The Slap of Life

“It won’t matter how the baby’s delivered if you KILL IT before we get anywhere!” Ashley screamed from the backseat, yet her husband could barely hear over the roar of the engine and the cars blaring their horns as he weaved in and out of highway traffic. His truck scraped against a Miata. But he doesn’t slow down; they’re in the way. Plus, only pussies drive Miatas. He laughs, but then feels bad for the imaginary Miata driver he insulted in his mind. He squeezed the steering wheel with such ferocity that his hands left a permanent indentation in the leather.

“I want my boy delivered right,” he shouts over the noise. “By a man who knows what he’s doing.”

“I still hope we get a girl.” She spoke with a tinge of forlorn worry slipping from her lips. George insisted they were getting a boy.

“We will,” he said to himself.

A pair of red and blue lights were swapping brightness behind them. The back-and-forth flashing zipping all across the highway made Ashley’s stomach churn more than it already was. If her husband were any more predictable, she would’ve just thrown a little bile on the seat. However, she could never rely on how he’d react. Sometimes he was completely understanding; other times, he clenched his fists in rage. He’d never hit her, never hit anyone; but he beat the walls. His emotions were so intense and random, she never knew what his hands would do. So she held her own over her mouth and whimpered. George insisted the hospital was only a few blocks away.

More than a few blocks down the road, with the cop nearing their bumper, they hopped up the curb outside the emergency room. Ashley couldn’t help but upchuck a little bit on the floor, but thankfully, George didn’t notice. He was busy bracing for the police cruiser to slam into the back of them. However, it turned out that the cop wasn’t following them, but the Miata from before. Behind the wheel was a drunk driver, swerving recklessly through the hospital parking lot.

Later on the news, George found out the driver had viscously torn apart a woman and her child as they were walking across the street. The joyrider didn’t even notice the red trail he made as he cut through their crumbled bodies. Thankfully, the cop had seen the wreckage, although it was barely recognizable as anything other than the carcasses left behind by an enraged beast. He cornered him in the hospital parking lot, and executed him.

His name was Darren Salome, and the news noted no next of kin.

The baby arrived shortly after they got settled. And he was, in fact, a baby boy, just like George wanted. Ashley was fine with it, yet feared the expectations of greatness George would suffer the boy with. The doctor brought air into his lungs for the first time with a slap on the bottom, which Ashley rolled her eyes at.

Once he tired of screaming, the boy rested on his mother’s chest and wrapped his little hand over her finger. They stayed this way for a long time. Then the doctors took the little boy away so they could perforate his skin with needles and bathe him in chemicals that were probably not very good for him, but were part of the doctor’s “proper procedure” anyhow. That was Geroge’s idea of “a man who knew what he was doing.”

During this momentary feeling of empty-nest syndrome, Ashley placed her palm on her husband’s cheek and asked him a question. And to George, it was the most important question of the baby’s early life. That timeless quandary all new parents must consider: “What should we name him?”

George’s generally bad at making decisions, despite his action-oriented nature. He’d put off thinking about it for so long, that he forgotten they’d eventually have to settle on something. And this was a crucial choice to make. He had long realized the importance of a proper name since his parents had put very little thought into selecting his own. They picked it at random from a baby book. His wife’s came from a similar reserve. In his mind, the lack of direction he and his wife experienced directly correlated to their parent’s lackadaisical attitude towards suggesting their personality. His boy would not suffer like they did. A clever name can be a compass, and George would not cast his kid into this world of cyclones --without a course. He told Ashley he would decide by the time they left the hospital.

Leaving her for longer than she appreciated, he wandered around the hospital seeking inspiration. First off, he asked couples in the postnatal ward what name they settled on. The one that stuck out to him the most was “Hunter”.

“That name will give him strength,” he told the boy’s mother. “Your son will grow up a police officer, or maybe an Army General.” This mother’s name was Victoria. After years of misfires and miscarriages, she’d finally reached her goal of becoming a mother.

 While they were talking, her husband walked in holding milkshakes. He was big, much larger than George. His hands wrapped around the shakes like claws around an infant’s neck. His clench was tense enough to crinkle the styrofoam but light enough not to poke through it. As George left the room, he patted the man’s shoulder and said: “You have a lovely wife and child.” He replied monotone: “I know.” His name was Pat, like the General.

In the emergency ward, George found two brothers who’d had a bad night drinking. The one that was screaming on the operating table had legs bent like drinking straws. He looked like he was wearing two purple boots; his feet were so swollen. In one place, a bone poked through the skin, oozing with puss and blood and all that inside stuff. Also, his hands were stabbed with broken glass.

This desperate young man reached out for help, but it was too late for his hands to fix anything. The attending physician had strong hands, but they were careless. Even rubber gloves could not conceal his misguided benevolence. His name was Moe.

“We kept pushing each other to drink,” said the uninjured brother. Dr. Moe shoved a tube down the patient’s throat, but he choked and spit it out. The doctor slid it in again. The boy’s stomach needed to be pumped, even though he hadn’t had enough to be at risk of alcohol poisoning.

“Well… I started it, really,” the uninjured brother continued. His hands were wrapped in bandages because he’d also stuck himself on broken beer bottles. He’d pulled the glass out on his own and told the doctor he didn’t need stitches, although blood was nearly soaking through the gauze already.“He said he’d had enough, but I told him to stop being a pussy. Then, he went overboard. There was ice on the roof, so when he went to chuck a bottle he slipped.”

“He’s lucky he landed on his feet,” the doctor said, rushing through all the tests. “Otherwise, he could’ve gotten permanent brain damage. Well...” He ran his hand across the boy’s lumpy skull. “I shouldn’t speak too soon.”

