Читать книгу Wake-Up Call - Joaquin De Torres - Страница 10

Ivana opened one of the dossier folders laying across her desk. Zelda sat next to me and we viewed a photo of a young girl of about 16, lying on her back in a hospital gown. Her arms were bone-thin, folded across her emaciated body. Her hands were curled into claws, her eyes wide open, and her lips were stretched agape as if in a tortured scream. She was frozen in a painful pose that resembled a horrified creature in ice. Her legs, just as boney as her arms, were crossed at the knees, and her feet were contorted. Her left foot hinged up sharply and her right pulled down into a grotesque bow. Both feet looked like hooks that would have brought excruciating pain to a conscious person. The person in the photo was not conscious despite her opened eyes. She was paralyzed; frozen; living, but also dead. This was not our field so Zelda and I winced with each photo of the girl. Ivana, on the other hand, was as calm as if she were flipping through photos of streams and mountains.

“This is Patricia Miren,” she finally said. “Twenty-eight.”

“Twenty-eight?” I said. “I thought she was a teenager.”

“The effects of the atrophy over the years.” Ivana presented another folder and spread out its contents. “Here are photos of Patricia going back five years as her Encephalitis Lethargica worsened.” Zelda and I viewed the photos which showed the young woman in various frozen states. The poses were very similar with the exception that she had more weight on her in the early years.

“These photos were taken while she was at Napa.”

“Where did they find her?” asked Zelda.

“She was homeless eight years ago, living on the streets of Richmond. She was known in the area as the ‘Wal-Mart Lady’ because she pushed around a Wal-Mart cart from street to street. They said at the time she walked fine and pushed the cart up hills full of stuff she’d collected. One day, hikers found her laying in a clearing at Tilden Park, not far from here. She had a high fever, upper musculature rigidity, and body tremors.

“She was diagnosed and treated at the emergency room with several illnesses from strep throat to Parkinson’s Disease. But when she stabilized, she went into catatonic shock and lost throat flex and jaw muscle control. Unable to swallow, she has been fed using injections and I.V.s all this time. She froze a month later.” Our eyes moved from the photos to Ivana. “And when they did a neuro scan, the results warranted that they transfer her to Napa State where she was essentially ignored.”

“That’s horrible,” Zelda whispered. “Does she have cognitive functions?” Tears were welling up in her big eyes. “Is she aware?”

“She’s brain dead.”

I inhaled deeply trying to dislodge the ball in my throat. For some reason, with the photos in my hand and Ivana’s despondent tone, I couldn’t seem to erect the wall of cool professionalism that I mastered throughout my career.

“I didn’t even know about her until my audit of the Catatonic Ward when I was an oversight inspector. Once I got this position, I made sure she and about a dozen other catatonic patients were transferred here. I now treat them all.”

“Does she have any family?” Zelda asked.

“I found a mother living with her boyfriend at a trailer park in Shore Acres, but neither showed interest.”

There was a lingering question in my mind as we listened to Patricia Miren’s sad story that I hadn’t had the courage to ask. But Ivana was already looking at me, obviously reading my mind.

“You’re wondering why Patricia’s story is so important, aren’t you, Javier?” I nodded. She turned and retrieved her laptop that sat on the far side of the table. “A DVD I made is inside. It’s already cued up for you.” She turned the screen to us and maneuvered her mouse to activate the video.

“This is a composite of clips that we made as I tried to teach Patricia how to draw shapes.” The film showed Ivana standing over Patricia’s bed, supporting a pencil in her clawed hand on a drawing pad. Patricia’s face was a mask of contorted pain, the exact same face as the photos of past years. Ivana, with her compassionate voice, was talking to her in a soft, encouraging tone like a mother urging her baby. There was only slight movement from Patricia, but it occurred when a leg shifted. Ivana even took her hand and tried to guide it on the paper, but it was too rigid to move. Clip after clip, it was clear that no progress was registered in the exercise no matter how much Ivana tried to coax her, move her or encourage her. Intermittently, Ivana would turn to the camera to give a quick clinical analysis of something she saw or didn’t see. The dates on the clips showed that these exercises took place six weeks ago.

“For weeks I tried to get Patricia to write something-anything-even just jab the pencil onto the paper. But there was no movement at all.” She paused for what seemed like an uncomfortably long time, looking away and taking a breath. Zelda leaned over to me and whispered.

“This is not easy for her. It wasn’t easy for me.”

“Have you seen this already?” I asked her. She nodded ominously. Ivana seemed to gain her composure and looked up.

