Xn

by Clint Townsend

  Ron began to remove his shirt and soothingly said, “You’re gonna be fine.”

  Evan stared up at the clear, summer night sky. He tried to focus on the sound of his friend’s voice as he surveyed the glistening stars and carefully reached for his ribs. Ron pressed his shirt around the wound, trying desperately to slow down the bleeding. Evan felt the jagged point of glass sticking out from his gut and barked “Oh, crap! Oh, crap! Oh, crap!”

  “Ah, c’mon, quit your belly achin’! Or I’ll bust you one in the other arm.”

  “Ow! You bonehead! Don’t make me laugh!”

  “I’ll make it to where you’ll forget all about your little tummy ache!”

  “Hit me again and you won’t be my best man AND I’ll never buy you another drink.”

  “Okay, truce. First, we got to get you up. We’ll go on three.”

  “Let me count it off,” Evan offered, then took a series of long, deep breaths.

  “Okay, I’m ready. Here we go,” he said as he wrapped his left arm around Ron’s neck.

  “One, two….” Ron jumped the gun on the count and shot skyward with a powerful burst of energy and brought Evan to his feet.

  “Three!” Ron exclaimed.

  “Augh! You freaking idiot!” Evan shrieked in horrific agony, “I said I’ll count it off! You’re killing me!”

  “You’re up, ain’t ya? What does it matter?” Ron remarked smartly, “Let’s get you to the car and over to the hospital.”

  ***

  “I need to ask you a few questions,” said the rotund nurse.

  She leaned over Evan’s face and spoke loudly, as if having sustained an injury makes one’s hearing immediately diminish.

  “That’s fine,” Evan replied smoothly.

  “You mind telling me once more how this happened?” asked the doctor.

  “Well,” Evan began, “we had just left Gardski’s and were crossing Avenue W when all of a sudden this car came around the corner from behind us. It was turning off of Broadway on to W.”

  “Ever been hospitalized?” the nurse interrupted.

  “No, ma’am,” Evan answered, “So the car came from behind us to my right; I heard the tires squeal and turned to see what was happening.”

  “Ever have any surgeries? Any kind of operation?” the nurse once again disrupted the story.

  Evan repeated his answer as before “No, ma’am.”

  “You ain’t never been in a hospital?” Ron asked, breaking his silence.

  “Nope,” Evan stated, rolling his eyes back as far as he could to see his friend sitting in the corner.

  “Man … I been in so many emergency…,” Ron began to divulge.

  “Anyway … on with the story,” the doctor raised his voice, obviously irritated with the interruptions.

  “Anyhow, I saw the car coming right at us and I really didn’t have the time to think about it, but I shoved Ron outta the way and dove as far as I could.”

  “Any smoking or drug use?” the plump woman inquired.

  “Oh, no!” Evan firmly answered.

  “Well, Mr. Cierly? While I’m sure you’re thankful you weren’t hit by a car, I’m thinking you’re probably just as thankful this didn’t go any deeper into your abdominal cavity.”

  The doctor extracted a four-inch long section of glass from Evan’s right side and held it up for all to see.

  “A quarter inch deeper and you and I might have been having this conversation in an operating room.”

  The nurse, unfazed by the sight of blood, continued with her questionnaire, “Any consumption of alcohol?”

  “Oh, yeah!” the two men answered promptly.

  “Man, that was big!” Ron added, commenting on the size of the remnant of glass the doctor extracted.

  “So, you boys like to drink,” the doctor surmised as he turned to throw away the shard of broken beer bottle.

  “Yes, sir!” the duo exclaimed.

  “Alcohol consumption?” the nurse probed.

  “Oh, four or five times a week, maybe?” Evan stated, unsure of his answer as he glanced back at Ron for verification.

  “No more than five, I’d say,” Ron volunteered.

  “Yeah, I believe I drink about five nights a week,” Evan confirmed.

  “Is that what you guys were doing tonight?” the doctor inquired as he began stitching Evan’s wound.

  “My man’s getting engaged Sunday!” Ron blurted out.

  “Really?” asked the nurse, changing to a more chipper tone, “Well, congratulations!”

