrapped his brace and took it off, then his shoes and socks, and covered him with the blanket. Then as he went to turn off the light and leave the room, he thought about when he found him and what he’d just said to him, drunk or not, and looked back, “How could I have ever done anything else?” he said, flipping the switch and staggering out.

  By the time he’d gotten back to his own room, Mitch was flagging badly himself. His head was spinning and his stomach was churning like he’d just stepped off of a ship after having spent many long days at sea. He’d only managed to take off his pants and boots before it got to him as well, and he passed out sideways over the bed. It seems the beginnings of jet lag had finally jumped up and bitten them both on the ass with a vengeance.

  The next morning came much too early for Mitch. When he woke up finding himself still half dressed and lying sideways across the bed, all he could manage was a groan and enough strength to force himself to move lengthwise. His head thumped mercilessly and the light from the gap in the curtains hurt his eyes. “Blood
y hell,” he groaned as he turned his body away from the light. Then what seemed like only minutes but must have been hours passed and he heard the sound of a lock click from the room adjoining his with Simon’s. He opened his eyes without moving to find Simon wearing the same clothes he’d passed out in, standing there looking like whatever it was—the proverbial it that the cat had dragged in. His eyes were barely open, but what he could see of them was flaming red with bloodshot, his hair shooting out in all directions, looking like he’d been frightened out of his wits.

  “Dr. Bramson. I don’t feel so good,” he said sounding like a small child with tummy trouble.

  “No. I don’t imagine you do, Simon. Neither do I, so let me introduce you. Simon, this is a hangover, hangover this is Simon,” and he waved his hand like he was making a formal introduction, laughing weakly. Even that simple movement and the mild sound of his own voice made his head throb with a drum beat like a tribe of Apaches on the warpath. “But, since you’re the one standing, why don’t you do us both a favor and go in my shaving kit and grab the Advil bottle. I’ll take two and so will you,” he croaked, his throat dehydrated from the libations of the night’s festivities. Simon turned and walked slowly to his bathroom.

  As Mitch watched him go with only one eye open, he noticed that Simon’s limp seemed much more pronounced and realized that it was the first time he’d ever seen him walk without his brace. Simon returned a moment later holding a glass of water in one hand and the pills in the other.

  Mitch sat up, groaning with the effort at first, then even louder as whatever was left of the blood rushed from his head. He took the glass and the pills. Only slightly more alert from sitting upright, he noticed that Simon wasn’t wearing any shoes or socks and took the opportunity to observe Simon’s feet to try and get a better take on what kind of problem he was dealing with.

  At first glance they looked perfectly normal, well formed and tended. Then as his eyes cleared, he noticed that Simon’s right foot was slightly turned inward, and when taken in view with the left, he saw that the left foot was flat on the floor while the right was arched giving the impression that he was almost standing on his toes. It was hardly noticeable when he stood still, but when he walked Mitch realized that the turn in his ankle and the shortness of his leg, which could have been as much as an inch, must have made him the butt of cruel jokes from the time he was old enough to understand that he was different from other children. “Did you take yours yet?” Mitch asked.

  “No, sir, I was waiting for you,” Simon answered.

  “Here, take these then,” Mitch said to him and sat up on the edge of the bed, handing the pills and glass back. “I’ll get more. I have to take a leak anyway.” But the truth of the matter was that he didn’t think he could bear to watch the kid struggle to walk back to the bathroom. “Go ahead, sit down and take ‘em. Then just lie down right there and cover up your head for a while. I’m gonna take a shower and order up some breakfast from room service.” Simon did as he was told, taking the pills and lying down. He even covered up his head.

  “So ya feel like a traditional English breakfast there, Simon? Grilled kidneys to go with your eggs maybe, or how about some smoked herring?” Mitch asked, deciding to mischievously give the kid’s first hangover a real welcome.

  Simon groaned with disgust from under the blanket, “Blaaaahhhh.”

  Mitch laughed out loud, realizing in that instant that he’d outsmarted himself when his head began ringing like the bells of Notre Dame from his own hangover.

  When Mitch came back out of the shower, he could hear Simon snoring from across the room. Good, he thought to himself. Jet lag and a hangover were a bit much for the kid on his first day. Let him sleep it off for a while, and he sat down at the desk by the window, called downstairs for coffee to be sent up, then breakfast an hour later as he worked on his laptop to get a start on some background research for the project, maps, timelines.

  Just after he’d taken in the breakfast cart and sat back down at his computer, he heard a voice come from behind him. “I’m sorry about last night, Dr. Bramson. Please don’t be angry with me.” It was Simon standing behind him. Mitch turned to face him and noticed the two little gold earrings for the first time. It set him back a stretch, but he recovered quickly. “Why would I be angry at you?”

  “I guess I got a little out of hand last night, and…I’m sorry,” Simon said, looking down, ashamed.