The uninjured one turned to leave so they could put the other one under. Losing consciousness, the injured one grabbed his brother’s shirt. “Salt that roof for me, buddy. I’ll be back up there next weekend.” Their names were Larry and “Curly”.

By the walk-in clinic counter, there was a woman with a beat-up face. George doubted she could see through her puffy black eyes. Her cheeks were nearly the size of balloons. There was a fluid leaking from her eyes. It might have only been blood, puss, or tears; but it was probably a mixture of all three.

“Yeah,” her boyfriend said. “She fell down the stairs.” His name was Sly. At least, that was what was inscribed on the chain around his neck. He checked the time on his pearl Rolex. The blood vessels inside his hands were stressed. His face was flushed as well, but his demeanor was calm.

 The girl squeaked, barely audible at first, but then after some effort, spoke somewhat clearly. “This isn’t the first time,” she said. “I’ve been having trouble–” She was cut off.

“She can’t talk good right now,” he said. “Earlier, she said it was fine if I do all the talking.” He shot a glare at her and she didn’t speak up again. George never heard her name.

The sterile, white, identical hallways became impossible to grasp the further George got from the post-partnum ward. The signage seemed impossible to decipher, and inconsistent with the layout of the building. Even after he found a map, he couldn’t get a hold on where anything was.

The Shane Thomas Memorial Hallway was supposed to go by the Sherwood B. Driskoll Cafeteria and take you to the Leonard Wendell Rehab Building. However, the cafeteria was nowhere to be found. Instead, George found himself in the Leopold Q. Trevelyan Waiting Room, which was exclusively for the Fiorenzo Chip Gynaecology department. That was the last place he wanted to go to. Those dirty hands… However, he thought it would be cool to visit the Frederick Jericho Trauma Center, but the further he walked, the farther he got from it.

Wandering this labyrinthian medical campus, he frequently heard footsteps approaching, but he couldn’t see who they were coming from. Sometimes he ran into other people but he never heard them coming beforehand. Once or twice, he glimpsed a figure in sandals and sweatpants just as it rounded a corner. At first, this meant nothing to him. But when someone sprinted down the hallway toward him and he turned to see nothing but sweatpants and sandals running away from him —he got concerned.

Sometime later, he entered the psychiatric ward. Some lights were out and others were flickering with the sound of a fat fly buzzing. The heat was sweltering. The nurse’s desk was ransacked, and biohazard bins were emptied out all over the place.

Then, a young nurse ran down the hallway. She knocked over a stretcher to block the path behind her. An enormous man was hot on her trail. He wore a doctor’s coat, a stethoscope… and nothing else. His face was deformed. They ran down another hallway, disappearing from George’s view. The lunatic grabbed her. His giant’s hold was nearly as large as her entire forearm. She shouted.

Now, George knew that terrible things were happening, but his adrenaline was blocked up. He felt a panic attack setting in. The flickering lights made it difficult for him to keep his balance. And there was an aroma making him queasy. He wanted to help; he really did. But although he couldn’t admit it to anyone --not even his wife-- he wasn’t man enough to do anything in this situation, even if that poor girl was in trouble. So he bolted, his sneakers squeaking on the laminate floor.

Outside the darkened ward, he tried to reinvigorate himself in the steady stream of fluorescent light. But before he could, someone ran up and drove a scalpel into his abdomen. He thought it was that same mental maniac, but this one wore sweatpants and sandals. It was Patton, the maniac with a newborn named Hunter.

“I don’t ever want you near my wife again.” He ran off down the hallway. George couldn’t even remember who his wife had been. He was bleeding out. Thankfully he didn’t lose much before the nurse from the psych ward found him.

It had been a struggle for her; she was covered in bruises and cuts. But she had evaded the crazed patient’s advances long enough to put him under. He was passed out in the hallway with a needle sticking out of his behind. She couldn’t tell George the man’s real name, but all the nurses called him: “You-Big-Dork”.

She was able to treat and dress George’s wound. Her hands got covered in blood, but they washed off in the sink. Afterward, George took leftovers from the break room fridge and made her the best damn sandwich she’d had in her entire life. They didn’t talk about anything, and they both left the psych ward without telling anyone what happened. The nurse’s nametag read: Alex. George liked that one.

…

Ashley could barely walk, but gathered their things and packed their bags anyway. Her beautiful little nameless boy looked so sweet sleeping in his little bed. She’d been thinking about what to name him too.

The only thing she could think of was a name that she’d heard on the History Channel: Alexander. She knew the name meant: “defender of mankind”, but she wasn’t trying to instill anything into the boy’s mind. She had heard her husband’s long-winded beliefs about how names inspire greatness and found his adamency obnoxious. She just wanted to give him a name that sounded good and decided to suggest: Alex.

The nurse had already asked Ashley what name they wanted to give the child when George came in. Ashley told them both what she was thinking of.

George was astonished they’d come to the same conclusion. He thought it must be a sign!  He’d figured that naming him after the nurse would inspire some of the tenderness that he himself was missing. But, as he rested the baby’s tiny fingers in his palm, another thought invaded his mind.

“Alex” sounds ripped out of a baby book, he thought, unable to think of any intrinsic meaning behind the name. It’ll be years before he can be told who his name comes from, and by then, it might be too late. Although his hand is soft and innocent now, someday it may become rough, and ring the necks of kittens and sparrows. Maybe these doctors don’t know what they’re doing and have ruined him. No name can steer a man right when he’s already on the wrong road. Perhaps he doesn’t have a father who can teach him the right path. It’s possible, he’ll be a monster regardless of his name.

“I think we should reconsider having kids,” he said, clutching her hands with his own. His hands were rough as sandpaper.

-liquid jake