The Girl Who Kept Running

19. The Edited Waves from Brian's Brain: First Wave

24 September, 2050

Well, well, well,  who's this, you say?

You really thought I was gonna let Harry get away with his story even where it concerned me,  huh?

No way! 

He may be the writer of this story, fictionalized just that little and plenty riveting, I admit. But where it's my arc to cover, I will take the reins, thank you, and watch Harry wait on the authorial sidelines.

My name is Brian Lutwidge Dodgson, a fourth generation German American, born to a dealer of heavy vehicles with a drinking problem barely under control and a lady secretary at a real estate agency in Greenwood, Arkansas. During my growing years, I would never find proper food on the table. Instead, we would have stiffly cooked chicken pieces and dry, smelly beans from cans that had been on the shelf for months. 

To cut the trash short, my parents were not really interested in wasting their time over a so-called son born with deformed legs. Their jobs were barely there, and the insurers wouldn't cover the costs for prompt treatment. Even though I learned to do everything by myself pretty fast, they always resented having to get me a caretaker in my early years. I hated the snotty Mrs. Driscoll too who was always whining over the fact that she had to take such lowly jobs since her husband wouldn't spare the money for a college course so she could actually do something useful in life.

Later, my parents didn't like my constant demand for pocket money so I could buy me some books at Patty's waste shop or could assemble models of planes and trains and high-rises. When the going got tougher, my father turned attention to business deals which did not involve the extra burden of a handicapped liability sitting at home.  

So, they concocted an oily-tongued vacation that I totally fell for, and after a few sightseeing and business stops along the way, they dropped me by an obscure lake in Florida with a lunch bag and a blanket. I had gone to sleep dreaming of the upcoming promised stop in Orlando ... 

They didn't even leave me my wheelchair, guys. I'm sure they sold it on their way back to recover a few gallons of gas. Guess, I shouldn't have fallen for Disneyland.

But you know what happened next. I struck gold with Harry.

So today, we're visiting the Medusa Hope Center in Rockwell City, or as they sometimes call it, The New City Centre. It's east from where we live, beyond the Miromar Outlets, into that recovered swamps area. We are going for another try to get my legs some attention. 

I've been there with Harry a few times before without fruit. Every time they run us around in circles from this booth to that cabin to no avail. Once they even sent Harry to the big city to lawyer up for me. But the attorney office sent Harry right back to another hope center to get a sponsor first. 

Harry has lost his temper a few times in trying to get me an examination or to get the ball rolling on some form of official guardianship. He internalizes his reactions so well, but I can see it in the whitening of the skin around his eyes and the way he bites and releases his lower lip in an on-off fashion. Virtual smoke comes out of his ears then, but the guy knows how to keep the lid tight. 

Except today at soup-time, of course. Wow, that must have been hilarious. But I'm getting ahead of the narrative.

So we ride a train to Rockwell. Where we get off, there's a stretch of long lonely trails behind two gated communities that Harry calls 'last vestiges of an old affluence'. It's the shortest walk to Medusa.