(Author’s note: This is a sequel to ‘Heatwave’, which can be found at www.fanrealm.com/kmg365/heatwave.htm. Don’t feel obligated to read the other story, but it may help explain some of the details in this one. This story is set in 1974. On the show, Brice didn’t fill in for Johnny until 1976. So sue me.)

Walls

By Todd F.

Damn it.

They had just left him sitting there, asleep against the wall in the humid darkness. A glow in the eastern sky pushed through the stars. His watch read 0430 hours. He added a kinked neck to his list of aches and pains. Damn it.

His leg muscles protested as he got up and made his way into the station. The desire for more sleep battled with the desire for a hot shower. Sleep won. Barely. Standing next to Marco’s bunk, he slid his blood-soaked uniform shirt and pants off. He took a moment to neatly arrange his bunker pants. Then he neatly arranged himself atop the blankets on the bed.

Two-and-a-half hours later, with the wake-up tones echoing through his head, he contemplated the least painful way to drag himself out of bed. Captain Stanley gave his bunk frame a grumpy kick.

“Get up Brice. You’re on coffee duty this morning.”

Damn it.

*****

Mike watched from behind the newspaper as Brice threw together some coffee and snuck out of the dayroom. A shower, Mike supposed. It surprised him that a man as neatly put-together as Brice would have gone that long without a shower, considering how filthy they all were after yesterday. Then again, they were all exhausted.

He got up from the table and poured two cups of coffee, one for himself and one for Cap, who stood behind him. Roy followed suit and brought a cup to Johnny, who sat at the table. Mike could almost see the gears moving in Chet’s head.

“Why on God’s green earth would you drink hot coffee on a hot day? You guys are nuts!”

Cap turned to Chet. “We had a mailman when I was a kid who claimed he always drank coffee before walking his route on a hot day. He said the hot liquid made him sweat and cooled him down.”

Chet looked incredulous. “You believe that crap? Hot stuff makes stuff hotter. That’s pretty obvious.”

Mike cringed. Chet was not being the sharpest knife in the block this morning.

“Kelly,” Captain Stanley said, “I’m going to pretend the weather has destroyed some of your brain cells, especially the ones that control respectful speech toward your fearless leader. Right?”

“Right Cap,” said Chet quickly. “I didn’t mean you were full of crap, sir. I meant the idea of drinking coffee on a hot day to cool down was crap. I mean, not that your drinking coffee right now is a crappy idea. You should drink whatever you want, whenever you want, no matter how full of crap your mailman was.”

Cap smiled and shook his head. Mike laughed along with Johnny and Roy before heading back to the table and the safety of his morning newspaper.

*****

When Brice got home that morning, he popped a half-dozen aspirin and went straight to bed. He put his glasses on the nightstand and lay there for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling. His forehead itched, but he resisted the urge to scratch the scab he knew was forming there.

Just one more month, and he would be a permanent fixture at 16’s. No more floating. No more back-to-back shifts followed by too many days off. No more chaos. OK, so maybe a little chaos. After all, he was partnering with Bellingham. But he’d have a chance to regain a little control over his life. Maybe he could teach CPR at the park district or join a runners club. Once he was on a regular shift rotation, he’d know months ahead of time which days he wasn’t available. He drifted off to sleep as he worked out the new possibilities.

*****

Mike never heard the phone ring. He was, as Beth would say, out like a light. He usually tried to resist falling asleep at home after a busy shift. It made him feel groggy for the next few days. But when he arrived home that morning, she was at work, and the couch was calling his name. The next thing he knew, he heard keys in the door and his annoyed wife rushing to the phone.

“Michael, didn’t you hear the phone?” she called over her shoulder as she ran to the kitchen.

Obviously not. And now Beth was home from the clinic. And it was three in the afternoon. And he hadn’t mowed the lawn, or thawed dinner, or done anything even remotely useful with his day. To add insult to injury, he was starving. He got up slowly from the couch and stretched the sleep from his body. His legs were stiff from all the ladder work at the hotel fire. So much for engineers staying safely at the pump panel.

Beth walked out of the kitchen. “That was the chief. He wanted to know if you could finish out the engineer’s shift at Station 99 tonight.”

“Nope. Not my fault they can’t promote enough engineers to cover their butts. They’ve been rotating guys through B-shift there for weeks.”

“Call ‘em back then. I said you would let them know when you woke up. You didn’t sleep all day, did you? You know it makes you bitchy.”

He ignored her and walked through the kitchen to the back porch. He slid the door open and stepped out, sampling the air. It felt marginally cooler, but the sky was threatening.

“I heard on the car radio that a cool front was finally moving in,” Beth called from the kitchen.

“Yep,” he agreed. His wife walked out on the porch with him and wound her arms around his waist. The hot wind rustled the leafy palm trees in the backyard.

“Guess I should call the chief,” Mike said after a few minutes. He kissed the top of her head and walked back into the house.

He picked up the phone and dialed. His stomach growled. “I’m starved. Why don’t we go out to dinner early, since I didn’t thaw anything anyway.”

