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BJ
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I like to think that I see the good in things. My optimism is one of my better qualities. But I've been in Korea for less than 24 hours and I can honestly say that there is nothing good about it.
I do not like my unsanitary living quarters. I do not like my cot, which is about as comfortable as a slab of marble. I do not like my Roy Cohn-loving jackass of a CO. I do not like his McCarthyist girlfriend. And I do not like my crass, passive-aggressive roommate, who may or may not be completely and utterly schizophrenic.
I can take all that. Not happily, mind, and not easily, but I can do it because I'm good at prevailing through such things. Because I'm an optimist.
However. I don't think I'll get used to surgery. And I think that if I ever have to see another scalpel again in my life, I will use it to slit my throat.
It lasted eleven hours. Eleven hours. I have never in my life pulled and yanked a man's ribs into place. I have never set a leg with bombs going off behind me. And I have never in my life had to dig through the innards of someone to find very small pieces of metal and drop them in a bucket.
Pulling out the shrapnel was easy, though. But while I was in the middle of doing so, behind me, McIntyre had to do an open-heart massage. When I heard the man's ribcage crack as McIntyre pulled him open, I gagged and my eyes filled with tears. I didn't want to throw up in a surgical mask. It couldn't be a pleasant experience. And the kid survived, but my chest ached just thinking about how much he would be hurting when he woke up.
I was slow and unseasoned. I'd never felt more incompetent. A short, curvaceous nurse assisted me, whispering in my ear. "You're doing fine" and "It's okay, it's okay" and I didn't feel better. The priest was very kind to me, very encouraging. I hadn't lost a patient yet, but then, I'd had quite a bit less than the other two surgeons.
And just when things couldn't possibly get any worse at all, they did.
"There's a whole new batch," Houlihan said, walking in as a nurse slid fresh rubber gloves on my hands. She dabbed at my forehead.
And the corpsmen brought in the girl. Sixteen, maybe. I stared down at her. Then I looked up.
"I don't think I can do this," I said out loud.
"You'll do fine, Hunnicutt," Burns muttered.
"Whatcha got, California?" McIntyre asked.
"Snapped sternum. Punctured lung. I don't think I can—"
"Get to it, Hunnicutt, we're all busy over here," Burns snapped. "And you're behind."
"Be careful, California. Hot Lips, you go over there. Kellye, you come over here, sweetie."
I wasn't paying attention. I was on the verge of tears. I was tired, scared, and disgusted. I had never seen damage this massive before in my life. Apparently it was just another patient to these people, but I had to fix her and I had to fix her fast.
But I couldn't. Something went wrong. It was all a blur later. A blur of words and breathless moments in which I did everything I could, which wasn't much. McIntyre pushed up behind me. He was calm and composed. And I stepped back and watched him do his best.
And the nurse down at the girl's head glanced up, her eyes sad but unsurprised above her mask. She removed her stethoscope and shook her head. Then the priest came and muttered in Latin, and then Houlihan said, "Klinger!" And McIntyre looked up at me with pine-cone colored eyes. I wanted to see tears, but there was nothing. He looked sympathetic, but he didn't say anything. I stared back in shock, remembering the look on her face. So placid. So calm. Could've been my daughter. Did she suffer? How much pain had she been in before she passed out? The lump formed in my throat, but I swallowed it.
McIntyre glanced around and called "NEXT!" as he was given fresh gloves. So I glanced around and called, "NEXT", but my voice got caught in my throat. I tried again.
And later, it was all over but I still felt the bright lights on my neck. I still felt my heavy scrubs, hot, covered with a sticky red mess. I still heard the clicking of instruments. The whole time, Burns was saying things like "You're not being very vocal today, McIntyre" and McIntyre always had some sort of retort. But other than that, no one said much, unless it was to request a clamp, or wipe, or scalpel, or scissors, or….
I sat alone in my tent for a long time. Outside, the moon was orange, glowing gently. Some people walked by, talking and laughing and I thought, How can they laugh?
