I mean, crazy, right? My kidney in America’s greatest president? The only one to care about the little guy? And the one who still might, if she comes out of her coma, lead us out of the Killer Vaccine Apocalypse.
And then it turns out I’m a perfect match! That kidney was the first organ–out of dozens transplanted–that wasn’t rejected. So they asked for part of my liver–which they say grows back– and then a lung. Boom, boom, boom! I’m feeling it, no lie–the lung especially. But the organs are all working, not just keeping her alive, but getting her a little pinker, they say, a little healthier with each new part. A little readier to take on the new virus heading our way. And now she needs my heart? They say if I could bring the president back to health and save the country, there’ll be statues of me in every little town from Tennessee to Texas. It’s like that influencer/actress said, “Give me celebrity or give me death!” Remember her? Started with a K.
It’s risky, though. All the heart surgeons died with the other “experts” when the vaccines started killing everybody. That’s when we found out the president got the shot herself while telling us to hold off. The rumors spread she was tricked into it. Used to be a whole bunch of websites about who tricked her before the internet went down. But I think she just made a mistake. Everybody makes mistakes. Maybe her son made her do it. Since she went into the vaccine coma, they’ve kept her alive with a bunch of machines and, of course, all the transplants–which kept failing until I came around. Still can’t believe it. If I’m not the little guy, who is? But I’m the perfect match. For everything! Skin grafts, bone marrow, my left eye, even my pancreas–my body aches for things I never knew I had.
And now my heart? I don’t know. Mom says don’t do it–I’m her only son. But Dad says it’s a great honor–a chance to finally amount to something. He says suck it up. Take one for the team. And plus, they promise to buy him and Mom a house, take good care of them–something I’ve never been good at. Hell, I’m 23, laid off, and my folks are taking care of me! And with all the factories shut down, and nobody left to fly the planes or drive the trains, and the highways and bridges collapsing, we’re just holding on. I mean, how much longer can we keep things running on old parts before we’re just living off the land like our own Donald Boone?
The surgery’s set for tomorrow, so I got today to say my goodbyes. Everybody used to ignore me, but now they’re patting my back and asking to see the scars and saying they wish it could be them. Heck, I wish it could be them! They used to yell at me to stay out of their fields and away from their daughters. And now I’m their hero!
In fact, Hazel Hawkins asked me to help her carry the milk pails back from her dad’s old barn. Hazel Hawkins! In her long gingham dress. Brown curls falling down her back. Pinch me, I thought, I must be dreaming! But could I turn back now if I wanted to? Don’t want to be the guy who could’ve saved the world but didn’t! I had to stop halfway with the milk pails and sit on a stump. My bones are weak from losing bone marrow and the skin grafts make a crinkly sound when I walk.
Hazel asked if I was scared. “Terrified,” I said, not sure if I should admit that to such a pretty gal. That got a big smile from her and I got a weird flutter in my stomach. Maybe it was a phantom ache from my missing kidney. I’ve never gotten close enough to a full-grown woman like her to even feel the possibility of love.
“Is there anything I could do for you?” Hazel asked. “Before… you know?” Her eyes were wide and blue. Her dark brows furrowed like she might cry. “Before the good Lord takes you.”
The sun lit her face like she was a movie star and when she leaned close her dress pulled tight against her full figure. What I wanted never seemed so close.
“We could go in the hay barn,” she said. “We’ve probably got a few minutes…”
I pictured the inside of the old barn. Sunlight streaming through the cracks. Bales of hay. A whole new life. Someone to love, a kid or two, a farm of our own. A voice saying, “Son, you’ve done enough. Let someone else take it from here.”
I opened my mouth to answer, but then her ma started yelling, “Hazel! Hazel!” And then her dad joined in, “Hazel! Where’s the doggone milk pails?” Hazel stood and made a sad face. “Sorry,” she said. And I wanted to say, “I’m sorry, too,” but I couldn’t find my tongue. I wanted to say, “Thank you,” but she’d already picked up her pails and turned toward the house.
The surgeon says–well, he’s not really a surgeon. He was a veterinarian before some trumped-up charges took his license away. The surgeon says it shouldn’t be too painful. He’s got a book he found in a med school up North before the fires destroyed everything. It tells him exactly what to do. “It’s like Heart Transplants for Dummies,” he says, which is funny, cause “Dummy” is what Daddy always calls me.
All you need to do, he says, is lie down, get hooked up to a bunch of patched-together machines, and save America. And they’re going to keep my body alive for parts. Maybe I’ll live forever. Maybe I’ll be loved and remembered–like what’s his name from the Alamo.
Image: Surgical tools from Pixabay.com with a tray of forceps etc. and a syringe of red fluid.
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