“Every room has a video camera situated on the wall above the bed’s headboard like a security camera, and records throughout the night. We call it a Night Cam. Now look at this. This is what was filmed from Patricia’s camera just two weeks ago.”

She started the video again and my heart froze in my throat.

* * *

Sergeant LeMarcus Henderson, 3d Infantry Division, Special Electronics Warfare Team, and two-time Purple Heart recipient from the Iraqi War, limped into the Pittsburg Best Buy in a cami jacket, ripped jeans, untied boots, and a t-shirt reading “FUCK ALL WARS!” His hair was a nappy unkempt Afro, his thick beard a matching, hanging nest. The former soldier made a bee-line for the PC and laptop department of the store, his eyes searching for some far-off object.

He reeked of beer, sweat and filth, making nearby customers wince and move away as he drew near. Best Buy floor manager Tim Wilson saw Henderson early from the cash register line and got on his walkie.

“Floor alert,” he whispered harshly into the mouth piece. “Homeless African-American man going into Computer Electronics. Need assistance in Computer Electronics. Fran, he’s coming your way!”

It was true, LeMarcus Henderson was a homeless African-American at the time; but back in the day, just eight years prior, he was a dangerous avatar who had dominion over an entire battlefield both on the ground and in the air. He worked the controls of a sophisticated new electronic frontal assault system from a single tablet or laptop called “LAP STRIKE.” At his fingertips, a Lap Striker had forward telemetry and topography readings of targets derived from drones, satellites, reconnaissance aircraft, and long-range infrared cameras in a tablet PC the size of a paperback novel, but only a quarter inch thick.

“Taking point” had taken on a whole new meaning for the Army because when Lap Striker was on point, American forces were miles away behind him. Parachuting in at night behind enemy lines, Henderson remained hidden, fusing all information preloaded and downloaded of enemy areas before calling in air, tank or artillery strikes with the push of a button. One special, almost mundane feature of the tablet was its power grid scrambler. When attached either wirelessly or with cables to a transformer or capacitor, Henderson could send a plasma jolt into the energy stream and short circuit the grid, causing a blackout to a city the size of Baltimore for at least seven minutes; long enough to cause the chaos and military defenselessness for an effective strike.

Henderson had all but forgotten those days when he was considered a hero for guiding in no less than 15 successful helicopter, drone and jet airstrikes. But during the war’s third year, an Iraqi artillery shell exploded close enough to send shrapnel through both his legs, knocking him out of the war and into a VA hospital in San Francisco. Two years later, Henderson was on the streets with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and an alcohol and cocaine problem that siphoned most of his four years of Army savings. In this last year, Henderson’s PTSD advanced into manic depression and bipolar disorder, strengthening the saddening statistic that 40 percent of all U.S. soldiers returning from the Iraq and Afghanistan wars suffered unrecoverable mental disorders.

“Should we call the police?” asked one Best Buy associate near Wilson who stood like a sentry, surveying the scene.

“No, but I’ll let Brian know.” He reached for a register phone and pressed the store intercom button. Instantly, the in-store speakers echoed.

“Store manager to Computer Electronics, please. Brian to Computer Electronics for customer service, or call me on line three at register two, please.” The buzzer sounded on line three. He picked up the receiver and raised his head to the terraced, glass offices on the second floor above. He saw store manager Brian Stedman with the phone on his ear.

“Brian, we have a homeless man going into electronics.”

“So? You know what to do. Just have some associates hang around him and make sure he doesn’t take anything. Leave Monica in charge of the front if you want to help out.”

“Okay, thanks.” Wilson turned to one of the assistant managers. “Monica, Brian wants you to watch the front while I go over there.” He left to join the small gathering of blue-shirted associates keeping an uneasy distance around the disheveled man.

Henderson approached a display table of no less than 20 laptops sitting side by side on a long display rack. Their various trademark screen savers and features videos played repeatedly on each. He moved from one to the other, while nervous associates pretended to look busy as they milled around him. He stopped in front of one with a massive keyboard and a 19” screen. Fran, the assistant manager in charge of Computer Electronics that shift, approached him with a cautious smile.

“Good afternoon! Is there anything I can help you with today?” Henderson moved passed her as he studied the laptop like it was a museum piece, ignoring her question.

“Are you looking for a laptop for home or office use?” Wilson winced as Fran glanced at him, both knowing the ridiculousness of the standardized question. A couple of the younger associates stifled smirks and Wilson shot hard looks at them. Fran continued with her well-practice customer service routine.

