"One of the greatest evils is the foolishness of a good man.

For the giving man to withhold helping someone in order to first assure personal fortification is not selfish, but to elude needless self-destruction; martyrdom is only practical when the thought is to die, else a good man faces the consequence of digging a hole from which he cannot escape, and truly helps no one in the long run."

― Mike Norton, Just Another War Story

Chapter Ten

Joy is Misery

Lisa's saxophone seemed heavier than she remembered in the moment that her instructor conducted her into her solo for a parade to be held later in the season. She heaved the instrument as high as her weighty arms would allow, and her lips formed, for the first time since discovering the beloved instrument, hesitantly around the reed. What had once been skillful fingers that would glide along the keys to make strong breaths play flawless notes had been reduced to unsteady, off-beat music.

The music teacher, who was nearly as off-beat as the sour notes bellowing from the sax, snapped his conducting wand against his music stand and scolded the child, "stop, stop, stop! What are you doing?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Largo, I just-,"

"You just played the most horrible string of notes I've ever been forced to listen to," Dewey Largo complained through a rather strong, stereotypically-homosexual voice. He clamped hands over ears and approached his star pupil. "Listen, you're the only one who can pull this pathetic little band together. Without you, the whole parade will be ruined."

Lisa chortled in a scoff as her eyes rolled playfully to the ground, "trust me, I'll be fine by then; the parade's four weeks away, and I'm sure that whatever is happening now will be over with way before then."

Darkness glimmered behind pupils filled with soul; thoughts raced of death and trauma and the pains of others through the mind of an eight-year-old. A precarious plague that ate away her innards with the acid from the bile she was forced to swallow. As her stomach ulcers grew irritated, she blew into the saxophone with all of her emotions behind her breath. Each note, that once came out so sour, came out melodically – emotionally-scarred yet beautifully played. Every hint of worry, every trace of pain, every apprehension over things beyond her control traveled through the instrument, expressing what she never could in words through the music.

Visions of a dying man resting in his hospital bed and glimpses of suicidal adults she'd grown to care so deeply for clouded her eyes. She went blind for the moment as she shut her eyes and her senses, letting her body move with animalistic instinct. She played what she felt without even trying, and had she been able to see, she would have sworn polaroid photographs of all the disturbing images of her mind poured out the other end of her sax.

Dewey and the other children had been taken away for an instant, their souls lingering and conforming to the notes that seemed to drift upon the air. The teacher stood in disbelief, shaking his head in a fight to stop the music from robbing his soul, and gave an agonizingly slow applause. The other instrument-clad students followed suit from their teacher, cheering on the girl who they so often found to be a show-off. Yet amidst the clapping and cheering, Lisa's inner mind was clawed and shredded by the demons that danced upon her head.

As she played the final notes before her lungs threatened to collapse, a few tears were shed for those she felt helpless to help. The saxophone had made such sorrow and torturous grief sound so hauntingly alluring that, no matter her tears, it left the rest of the crowd with contagious smiles.

"That was… b-beautiful," the music teacher gushed, shocked by his own emotion over such a heartbreakingly stunning song composed by a mere child. "I think we've found our lead!"

The response the barkeep was given settled in his stomach like a block of lead, unable to be dissolved by the acid and therefore was forced back up his gullet. He grunted at the burning that laced the back of his throat, the irritation only growing worse as he continued his exaggerated grunts and coughs to regain Smithers' attention. Moe glared at the back of the assistant's head, longing to bore a gaping hole straight through the awkwardly-rounded skull and see just what gave the man such deep lust and yearning for those who clearly held no torches for him. How could a love remain on for such great lengths of time without any sign of acknowledgement in return? Didn't the flame of every candle eventually burn out upon itself, snuffing the smoke of what once burned ever-so-brightly in order to suffocate any who dare breathe? No matter the time and effort he placed into wrapping his mind around how such a thing was possible, Moe could never understand the relationship (or lack thereof) that the lovelorn Waylon shared with such an evil, twisted soul as Burns.

"Maybe I wants my cash now? Youse eva think of dats, Waylon?"

The blank canvas that was his thoughts suddenly became overwhelmed with an endless list of possibilities of nicer or wittier things he could have said. His tongue had always been his enemy whenever it came to delicate situations; it always wanted to appear hasty, and often times he'd cut the hearts of those who've already been viciously massacred by the tongues of others. The wince that formed at the corners of Waylon's eyes made it clear, as though Moe was staring right through the crystal glasses he'd served the liquor that started this fiasco within, that such bluntly-spoken words had a piercing impact.

Moe sighed in disgust for himself, "… sorry, guess business's gots me mo' stressed dan usual."

