by Jen Finelli
Blood trickled down Carl's neck.
*
“Have you been drinking? You smell gross.”
Juan Carlos's voice blended in Carl's dizzy mind with the car air vent sounds, and the buzzing of the tires on the road. He didn't open his eyes, and he didn't answer the boy's question. Just get us to the hospital, kid, just do that. He wanted to drive, but now he was fading in and out of consciousness in earnest.
“What'd Luis do to your head?”
Another question. “Didn't you just get beat up, kid?” Carl grumbled.
The kid didn't say anything for a second. They bounced over a hard bump in the road. Carl winced. “Oops, sorry,” Juan Carlos said. And then, “I dunno, I think I'm okay. I think you saved my life.”
“I know I did. Guys get killed trying to leave gangs. Guys bigger'n you, papi.”
Something selfish and ugly inside Carl wanted the kid just a little more injured so he'd take this seriously. I drilled a hole in my head, cabron, and for what?!
He clenched his jaw and told the something to leave him alone. He'd done the right thing. He didn't need a near miss to justify it.
“When your dad meets us at the hospital, tell him to take my key and hide my armor in my apartment,” Carl said. “Don't tell anyone else what happened. Not the doctors, no one.”
“Why can't you tell him yourself?”
“I might not be conscious, papi.”
The kid didn't say anything. Carl resisted the urge to guilt him. “Juan Carlos,” Carl sighed.
“Yeah?”
“Proud of you for getting out.”
“I'd been visualizing it.”
“Good man.”
And with that, Carl switched off the glasses, and let the nauseated darkness take him away.
*
“What the hell were you thinking? I should have you committed to a mental hospital!”
Carl tried not to fiddle with the bandages on the back of his head as the neurologist hissed at him, leaning right into his face, pale scared doctor fingers clawing the edge of the hospital bed in the soft morning light. With all the pain finally gone, Carl just wanted the days of post-surgery sameness to end: the foreman had found him an IT job through a family connection, and while Carl would miss working in construction, he couldn't wait to get started and go back to college.
But the neurologist couldn't stop scolding. “You're lucky the drill didn't penetrate deeper than your cortex, or drain your CSF, or permanently destroy your sight! What quack sold you this implant?”
“I built it, sir.”
“You built it? You built it?”
The neurologist stepped back, stumbling through the room with his hands in his hair as his voice derailed into a clenched-teeth squeal. “Carl, Carl—” He regained himself and came back to the bedside. “Well, I couldn't take the implant out. It's in there now. We got a neurosurgeon to help me install it properly, and when your next attack comes, you can switch it on through the glasses, and you'll be able to see. I hope you're happy.”
“I think I'm going to make the lenses more compact, so I don't have to tape this contraption to my head again,” Carl said, looking over at the camera-glasses lying on the table by the bed.
The neurologist groaned. “You really don't see how serious this is, do you?”
“Oh, it's serious. My insurance won't pay for a self-inflicted injury. Can you make the billing say Luis stabbed me in the head? Say it damaged my sight so I needed the implant.”
“And just like that, I'm supposed to make the consequences all go away!” The doctor was literally choking on his words. “Carl, I understand, I understand you're scared of MS. I know—”
Carl interrupted him. “It wasn't about me. I needed to be able to see to get that kid out of there. I would never have put a hole in my skull if my sight hadn't failed.”
“I believe you really want to help people, but if you don't think this is in some way about you, you're deluded.” With that, the neurologist turned heel and left the room.
Carl waited a few seconds. The neurologist's hanging head poked back through the doorway. “I'll get things sorted for you with billing,” the doctor sighed.
“Thanks.”
“I don't mean to sound harsh. I know you're only nineteen. College sophomores do stupid things all the time.”
“Yeah.”
“It's just more dangerous because you're smart. It's still a big deal.”
“At least I'm not drinking, driving, and shooting up.”
“I suppose so.”
The neurologist left with a long, long sigh.
Carl smiled.
