“Hey you!” They all said in hushed unison.
“Guys, what’s going on…?” Brock began, and as he moved to get out of bed, he felt the restraining tug of the straps that held him in place, and he saw his leg, wrapped in plaster, with nails sticking out of it, and a metal frame, holding it up in the air?!
His eyes went to FREAKED OUT instantly, and as he looked over at his visitors, Hobart moved to comfort him,
“You’re good Brock! Your prognosis is excellent!” Dean chirped, interrupting everyone’s attempt at reassuring their forlorn enemy.
“That’s a forecast of the likely outcome of your situation,” Hobart chimed in.
Dean, suddenly realizing that not everybody’s Mom is a Nurse Practitioner, and certain words in his vocabulary were beyond most kids his age, “Oh, yeah, sorry, Brock! I meant the doc’s pretty happy with how stuff turned out.”
Brock’s panic slowly morphed into bewilderment.
Ben took up the cue, “Listen, Brock, not gonna lie, you and us know that you’re a pretty big pain most of the time…”
Hobart smacked him in the arm, “Ben?!?”
It was Brock’s turn now, “No, Hobart, he’s right, I am a little scullion most of the time. I see you guys together all the times and for some reason, I find myself doing stuff to mess things up…”
Ben, wiping his arms with a few quick down strokes, looking toward Hobart in a feigned look of indignation, “Like I was saying, you and us know that pretty well. But that doesn’t mean we have to keep things that way. Mr. Marchenko was telling us – at our last Junior Archeological Society meeting – he who neglects the history is in danger of repeating it…”
Eagerly Dean quipped,
“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” – George Santayana
Mr. Marchenko’s voice suddenly reverberated in the little room, I also told you about this one,
“History Doesn’t Repeat Itself, but It Often Rhymes” – Mark Twain.
Turning around the boys looked over at the doorway,
“I’m about as surprised as Brock, sorry to admit it,” continued Mr. Marchenko with a spluttering giggle.
Hobart smiles, and looked in Brock’s direction as Brock moaned. He’d seen Mr. Marchenko and had shifted his weight in the bed, sending a shooting pain up his femur.
Just then, “Oh my oh my oh my! Said a matronly voice,” it was Mrs. Hopper, the head nurse gently moving past everyone to Brock’s bedside.
“What do we have here! Youse all gotta do youse recruitin’ some other time! This here lad’s got some mending to do!”
She lifted a clipboard from the end of the hospital bed, and flipped through the pages, “just as I thought, you’re due for a top-up” she reached into her lab coat pocket and withdrew a syringe, needle and a small vile.
“Yowie! I hate needles!” Brock yelped!
Mrs. Hopper laid her hand gently on his brow with a warm cloth, “most ever’body does, young man, that’s why we have that drippin’…” she nodded toward the IV pole just beside the bed, as she lifted the bag injection port up, and began the process of adding some medicine for the pain to his intravenous line.
“Gentleman!” She said abruptly, “if you’ll resume you’re courting at ‘nother time…”
Mr. Marchenko cradled the boys in a large sweep of his arms, “come on boys, Brock’s got some mending to do.”
As they all shuffled out the door, Hobart looked back. There was something on Brock’s eye that mighta been a tear, but… just then, as he wiped it with his hospital gown’s sleeve, “thanks you guys…” and a smile flickered on his cheeks.
Back at the parking lot, Mr. Marchenko lifted a plain brown paper wrapped bundle out for the boys. They looked at one another in curiosity and wonder!
Ben reached his hand gently forward, and it was placed in his hands. They all sank to sit on the parking curb beside Mr. Marchenko’s bike, as Hobart began,
“Be gentle Ben!”
Ben held it flat in his hands, it was just a little bigger than his palm. As he unfolded the paper, a sesame seed popped out, and they soon were gazing at a Bun!”
Hobart pulled two all beef patties from his wallet, and Dean had the pickles…
Running Down Vimy 