"That's no excuse to take it out on me," the frustrated bite swiftly trundled off the tip of Waylon's tongue as he returned his focus back to the paining Burns. "I'm sorry about this, sir. I'll send him out if you'd like."

"No, no," an almost frisky retort from Burns as he steeple-d his fingers upon his chest, which twitched in pain, "from what I've been told you two are good chums; and who am I to break up a friendly brawl, hmm?"

"But, sir, I don't think it's in your best interest to be… uh… indulging in the bickering of others right now."

"Oh, pish-posh!" Burns snarled with a grimace upon his face. He lifted his palm to his assistant as the man's voice grew agitating to the powerhouse's ears. "I'm an old man with little time left, and the least you could do is let me enjoy it however I please. Now, carry on, Smithers and… friend?"

Smithers groaned, his throat growing irritated and sore from the consistency at which unspoken expressions smothered him. His mind split as he felt bitterness toward the man at a time when he should be presenting nothing but love and affection. He tilted his head toward the tiled floor in order to hide the insubordination of rolling his eyes and the tiny scowl that etched upon his face.

"Yeah, Waylon," Moe piped up with a frustrated smirk upon his face as his arms folded across his chest, "carries on."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Burns, but I'm not going to risk your health just so you can have a laugh," the angered ward replied as respectfully as he could when feelings of acrimony clogged his chest. He returned to the man that stood before him and shoved against those rounded shoulders once again, shoving Moe out of the room and into the mocking hallway.

"What the hell are you doing?" Smithers spat, his hands balling into trembling fists at his sides. "Why didn't you stay in the waiting room?"

Moe shrugged, a cocky smirk upon his face that further boiled the blood of his counterpart, "I didn't feels like waitin's."

The growl of a provoked animal emitted from Smithers' aching throat. He rolled his eyes and folded his arms over chest, one foot positioned a few inches away from the other as his toe tapped impatiently. The glare he pressed against Moe's features didn't faze the slouching barkeep, who simply mocked Waylon's stance and sniggered.

"And just what is so funny?"

"Youse," Moe responded with unnerving swiftness that nearly tipped the other's balance. "I mean, sheesh, Waylon, youse act like dat boss of yours is da world. Youse think he'd be doin' dis fo' youse if youse was da one on dat gurney?" Waylon's lips formed to speak, but Moe refused to allow it, "Hell no! He'd be busy sittin' in dat fancy office of his, countin' his money."

Smithers' antagonism flared in his mind despite his heart's every feeble beat telling him that the other man was right. He stood completely stiffened with teeth gritted behind his lips that had formed to nothing more than the slash of a knife. In a heated rush, the foot that had drummed the floor impatiently stomped the ground, his fury exiting through his shoe and threatening the weakened tiles of the floor.

"Don't you talk about Mr. Burns that way!"

"Oh-ho-ho," a teasing laugh escaped Moe's chest as he stepped closer to the frustrated and confused man. Their contrastingly-expressive faces lingered in a brutally heated proximity. "I thinks I hit a nerve dere – huh, Waylon?"

A dangerous tango of words began to brew within each of the men. A brawl was erupting as tension was emitted into the air and sparked the interest of some other patients and their families that loitered in the hallway. Stiff upper lips nearly grazed from the closeness, knitted brows and foreheads were, too, almost connected, and a battle of wills was held within engaging eyes.

"Waylon," Dr. Hibbert interjected with a merry smile as he strolled down the hall, some other patient's chart tucked under his arm, "could I speak with you for a moment?"

"Of course, Doctor," Waylon begrudgingly retorted as he forced his eyes and body away from Moe, who followed him like a lovelorn puppy followed their angry master. "Stop following me, Moe," he snapped in a whisper as he turned his head, chin to shoulder, to glare at Moe.

In spite of having been promoted to the lead role in Springfield's music parade, Lisa sat upon the curb with a reflecting frown souring her otherwise appealing face. She rested a hand atop the large, black-leather case that contained her saxophone in order to support her weight as she slumped. Her thoughts dawdled not upon her recent joy, but upon Mr. Smithers' and his suffering. She couldn't help but wonder if her silent suffering matched with the older man's, thus gaining her some type of empathy rather than the typical sympathy she always caught from others who knew not of her inner turmoil.

The obnoxious blare of a car horn assaulted her ears and earned her attention. Her eyes, wide from the startling racket, flickered upward to notice her father in the drivers' side of their family's car. Instinctively, she climbed to her feet and gathered her case, moving the strap over her shoulder so the hefty item wouldn't tire her arms' muscles. As she scaled into the backseat of the car and adjusted her seatbelt, she felt the oafish eyes of her father upon her.