“We have specials this week right over here if you’d like to look at them.” She held her hand out to guide Henderson to the other models, but he didn’t move.

“I LIKE THIS ONE!” he yelled out, slurring the words drunkenly. YEAH! I LIKE THIS ONE!” The volume of his exclamation made customers within earshot turn around and stare. He placed the fingers of his left hand lightly on the keyboard. Fran tensed up even more, imagining his hands would be grimy and force her to clean the unit. Wilson moved closer making sure man’s right hand wasn’t stuffing merchandise into his pocket. Henderson nodded his head up and down wildly, smiling like he had finally found buried treasure.

“YEAH, MOTHA FUCKA! THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKIN’ ‘BOUT!”

“Anything I can do to help?” The associates turned to the familiar voice. Brian Stedman’s calm, melodic voice seemed to break the tension.

“He’s interested in the new Sony Matrix XL5 laptop,” answered Fran. “I thought he might be interested in one of our specials, but he said he likes this one.”

“Great!” answered Stedman. He moved next to Henderson. “This model is the store’s newest and Sony’s most powerful. It’s perfect for home, work or travel. It has massive storage for downloading music, photos and movies.”

The associates looked at each other wondering what their boss was doing; laying out the specs and features of a machine that no way in the world a homeless man could afford. But Wilson knew that this was vintage Brian Stedman. The perfect salesman, boss and professional no matter the situation, no matter the customer. Steadman treated everyone kindly and personably, from the associates to the district managers. He was especially warm to customers, thus resulting in his store’s number one sales ranking two years in a row. Wilson reasoned that this was Steadman’s way to train the young associates in both the product and in customer service; what better test than to perform such services than on a putrid-smelling, drunk, yelling homeless man? He grinned to himself to watch his boss’ biggest challenge to date.

“This laptop has the highest graphics performance rating of all these models according to the field’s top three software magazines: Tech Authority, PC Magazine and Digital Market,” Stedman continued. “It contains the new NVIDIA G5 Triton graphics chip, so if you like gaming, graphics designing, chart building, or Photoshop creation, this one is the best. DVD playback looks absolutely stunning.”

“This guy? Graphic design, yeah right,” mocked one associate to another under his breath. Henderson wheeled around to him, his face twisted in anger.

“YOU DON’T THINK I CAN HANDLE THAT, MOTHA FUCKA!?” The young man recoiled sharply, while patrons and associates jumped again.

“I’m sorry, sir! I wasn’t talking about-”

“I worked for a special combat team in Iraq while you were still suckin’ on your motha’s titty!” Stedman quickly looked at Henderson’s tattered cami jacket and recognized the 3d Infantry Division, Special Electronics Warfare patch on the arm. “I was a computer expert! I knew how to take apart a laptop and put it back together in total darkness! Can you do that, you snot-nosed bastard? I WAS A LAP STRIKER, BITCH! I CALLED IN AIR STRIKES!” He jabbed his thumb towards his chest. “ME, MOTHA FUCKA! ME!” Stedman stepped in front of Henderson and held up his palms politely. He glanced at the name patch sewn above his pocket.

“Mr. Henderson. I apologize for our associate. He’s new.”

“And disrespectful!” Henderson was still glaring at the young man, now shaking. “Not everything you see is what it is, punk! Let me show you how we do it on the battlefield!” Henderson turned back to the laptop and held his left wrist near one of the USB inputs on the side of the device. Suddenly the video display on the Sony Matrix stopped; a new display took over the screen; something foreign and strange. The screen’s display light intensified as Henderson tapped at the keys with his right hand. His left hand was clenched in a fist as his wrist touched flush with the left side of the laptop. Stedman thought he saw glowing, arching sparks move from the two USB ports to his wrist and back again-a connection between the machine and his flesh. Then the display screens on every laptop in the store changed in instant synchronization, mirroring the intense light of the Matrix’s display. All the employees, including Stedman and Wilson, turned and watched their displays shift and morph. The light on every screen began to strobe, and a shape formed at the center. Henderson’s eyes closed as he continued typing, yet none of his keystrokes showed up on the display. The center image began to grow and with a tap of the Enter key, the displays on every TV in the store instantly and simultaneously mirrored what was on the laptop displays. The entire store was synced up to the one Matrix.

People across the massive store in the TV department cursed when the Oakland Raider game being shown on all the massive LCD screens, was replaced by the brilliant light. But it didn’t take long for them to stand mesmerized by the glowing image that was still too fuzzy to see. Stedman turned to Henderson whose eyes had rolled up into his head. His mouth was open and his upper body began to shake violently.

