The Big C Legacy

Sick. his dad was sick. His dad was sick and there was nothing Kirk could do. His father in the hospital, the big C. All that smoking had finally caught up with him. Lung cancer, stage 4. All anyone could do is bring flowers and watch him die. “Cancer is a spectator sport” he thought to himself, a sick guilty smile on his face. His eyes flitted side to side, checking to see if anyone had caught that atrocious whim of humor. Safe.

His father laid there in his sickly gray robe, hospital scrubs wading around his skeleton-like body. His dad groaned, snapping Kirk out of his abysmal thoughts.

“Hey dad, you awake?” his father shifted in place and turned his tired unopened eyes towards Kirk’s voice.

“Kirk” his eyes fluttered slightly, and opened. The weight of them was intense, it was hard for dad to stay awake and copacetic.

“Hey dad. I'm here”. He was an only child, and getting old himself. Kirk was always the only one here.

“Captain, my boy. Did you come to say goodbye? We have to say goodbye today”. Whistical and mimsy. Dreamy and doped.

“No dad, I came to say hi. You're not allowed to leave yet. Dr’s orders.” but Kirk knew that was far from the truth. His dad was probably right. It is probably time. His eyes stung, his mouth turned down. “Keep it together” chanted through his mind like a buddhists mantra.

“Goodbyes are hard. I know son.” His dad drew in uneasy breaths of air. Wheezy. Sneezy. Grumpy and doc. Doc. He didn't have any words of hope. Here you shall find none.

“ But if we all lived forever we wouldn't really be living, would we?”

Kirk brought his eyes up to his fathers, the cataracts glistening in the invasive putrid light. Why are hospital lights so abrasive? They should be touch lights, dim switches at least. Florescent is out. Led is in.

“How are you feeling old man?” his smile hurt. Forced, like a square peg in a round hole.

“Same as ever. A bit excited to get rid of this skin suit. It's too tight, my bones don't fit right anymore.”

Kirk's eyes brimmed with wet emotion.

“Maybe we should get you a new suit. Something that fits.”

Dark humor. An artifact of time. Nothing held the tears at bay better than some bad jokes and dad jokes.

And then nothing held the tears. They were gone. The mantra worked. His eyes glistening, nose turning red. “Keep it together” the old record spun.

“I'm gonna miss you boy. But we'll be together soon, don’t you worry about me. No sir. I have a reception waiting for me and a bathtub of donuts calling my name.”

Kirk took his dad's hand and snickered a little “crullers or old fashioned?”

“Both”

And they both went silent for a bit. Had to recompose, had to keep it together.

“Go into that closet over there and bring out my briefcase would you captain?” his father breaking silence like lumpy gravy over dry bread. It looked okay, but the texture was awful. The medicinal aftertaste of scorching lights and noisy monitors. Not even the cafeterias finest jello could get that taste out of ones mouth.

Kirk drug his heavy feet and bad knee over to the hospital room closet, and grabbed his dad's ball and chain. That briefcase was never anywhere but near his father. The man even put the damn thing under his bed when he slept at night. Kirk only caught a few glimpses of its contents once or twice in his life. It looked rather uninteresting on the inside, yet so mysterious on the outside. Kirk had spent many nights dreaming of dad's briefcase. Like a Pandora’s box with goodies and treasures abound.

He brought it back over to his father, trying to quell the bounce in his step. Despite the situation, Kirk was growing a bit excited himself, he would finally get to see the treasures his dad kept locked inside. If that's what they were.

His father tried pushing himself up on his hands, failed twice, and gave up. There was no strength left in him for such trivial things like sitting straight and good posture. No, that was for kids. And he was dying. The book was important. That little black Moleskine in his briefcase, the one that never ages and never gets old. Only the black book was important now. He had to share it now, before his life ceased and blinked out into the void. Then there would be nothing. But for now there was the book. And it was important.

Kirk placed the briefcase gently into his fathers lap.

“Don't hurt the old guy” his brain warned.

His dad caressed the top of the old leather case lovingly. He clicked the locks on either side and raised the lid. Inside was a passport and what looked like twenty thousand smackaroos; a half dozen bundles neatly wrapped with paper cuffs. Next to it rested a little black book no bigger than a Stephen King hardcover. Immaculate condition, almost as if it had never been opened.

“Doesn't look like that things seen a lot of action” he chirped

“ It's seen more than it lets on, captain. Much more.”

His dad sighed and continued.

“ Ever heard of the crystal skulls?”

Kirk was a bit taken aback. His train of thought was struggling. I think I can, I think I can.

“That Indiana Jones film, kingdom's crystals or something or other, that was about a crystal skull, I think. Amy used to watch it when she was young. Never really got into it though. Harrison ford makes me look bad” they both chuckled a bit and his dad sighed again, nervously.

“So what are the crystal skulls?”

