Holding Pain

Holding Pain

Craig Reger

Copyright © 2014 Craig Reger

Published by Palindrome Publishers

Distributed by Smashwords

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I will admit I am the third best writer in my family. I am a distant third no less. Holding Pain is a thought provoking place holder between my first publication Mays Window and my upcoming follow up to Mays Window titled, If I May.

Therese Reger has recently written a wonderful story titled, Louisiana, A Love Story. Bill Reger writes literary pieces that we should all be so lucky to read and understand. Bill has bestowed this reading privilege upon me, because I asked.

Filled with irony, personal history and reflection, Holding Pain is the equivalent of uncertainty, which for sure is a sign of weakness.

I continue to search and write about the journey. Holding Pain is part of your journey, maybe now you will realize it.

Craig Reger, 2014

Table of Contents

Heartbreak Hill

Kat The Bulldog

Cadillac Epitaph

The City of Burroak

Acknowledgements

Heartbreak Hill

Destiny Erased

After landing on my shadow in the middle of the vindictive street, I mentally inventoried my lanky runners frame for points of pain and asymmetry and eventually concluded I could hop on one leg to the lighted sidewalk and lay down to wait for the delayed fury of bodily grievances. I must have landed some twenty feet past the point of impact. In the distance my luminescent motorcycle light was still beaming into the night sky. My helmet had flown off on impact. The glass enclosed bus stop gave me a momentary view of myself. Oddly, my head and face still seemed intact after my unexpected airborne detour. The driver of the vehicle who hit me looked to be a young man, possibly a college student. He was leaning on his vehicle talking on a cell phone, nervously running his hands through his black hair. It was destiny that the only working street light was the one where I happened to crash land near. My pant leg was shredded and my lower leg glistened under the flickering street light. I was calm but aware that I was only two weeks away from running the most famous marathon, the Boston Marathon. I can make it, I will make it.

One of the first bystanders to arrive at the scene unloaded his dinner and Boston Lager five feet from where I lay after glimpsing my mangled leg. I asked him if he was alright. While dry-heaving, he explained to the other gawkers a visual intolerance to blood. I asked him to go get me a cigarette to ease my anxiety. I don't smoke.

A choir of shadows stood guard under the streetlight and a soft translucent rain was determined to find its way to the sidewalk as Schubert's unfinished symphony rang in my head. A few socially attentive patrons of Madonna's Ristorante began to filter out and gawk at my public misfortune while making sure the rest of the world saw my pain. One generous bystander claimed to be an honors medical student at Harvard. I felt instant unease with his claim of scholarly honors. He began to unbutton his top button and loosen his Red-Sox World Champions tie with hesitant bravery.

Hey Garciaparra I said, no tourniquet is needed, I have an excellent cardiovascular system and exsanguination was not likely.

It would look better on him as a tie than on me as a tourniquet. The honors student needed a valid reason not to help.

~

The loudest voice was an internal voice, asking the central question; how would I get to class tomorrow from my off-campus apartment? My ex-girlfriend Erica would not be interested in being my personal taxi service. There would be the difficult question of her senior class president boyfriend, Walter Duke. Walter hides his many deficiencies behind his family's political power. Erica's parents loved that she liked him and liked the thought that Erica didn't love me. Dammit, how will I get to class? What little she got from Walter must have been even less from me. It has always been a difficult thought to reconcile. Four paramedics arrive in a screeching ambulance.

Don't worry kid, you're in good hands.

I am running the Boston Marathon in two weeks, how does my leg look?

A take charge paramedic yells to no-one in particular, Let's find something soft for his head to rest on!

"Where is my book-bag? My philosophy paper, 'Destiny is headed my way', is due tomorrow."

A red-haired Irish paramedic named Mick looks back at the scene where I was felled and says to the other scrambling paramedics, The car turned in front of him.

Can you turn my paper in for me at classroom 203 in Memorial Hall?

Mick asks the bystanders, Does anyone know what happened here?

I can feel my mouth moving but I am not being heard in the midst of the confusion. I decide to answer without speaking;

I was coming back from Widener Library. Yes, the driver ignored his red light and turned in front of me. I had no time to react.

Ian, a second paramedic says, The motorcycle is totaled. Maybe we can find a wallet or bag?

My name is Craig, and I am a 4th year Philosophy Major at Harvard College; I need my book-bag.

Can somebody grab that book-bag lying in the street over there? Does the bag have any information on relatives that may live in the area?

I have some relatives close by who are alive, but not really living?

Was he wearing a helmet? Ian yells.

It flew off on impact, aggravated with talking to myself.

Mick opens the book-bag as the other three paramedics secure oxygen, neck braces and leg splints.

God-Damn, you are a philosophy student at Harvard.

Wonderful, the awful social advantages of Harvard College are working even before I receive my over-priced diploma to wave to the world. I already told you I am a College Student Mick! I have two protestant Irish paramedics practicing vulgar religious art as I lie here wondering how I am going to get to class tomorrow?

Mick continues to thumb through Craig's daily planner as Craig and the medical team are swept into the back of Boston Medical Transport.

C'mon kid, where do your parents live? Hemingway.....Salinger.......there are some street maps of Boston outlining what looks to be the Boston Marathon course.

What else Mick?

"The kid's book-bag says Civil Disobedience on the name plate".

I am not as disobedient as advertised. I am doing research on the marathon course I will be running in two weeks.

I asked about the parents Mick!

Buffalo! Looks like his parents live in Buffalo!

Geez, isn't it cold there Mick?

Speaking of cold, we have to get Craig to the hospital, let's roll! Mick bangs his fist on the roof of the ambulance to signal to the driver that the passenger is fastened in.

~

The transport team is busy reading out vitals and exchanging information with the receiving team at the hospital. I begin to wonder why the absent minded driver who crushed my knee, motorcycle and chance to run in the Boston Marathon did not check on the standing of my rather acute injuries. Sure, he was in an indefensible situation, but a friendly entreaty of contrition before the ambulance tore into the night would have elicited a minimum amount of clemency from me. Not even that driving stooge deserves enduring guilt. What would I have done in his position? I would offer to swap positions and be the victim, after the Marathon of course. This is metaphysically impossible.... I must have taken a good knock to the head.

The glare of the oncoming traffic head lights race sporadically across the ceiling of the ambulance. I have never been in the chilling place of not having a choice. There was no place to look but up. There was no other place for my inconsolable thoughts to go except my head. I had no choice in being sent in an ambulance to the hospital. I requested the neck-brace to be removed; I was ignored. I requested a whiskey; again ignored.

Cambridge Hospital was a short drive, even shorter