by Brian Doyle
In another picture, we see a fireman and a hose, hosing a burning truck and what’s left of a chipwagon. In another picture, part of a sign with part of Beethoven’s name on it, four wheels and a steering wheel and a policeman taking notes and almost everybody in Chinatown standing around. I make a joke. “I guess the fries were overdone this time, eh, Mr. Fryday?” Mr. Fryday starts crying all over again.
In another picture there’s an ambulance and a stretcher and the stretcher being lifted up and me, on the stretcher, laughing and waving at the camera!
“You were acting very strange after you hit your head and after Mr. Fryday put out your burning shirt. It’s the concussion. You’re still acting a little weird, if you want to know the truth!” says Dink.
Now, Dink has today’s Ottawa Sun with him. He shows me the front page. The whole front page is a big color photograph of the crowd in Chinatown watching the chipwagon and the truck burn down. Lots of people we know are in the picture. Right in the center there’s a group. Like a wedding picture. In the group I can see two or three waiters from Valentino’s. Also in the group I see six or seven half-naked women in high heels. And, right in the middle of the group, the star of the group: Guess who?
That’s right.
Mr. Boyle, hot-shot teacher!
Dink draws a circle around Mr. Boyle with a ball point.
“Guess where this picture’s going to hang pretty soon?” says Dink.
“Where?” I say, feeling too tired to guess.
“Inside your locker door at Tech when you go back,” says Dink.
Then Dink shows me one last photograph, by Dink, master photographer.
A photograph of a man with high pants, running up Somerset Street.
I look at Dink.
He nods.
It’s Dumper, alright.
Dumper, on the run!
“Listen to this,” says Dink. “Here’s what Dumper’s charged with.” Dink reads from a list: “dangerous driving, careless driving, speeding, impaired driving, criminal negligence, property damage, assault, resisting an officer, hit and run, public mischief, forgery, failing to stop at five intersections, operating a vehicle without a license, leaving the scene, fraud and illegal dumping of toxic substances!”
“They forgot one,” I say.
“Which one is that?” asks Mr. Fryday, blowing his nose.
“Insulting a person’s father,” I say.
Now the nurse comes in the room and kicks everybody out. My mother promises she’ll be back to see me as soon as she gets off work. She gives me a big wink and lets go my hand.
The last person to leave is Connie Pan.
She leans over the bed and kisses me on the forehead. It feels nice. She takes my hand. Her face looks like it’s in technicolor. It must be because of my concussion.
No! It’s not the concussion!
She’s wearing lipstick!
Yecch!
Should I tell her about where lipstick comes from?
No, I better not. I don’t want to hurt her feelings.
When she leaves, I’ll have a sleep.
I’m pretty tired. And my back stings a bit.
Maybe, after I’m asleep the nurse will come in and give my forehead a wipe for me. Rub the red grease off.
Connie Pan leaves.
I’ll go to sleep now.
I hope I’ll dream.
Too bad you can’t pick your dreams. If you could, I would pick my favorite dream, the one of my father playing “Hanging Gardens” on his trombone.
That would be nice.
Epilogue
I can smell cooking trout on a stick over a fire. I can feel my dad’s and my mom’s arms around me that morning after breakfast...I feel their tears of joy on my cheeks. Victory! I made it! I made it alone!