His father nodded his head back and forth, the motions of deciding how to explain his looney-toons story without being awarded a trip to the psychiatric ward. Just a hop skip and a jump down the hall. Only there would be no jumping, only a sterile coffin platter served up to the nurses like an hors d'oeuvre.

“This is gonna sound insane but I need you to listen to everything I tell you” those dark brown eyes burned into Kirk’s.

Time for a serious talk. A serious moment. The father-son bond. The birds and the bees and all that bees knees jazz. 50 years too late.

“Better late than never” the inside thought floated by.

“Scouts honor” and he held up his hand in pledge to his promise.

His dad drew breath, his eyes intense, focused. Like zen. Like Tai Chi. Like chai tea.

Tea would be nice right now..

“I was 22 when i got mine.” and paused.

“I was working watchtowers in the bush back in the 1950’s. 3 months at a time it was just me and nature, communing with each other.”

Kirk remembered the stories. He had been fond of them as a child and constantly badgered his dad to tell him about the beaver. The drive by buck-toothing that cost his dad a pant leg. Beavers are crazy. “Especially the blonde ones'' There was that inside voice again. Kirk's father had raised him well. Incredible humor at the worst of times. Two peas in a sick twisty pod, ready for harvest. A feast.

“ I was up on Shining bank, surveying the ridge over the Athabasca river. It was twilight. I had been there for a few hours, watching the birds migrate. It was October. I remember the air being warmer than it should, too warm for fall. I had to take off my coat, almost took off my shirt too!” his dad's voice lowered. “It was eerie. Campfire ghost story eerie captain. But that sunset was'' he stopped and thought, “well it was breathtaking. The shades of red, so many shades it would've made crayola cry. Pinks and oranges and that dark purpley blue creeping up on it. Like a wolf. Like it was lapping at the sunset, a dog licking the hand before it bites”

Kirk's dad wandered off somewhere, dumped the sunset, and came back.

“Anyways” he shook it off, his skin biting, gooseflesh growing. The pain was getting worse. He had to make this quick. Like chocolate milk Quik. Only it tasted like hospital, not like chocolate. And hospitals taste bad.

“It was given to me by a-” eyes searching, “well I guess, I guess you could call him a man. He had arms and legs and a head, but not like you. Not like me either. I know this is hard to believe, but he entrusted me with something, something he said would save us all someday” he stopped and coughed, a dry hurtful noise. “Something important. He told me he had been surviving in an old rotted out cabin just up the shore bank, stranded from some sort of crash. He...well he wasn't really a he. He was...” searching for the words. Something tangible, something easy.

“He was otherworldly. Not from this earth, not…”

“Dad, you-”

“I know how this sounds Kirk. Just listen. That's all I need you to do captain”.

Kirk went silent. Worried.

“He gave me a skull, made entirely out of crystal. So impeccable it must have been born, not made. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. Genderless, smooth, warm to the touch. Not cold like stone but warm, like skin. And I swear I heard it breathe, barely. That was probably in my head. But it was like the crystal skull was alive Kirk, really alive!”

Kirk’s brow furrowed and worry stretched across his eyes.

“ I know I know” his dad pleaded “but I swear to Zeus it's true. It’s a computer captain, a computer made of crystal. No screens or ports or any of that other junk that confuses me. There was information Kirk, information embedded in that skull that would save us all. He told me, he told me….” he stopped, lungs burning, jazz slowing. He looked directly at Kirk now.

“He told me to keep it safe. To hide it, and only tell of it when I was dying. Only to someone I trust. Really trust. And I trust you Kirk. I know you don't believe me, but you will. Believe me you, you will. This book son, this book has the location of where the skull’s hidden and the answers to everything you want to know.”

He pulled the book from the briefcase and winced. The pain. It was overwhelming now.

Not much longer. Not much jazz.

“Take it Kirk. It's your job to hide it now. Take the whole kit and caboodle” he winced again. His lungs continued to burn. Not enough killer in the drip drip drip. That life line to relief only hurt now, the needle burning in his hand.

“Just read it captain. I wrote everything in there. For you. Someday i had to tell you, and today is that someday.” breathing was hard now, each breath its own struggle, and the struggle is real. He handed his son the book, his hand shaking now. “Read it, and go there and see for yourself. You’ll-” more pain, jabbing this time “you'll believe me then”.

And as the book passed from father to son, so did the spirit. Just as the book reached Kirk's finger tips, the old man died. Passed on, moved along, escaping the jazz show. Up and up and onward, to boldly go where he's never been before. This was the voyage of his sick old Dad. Now the ship was his. Captain Kirk versus the world. Fatherless, heartbroken and sad.

He cried then, the book in his hand and his head on his fathers lap. The crazy he just heard was gone, but he would remember later. And later, he would read. But for now, he rested his head in grief and let the tears pour. And all that jazz.