“Sounds yummy,” she said as she entered the kitchen and slid the porch door shut. “Where?”

He held up his hand and turned his attention to the phone, which Chief McConnike had answered.

“McConnike here.”

“Yes sir. Mike Stoker here. My wife said you called.”

“Oh yes, Stoker. I called to see if you were available to cover for 99’s B-shift engineer tonight. Dobbs was doing an extra shift, but he got sick. Damn heat.”

Chris Dobbs was a good friend and C-shift engineer at Station 51. Mike quickly considered the complicated financial possibilities. If he agreed to cover a half-shift tonight, he’d put himself out of contention for covering for Chris’s regular shift at 51’s tomorrow, if Chris was still out. That would be a full shift at overtime rates. Plus pulling a double at 51’s was a lot easier travel-wise. 99’s was in the middle of nowhere. On the other hand, if he said no tonight, there was no guarantee of overtime tomorrow.

“Who’s covering for Dobbs tomorrow at 51’s sir?”

“I haven’t gotten that far in planning yet. He may not be sick by then. Supposed to cool down tonight. You want it or not, Stoker?”

He looked at his wife, who was leaning on the chipped kitchen counter. She rolled her eyes at him. Bad planning on their part did not constitute a crisis on his part. On the other hand, money talked.

“I’ll be there at 5 sir.”

“Good man. I’ll stand down the engine until then. Heat got another guy on their crew too, but I should have that covered by the time you get there. Bye.”

Mike hung up the phone and turned to Beth.

“Guess you heard that?”

“That’s OK. We couldn’t afford to go out anyway.” She led him back outside to watch the storm clouds build in the sky.

*****

Brice was up at noon, his internal alarm clock working its usual magic. He considered what to do with the rest of his day. Too hot and sore to run. Too broke to snag Dodgers tickets from his usual source. The AC unit in his kitchen was working pretty well; maybe today would be a good day to clean up his apartment. He threw on a tank top and shorts, and headed for his utility room closet.

Three hours later his kitchen was gleaming top to bottom, while his den looked like a newly rented hotel room. Yep, he was pleased with himself. And what a stroke of luck; he even had enough cleaning solution left in the bucket to “de-scum” the bathroom tub. As he dumped the bucket into the bathtub, the phone rang.

Wiping his hands on his shorts, he headed for the den. “Hello, Brice here.”

“McConnike here, Brice. I’m looking for someone to sub at 99’s B-shift. Engine crew. I had to send a few people home early with heat exhaustion.”

“Sir, if I may speak freely, heat exhaustion is easily treatable on scene. There’s no need to send people home or hospitalize them unless there are signs of syncope or stroke. A little rest and fluids should cure them quickly.”

“Brice, I’m sure you know your stuff. But one of the men in question was on a double-shift, and the other was fresh from a bout with the stomach flu. We didn’t want to take any chances.”

“I see sir.” Oops. What was it his last girlfriend had said about thinking before he spoke? He inwardly kicked himself.

“So are you up to it Brice?”

“I can be there at 5:30 sir.” Why not? It was more hose-hauling, but this shift would be nice and short. And it would pay for Dodgers tickets. But he wasn’t going to hurry. He wanted time to finish the tub. And maybe throw in a few loads of laundry.

*****

When Mike walked into Station 99, it was deserted. There were two large notes pinned to the bulletin board hanging on the dayroom door.

The first read: “To whomever is subbing tonight: we’re conducting backlogged inspections to kill time. Chief is putting us back in service at 1800 hours. Back by then. Captain Walker.”

The second read: “To B-shift engineer: Dobbs says number two crosslay is O.O.S. Gauge cover cracked. Charlie knows and is pissed. He’ll check out tomorrow AM.”

He headed out to the apparatus bay to check on the engine. The squad was gone --probably on a run or helping with the inspections. As he eyed the cracked gauge, he considered the first note. So he’d be working with Brice again. Brice wasn’t so bad. At least he didn’t expect Mike to be a master conversationalist. On the other hand, Roy and John never seemed happy to work with him. Mike respected Roy’s opinion; if Roy said Brice was a jerk, then Mike was willing to go along with that.

Meanwhile, it appeared Chris was right about the gauge. The crack was spidered enough that he wouldn’t be able to read the PSI for the number two crosslay hose. He wondered briefly how it cracked, since gauges were supposed to be reinforced. Knowing Charlie the mechanic, he’d probably blame every engineer in the department for it.

It was hot in the station, so he headed outside. Station 99 was an older blond brick structure with two stories but no pole – and no air conditioner. Its narrow parking lot bordered a railroad line, with a grade crossing where the access road crossed the tracks. As Mike leaned against the wall, watching more storm clouds roll in, a train came by. The noise from the engine was terrific, shaking the station and the cars parked in the lot. Ten minutes later, another freight rumbled by. It felt like thunder.

*****

When Brice pulled up, he saw Stoker standing against the station wall. He parked his car in a spot near the tracks, and got out.

“Stoker.”

“Brice.”