  “Stop! There’s nothing to be sorry about, and since when have I ever been angry with you? We got drunk and had a great time. At least now you know what I go through every morning after I’ve been out the night before. You play, you pay,” Mitch said and smiled. “Now go and get showered up. We have a big day ahead of us. They’ll be expecting us at the British Museum soon. We can do whatever we like after that, maybe take in a show and then go out for more drinks afterwards.” Simon’s normally pale complexion turned green with the thought as he headed back to his room. Mitch couldn’t help but turn to watch him go. Seeing him struggle to touch the floor with his right foot as he went made his conscience nag at him, Do something! Say something!

  “Oh, and by the way. Once your ears have healed we’ll getcha some really nice ear cuffs. How about something in Renaissance gold, or maybe Egyptian if you like?” was the best he could come up with on such short notice. Simon stopped in his tracks and touched his left ear. Mitch could see the color come through his straggly curls, blushing again, because whenever Simon blushed, his ears blushed along with him, turning bright pink right to the tips as he closed his door behind him.

  ***

  When Simon was finally alone and had come to terms with the fact that Dr. Bramson wasn’t going to be offended or angry with him for saying those things or getting earrings like his, he broke out into a cold sweat over what was still ahead. It was all so new to him—life, living. He only really knew life from books, not from actually experiencing it. He didn’t know what to do or how to behave. Now Dr. Bramson wanted to take him to the theater in London’s famous West End. What would they see? How should he act?…and what should he wear? He had no idea and he just wouldn’t be able to stand it if he did something wrong and embarrassed Dr. Bramson. What to do? What to do? Then he got an idea. He remembered what Madame Duvalier had called him when they first arrived, ma jeune Monsieur Yeux Bleu, my young Mr. Blue Eyes. That meant she liked him, didn’t it? Maybe she would help him if he asked her nicely and politely. He sat down at his desk, took out some paper and a pen and wrote,

  Dear Madame Duvalier, It’s Simon Holly. Dr. Bramson wants to take me to the theater tonight, but I’ve never been to the theater before so I don’t know what to wear. He’s much too kind to ever say anything and I don’t want to embarrass him. You are so worldly and I don’t know who else to ask. Can you help me? Very truly yours, Simon Holly.”

  Then he folded the letter neatly, tucked into a hotel envelope, addressed it simply, For Madame Duvalier, and left it discretely on the counter in front of Robert at the Concierge Desk before they left for the day.

  The British Museum had been old stomping grounds for Mitch, just as it had been for Jack before him. Now it was Simon’s turn, and Mitch was going to make sure he had his chance. While he visited with old colleagues and did his archives research into the area around Exeter, he got his old friend, Mike Therax, to assign a tour guide to give Simon a private tour of the Museum.

  Simon was more like Jack in that sense. He seemed to tend toward the more ancient civilizations where Mitch always found his meat and potatoes to be 500 A.D. to 1500 A.D., specializing, of course in the five centuries surrounding the millennium mark and the 10th century in particular. The British Museum with its worldwide reputation for having the finest ancient art collection in the world, including the Rosetta Stone and the Elgin Marbles, would keep Simon agog for hours, and the fact that they were just in time for the opening of a very rare Ancient Assyrian collection, with their winged lions adorning highly sophisticated bas reliefs depictin
g their god structure and mythology, battles and victories, would without a doubt make Simon’s decade.

  When Mitch went to retrieve him late in the afternoon, Simon was so excited he just rattled on, “Dr. Bramson, did you know? Did you see? Can you believe it? I actually saw the Rosetta Stone!” while thinking to himself, Me, Simon Holly. Limping, lame Simon Holly from Holy Family’s Grand Street Foster Home was actually in the same room with the Rosetta Stone. I could just die! Thank you, Dr. Bramson, for so much. But he had yet another surprise coming.

  By the time they got back to the hotel, Simon was still so excited by the eye-popping, jaw-dropping display of ancient art he’d seen, he forgot all his anxiety about going out in public, to the theater. Just as he approached his door, it hit him in the face like an iron skillet. He wasn’t ready. He had no idea of what to do or what to wear, and less than an hour before dinner to figure it out.

  He broke out in a cold sweat again as he closed the door behind him thinking, I can’t go. I’ll tell him I’m sick. Then he saw the suit bag on the bed, walked over slowly, not knowing what to expect, and saw a note attached to it.

  “My young Mr. Blue Eyes. I got these from my

  grandson. He’s just about your size.

  M. D.”

  Simon unzipped the bag to find a sky blue cashmere V-neck sweater and a navy blue tweed sport coat with navy suede patches on the elbows and a navy shooting patch on the left shoulder. Wow! Simon thought as he took them out of the bag, but he had to hurry if he was going to be ready in time and he still had to shower.

  Just as he was drying off, he heard a light tapping. He threw on his bathrobe and limped to the door. When he opened it, Madame Duvalier was standing there with a small, brown leather bag in her hand. “Viet!” she said smiling, her eyes shining. “Assiez vous!” she said as she swept into the room, pointing to the chair which he took to mean he should sit down there, so he did.