Tragically Enlightened

Brad “Beaker” LaRou yanked his face away from the bong and coughed smoke into the room. He squinted bloodshot eyes down at the phone on his coffee table, glass top reflecting his mop of hair and thin head. Nicknamed for his resemblance to the iconic muppet. It chittered along, flashing LISA. He swiped to answer.

“Hey babe-”

“BEAKER!”

The volume was maxed so her shriek tore throught he room. He jerked, dropping the bong and spilling the water over the carpet. Knowing he’d have to scrub the shit out of it or she’d tear his head off, he shrugged. “I’m here, what-”

“STOP TALKING!”

He waited. Her breath huffed over the phone. His mouth opened in a wide O as he figured out what was happening. Beaker picked up his phone and scurried to their bedroom as she panted into the phone.

“I NEED YOU TO-” She groaned.

“Im on it babe, no worries.”

“BEAKER!”

“How far apart are the contractions?”

Lisa whimpered.

It made him pause and press the phone to his forehead, eyes closed. “It’s okay. Breathe. I got you.”

“You’re not here.”

“I will be.”

She paused and spoke to someone. A young female voice responded, accusatory and annoyed.

“Is that Mia? Hey Mia!”

The phone rattled as it was passed over. “You even sober?”

“No doubt. How long between contractions?”

“Seven minutes.”

“Aight, Im on my way.”

“Don’t die,” Mia said in a tone that suggested she hoped the opposite.

“Don’t say that to him,” Lisa growled as she yanked the phone back. “Brad, I need you here. Our hospital. Please.”

“On it.”

“But…be careful.”

“Babe.” He pulled the phone back and kissed the screen hard, making a loud smacking sound. “Aint nothin gonna keep me away.”

“Okay. But I don’t want to lose you.” She kissed the phone as he opened the closet. It was sparse; a few hanging shirts and a bag on the floor. It was damp and dark, resting in a puddle. “Get here…but be safe.”

“You bet.” He hung up and sighed. Picked up the bag and held it at arms length. It dripped. Brad turned the closet light on. A softball sized bubble protruded from the wall at knee height. The kitchen was on the other side. “Burst pipe. That sucks.”

He dumped the bag out on the bed. Wincing as he realized the sopping wet piled would soak through the bedding and mattress. “Dumb move, Beaks.”

No time to fix the pipe. He had to get moving. Brad plucked Lisa’s things out of the bag. Her favorite comfy clothes he wrung out onto the floor, and hung them above the heater. Then grabbed a fan and pointed it at the wet floor. From under the bed he grabbed his work backpack. Dumped the laptop and tech gear out on the floor. Something cracked. He whinced

“Gonna pay for that later.” The grin never left. He could do his job from his phone. Had before. It wasn’t fun but it was doable. Grabbed his work uniform from the laundry basket. Only needed it to visit a clients house. He balled them up and wrapped her two favorite damp tops around them before stuffing them in the bag with some towels and the soaked birth plan notebook. “Hope that does somethin.”

Brad slung the backpack on and clipped the mid section around his ribs. “Go time.”

The landline rang as he passed. He flipped it off.

“Not a fuckin chance.”

The door slammed behind him. He paused. Tried the knob. It wouldn’t turn. He patted his jeans. Keys were inside. Brad sighed. “The hard way I guess.”

He ran to the stairs, not willing to risk the elevators getting stuck again. After getting stuck in one together for three hours, Lisa insisted he only use the stairs. He hopped the rail at each turn, saving precious seconds. Eight stories. Panting hard by the time he got to the exit and burst into the street, crashing into the chest of their large samoan neighbor.

“Hey Keola.”

The big man glared down. He grabbed Brad’s shirt. “Always cousin us problems.” His voice was deep and gravelly. “Always pissing me off.”

“Listen bro-”

“Ain’t your bro.”

“Sure friend-”

“Aint your-”

“Im havin a baby!”

Keola’s eyebrows went up.

“Lisa called. Happening right now. Just tryin to get to her. We got beef; I wrecked your wife’s garden.” They’d gotten locked out and Beaker tried to scale the outside to the kitchen window. Fell on the communal garden, right on Keola’s veggie patch. Ruined them all. “How bout you let me go now and I’ll let you lay me out after. Don’t make me miss my kid’s birth.”

Keola glowered. Released his shirt. “Get movin.”

“Thanks, guy.”

“Im not your,” Keola rubbed his eyes as Brad slipped past. “Whatever. Congratulations.”

“Thanks!”

“Try to be less of a fuckup.”

“Sure thing.” He winked at Keola, who’s eyes darkened. But he didn’t chase.

Brad got to the bike rack and grabbed his electric bike. Pride of his possessions. He yanked. It didn’t move, his hands slipping free and spilling him to his bony ass.

“Sonofabitch.”

Bike lock. Key was with the others, locked inside.