“Where is everyone?”

“Inspections. They’re back in service at 1800 hours.”

That’s what he liked about Stoker. He didn’t waste words. Whenever Brice subbed at 51’s, there was always a surplus of chaotic, useless chit-chat – Gage and DeSoto, Gage and that Kelly guy. Hell, Gage and everyone.

Stoker though, he laid pretty low for a tall guy, said little and did his job. Brice wondered briefly if the engineer was actually a little shy. The two men leaned against the wall for a moment longer, hands in their pockets, watching the clouds boil in the gray sky. A train horn sounded in the distance. Brice watched a car bump over the grade crossing. It sped up as the gates and lights activated.

“They have to know how dangerous it is to drive around the gates. The minutes they save aren’t worth their lives.”

“Yep.”

And with that, Stoker walked away from the wall and toward the station. Feeling a little awkward, Brice reevaluated his opinion. Shy? Or unfriendly?

Brice walked into the station. He headed for the locker room and spent a few moments looking for a locker that was a) empty, and b) somewhat clean. He finally settled for empty, and put his small duffle inside. Like Stoker, he had arrived at the station in his uniform, and no changing was necessary.

He walked into the dayroom and saw the notes on the door. Stoker was sitting at the table, a book in hand. Come to think of it, he had never seen Stoker at 51’s without a book or newspaper or something to read. That was fine as far as it went, but Brice preferred to have his mind on the job when he was on duty. He read the first note twice, snorted at the paranoia inherent in the second one, and headed over to the sink. 99’s crew had left some glasses behind. Cleaning them would only take a moment. After that, perhaps the squad would be back, and he could help inventory supplies. Even though he was on the engine tonight, it never hurt to be prepared.

As he reached for the faucet, the sound of a train blowing its horn outside interrupted him. The horn sounded louder than normal, and it was accompanied by another sound – a loud ‘pow’. Something about the sound demanded action.

Brice’s glass and Stoker’s book dropped in unison. They ran outside just in time to see that an old, rusty van sneaking around the gates had suffered a blow-out. Brice ran for the crossing flat out, sore legs forgotten, only vaguely aware of Stoker behind him.

The train was too close. Brice grabbed Stoker and dove behind a car parked in the lot. Moments later they heard the crash. They slowly stood back up. The train had sent the van flying down the track. It now sat on its side at the other end of the station parking lot in flames. The train was slowing, but something didn’t sound right. It was more than just the squealing of wheels on tracks.

“Shit,” gasped Stoker next to him. That was a word he never expected to hear from Stoker’s mouth. Brice followed his gaze. Several cars on the train, including a couple of tankers, had partly derailed and were riding precariously on edges of wobbly wheels. Sparks flew up from the rails. One of the tanker cars tilted at a crazy angle and tipped over completely. Brice knew what was going to happen next, but could only stand and stare as the tanker car was dragged along the berm … straight into the burning van.

The resulting explosion slammed him into the station wall, behind a dumpster. He felt a brief sense of personal disappointment, but no pain, as blackness took over.

*****

Mike saw Brice pulling up in a 1974 Javelin/AMX and had to suppress his envy. Leave it to Brice to drive something brand new and fast. There probably wasn’t a single gum wrapper on the floor either. Brice parked next to Mike’s truck and got out. Mike noticed the band-aid on Brice’s forehead. Had Brice forgiven the guys for leaving him outside last night? Or had he even cared? Brice never seemed to care about much of anything, other than the rules. Maybe that’s why Roy disliked him so much.

“Stoker,” Brice said in greeting.

“Brice.”

“Where is everyone?”

“Inspections. They’re back in service at 1800 hours.” How did Brice know everyone was gone? On top of being perfect, was Brice a master of deduction as well? Mike’s mind started to wander -- from deductive reasoning, to a Sherlock Holmes story he’d read ages ago, to the book he was reading now. If he staked out a spot in the dayroom now, he could be engrossed in his book by the time everyone got back. That had two advantages: he’d have something to hide behind while getting the lay of the land, and he’d actually get the damn thing read before Beth teased him to death…

…suddenly he realized Brice had been speaking to him. Something about railroad gates.

“Yep,” he replied, hoping it adequately addressed whatever Brice had been saying. From the look on Brice’s face, it didn’t. Fighting a blush, he walked back into the station to put his book plan into effect.

Mike was sitting at the table a few minutes later, “Eleanor of Aquitaine and the Four Kings” in hand, when Brice came in. The paramedic eyed the notes left by the absent crew, then snorted and walked toward the sink. Mike grinned inwardly. He was probably upset they were not written on regulation paper in triplicate.

A train sounded its horn outside. Wonderful. Trains all night; he’d never sleep. No wonder that damn gauge cracked. Sometimes overtime just didn’t seem like enough money. The station started to shake slightly. The bleating horn took on a more urgent tone, and he heard a loud “pop.” That didn’t sound right at all. They both ran outside. A brief thought crossed his mind before more important things took over: damn that Brice could run!

