Read Online Eternal Life Inc. by James Burkard - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Burkard
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his way out of the Sinks in a blaze of glory. Reality was a whole other ball of wax, he thought, as he took out the little thirty-eight and prepared to die.
Then, in the distance, he heard the howl of police sirens.Someone had managed to call in an emergency. As the sirens drew nearer, the spotlights flicked off, and Harry heard the grav-car turn and speed away.
After that, the night was filled with the flashing blue lights of heavily armored police cruisers and then the rocketing, screaming ride in the back of an ambulance, hanging over Susan, refusing to leave her side, begging the doctors to do something, to please make her better and later, the looks of sorrow and pity, the shake of the head, the words of regret and compassion. Susan was not dead but she might as well be. She had sustained massive brain damage and would never regain consciousness.
Only the life supports were keeping her alive. It would probably be a mercy to her to shut them off, the doctor suggested months later, when he thought Harry might be able to make such a decision. But Harry refused. How could he kill her again? She was alive, and he refused to believe that she would never wake up. Every day he went up to that sunlit room where he made sure there were always fresh flowers and he sat with her and waited.
Then one day, he didn’t go. He was too drunk; too drunk to even remember. It happened again the next day and the next and the next…And Susan lay alone in the hospital as Harry descended deeper into his own private hell of guilt and pain.
His career went on the skids, but he didn’t care. The only thing he wanted was the oblivion that hid in the bottom of a whiskey bottle. It was the same old story from Shakespeare to Hollywood; overweening pride followed by the fall from greatness and the precipitous descent into the depths. It was almost mythic in its sheer banality.
9
The Stuff that Dreams Are Made of
“Harry!” Roger yelled and shook his shoulder. “Are you listening, Harry? Don’t go nodding off on me.”
Harry opened his eyes. For a moment, old memories floated across his vision, like crash-foam floating on scummy water in the night.
“Look Harry, I’m sorry. Why don’t we just let bygones be bygones?” Roger ran his thick fingers through his thinning, ginger hair. “I mean, it all happened a long time ago. It’s water under the bridge.”
“It’s been five years,” Harry said. “And two since you stole my wife.”
“Roger leaned over and pushed his face right up into Harry’s. “I’m sick and tired of this bullshit, you hear! I didn’t steal anything!” His breath smelled of expensive cigars, aged whiskey and a hint of rotting meat. His bloodshot eyes stared straight at Harry. “I just picked up what you threw away with your drinking and womanizing.”
He straightened up, his face red and blotchy with anger. “Maybe you’re forgetting that it was me who brought her back to life. If it wasn’t for me, she’d still be a vegetable with plastic tubes running in and out of her and machines keeping her alive.” He jabbed a thick finger into Harry’s chest. “Remember, asshole, it wasn’t me who put her there in the first place!”
“I know what I did,” Harry said quietly. “And I know what you did. So spare me the noble Sir Galahad act. A suit of shiny armor and a white horse was never your style. All Susan was to you was a hot business prospect, a means to an end, a way of getting to me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself!” Roger said contemptuously.“Alcoholic has-beens like you are a dime a dozen. You were just lucky I happened to choose you.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it. You chose me because I was just what you needed, the perfect tool, and you knew I couldn’t say no. So let’s cut the crap! You didn’t give a shit about Susan, but hey, if she could put that perfect tool in your hands, you’d be willing to play Santa Claus for a day.”
Roger clucked his tongue and shook his
Then, in the distance, he heard the howl of police sirens.Someone had managed to call in an emergency. As the sirens drew nearer, the spotlights flicked off, and Harry heard the grav-car turn and speed away.
After that, the night was filled with the flashing blue lights of heavily armored police cruisers and then the rocketing, screaming ride in the back of an ambulance, hanging over Susan, refusing to leave her side, begging the doctors to do something, to please make her better and later, the looks of sorrow and pity, the shake of the head, the words of regret and compassion. Susan was not dead but she might as well be. She had sustained massive brain damage and would never regain consciousness.
Only the life supports were keeping her alive. It would probably be a mercy to her to shut them off, the doctor suggested months later, when he thought Harry might be able to make such a decision. But Harry refused. How could he kill her again? She was alive, and he refused to believe that she would never wake up. Every day he went up to that sunlit room where he made sure there were always fresh flowers and he sat with her and waited.
Then one day, he didn’t go. He was too drunk; too drunk to even remember. It happened again the next day and the next and the next…And Susan lay alone in the hospital as Harry descended deeper into his own private hell of guilt and pain.
His career went on the skids, but he didn’t care. The only thing he wanted was the oblivion that hid in the bottom of a whiskey bottle. It was the same old story from Shakespeare to Hollywood; overweening pride followed by the fall from greatness and the precipitous descent into the depths. It was almost mythic in its sheer banality.
9
The Stuff that Dreams Are Made of
“Harry!” Roger yelled and shook his shoulder. “Are you listening, Harry? Don’t go nodding off on me.”
Harry opened his eyes. For a moment, old memories floated across his vision, like crash-foam floating on scummy water in the night.
“Look Harry, I’m sorry. Why don’t we just let bygones be bygones?” Roger ran his thick fingers through his thinning, ginger hair. “I mean, it all happened a long time ago. It’s water under the bridge.”
“It’s been five years,” Harry said. “And two since you stole my wife.”
“Roger leaned over and pushed his face right up into Harry’s. “I’m sick and tired of this bullshit, you hear! I didn’t steal anything!” His breath smelled of expensive cigars, aged whiskey and a hint of rotting meat. His bloodshot eyes stared straight at Harry. “I just picked up what you threw away with your drinking and womanizing.”
He straightened up, his face red and blotchy with anger. “Maybe you’re forgetting that it was me who brought her back to life. If it wasn’t for me, she’d still be a vegetable with plastic tubes running in and out of her and machines keeping her alive.” He jabbed a thick finger into Harry’s chest. “Remember, asshole, it wasn’t me who put her there in the first place!”
“I know what I did,” Harry said quietly. “And I know what you did. So spare me the noble Sir Galahad act. A suit of shiny armor and a white horse was never your style. All Susan was to you was a hot business prospect, a means to an end, a way of getting to me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself!” Roger said contemptuously.“Alcoholic has-beens like you are a dime a dozen. You were just lucky I happened to choose you.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it. You chose me because I was just what you needed, the perfect tool, and you knew I couldn’t say no. So let’s cut the crap! You didn’t give a shit about Susan, but hey, if she could put that perfect tool in your hands, you’d be willing to play Santa Claus for a day.”
Roger clucked his tongue and shook his
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