  “My deepest condolences,” the doctor muttered as he stitched.

  “Liquor, beer, wine?” the nurse resumed, “What do you drink and how much?”

  “Everything,” Evan declared bluntly.

  “All of it,” Ron added.

  “So…?” the nurse pushed, shrugging her shoulders.

  “I might have a couple of beers then move on to bourbon. I’ll have several of those,” Evan confessed.

  “In what kind of time period?” the doctor queried, briefly raising his eyes.

  “I don’t know. Maybe two hours,” Evan admitted.

  “I bet your liver loves you,” the nurse mumbled.

  “The guy is a fish! I ain’t never seen anyone hold their liquor like Evan,” Ron professed.

  “Did you do a complete workup on Mr. Cierly?” the doctor asked his assistant.

  “Yessiree,” she replied, stood, and handed the lab report to the doctor. He examined the results for a brief moment then silently handed back the report.

  “What all did you drink this evening?” the doctor asked nonchalantly, resuming his stitching, “And please, tell me when you started and when you took your last swallow.”

  “You want the whole rundown?” Evan asked. “Okay, well, Ron and I got to Gardski’s about seven-thirty, had some wings and onion rings, and a couple of pitchers of beer.”

  The nurse stopped writing in her folder and listened to Evan’s recount of the night’s festivities. The good doctor steadily sewed up the gaping wound under his rib while he, too, listened to the story.

  “The guys showed up at about nine and we just sat around talking.”

  “Do y’all remember what you had to drink tonight?” asked the doctor.

  “Kamikazes, Stilettos, DeLoreans,” Ron rattled off, as if reciting a list of accomplishments.

  “Crown, Jack, Bacardi…,” Evan joined in, “then Shiner, Shiner, Shiner….”

  “In other words,” the doctor interrupted, “you all had more than your fill, right?”

  “When you say it like that, you make it sound like it’s a bad thing,” Ron complained.

  “So, all in all, how many shots?” the doctor quizzed.

  “Five,” Evan answered.

  “Highballs?” he continued.

  “Five,” Ron replied.

  “Beer?” the doctor questioned.

  “Five,” Evan finished, “Not including the pitchers.”

  The physician tied off the line on Evan’s stitches in total silence. He stood up, took off his gloves, then turned and threw them away. It wasn’t until he began washing his hands that the doctor addressed his patient.

  “Mr. Cierly? To the best of my calculations, you personally consumed over one hundred twenty-four ounces of beer and about seventeen ounces of liquor. Does that sound right to you?”

  “I’d say that’s in the ballpark,” Evan confirmed with a smile.

  “Y’all had all that alcohol in seven hours which, in my head, averages out to one drink every twenty minutes, give or take a few minutes,” the doctor summarized.

  “Now you’re making us look bad!” Ron moaned.

  “How do you feel?” the doctor asked Ron, crossing his arms.

  Ron flashed a devilish grin, shrugged his shoulders, and simply stated, “Heeey.”

  “I thought so,” the doctor commented.

  “What’s your point?” Evan probed as he sat up on the edge of the gurney.

  “My
point is this: how is it you’ve never been sick, never been hospitalized, you have no medical records beyond your childhood immunizations, and after seven hours of steady consumption, your blood alcohol content is point zero, zero, zero, one two?”

  All four looked at one another for a moment before the doctor coolly voiced his instructions to his assistant, “I want you to draw enough blood to cover two more complete workups on Mr. Cierly. After you’ve done that, I want you to run a liver enzyme and full array on one of the pulls. Make sure you get the results to me and send copies to Rankin and Schropture over at Methodist.”

  “Yes, sir,” the nurse acknowledged with a sigh as the doctor turned to leave the ER suite.

  “What do you want me to do with the second draw?” she shouted.

  As he strode away, the doctor called out over his shoulder, “Send it up to Cryogenics and mark it ‘Attention to Doctor Childers for the DNA genome study.’”

  CHAPTER 2

  EVE

  Phoenix. Spring, 1999.

  “And we’re back!” the disc jockey said enthusiastically, “Ninety-three point three, Tim and Mark with you on a beautiful Friday morning.”