*
“I dunno, he's just so OP.”
The late afternoon light glinted off the bell on the door of the comics shop as it jingled to announce the entrance of two teen customers. One walked with his eyes glued to his phone; the other was already quick-drawing his wallet for his cartoon fix. They both wore superhero tees.
“His name's dumb, too,” said Wallet-Boy. “Robot-Man?”
A twenty-something in a wheelchair in the shop's far corner looked up.
“Come on, Hector, that's what the news called him,” said Phone-Kid. “You don't get to choose your name.”
“Skye and Thunder chose their names.”
“Yeah, but Robot-Man was the first one. He's the one who trained them all.”
The twenty-something smiled and ducked his face back behind a news magazine cover that read, “The Guardians: A Look Back at the Recent Rise of the Teenage Powerhouses.” Silhouettes and masks graced the illustrations, as on the covers of all the publications in that dingy aisle. “Superheroes in the News”, said the sign on the shelf.
“Hey Carlos, what do you think?” Hector paused his payment, leaning on the counter with his elbows.
“I think you're never gonna get your computer fixed,” the young man in the wheelchair answered without looking up.
“Well that sounds villainous,” said Phone Kid.
“He wants me to rake some old lady's yard instead of paying him in cash.” Hector shrugged. “Ain't nobody got time for that. Come on, Carlos, wha'd'you think of Robot-man?”
“I don't know.”
“I just can't stand it when superheroes are basically all-powerful,” Hector repeated. “It's not cool if it's easy. He's too OP.”
“They're saying maybe he's an alien,” said Phone Kid.
“Yeah, see, that's cheating. No glory without struggle!”
“Mm.” The young man laid the magazine on his lap and wheeled his way to the glass door as the boys continued chatting. He liked listening in on the fans, but they made him a little tired, and with the way his MS was progressing he needed to conserve energy. The door jangled as it closed behind him.
Carl sucked in the fall with a sigh. A gust of wind blew orange leaves down past him.
His watch buzzed. He smiled.
Robot-Man was needed.
~The End
You’re needed, too! You can become a real hero who mentors teens who need a little help through the Big Brother Big Sister programs at www.bbbs.org.
You can learn more about multiple sclerosis, and how to support people with multiple sclerosis, at the website of the nationalmssociety.org. I was quoted in an article about it here: http://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/315696.php
The Girl in the Red Hijab
Asia Fareedi
Day One and One
“I don't serve your kind.”
The young girl looked up from the pink chapstick and white chocolate she'd laid on the convenience store counter. Her wide, doe-like eyes narrowed under the shadow of her crimson hijab.
“Excuse me?” she asked.
“I don't serve your kind!” The man behind the counter folded his beefy arms and thrust out his lower lip. He spat a slur, and repeated. “Your kind. I don't serve!”
The girl's long, curved nose wrinkled. “What do you think my kind is?”
“I'm not here to d
iscuss it, and you're on your way out!” The man's thick, dark fingers fumbled at the chapstick and the chocolate, knocking them off the counter, and the girl wondered what his kind was. Anyone would guess he'd experienced racism too, at least with that skin tone, she thought. Was this perhaps his way to “kick the dog” rather than stand up to his oppressors?
“What are you waiting for? Don't you speak English? Get out!”
“Oh my gosh!” Another female voice, a voice distinctly “valley-girl white”, gasped. “Asia, is this guy discriminating against you? Oh my gosh!”
“He was just helping me get my stuff into a plastic bag,” answered the girl in the hijab, looking over the counter to see the scattered goods lying everywhere. “On the floor, the way I like it.” Asia's eyes returned to the beefy man's face. What was he? He almost looked Iran-American himself.
The valley-girl flipped her hair over her shoulder and quick-drew her cell phone, circling the counter like a hyena on a corpse. “Hello viewers,” she spoke into the phone. “Here we have a classic example of anti-Arab discrimination. This man has just—”
“You don't have permission to record in this establishment.” The man reached for his own phone. “I'm calling the police!”