“Coolsies.” He looked around. Spotted a piece of busted rebar. Wedged it between the narrow bars of the bike rack wrapped by the chainand pulled.They snapped, the motion sudden enough his hands slipped free, tearing his palms open. He whipped his hands, spraying blood on the concrete. “That’ll do.”

Beaker slipped the chain off the bar and tangled it around the bike spokes. It would throw the weight off for the wheel but it was usable. He hopped on, glad he’d modified it to be keyless given his frequent issues and hit acceleration. It sputtered forward a few feet and died. Wouldn’t respond further, the battery dead or disconnected and he didn’t have the tools or the time to deal with it.

“Goin man powered then.”

He stood up on the pedals and booked it, building speed as fast as possible. Burst onto the sidewalk and crashed into a homeless man’s cart and careened into traffic. Debris flew like confetti. A tattered shirt wrapped his head.

Car horns blared from all directions. Air currents of passing cars snatched at him, wobbling the bike, threatening to unseat him. Brad ripped it off as he reached the other side of the road and nearly crashed into a light pole. “Fuckfuckfuck.” Managed to skid around it by planting his foot and pivoting. It wrenched something in his knee. A sharp pain. Nothing tore or broke. Conditioning from a lifetime of this unique survival.

“Fuuuuck youuuuu.” He said, weaving the bike between pedestrians.

The hospital wasn’t far, only a few miles. Brad had memorized the city, back alleys and all. By the time he was halfway, he’d clipped several people, lost a shoe to a feral cat, and outraced a naked man with a broken bottle. But when approaching the largest highway intersection in the city, Brad started to brake.

Something popped. The chain rattled and detached, rattling on the ground. Each pedal rolled without affect.

Through gritted teeth Beaker said “Oh shhhhhh-” He sounded like air escaping a balloon as he hurtled toward the crowd waiting at the crosswalk. If they’d remained huddled he’d crash into them. Avoid the traffic. Some primal instinct caused them to turn like birds sensing danger. They parted. He flew past.

A taxi missed him.

A sedan kissed his front wheel. The lock made it wobble, turning him sideways, ironically saving him from being smeared by a pickup truck.

He overcorrected back. Squealing tires and blaring horns erupted around him.

A side mirror clipped his shoulder, breaking off and spinning him. Electric pain filled his arm. Brad never even saw the car. Somehow he stayed on, though off the seat, leaning over the bars.

Grinning wide, he howled “Yaba Daba DOOOOOOOO!” His feet slapped agains the ground. Cars flowed around him like a current. He was almost to the other side.

BRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAA

He turned to see a semi bearing down on him, the front grill ready to swallow him. A sticker on the bumper screamed YES, MY DRIVING SCARES ME TOO! with a smiley face winking and giving a thumbs up.

Brad opened his mouth wide, tongue lolling out, giving it the craziest look he could. “Not today you Maximum Overdrive reject!” He threw his weight forward into a stoppie, minus the brakes. The back wheel rose into the air.

His body was clear but the semi clipped the raised back wheel. It spun him like a top with the front wheel as point of support. Brad clenched every muscle, biting down on his tongue hard till he tasted blood. Kept balance long enough to be comical but was thrown from the bike toward the crosswalk crowd on the other side of the intersection.

He’d spent his youth wanting to be a stuntman. Instinct made him go limp mid air. The world spun. He hit the ground and rolled; first sideways, then shoulder first, tucking his head below his arm for protection. Pain exploded across his body. He hit the curb with his shoulder, his legs carrying over his head. The same instinct had him follow it, whipping his upper body along into a half successful kip up, landing on his feet but without balance.

There was a bus stop with a metal bench. He aimed for the space between an old lady and a young one. They stared at him with wide, terrified eyes as he stumbled forward, arms pinwheeling. The young woman shrank aside, widening the gap as he faceplanted into the hard plastic wall. His nose crunched. Blood exploded down his chin. Brad slid to the bench between them, left leg stretched out in a spasms of pain.

“Eefnin,” he said to the older woman, his grin bloody and wide. “Sorry fer the thtate oth thee.” Gripping his nose, he straightened it with a crack and whimper.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Kind of you. Im fine.” He turned to the young lady who scooted further away. “Bit rude. But can’t blame you.” Turning back, he snorted back a glob of bloody snot and swallowed. Didn’t taste a thing. Then he tucked a hand under the front of his shirt and stuffed it up his nostrils. “Im gonna be a dad!”

“Uh. Congratulations.”

“Thanks much.” He held out a hand to her. “Beaker LaRou. Papa to be.”

She stared at his hand like it was infected. “No thanks.”

He frowned, noticing the blood, broken bits of gravel and glass jutting from the dirt streaked flesh. Wiped it on his shirt, careful not to unplug his nose, and didn’t feel it. Something was broken. “All good.” He shook his bad leg out, gasping at the pain but grateful it tingled. There was a looseness in the joint he didn’t like.

When he looked at the road, he saw the mangled wreck of his bike. As if to emphasize a point another semi rolled over it, the wheels chewing it up and spitting it to the curb.