  “Man, talk about a gorgeous day. It is absolutely perfect outside,” Tim’s sidekick interjected, “Seventy-two degrees, winds out of the North West at ten miles an hour, and not a cloud in the sky.”

  “Mark, I don’t think my day can get any more perfect than it already is.”

  “I don’t know about that. I can think of several things that can make it even better.”

  “Better like how?”

  “Well, I have a surprise for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Well, not necessarily for you per se, but more for our listeners,” Mark clarified.

  “I am intrigued. Lay it on me.”

  “Okay. First, I have a question.”

  “Fire away.”

  “When I say Sports Illustrated, what do you think of?”

  “Let me see. Uh, informative articles, investigative journalism….”

  “LIAR! LIAR! Pants on fire!” Mark erupted, pointing and waving his finger.

  “What? What?” Tim asked innocently, shrugging his shoulders.

  “You think what every other guy thinks.”

  “And just exactly what, pray tell, do we think of?” Tim inquired, feigning ignorance.

  “C’mon, admit it. You think of the bikini issue.”

  “I do? Oh yeah, I forgot there was a swimsuit issue.”

  “Yeah, right, you forgot.”

  “Hey, I can make an honest mistake every now and then.”

  “Well,” Mark began, lowering his voice to almost a whisper, “What if I were to tell you that right now, at this very moment, I have Sports Illustrated cover model Chloe Holbrook on the phone, just waiting to talk to you?”

  “Me?”

  “You!”

  “Chloe Holbrook?”

  “Chloe Holbrook.”

  “I’d say you’ve already been drinking this morning.”

  “Let’s just see about that. Chloe, are you there?”

  “Good morning, boys!” the young woman’s bright voice called out.

  “Good morning, Chloe. I guess Mark hasn’t been drinking after all,” Tim replied.

  “Hey, would I lie to you about something as big as this?” Mark defended himself.

  “What’s going on, guys?” Chloe asked.

  “Wait a minute, where are you?” Mark inquired, “You sound so far away.”

  “I’m headed north on highway five-fifty, just about fifteen miles south of Durango, Colorado,” she informed the duo.

  “Ah, I love Colorado. What’s going on in Durango?” Tim and Mark commented and asked simultaneously.

  “Well, I’m actually on my way to Telluride for the annual Food and Wine Magazine Jazz Festival.”

  “Do you like jazz music?” Tim quizzed.

  “Um, I enjoy all kinds of music, just not rap or hip-hop, but I do like wine and eating,” Chloe answered laughingly.

  “What’s a cover model like you going up into the snow country for?” Mark probed.

  As he was speaking, Mark pointed to Tim then tapped himself on the chest. From that moment on it was understood that the two disc jockeys would alternate their questions for Chloe.

  “Well, it’s really a business trip mixed with pleasure. We’re partnering with the American Red Cross on a national blood drive.”

  “Now, do they draw your blood before or after the wine festival?” Tim followed up.

  “I wish after. I hate needles and I can’t stand the sight of blood. So if I’m gonna give blood, I gotta be a little schnockered.”

  “Now, is it just you going on this trip?” Mark probed.

  “Oh, no. This is a full-out blitz. It’s me, Daniella Pestova, Eva Herzigova, Michelle Behennah, Rebecca Romijn, and Heidi Klum.”

  “I can honestly say that if I were to see all of you live at one time and in person, I would just let them take all of my blood. Period,” Tim confessed.

  “Oh, how sweet! But I think you’re confused. The festival and the blood drive aren’t related, they just happen to be going on at the same time. The jazz festival is every year. The blood drive goes everywhere all the time.”

  “How did you land this gig with being on the cover?” Mark then asked.

  “Yeah, ‘cuz aren’t you some kind of genius, egghead, bookworm nerd?” Tim added.

  “That wasn’t nice!” Chloe laughingly exclaimed.

  “Tim, how many times do I have to tell you don’t insult the bikini girls?”

  “Yeah, Tim, don’t insult the gorgeous, highly intellectual, internationally famous swimsuit model,” Chloe added.

  “I apologize, Chloe. As I understand it, you are currently enrolled at MIT. Am I right?” Tim inquired.