The girl in the hijab took one long look at the two phones locked in combat, and with sigh, she left.
The store door jangled behind Asia as she blinked under the streetlight. No stars visible tonight—only the fluttering moths, clustered around the only glow on the road. She always took this way home, but not usually so late.
“I am so sorry,” said the other girl, catching up with her again as she began down the street. “I, for one, really respect your faith.”
Asia smiled. “And what faith is that?”
Her school-mate stammered. “I'm—I'm sorry?”
“I wear the hijab by choice in memory of the women who wear it with no choice,” Asia said. “Nothing against anybody, but I'm not a Muslim.”
“Oh my gosh, why didn't you tell him that?”
Asia set her small jaw. “Because it shouldn't matter.”
The pale girl stammered for a second before launching off at a mile a minute. Asia put her hands in her pockets and straightened her back, trying to listen but honestly too tired to hear about how the girl was sorry she'd just committed an institutional micro-aggression by assuming an Arab woman was Muslim, but hold on, wasn't wearing the hijab cultural appropriation, and like, like, she totally knew she should check her own privilege but really wasn't it appropriation though—
Asia didn't interrupt. She'd had a long day at school, and at this point she just wanted her favorite hot tea, a book, and a bed. She'd really wanted that chocolate. If her classmate wanted to buy it for her, that would be nice. What was her name again? They only had the one class together...
“Asia...”
Asia looked up from her floral-patterned flats to see the other girl had finally fallen silent. “I'm sorry, I'm not my usual talkative self without chocolate,” Asia said. Hint hint.
“No, it's not that, it's—I left my purse in the store!”
“Don't worry, I'll walk back with you.”
As they turned back down the dark street, the store door jangled again. Asia stayed outside, leaning on the glass and checking her phone, while her classmate went back in.
She stiffened when two large men swaggered out of the shadows, one wearing a skin-tight black muscle shirt and the other wearing a suit. She looked straight into their faces, vying for eye contact—she'd read street rapists avoided women who could recognize their faces in a line-up.
They didn't look at her. They went inside.
Asia turned her back, pretending not to watch through the corner of of her eye as her classmate scurried around the store. The men stood at the store counter, silent, as if waiting for her to leave. The air bristled.
The valley girl didn't notice. She dug through her purse nose-first, as if she intended to dive inside the handbag altogether. Asia rapped on the window to hurry her along. The other girl raised a “wait” finger. The men stared at her. The clerk began to sweat.
Asia didn't know she'd had her breath held until the bells finally jangled and the other girl exited.
“Sorry about that, I wanted to make sure that guy didn't take anything out of it!”
Asia tuned her out, slowing her pace as they passed the store. She caught the tail end of one of the men's voices inside: “You fail your payment again, you can say goodbye to your little store...”
The other girl quickened her step.
“I hate walking through this area after dark. Let's hurry, Asia!”
But Asia slowed...listening.
Day Two
Asia swung her handbag. She still liked the fraying green tassels, swinging in the cool evening breeze...wouldn't hurt to get a new one, though. The persecuted Kerenni minority who made these bags could probably use another contribution and, well, she was thinking about starting to date.
She didn't know why it was such a hard decision. She had good grades and free time. She didn't want to spend her life single. She knew so much about safety, thanks to her mom and her odd Tumblr habits. Her parents wouldn't care. So...why not?
Because wasn't “I don't want to be alone” a sign of low self-esteem? Shouldn't she be self-assured enough to enjoy time alone with herself? Shouldn't a relationship be about loving someone, not testing someone? And there were other ways to be friends with boys...
A yellow glow drew her eye West. Hadn't the sun already set by now? The rest of the sky hung a darkening blue, except for that growing, flickering light.
Asia turned the corner to see a building on fire.