The priest—his name was Father Mulcahy—stopped by. I told him I didn't feel like talking. He told me he was right across the compound if I needed to. But never talking to anyone again seemed like a good idea at that point.
I saw their faces. Asleep. Some of them were awake when I got them, crying in pain and shock. They went under and I nervously began. They never knew I was as surprised as they.
My name was in the shifts, my name was on the duty rosters, my name was in the mixture of this insanity. I was Hunnicutt, BJ, Captain. I was, now. I was supposed to go on Post-Op duty early in the morning. My first ever. I should've been getting some sleep—I'd barely slept the last few days anyway, so nervous about coming over to this place—but I couldn't.
McIntyre walked through the door when the sun was first beginning to rise.
"You still awake?" he asked, and I nodded.
McIntyre reached for a martini glass. I remembered what he'd said earlier about me needing a drink after OR. I didn't want to admit he was right, but being completely soused right now seemed wonderful. At least I'd get some sleep.
But, right about then, being dead seemed wonderful.
"Can I have some?" I asked pathetically.
"I was wondering when you'd ask," he said. He filled two glasses and handed one to me.
It smelled like ammonia and tasted about the same. The sensation of it going down my throat was about the same as the time I fell flat on my back, off the jungle gym in second grade. I coughed a bit, trying to regain my breath, and he laughed.
"Not one for the hard stuff. I could've guessed."
"What is it, antifreeze?"
"No, but that's one of the ingredients," he said, sitting down. I watched him sip it in disbelief.
"How can you do that?"
"You get used to it," he said. He glanced up over the rim of his glass. "You get used to everything here, you know."
"How in the name of…" I stared down into my own glass, dared to take another sip, and looked up. "I don't think I'll ever get used to it."
"You will," he assured me grimly.
We sat in silence, drinking. The sun was rising, the earth changing from black to the color of the flowers on Peg's china. I felt sick. I missed her. I missed Erin. Already it seemed like years since I'd seen them. The alcohol was hitting my stomach hard, and I knew it was a mistake to be drinking—I hadn't had anything to eat.
"Are you married?" I dared to ask him.
"Mmhmm."
"Kids?"
"Two."
"Boy? Girl? Both? One of each?"
"Girls."
"How old?"
"Seven and five."
A few more moments of silence. "Can I see a picture?"
"What do you care what my kids look like, California?"
"We're going to be stuck here, I thought it'd be nice to get to know one another," I said briskly. Then, a few moments later, "Where are you from? Crabapple Cove?"
"I told you, California, only jerks come from Crabapple Cove."
"I know," I said. I wanted to smile proudly, but I don't think I had a smile in me. I'd never smile again.
"Yeah, yeah, got me. Boston."
"So is it okay if I call you Boston, then?"
"Boston doesn't have the same ring as 'California', California. What am I supposed to call you? Hunnicutt?"
"You could try BJ. Has a lot less syllables than the other two."
"What's BJ stand for, anyway?"
"Whatever you want."
We said nothing for a long time. I closed my eyes and leaned back. The alcohol was affecting me, but I couldn't get the images out of my mind. I blinked hard. I shut my eyes so hard I saw different colors behind my eyelids, but they were replaced by the angelic face of a sixteen year old Korean girl as she was rolled away….
"Oh, for Christ's sake," I heard McIntyre sigh. "Please don't do this. Dammit. You know, if you act like a human being it makes it a whole lot harder for me to hate your guts."
I felt his hand on my shoulder. Then I felt his weight beside me on my cot. Then I felt his whole arm around me, and he smelled like peroxide and gin. So maybe he wasn't schizophrenic.
"You're gonna get used to it."
"I don't want to get used to it," I said stubbornly, refusing to look up. I felt ridiculous—when was the last time I'd cried like this?—and exhausted, a little drunk.
"You're gonna. And you know what? If you don't get used to it, California…you're my fucking hero."
I glanced up, finally. "Guess you're not that much of a jerk after all."
"Nah. But don't tell anyone. I've got a reputation to protect."
"So call me BJ."
"I will some day."
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Martinis for reviewers.