He could see the man in the pizza delivery van and his panicked face as he tried to urge the crippled vehicle over the tracks. Mike lurched forward and felt Brice pull him back. They dove for cover as the freight train smacked into the van with a noise that reminded Mike of a cartoon car crash.

They stood up. Mike could see the burning van on the other side of the parking lot. The driver never had a chance. Then he saw something else -- the impact had partly derailed some of the train cars.

“Shit,” he gasped. One of the wobbly tanker cars tipped over the rest of the way and was dragged straight into the burning van. His hope that the tanker carried nothing flammable was dashed as an explosion ripped through the remains of the van.

They went flying through the air, narrowly missing the station dumpster. He saw Brice slam into the station wall and collapse like some kind of boneless thing. Mike felt his collarbone snap as his left side impacted the wall. His head hurt like hell, but he stayed conscious until his body reversed direction and his face smacked into the pavement.

*****

Squad 99 was approaching from the other side of the crossing, with the Captain’s personal car close behind, as the train slammed into the van. The crew jumped from the squad and stood, helpless, as a massive explosion and cloud of black fire appeared over the top of the train. Their captain hopped out of his car, followed by two members of the engine company. He grabbed his handi-talkie.

“L-A, this is engine 99.”

“Go ahead 99.

“We have a train versus vehicle at the grade crossing, Southwest Highway and Duffy. It appears the train has partly derailed, and there was an explosion. We are not in quarters, and the train blocks our access to the incident.”

“10-4, 99. Dispatching units from the other side of the tracks.”

The Captain clicked off the handi-talkie. “Come on men. The next navigable grade crossing is five miles down the track, so lets move.”

*****

Burning. That’s what he felt. Everything stung. Well, that, and there was a thudding pain in his head. And another pain, a different kind of burning pain, in his side. A weird, hot, vague feeling. And now his posterior ribcage joined the chorus. It was hard to breathe – the ribs, probably. He swallowed. Ow. Or the throat maybe.

He opened his eyes. He was sitting upright against the station wall, in rather the same way he had slept the night before. The train tanker burned fiercely at the other end of the parking lot. At least his glasses were intact; investing in those high-impact lenses was a good idea. Probably why his eyes didn’t feel as roasted as the rest of his face.

A small part of him, the take-charge paramedic part, thought it would be a good idea to get up. Stupid paramedic part. Everything blurred, and his vision narrowed back into blackness.

*****

Mike came to face-down on the parking lot with a mouthful of gravel. His head hurt like hell, and the gravel tasted like blood. He raised his head to spit it out. His face exploded in pain. His nose felt the same as it had 20 years ago when he’d ticked off Dad about something or another.

“Oh fuck!” he yelled, pounding the pavement with his right hand. Unfortunately, yelling and pounding made it hurt even more. He gently lowered his head back to the pavement and assessed the rest of his injuries. His collarbone made a horrible, painful grating noise when he tried to move his left arm. The entire left side of his body felt like someone had kicked the crap out of it during a bar fight. He smelled singed hair, an odor familiar from a decade of responding to structure fires and car accidents.

He wasn’t all that sure what had happened. But the burning tanker at the other end of the parking lot seemed to be an obvious piece of the puzzle. He lifted his head again, more slowly this time, and caught sight of Brice slumped against the wall.

“Oh shit, Brice? Wake up man. Brice, wake up.” Mike tried to hitch his way over to the unconscious man. People in books who bravely fight painful injuries to save companions are liars, he thought. The grating in his collarbone made crawling nearly impossible. He would have to stand up. He shoved his left hand into his pants pocket to keep his left shoulder as steady as possible, and pushed up to his knees with his right arm. The parking lot spun, his stomach flipped, and he couldn’t control the violent vomiting. Throwing up made his face and head hurt so badly, he tipped over again. He lay curled up on the pavement, the smell of his vomit for a moment overpowering the fumes from the burning tanker car.

“It’s the universal sign and symptom, you know,” a hoarse voice said.

Mike opened his eyes. Brice was awake.

“Nausea and vomiting. That’s the first thing we learned in paramedic training. You name a disorder, and odds are nausea and vomiting are a symptom.”

All Mike could do was stare. This was surreal. He was in incredible pain. Brice didn’t look any better. A tanker car was burning in the parking lot, and he didn’t know why. They were so far back in the lot, no one on the street was going to see them for some time. The train crew wasn’t going to see or hear them either, unless they happened to look behind the dumpster. And all Brice could do was sit and expound on the topic of nausea.

“We need to get someone’s attention. I’m not doing very well,” Brice said.

That was no exaggeration. Brice was breathing hard between words, and the hoarseness and red face suggested an airway burn. Also, it appeared something was sticking out of Brice’s side. Somehow, even though they were standing together at the time, some trick of positioning had resulted in Brice taking the brunt of the blast.

Mike tried to move again. The parking lot still spun. The thought of vomiting again frightened him, and he lay back down. His eyes closed despite his efforts to keep them open.

“I can’t get up,” he said, ashamed.

“You probably shouldn’t then.”