“Oh my gosh!” She ran forward, taking her phone out to dial 911 as her flats slapped the sidewalk. Oh, it was the store where the clerk had kicked her out! She found a crowd gathering outside. Was that—one of the men who'd threatened the clerk hanging around the back of the crowd—?
More freaky still: why was everyone just standing here, in silence, like it was a funeral?
“Hey,” she yelled. “Is anyone inside?”
No one looked at her. She paced in front of the window, spitting details into her cell for the 911 operator, not even really listening to herself—“Oh gosh, there's a body between those two shelves. Oh gosh oh gosh—”
Fingers on her shoulder.
Asia jumped, and whirled, breathing fast: “I'm sorry, you scared me, I—”
“You'll wanna put that away.” The young man nodded towards her phone, adjusting his red durag with a furtive glance back at the crowd.
“What?” Asia asked. “Did someone already call? I don't—”
“No. No one calls these in.”
Seeing Asia's incredulous face, the young man almost threw his hands up in the air. “Look, pretty lady, I can tell you're not from this neighborhood, so I'm just letting you know. It's okay; you didn't know.”
It didn't take Asia more than two sentences to realize he was stalling her as he reached for her phone. Over his shoulder she could see fire beginning to crawl up the shelf next to the prone figure.
“You see they're filming an indie production here, and the fire's part of a stunt...”
Really? With out a single policeman or fireman around to supervise?
Asia's mouth dried as she stared at the fire clawing its way up the bookshelf. Debris fell around the figure; she heard cans of food popping from the heat, sounding off like firecrackers...
Without interrupting the stranger's babble Asia ran next door, hearing only her heartbeat in her ears, the plat plat plat of her flats, and the rhythmic thonk of the books in her bag bouncing against her leg—
“Bathroom is for customers only!” yelled the diner's hostess as Asia dashed by. The hostess waved her red and white cap. “Hey! Hey!”
Asia shoved through the wooden bathroom door and with both clammy hands yanked the tap on all the way. She tore off her hijab and dunked it in the water. The wet fabric grew heavy
, its threads thicker and rougher under her fingers as she rubbed and shook it back and forth under the water, soaking every corner. She whirled and ran back out, splashing water in a great big arc—”Hey, hey!” yelled the waitress. “I'm gonna call the cops, you crazy Arab—” Asia could only hear the crackling of burning plastic and wood as she imagined the shelf toppling over to crush the person on the floor.
In front of the store, Asia stopped. Flames waved out the second-story window above her head. She took two terrified breaths. Asia wrapped the wet hijab around her hands to open the hot door—push—okay, she was in!
Oh gosh, it was hot! Her hands flew up around her face! Her hijab wrapped over her nose and mouth, lukewarm and soothing as the smoke stung her eyes, and she pushed forward. She could see the flames flowing from the back of the store, towering over the shelves, leaping from aisle to aisle. The person on the floor—a man, she saw now—was lying between the front two shelves as they caught fire. Asia knelt by the window, in the shadow of the blaze, and gripped his wrists to drag him backwards to the door.
Oh gosh he was heavy. Only a few more feet to go—Asia's shoulders ached as she strained, as the man's belt scraped across the tile floor, screeching one step at a time—
Her rear hit the hot, hard glass behind her. She whirled to remove her hijab, holding her breath and squinting her eyes and scrunching her cheeks as the heat blew in her face. She gripped the hijab between her palms and the door as she flung it open—
With the gust of air the fire behind her roared louder and front shelves collapsed, throwing up sparks! Asia jumped; the door bounced against her as she gripped the man's collar and yanked in her fright, throwing herself almost to the ground with that one last pull through the doorway.
The people in the crowd stared at Asia as she caught her breath, re-draping the soggy hijab over her head. She blinked, and breathed, and blinked again, before dragging the man a few more feet onto the sidewalk. She recognized him now as the clerk who didn't serve “her kind.” Just in time, too. The front window now filled with flames, like a fish tank with fire instead of water, and the fire truck finally rolled up. Asia bent over, hands on her knees. Gosh, her eyes stung.