The Big C legacy

Chapter 1

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 humour. The guilt setting in.

Safe.

HIs father laid there in his sickly gray robe, hospital scrubs wading around his now skeleton-like body. His dad had been a hefty man. “Built like a brick shit house” his uncle Raoul used to say. Raoul was dad's brother, a much kinder wiser version of his father. His father had been a drunk half of his life. “Bad times kirk, bad times” to himself. He hated thinking about those things from long ago.

Prior to his dad's ‘awakening’, his father had been an angry torrid creature, his mother always excusing his bad behaviour. That was what one did in the 60’s. Find reasons to excuse behaviour.

Honesty and truth were an acquired taste back in the ‘good-old-days”. Nobody wanted to hear it, and nobody really cared. The world is different now, with facebook and instagram invading minds and homes across the globe. Accumulating an en masse social platform that did more harm than good. Exposing absolutely everyone and everything, creating problems where there are none. Our truths and opinions cross oceans these days. We have become a society of the willingly vulnerable.

“Like sheep to the slaughter” the words just tumbled out of his mouth, surprising himself. Apparently his dad too, who shifted in that coffin like bed.

Dad's awakening.

He could never forget. Nobody could. Especially the parents of those two young girls. Barely out of highschool. Out on the town with happy pop and elvis presley, the music blasting through their car windows. Finally done school, finally out of the slave barn and into a docile domestic relationship that consisted of nothing but raising kids, cooking dinner and obediently pleasing their husbands. The domestic situation.

“ Ah, mid 20th century bliss; where would we be without you.” La la la’d his brain.

Those girls never had the opportunity to succumb to their gender roles. His dad had cut that trip short with a bottle of jack and a 1955 chevy side step 4 cylinder. Cut it real short. The joyous driver, with her pretty brown hair and James Dean bad girl denim flew gracefully through the windshield, wiped out face first on the pavement and died instantly. The remaining passenger was snug in her belt, the mustang’s insides no better than outside. Just as dead. Severe blunt trauma, the result of a head banger with the cute side window. Hell of a party, Elvis even made the VIP list.

And damned if it wasn't his schoolmates. That was the worst part.

His life completely changed after that. All of their lives did. Some good. Some bad. His dad quit drinking after that. Cold turkey. Off the sauce. No more drowning in the bottle. The beatings stopped, the fighting, arguing, crying. It all stopped. And then they had to move. Unpleasant situation that was. Leaving his friends that had rather taken to belittling him and jumping on the Kirk bashing wagon. Struggling with the realization they were not his friends anymore. Kids are cruel. But so is life.

At least he had the chance to be bullied.

Those girls didn't.

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. The nurses had him so doped up he could barely remember his son's name half the time. Funny, considering his dad named him. After the most famous Kirk of them all. Captain James T. Kirk. His dad used to be a real space nut. They'd watch Star Trekn together every wednesday night on one of the three channels they had in the north west.

“Kirk?”

“Hey dad. I'm here”. He was an only child, and getting old himself. Kirk was always the only one here. Mom had remarried after their divorce five years ago. And this time it wasn't his dad's fault for messing things up. She had cheated on dear old dad with another realtor she met at a conference. For 2 years. That one hit hard. Now the damnable boy toy was his ‘step dad’, it was beyond disturbing for him. So he just never called her anymore. He had no brothers, no sisters. Just their trio till the happy marriage crumbled. And now it was two. Soon to be one.

“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 us 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. His dad might have been a beast when he was little, but he had become a hell of a man when he got his second chance. The chance he robbed from those happy doomed girls. At least he did some good with that chance. Which is more than anyone could say for most.

“Goodbyes are hard. I know son.” drawing 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 putrid light. Why are hospital lights so abrasive? They should be touch lights, dim switches at least. Flourescent 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 skinsuit. It's too tight, my bones don't fit right anymore.”

Eyes brimming with emotion, his Id attacking him for being emotional. Thank you 1960s repressive behavior therapies, real men don't cry. But he wanted to.

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

Humor. At a time like this? It was mutual. They were two ancient products of the same era. Sick humor is a relic. 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. Or perhaps his dad robbed him of those too. 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 ok, but the texture was awful. The medical aftertaste of scorching lights and noisy monitors. Not even the cafeteria's finest jello could get that taste out of one's mouth.

Kirk drug his heavy feet and bad knee over to the hospital room closet, and grabbed 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 really looked uninteresting on the inside, yet so mysterious on the outside. He had spent many nights dreaming of dad's briefcase, like a pandora 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 book in his briefcase, the one that never ages and never gets old. Only the black book was important, and 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. It had been there for him at the best and worst of times. It was like an old friend to him. One that he now had to share with his kin. He clicked the locks on either side and raised the lid. Inside was a passport and what looked like sixty 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 paperback. 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 a kid. 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 the 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, just a coffin platter swishing on its coaster wheels, delivering cakes and cookies to the wards nurses.

“This is gonna sound insane but I need you to listen to everything I tell you. Ok captain?” those dark brown eyes burned into kirks. The conviction in his dad's voice startled him. 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.

“Do you know why i started drinking?”

Kirk shook his head and looked down at the bitter grey hospital floor. They rarely talked about that past life. Almost never. Kirk's dad had changed so much it was almost blasphemy to remember the old 1-2’s and 3-4’s. Square pegs and round holes, and all that bees knees jazz.

“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 would be 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 trained 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 hill, 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, “well it was breathtaking. The shades of red, so many shades it would've made crayola cry. Purples and oranges and that dark purply 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, the pain biting. The pain was getting worse. The consciousness was becoming heavy, a tight lid closing on an old jar. Out of the fridge and into the trash bin. He had to make this quick. Like that chocolate milk, Quik. Only it tasted like hospital, not like chocolate. And hospitals taste bad.

“It was given to me by a, 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's 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!”

Kirks 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’s information Kirk, information embedded in that skull that would save us all. He told me, he told me….” he stopped, composed himself, gooseflesh breaking out on his skin, 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 Kirk, this book has the location of where the skull’s hidden and 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 was real. He handed his son the book, his hand shaking. “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, and leaving the show. Up and up and onward, to boldly go where he's never been before. This was the voyage of his sick old dad. And now the ship was his. Captain Kirk versus the world. Fatherless, 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.