When the nurse came into the room, I had just awakened from a dream. She was a young woman with swift and accurate movements; her white and blue clothes blurred as she opened the curtains to an overcast day.
“You haven’t moved since the last time I checked on you,” she said. “Still tucked in, I see.” She pressed against the bed and adjusted the IV drip. “Would you like something to drink,” she said, raising her voice a few octaves. I nodded and removed my arms from beneath the bedding,only to discover I had been completely wrapped in gauze. The nurse, now staring at me, said, “Use the straw, okay,” then moved the plastic cup toward me. I raised the white mittens and touched my bandaged head, all but my eyes and mouth were bound in countless yards of white gauze. “You survived,” the nurse said, then adjusted the IV drip again. “This will help with the pain, okay?”
“Who’s taking care of my dog? Can you call my parents,” I said, slipping my arms back into the warmth. “Can I have more water?”
The nurse guided the straw toward my cracked lips once more.
There was unexpected commotion just outside my room. Somebody had knocked over a cleaning cart down the hall. An elderly man in a loosely-tied hospital gown sauntered in front of the door and shouted, “Call my wife, goddamnit. I don’t belong here. Call my wife, goddamnit,” then roamed the hall again. I closed my eyes, drew more water, and didn’t stop until I had finished the last drop. “Is there anything else I could do before I go on break,” the nurse said, patting my lips dry with a napkin.
“Can I tell you a dream,” I said, shifting into a more comfortable position.
“Will it take long,” she said, her flattened tone signaled her reluctance to agree. But before I could answer, the shouting man reappeared in the doorway. He had since lost his gown and stood completely naked, shouting “Where’s my wife? I don’t belong here, goddamnit. Can someone call my wife?” He then wandered off. The nurse shook her head, mumbled something under her breath and said, “Sure, go ahead. It beats dealing with that.” I nestled into the mattress and began.
“It’s about two boys who become friends at a foster home in Foster city. Well, they’re not friends at first. James, the older one, he’s the type who’s been in and out of group homes for most of his life, jumping from one home to another; he’s basically a good guy at heart, but he has an undying ember of anger at his core. Then, there’s me— Rodney, the newbie, younger and cleverer than James. I was always a small fry with a criminal mind and a trustworthy face, basically just another guy looking for love in all the wrong places.
One night at dinner, a kid named Two-Ton-Theo tried to steal my applesauce off my plate. Well, I don’t take kindly to that, so I grabbed a hold of Theo’s hand, but Theo’s hand is twice the size of mine. Theo, having done this before, took his spoon in his other hand and started scooping my applesauce into his big mouth. To no surprise, I was losing the fight, so I took my fork and stabbed Two-Ton-Theo’s plump hand. Theo screamed in agony, and James came up from behind with a spoonful of applesauce and shoved the whole spoon into Theo’s mouth. All the other boys laughed.
That summer, I decided living in a group home isn’t for me anymore, so I thanked James for his friendship and gave him a magnifying glass. “I’m headed to Mexico to work on a cattle ranch. I’ve been here way too long, and this place is no home for a guy like me. I need the open range with fresh air and mountain vistas as far as the eye can see. It’s been nice knowing you, James,” I said, extending my hand.
The next morning before dawn, James wakes me from sleep, and we sneak out of my bedroom window and run off like a pair of coyotes. We bolt down the street, steal an old bicycle from the back of a pickup truck, and pedal toward freedom. “You sure you know where we’re going,” James said, making sure I stayed on the handle bars.
“I’m going to show you the life of a cowboy, living and working as God intended, not bunked up in a house with a bunch of no good delinquents. Keep pedaling.”
When we reached the industrial part of town, we ditched the bike and walked along the train tracks. And as the sun rose, we heard a freight train approaching. “You heard that, buddy, that’s our ride out of here. All we need to do is hop that train and we’re home free,” I said, tapping James’s shoulder.
We squatted down like tigers in tall grass, waiting for the right moment to pounce. “The fourth boxcar, that’s our cue, okay” I said. The train thundered along; its wheels rolled with fierce determination, and its horn blew in the wind. We counted each boxcar. And when the fourth boxcar came into view, we sprang from the grass. We ran as fast our legs could take us, both of us sprinting alongside the boxcar. James was the first to catch the train; he stretched outhis arm and grabbed a hold of a handle. “Jump. Jump,” I said, trailing some feet behind. And just like that, the speed of the train lifted James onboard. He was smiling from ear to ear as I ran alongside. “Now, it’s your turn. Come on, Rodney,” James said, climbing into the boxcar. We’re going to be cowboys.”
My face grew serious then gravel flew from beneath my tennis shoes. My arms pumped up and down as if they were pistons in a racecar. And like James, I stretched out my arm and grabbed onto the handle. “Jump, Rodney,” James said. The train blew its horn again. “Jump. Hurry up, Rodney. Jump.” James saw that I was losing steam. “Give me your hand,” James said, stepping to the edge of the boxcar. “Give me your hand.” I let out a battle cry and pumped my legs and jumped. When my hand landed on the handle, I held it with all my strength. But, my legs were dragging behind.
I was out of breath when I reached out for James’ hand. James squinted as he pulled me into the boxcar. The train horn blew its horn again. As I attempted to hoist myself upward, my hand slipped from the handle. But, James yanked me into the boxcar. We smiled at each other, rested our backs against a wall, and didn’t speak a word. We just listened to the rhythm of steel wheels on railroad tracks.”
“What happens after that? Do you remember,” the nurse said, and again guided the straw toward my lips.
“When we got to Mexico, we found work at a scrap metal recycling station….”
“That’s the end of your dream,” the nurse said, appearing sincerely interested in the conclusion. “There has to be more. It can’t end at a recycling center.”
“Of course, there’s more, but I’m not sure if you’d like to hear it, because I’m not sure if it’s entirely a dream. I mean, it felt like a dream, but my intuition says it’s more, like, it happened in another life, or will happen in the future. It’s hard to explain.”
“You should rest. The medication is kicking in,” the nurse said.
“They fall in love with each other. James and Rodney. And, I’m Rodney; that’s who I am in my dream. And, that’s who I am in reality. And, we are still cowboys, but not like the ones found in other stories about cowboys, no, not like that. We find love and hold onto it, with all our might, just like any other couple in love,” I said, breaking eye contact and noticing the gathering storm clouds beyond the hospital room window.
“This is all very possible, except—”
“Except, what? That my parents will disapprove? I don’t care anymore. Or, because James or whoever he happens to be won’t love me because I’m….”
I removed my arms from beneath the blanket again, having no recollection of how I ended up in this bed covered in bandages from head to toe, and laid them on my lap with the delicateness of something priceless and irreplaceable, appendages that seemed no longer belong to me, yet knowing they do. The nurse watched for a moment, then lowered her sights. I believed a tear escaped and landed on her lap before raising her eyes to mine again. And with a softened voice, the nurse said, “Your name is Grace; you’re sixty-three, and— you survived a house fire.”
A first-generation, Latinx writer, Ernest Langston is the author of two novels, Born from Ashes and Beyond Everyday Secrets. His short fiction has appeared in Litro Magazine, The Plentitudes Journal, The Pitkin Review, SoMa Literary Review, and the Taj Mahal Review. He holds a BA in English and a certificate in Professional and Technical Communications from San Jose State University, a certificate in Writing from University of Washington, and an MFA in Creative Writing from Goddard College. For more information, please visit: ernestlangston.com; Instagram: Ernestlangstonmedia.