"So-o-o," Homer began in hopes that at least one of his children wouldn't disappoint him that day, "how was practice?"

"…. Fine."

A fret played at the corners of Homer's mouth, "just fine? Nothing that old Dad here can be proud of?"

"Ugh, Dad!" Lisa groaned as she slammed her hand upon the armrest of the door and her eyes coldly locked with the darkening sky of twilight. "I know all you want is something to rub in your co-workers' faces."

Homer scoffed as the insolent accusation sorely offended him, "that's not true! I also want something to rub in the faces of our friends and neighbors."

"Yeah, Lis, lighten up," Bart spoke up as his eyes drifted from his hand-held video game to his sister.

"You go through what I go through on a daily basis and then tell me to lighten up," the young girl uttered in a sigh, not bothering to break eye contact with the rapidly passing trees and buildings. She cleared her throat as her voice once again scaled octaves, "if you must know, I got promoted to the lead for the music parade next month…. Um, have either of you heard anything else about Mr. Burns… or Mr. Smithers?"

Bart grunted out a crude chortle as hands worked busily at the buttons of his game, "nope. Why do you care so much anyway? It's not like they're family or anything."

"I just do, Bart!"

"Jeez," the boy, who was two years his sister's senior, said as he tried to hide the shock that danced behind his eyes from the yelp, "don't have a cow, sis."

Dr. Hibbert ushered the two men into the same room he and Waylon had discussed the seriousness of Burns' condition in only a day prior. He sat in the same chair he had that faithful day as Smithers took his old seat, leaving Moe to gawkily stand in the corner when the only two chairs were occupied.

"Uh, sorry," the medic chuckled and nodded his head apologetically at the unamused man. "You'd think after all the complaints, we'd put another chair in here."

The bartender snorted and his eyes traveled around the sparsely-decorated room solely to prevent looking at the doctor.

"Forget the chairs," Waylon barked before clearing his throat in an awkward apology. The ward's glasses went askew as he fiddled with them out of nervous habit before letting his eyes roam from the floor and upon the doctor's cheery face. "U-um, what did you want to tell me?"

"Well, as you know, we have Mr. Burns stable, but because of the unforeseen complications, we want to keep him here to monitor him for the next few days."

Smithers nodded, though it was none of his concern as he had already figured his boss hadn't seen his last of that merciless hospital, "okay... And what about the biopsy results? How long before those come back?"

"It could take a few days, it could take two weeks," the doctor responded before placing a reassuring hand upon the crumbling man's shoulder, "but I'll have someone up front call you as soon as they come back. Now, let's talk about when Mr. Burns will be released; we can send an out-patient nurse to watch over hi-,"

Smithers' bubbled with jealousy as he sharply interrupted, "I'll be taking care of him. Besides, I think I'm the only one he'll let do it anyway."

"I-it's going to be a big job, are you sure you're up for that?"

"If I've put up with him this long, I think I can manage."

Hibbert gazed at the man with pity in his eyes, but he shrugged off the topic, knowing Smithers would stubbornly deny having any aide or help, "well, okay then."

Silence had become such a frequent companion in that painfully cold hospital room, which only grew colder as night shrouded the building. After another dose of pain medication had been administered, Burns had retired into sleep, but for once he didn't leave Smithers alone in the night.

Moe sat in one of the stiff-cushioned chairs in the opposite corner across from Waylon, who, too, shifted in his chair in desperation for comfort. The bartender watched the frowning man's squirms and observed the deadness in his actions; Waylon was dolefully cradling one of Burns' limp hands in his own, which sparked both anguish and bizarre jealously in Moe's gullet.

In desperation to put the painful silence to rest, the taverner interjected with an anxious voice, "youse okay ova deres?"

"Well," came the meager response as Smithers' head lulled in the other's direction, "I could damn sure use another drink, if that's what you mean." A faint and broken chuckle followed the response as the secretary sounded on the verge of tears for what seemed the millionth time in the past few days.

While mostly offered as a rhetorical statement, Moe pinched the back of his neck and made a friendly suggestion, "den how's about we gets out of here and head back to da bar? Old Burnsie'll be fine," he tacked on as he caught the worried expression that fluttered over Waylon's features.

Smithers heaved a sigh that could have disturbed the sails of any ships upon the stillest of oceans, "well, they do have him stabilized…. What the hell," he muttered with a shrug as he shook off his concerns for the slumbering elder, "I guess one drink couldn't hurt."

"The most intriguing people you will encounter in this life are the people who had insights about you, that you didn't know about yourself."

― Shannon L. Alder