“Mr. Henderson! MR. HENDERSON!” He tried to pull him off the laptop by the arms, but Henderson seemed locked in place. “TIM, HELP ME! HE’S BEING ELECTRICUTED!”

“STEP BACK, BRIAN!” The tall, burly Wilson, a former Antioch high school linebacker rushed in and tackled Henderson, bringing him to the carpeted floor like any number of quarterbacks he’d sacked years ago. The strobing light emanating out of the Matrix instantly stopped, as did all the flat screens in the building. What was left on their displays was an image now fully visible in almost 3D clarity. People moved closer to the TVs and laptops to inspect the image with puzzlement.

“Mr. Henderson,” said Wilson with his massive arms still wrapped around him. “Are you okay?” Henderson’s eyes blinked rapidly then looked around. They both sat up together and Stedman helped both men to their feet.

“Are you hurt, Mr. Henderson?” asked Stedman. He noticed Henderson gripping his left wrist with his right hand and wincing.

“I’m okay, man,” Henderson said finally, then turned his head to the Sony Matrix he had touched. “I would like to purchase this laptop.” Wilson noticed that the drunken slur had disappeared, replaced by a calm, almost eloquent voice.

“Mr. Henderson, the Matrix is over $3,000,” said Stedman cautiously. Henderson reached into his jacket pocket with his right hand and pulled out a wad of bills. He handed it to Stedman.

“Go on,” he urged. “Count it.” He looked at the young man who had ridiculed him earlier. “And no, I didn’t steal it nor sold drugs to get it.” The associate kept his mouth shut, shaking his head, balking at even saying a word. Stedman took the money and counted it.

“Mr. Henderson, there’s over $4,000 here.” The associates raised their eyebrows in surprise.

“It’s the last of my life savings.” Stedman shook his head slowly.

“No, I’m not going to take your life savings.” He looked at Wilson. “Tim, ring up Mr. Henderson on register six. Use the 20-percent-off discount; code 9, and give him the additional 20-percent-off Veteran’s Discount, code 42.”

“But wasn’t the Veteran’s Discount only good for last month during the Veteran’s Day long weekend?” asked Fran, causing Wilson to wince again at her naiveté.

“It’s good today,” Stedman said flatly, smiling at Henderson. “Tim?” Wilson nodded and carefully pulled one of the new Sony Matrix laptop boxes out from the locked bin. He waited for any additional orders from his boss. Stedman put the money into Mr. Henderson’s hand gently.

“I think a 40-percent-off discount should put a few dollars back into your savings, Mr. Henderson. I, we. . .appreciate your service in Iraq.” Stedman offered his hand and Henderson took it gratefully. “There’s a two-year warranty on that laptop, but if anything happens to it, even beyond those two years, you come right back here and ask for us, Brian Stedman or Tim Wilson. We’ll replace it for you, no questions asked, sir.” Stedman offered a respectful smile. Henderson nodded clumsily. His eyes drifted from Stedman and Wilson to the humbled young man again. Henderson straightened his posture and raised his chin with dignity, and put his hand on Stedman’s shoulder.

“This is called customer service, young man. This is called respect. People like me, we fight so you don’t have to.” The boy looked down in shame while Henderson looked back at Stedman. “Thank you for your kindness and respect.”

“It was my pleasure, sir.” Henderson turned to follow Wilson up to the front of the store. Stedman turned to the young man sharply.

“Joaquin, wait for me in my office. We’re gonna have a little talk.” When the boy left, he turned to Fran. “Is there anything wrong with the display model? I thought I saw some electric sparking.” Fran lifted the display unit and inspected it, shaking her head.

“Nothing. Like it’s fresh out of the box. But look at the screen, Brian.” Stedman didn’t realize it, but everyone within sight of a laptop, PC or TV was gazing silently at their screens throughout the store. Upon them was a frozen image of the night sky filled with stars so clear and close that one would think he was looking through a planetarium telescope. It wasn’t a scene from the space shuttle, or from a satellite. There were silhouettes of trees cropping the view. It was shot from a forest as if the photographer was lying on his back in the woods and looking up at the universe. Devoid of any reflections, glare or city lights, the image was breathtaking.

“It’s beautiful,” whispered Stedman.

Wilson shook Henderson’s hand after the purchase and walked him to the front automatic doors.

“Thank you, Mr. Henderson. Take care of yourself.”

“You, too, son.” When Henderson walked out of Best Buy and Wilson turned back around to survey the store, all the screens instantly resumed their original broadcasts.