When Brice had come to and noticed Stoker curled up on the ground, he’d had a moment of panic. Everything hurt, and it was getting harder to breath. He realized the strange pain in his side was a result of a piece of metal that had punctured his abdomen. To calm down, he mentally ran through the anatomy of the lower-left quadrant of the abdomen. He found it comforting that he could still remember: colon, small intestines, major artery and vein for left leg, left ureter, bladder. As far as abdominal punctures and penetrations go, it could be worse. When he saw signs that Stoker was waking up, he decided it might comfort him to know that throwing up is not unexpected with a head injury.

Unfortunately Stoker didn’t seem to appreciate that knowledge. And now it appeared the engineer was not doing all that well either. Brice forced down another moment of panic and set about keeping his companion awake.

“Stoker. Stoker! Mike!”

That got Mike’s attention. Brice using first names? He forced his eyes open.

“That’s better. Let’s talk, Mike. Do you know where you are?”

Mike thought for a moment. It seemed like an easy enough question, but the thudding in his head prevented an immediate answer. He hazarded a guess. “99’s?”

“Good. Now, what day is it?”

A moment of silence. “I don’t know.”

“That’s OK,” Brice rasped. It wasn’t, but Stoker didn’t need to know that. “How about telling me what happened?”

Another moment of silence. “Something blew up?”

“Good.” Alert and oriented times two. Kind of. Or maybe three, if 99’s wasn’t a lucky guess. “Let’s talk some more Mike. You’re going to have to help me out here. We need to stay alert, so the rescue crews can find us. You like cars?”

What? Cars? What the hell did that have to do with anything?

“Come on Mike. Work with me. Cars. Let’s talk about cars.”

“I got a dune buggy. And my truck.”

“Good.” Brice paused for a moment to catch his breath. Breathing had become a little harder, and his face stung. Airway edema? It was too early for that. He pushed the thought away as Mike spoke up again.

“Nothing like your Javelin, though. Bet it’s trashed now.” For some reason, Mike found that incredibly funny. He started to giggle.

“I fail to find the humor in that,” Brice said sternly. “I don’t think AMC offered ‘crushed train parts’ as a color option.” Mike giggled harder. Finally Brice cracked a smile.

“So I’ve figured out something new about Mike Stoker. He can talk. It just takes a blow to the head.”

Mike abruptly stopped giggling. His bloody face and broken nose masked the blush making its way up his cheeks.

“And I’ve figured out something new about Craig Brice,” Mike said defensively. “He has a sense of humor. A bad one.”

A sudden “boom” startled the two men. They looked apprehensively at the burning tanker. But there was no change in the amount of fire issuing from it. From where he sat, near the gap between the dumpster and the station wall, Brice could see crewmen from the freight train gathering around the tanker. He knew he couldn’t yell that far. He doubted Stoker was in any condition to do so either.

Another boom ripped through the sky, then rain began to fall.

“Shit,” said a morose voice from the pavement.

“You know, for someone who never talks, you have quite a colorful curse vocabulary.”

“My dad. He’s a huge Dodgers fan. Took me to most of the games after the team moved to L.A. After a few beers, he’d yell every curse word known to man at that team. I guess some of them stuck.”

Brice snorted. “That’s why I’m here, believe it or not. I thought I’d earn enough money to pick up tickets. I’ve got a cheap source.”

“Really? I’d give my left arm to see Andy Messersmith pitch in person.” Mike laughed. “I guess my left collarbone will have to do.” His eyes drooped.

“Stoker. Mike!”

“Sorry. So how come you like baseball? Doesn’t that get in the way of being perfect?”

It was Brice’s turn to blush. “You shouldn’t listen to everything you hear,” he wheezed.

“Roy hates your guts, you know,” Mike said. “He thinks you care more about rules than patients. But frankly I think Roy would have hated anyone who worked for Johnny that time he got hurt. Johnny hates you because Roy hates you. Gage can be a real baby sometimes.”

Brice laughed out loud at Mike’s uncharacteristic statement. Who knew head injuries could be such an endless source of amusement? His laughter turned to violent, painful coughing, and he took a moment to catch his breath.

“I do care about rules,” Brice finally replied. “Rules are there for a reason. To protect patients. DeSoto knows that. So does Gage. Rules impose order on disorder. When there’s disorder, I….things get out of control. And I….we don’t want things to get out of control.”

“Must really piss you off when someone dies, then. Talk about total lack of control.”

Brice looked sharply at Stoker. Suddenly the engineer’s loose tongue didn’t seem so funny anymore. Time for a change of subject.

“Your father was a firefighter too, correct? I remember reading about a Captain Stoker in a department newsletter.”

“Yeah. He died last year. Heart attack. He was semi-retired, but did the rounds every now and then when they needed to show off a department dinosaur. ‘Exemplifies the best of the fire service…blah, blah, blah.’” Mike tried to shake his now-soaked hair out of his eyes. He only succeeded in hurting his nose more.

“I take it you didn’t agree.”