“Bus comin soon?”

The old woman looked uncomfortable to be so close to him. He scooted away to give her some breathing room. Looked to the young woman and asked with his eyebrows.

“Sh..Should be soon.”

“Groovy.”

“You should call an ambulance.”

“Already headed to a hospital. Im gravy.”

A blue bus pulled up, avoiding the ruin of his bike. Most of the crowd hurried on. He stood, limping since his left leg couldn’t take the pressure, and saluted the bike.

“You never let me down. I won’t forget you.”

The bus door started to shut.

“No you don’t!” He lurched forward and got his arm in before it could close, pulling the shirt from his nostrils. Thick blood clots slapped against his chest like gory nip tassels. Brad pried the door open and limped up the few stairs. There were plenty of seats. That lucky. He looked at the terrified bus driver.

“Son, you need help.”

“This goin to the hospital?”

“Passin by it.”

“Care to make an extra stop? Im gonna be a dad.” He put on his most winning smile. It was grizzly.

“Uh. Sure.”

“Thanks friend.” Brad slapped the guy on the shoulder. Hand was still numb. Definitely broken.

He dropped into the front seat next to a man in a mechanics uniform who didn’t bat an eye at the state of him, sporting his own collection of scrapes, knicks, and bruises. Their eyes met. Gave each other a knowing nod.

They almost made it. Blew a tire a few blocks away. With a sigh and a soft smile, the mechanic offered to help the bus driver replace it. Sliding past Brad, he stuffed a wad of cash into his hand.

Brad teared up. “Thanks, man.”

“We steep in misfortune so others have it clean.”

“We help each other where we can.”

Brad let the tears fall. “Though often late, nothing bars us from our need.”

“And those who love us, understand.”

They bumped fists.

“Ramble on, brother.” The mechanic rolled up his sleeves, pulled out a phone and typed a message to his family that he’d be a little late. Nothin new.

Brad tried to hail a taxi as he limp-scurried in the general direction. Nothin. A rickshaw bike was headed that way. He gave half the money to the kid passenger to give it up and the other to the driver.

They almost got trapped by a marching band, but the rickshaw biker drove through them with a vicious glee, making them scatter. He skidded to a stop at the hospital.

Looking like a horror movie extra, hospital staff almost didn’t let him in, but he ducked weaved through them till he got to the room as they were prepping Lisa to deliver. Mia was at her side. Beaker took her favorite clothes from the bag (not exactly dry, but a lot less damp and still cold) and gave her head some extra cushion. When she started pushing, Mia cried out in pain when Lisa’s grip nearly broke her fingers.

With a wink, Beaker said “I got it. You wipe sweat and talk to her. You’re better at it anyway.” He slipped his broken hand into Lisa’s and let her squeeze as hard as she wanted, ignoring the crackle and grind under the skin. Didn’t feel much around the excitement.

His face hurt from smiling. It got worse when their baby was lifted up, screaming mad and beat red.

Lisa cuddled her. Mia cooed. They all wept. “What do we name her?” Lisa asked.

“She’s got your fire,” Brad replied. “Seraphina?”

Even Mia liked it.

Later, as Lisa and Seraphina rested, after Brad had been doped, bandaged and cast up, he leaned against the door to her room, letting her sleep and staying nearby. His smile had softened but never left.

Mia sidled up beside him. “You made it.”

“Said I would.”

“Good. I’m…glad.”

“Me too.”

“Look, Beaker-”

“No, you look.” He pushed off the wall and turned to her. Mia’s eyes were wide and confused. “Cards on the table: we both love her. We all know it and we never say it. So, Im saying it. And honestly? I don’t care. You’ve known her longer. You guys got together before. You make her happy. But I also make her happy. The problem, as I see it, is you and I are chronic monogamists. Lisa? Not as much. But I’m a realist.” He raised his broken hand, having already doodled a mohawk skull on it. “I gotta be. With me so far?”

Mia nodded, cheeks red.

“Good. I make her happy right now. That might not always be the case, but Im okay with that. I think you’re great for her. And Seraphina won’t be hurt by a strong second mom or aunt or however she chooses to view you. You and I aren’t into sharing, so whatever or whoever Lisa wants, when she wants them, I will respect that. I won’t get in the way, as long as I can still be part of her and Seraphina’s life. I’m it right now, and I’ll try my fuckin best but I don’t KNOW we’ll last. And you, my friend, would be great for her.”

Mia’s mouth hung open in shock.

“We both love her. We both stick around. We don’t get in each other’s way and we find a way to be happy for each other, no matter the outcome.” He stuck out his busted hand. “Deal?”

She reached out. Hesitated. Then gripped his cast. “I can respect that.”

“Righteous.”

They both looked into the room at Lisa, sleeping on her side with a slight smile on her face.

“You really think we can make that work?”

Brad shrugged, ginning, tears glistening on his cheeks. “Let’s find out, yeah?”