  “Yes, I’m in my sophomore year.”

  “Have you declared your major?” Mark queried.

  “Biological and mechanical engineering with a minor in nanotechnology. I just don’t know what I’m going to do with a degree in nano yet. Maybe computers or robotics. I’m not sure.”

  “So, how do you go from MIT to SI?” Tim pressed.

  “Well, that was really a fluke. My cousin is a cadet at West Point and on the Army wrestling team. And my roommate, Julie, well her boyfriend is at the Naval Academy, and Army was wrestling against Navy last year. We decided to take a road trip to New York and go to their matches and come to find out one of the photographers for Sports Illustrated was there and he’s the brother of Cheryl Tiegs. After the match, Julie and I went to go congratulate my cousin and the photographer took a couple of pictures of us with the Army team. Cheryl saw the pictures a few days later and liked how I looked and tracked me down. She has contacts with Elite, Ford, Wilhelmina, John Casablancas, IMG … and set me up with a photo shoot. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

  “So, are you dropping out of school or are you going to try to do both?” asked Mark.

  “I am definitely not dropping out! Members on both sides of my family have worked at Los Alamos Labs, JPL, and Johns Hopkins. My great grandfather worked with Oppenheimer on the Manhattan Project and I know my mom and dad would kill me if I threw it all away.”

  “Okay, speaking of grandfathers, what’s the story I heard about your grandpa knowing Daniel Boone?” Tim asked.

  “Oh, yeah! Grandpa Isaac. He was my—let me think about this—my great, great … great … great grandfather. He was born a couple of years after the ratification of the US Constitution and died in nineteen-ten, I believe. Maybe nineteen-eleven.”

  “Shut up!” “You’re pulling my leg!” and “Aw, c’mon!” rang out over the airwaves as the radio hosts voiced their skepticism.

  “No, I’m serious! He was like a hundred and twenty-two years old when he died. He knew Daniel Boone and Sam Houston, met Davy Crockett, and if I recall correctly, he was in charge of an armory in Texas for the Confederacy during the Civil War. He was called �
�The Walking Man’ ‘cuz he walked everywhere. There’s a historical marker about him in China Springs, Texas. That’s just northwest of Waco.”

  “So do you plan on living ‘til you’re a hundred and twenty?” Mark asked.

  “I don’t know. I think that would be an incredible experience. My great-grandma Mary Molly lived to be ninety-nine, Grandma Marguerite was ninety-six when she passed away, and my Mimi was ninety when she passed. So I don’t know … maybe. We have both Cherokee and Comanche blood in our family and a history of longevity.”

  “All right, I’m dying to know and tired of waiting … what’s your IQ?” Tim boldly inquired.

  “Oh, come on, guys, don’t make me say that on the air!”

  “Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!” the two men squealed.

  “Ugh! All right! One thirty-one.”

  “Wow! Beauty, brains, and blood. Chloe, thank you so very much for speaking with us,” Tim stated.

  “Oh, you’re so welcome! I’ll be sure to come by the studios next time I’m in town. Bye y’all.”

  “Bye, Chloe!” the men said simultaneously.

  After the call ended, Tim was first to comment to the radio audience, “Man! If only there was a way to get her brain and bloodline in our bodies. Can you imagine what the world would be like if everyone was as smart and lived as long as Chloe and her family?”

  CHAPTER 3

  BABEL

  In 1955, both the United States and the Soviet Union announced plans for the development and deployment of an artificial satellite. The Russians were first to successfully launch their version, Sputnik, into space in October of 1957. With a low-Earth, elliptical orbital pattern, the shiny sphere transmitted pulses of radio waves for twenty-one days. The metallic ball was visible to the naked eye and amateur HAM radio operators as well as military and intelligence personnel could tune into the satellite’s frequency and listen to the ‘pings’ as it sped across the heavens. Sputnik circled the globe once every hour and a half, racing at an incredible eighteen thousand miles per hour. The tiny hemisphere finally reentered Earth’s atmosphere and burned up harmlessly in January of 1958.

  The surprising achievement of the Communists ushered in the hysteria and paranoia of the Space Race, precipitating the Cold War between the US and the Reds.