“Nah, he was a great firefighter. Shitty dad, but great firefighter. You know those beers he’d drink at the ballgames? It was his idea of a fun time to throw the empty plastic cups at my head from the back seat while I drove him home from the games. Boink, boink. He’d be so drunk, he couldn’t even find the right pedals. I wasn’t old enough for a license yet, but that didn’t stop him. Then we’d get home, and he’d fall asleep on the couch and whack me upside my head when I talked too much. So I stopped talking too much, I guess.”

Brice felt uncomfortable. This was something Stoker would have never told him in a million years under normal circumstances. He wasn’t sure what to say.

“I never saw the point of drinking beer at ballgames,” Brice finally said. “You miss half the nuance of the game. My own father, he was…distant. My love of baseball came from my mother, who signed me up for Little League when she felt I spent too much time at home studying. It was nice, for a change, trying to please my mother instead of my father. A pleasure.”

This was turning into “As The Dad Turns.” Brice felt a need for another subject change.

“So, that book you were reading, tell me about it.”

Mike looked confused. Faint mental alarm bells went off in Brice’s head.

“Stoker. Mike. Tell me about the book. The book you were reading at the table tonight.”

The throbbing in Mike’s head intenstified. “Don’t remember,” he mumbled into the wet pavement.

“Try. Please try.” Uh oh. Brice tried to edge closer to Stoker.

“I need to get the book. To hide. I can watch people that way. Figure them out. Before they can figure me out. Are you going to the dayroom? Can you get my book for me please?” On some level, Mike knew he was making no sense. But his head hurt so badly, he didn’t care.

“The book. Is that why you walked away from me earlier? When I was pointing out the idiots on the track?”

“Track?”

“Come on Mike. Stay with me.”

The throbbing in his head sped up and kept time with some internal merry-go-round. The pavement tilted and pitched. Mike screwed his eyes shut tight and yelled out in fear and pain.

“Mike! Come on. Talk to me,” Brice rasped. Mike remained unresponsive. Brice leaned toward the other man the best he could, fighting the pain in his chest and stomach.

Suddenly it got a lot harder to breathe. His hands reached for his neck, even though he already knew what he would find there. Distended veins. Tracheal deviation. Damn it. Brice made an abortive attempt at calming down and controlling his breathing, before everything blurred into nothingness.

*****

“He’s awake. Brice, Rampart wants us to decompress the pneumo. Hang tight.” DeSoto? Pain. Sting. Darkness again.

*****

“His eyelids are flickering. Tell him what’s going on, in case he can hear you.”

“Michael, you’ve been asleep for a week now. Don’t try to move. The doctors gave you drugs to keep you still and reduce the brain swelling, but they are tapering off now. It will be OK, Sweetie. I’m here.”

Beth?

Mike was getting increasingly frustrated with his progress. He couldn’t remember a single thing from the time he went to bed at 51’s after the hotel fire, to the time when he was awake enough to eat vanilla pudding from a spoon held by Beth. It was all a blank. And although Beth had explained the sequence of events to him every morning for weeks, he still forgot key parts of it.

“How did they find us again?”

“Squad 99 was still heading for the next crossing when the squad and engine from 51’s arrived. They’d been dispatched from across town because they were the only station free on the right side of the tracks. The freight company had its own fire suppression unit out there, but they couldn’t see you. Captain Stanley recognized your truck, then Johnny saw Brice’s car, and they started looking for you. When you weren’t inside, they ran around the station and came across you both next to a dumpster.”

“Brice is OK. Right? I remember you saying that,” Mike said triumphantly.

“Yeah! Hey, you did remember something, didn’t you!” She smiled. “He went home a couple weeks ago. He had airway burns and a damaged small intestine. He was stuck in ICU for days because of the abdominal surgery, and then from pneumonia. He was on a respirator for a few days.”

“He was supposed to start at 16’s….when? What day is today again?”

Beth slipped on her pediatric nurse face, the face that calmed small children but irritated Mike no end. “Today is Wednesday. Brice starts at 16’s next week. He’ll be cleared for light duty by then.” Her hand caressed his patchy hair.

He buried his head in the couch pillow. “Don’t talk to me like that. If I wanted to be treated like a child, I’d have stayed in the hospital.”

“Well quit acting like a child. Dr. Early told you – short term memory problems are a classic symptom of recovery from a serious head injury.”

“Yeah, well so’s nausea and vomiting.”

Beth looked at him strangely. “Where did you get that from?” He wondered that himself.

*****

Brice was bored. He was cleared to drive, but not to run. He briefly considered ignoring Dr. Brackett’s edict and taking a quick lap around the park. The tiny rebellion left his mind almost as quickly as it had entered. Maybe he could get Dodgers tickets. He picked up the phone and called his ticket connection. Two hours later, he got a call back. Two seats behind first base, this afternoon. Good price, but no splitting them up. Great. Now he had to find someone to use the other ticket.

A date? He hadn’t had a steady girl in almost a year. A friend? His friends were not the kinds of people you called up on short notice for a ballgame. His mind wandered back to the last time he had discussed baseball with anyone.

*****

The phone rang.

“Michael, it’s for you.”

“Who the hell is it now?” Today was what Beth liked to call a “Mike’s feeling sorry for himself” day. He couldn’t handle another one-sided conversation dominated by Roy’s best wishes or Chet’s inane comments. Even gin rummy games with Cap were getting old. He got along well with Hank Stanley, who never took Mike’s natural reticence personally. But repeatedly losing at cards was getting a little wearing – especially since Dr. Early had prescribed gin rummy as a good way to exercise his short-term memory circuits.

“It’s Craig Brice,” Beth said, holding the phone to her shoulder.

Brice? He vaguely remembered Brice visiting him in the hospital a couple of times. Beth told him how the two men ended up working extra shifts at 99’s, but Mike had no recollection of it. “Probably not much to remember,” he thought ruefully. “I can’t imagine we had much to say to each other, before or after the explosion.”

He picked up the phone. “Hello.”

“Stoker. It’s Craig Brice.”

“Hi.”

“I guess you are wondering why I called?”

Yep, Mike thought.

“I have tickets to tonight’s Dodgers’ game. Andy Messersmith is pitching and, well, I’m looking for someone to take the other ticket off my hands. Interested?”

Mike was confused. A Dodgers game with Brice? He barely knew the guy. They had nothing in common. Except, apparently, the Dodgers. This must be some kind of mistake, or something.

“Um, I’m not supposed to leave the house,” Mike lied. Seemingly out of nowhere, Beth appeared and grabbed the phone from his hand.

“Mr. Brice? Yes, this is Michael’s wife. I don’t know why you want him to leave the house, or where you are going, but please come and get him. He’s driving me crazy.”

Mike looked agog at his wife. What the hell was she saying? He waved frantically at her. She ignored him.

“OK, I’ll tell him you’ll be here at 5 then. Bye bye.”

She hung up the phone and grinned triumphantly.

He was panicked. “What the hell was that? I don’t want to go out with him. I don’t want to go out with anyone.”

“He came to see you a lot of times in the hospital. Sometimes in a wheelchair. The least you can do is go out with him. Where does he want to take you?”

“Dodger’s game,” he mumbled.

“Michael, you love the Dodgers. Go already. Maybe that pitcher guy you are so obsessed about is playing today.”

“I can’t.” He couldn’t explain why. He couldn’t tell his wife he was scared to death of leaving the house -- scared of getting lost, or falling over, or forgetting something important. It was just one more reason for people to stare.

Beth, as usual, seemed to read his thoughts. “Brice knows you. And he has a medical background. He’ll understand if you get a little fuzzy on the details.”

“My hair.”

“I’ll find your old cap.”

He slumped down on the couch. “I won’t enjoy it.”

“You don’t have to enjoy it. You just have to go.”

*****

Brice was surprised at Stoker’s appearance. He’d never seen the engineer in his native California garb before – shorts, t-shirt and sandals. He’d also lost a lot of weight, and his scalp was shaved where the doctors had performed surgery to ease brain swelling. Given Stoker’s height, the overall effect was that of a tall, skinny, balding ostrich in shorts.

Mike caught Brice staring at him. He turned away and shoved on his baseball cap as Beth led the other man into the den.

“He’s ready to go. Keep an eye on him on stairs and stuff. The Dilantin is still making him dizzy sometimes. And don’t freak out if he loses track of his train of thought in conversations. His short-term memory is actually getting a lot better now; they think with a little luck, he’ll be back to limited duty in a few months.”

“Beth,” Mike said sharply. He wasn’t an invalid.

“The game is at six, so I expect we’ll be back by ten,” Brice said.

“Great, I’ll see you two then. Have a great time sweetie,” she said, kissing Mike on the cheek.

They headed out the door and toward Brice’s car.

“Nice car,” Mike said.

“Thank you. Insurance covered the paint job.”

“Paint job?”

“From the damage. In the explosion.”

“Oh.”

Stoker didn’t remember. That was obvious from the look on his face.

“So, how much do you remember?”

“Not much.”

Brice waited for details, but none were forthcoming. They got into the car and took off.

*****

“So how are your nose and clavicle?”

Brice’s question startled Mike out of his daydream. The two men sat behind first base, awaiting the start of the game.

“Huh?”

“The nose and clavicle. You broke them. How are they?”

“OK.” That was true. In the hospital, by the time he was “with it” enough to realize who and where he was, his collarbone and nose didn’t bother him much anymore. The only thing left to remind him of his other injuries was a collection of yellowing, faded bruises, from his left ear all the way down to his left thigh.

The game began, and Brice busied himself with watching the players and penciling in his program. He had a complete collection of scored programs from every game he had ever attended.

Mike just sat. He had to admit, the fresh evening air felt good. He randomly flipped through his own program. He had never had the patience to keep track of scoring, preferring instead to watch people’s reactions to the game in front of them. He watched Brice concentrate on the game, tense up as a batter came to the plate, and relax as the ball was caught or a player was struck out. Good grief. He even needed his ballgames to be perfect.

The visiting pitcher retired the side, and Brice looked up. “Now we’ll see if Messersmith has his stuff tonight. I predict this will be his best season yet.” He waved his pencil to make his point.

Mike ventured a polite comment. “I didn’t know you were a baseball fan.”

“Actually, it’s something you and I discussed after the explosion. The Dodgers and how we became fans.”

“We did?”

“Yes.”

A drink vendor walked by their seats. Brice watched as Stoker bought a Coke.

“You are not a beer drinker?”

“Can’t. Medication.”

More silence. Brice really wanted a Coke too, but he was still on a soft diet. He was about to turn his attention back to the game and his program, when Stoker spoke again.

“What did I say?”

“About what?”

“About why I was a Dodgers’ fan?”

Brice decided discretion was the better part of valor. “You said you went to games with your father, and you had fond memories of those times.”

He said that? He must have been really out of it. “And what did you say?”

“I said that I played Little League as a child and my interest grew from there. My father didn’t take me to games, but my mother encouraged participation in sports.”

“Oh.” More silence. Andy Messersmith quickly struck out the side, and the first inning was over.

Brice looked back up from his program. “I believe Messersmith will get the Cy Young this year. I’ve graphed his ERA, and it looks promising.”

“Phil Niekro’s looking good too.”

“Atlanta’s a tough field for pitchers. Messersmith has got it easier in L.A. I was under the impression you were a Messersmith fan.”

“I am. But I just have a feeling.” Mike could feel a blush creeping up his face. Brice noted Stoker’s embarrassment, and eased off.

“Perhaps you are right.”

The game resumed.

*****

The two men had sat in near silence for several innings. Messersmith pulled a muscle going after a bunt. The Dodgers sent in a reliever. Brice took the opportunity to break the silence. “What about Mike Marshall?”

“Huh?” Mike had been wrapped up in the drama on the pitching mound.

“Mike Marshall. The relief pitcher. For the Cy Young.”

Mike had forgotten their earlier conversation. “I think Phil Niekro’s got a good chance.”

Brice rolled with the conversational punches. At least Stoker was talking now. “Yeah, but Atlanta’s a tough ballpark to pitch in.”

“My dad used to say it’s not the ballpark, it’s the ballplayer.”

“My father never said much of anything at all to me.”

“He was….distant. Right?” Mike’s eyes went wide after the words left his mouth. Why did he say that?

Brice was wondering the same thing. He tried to keep the surprise out of his voice. “That was how I put it, yes. When we were talking during the…incident….last month. Have you remembered other parts of that day?”

“Little bits. The docs say the whole day may never come back. But that’s OK. I can remember how to charge a hose, read a gauge and prime a pump.” Mike stopped short, realizing he was sounding a little defensive.

“Actually, I must admit I did not tell you the entire truth earlier. We discussed our fathers in some detail. It appears neither of us had the father of our dreams. But considering the circumstances surrounding our discussion, I would understand if you felt more comfortable if I were to forget the whole thing.”

Now that he understood the root of Stoker’s diffidence and need for privacy, Brice felt a need to give the engineer an “out” for this conversation. He briefly wondered how many other people understood the man as well as he now did.

Mike didn’t take the out. He was feeling strangely comfortable talking to this man, almost as comfortable as if he was talking to Beth or Cap. “But if it wasn’t for our dads, we wouldn’t be Dodgers fans, right?” he joked.

Brice smiled. “No, we wouldn’t. And that would be a shame, wouldn’t it?”

*****

Mike had been back on full duty for a week when Roy’s daughter underwent an emergency appendectomy. The phone call came at 8:30, right after roll call, and Cap stood down the squad until a replacement partner for Johnny could be found. At 10:30, Brice walked in the dayroom door.

“Good morning,” he addressed the crew. “I trust DeSoto’s daughter is doing well.”

“Roy called us a few minutes ago,” Cap said. “She’s out of surgery and everything is going smoothly. Thanks for coming in.”

“I was available.” He didn’t state the real reason why he was there; his time off had hurt his pocketbook significantly, even with long-term disability payments. His plan to stabilize his schedule after finding a permanent home at 16’s had been put on hold for the time being. He poured some coffee and took a seat next to Mike, who was reading the sports section. The Cy Young award was front-page news.

Brice leaned over. “I told you it wouldn’t be Niekro or Messersmith. I told you it would be Marshall.”

Mike put the paper down. “You are full of shit. You wanted Messersmith months ago. I said Niekro. Then you said Marshall. Then you changed your mind again. Even at dinner last night, you said Messersmith. Beth is my witness. So much for your anal retentive E.R.A. graphs.” He grinned.

Brice was readying a crack about Mike’s short-term memory problems returning, when he looked up. The entire 51 A-shift crew was staring at the two men, mouths open.

“What? You’ve never seen anyone talk about baseball before?” With that, Brice got up and headed out to the apparatus bay to alphabetize the drug box, while Mike raised his newspaper once again.

THE END