Slumberland Read online

  By this time, it’s the four of us seated at the news desk, waiting for the camera to switch to a wide open shot before we break for commercial, Andy takes his turn narrating the teaser.

  “A local physician has been named the winner of the one point four three million lottery,” says Andy. On the monitor, a happy Doctor Lane raises his winning ticket. “The good doctor tells us what he plans to do to help the city,” adds Andy.

  Music starts to play from the control room and throughout the studio.

  “And amidst the storm damage,” says Melissa, “renovations are scheduled to resume this week for local club, Dotty’s Matrix. We’ll hear more from the bar manager, Jermaine Hudson, when we come back.”

  After that week, the life I’ve wanted is the life I have. I feel fortunate to be able to say that. After that week, I won’t ever forget those who are less privileged. The ones most people ignore. The ones people disregard because they don’t fit their lifestyle.

  Everyone is going through something you know nothing about. They’re trying to solve their own problems. All trying to reach the end of the rainbow.

  Everyone else, they know something you don’t. If you’re lucky enough, you may find someone who has the simplest answer to your biggest problem.

  There’s no such thing as perfection. At the end, there’s no pot of gold.

  To think otherwise would be irrational.

  BIG WHITE BOX

  A SHORT STORY

  PART 1: “What’s For Dinner?”

  Not once in his ten years as an emergency medical technician has Allen ever delivered a baby.

  Not even close.

  As luck would have it, he’s always dodged the bullet somehow.

  This woman, the mom, she called.

  She’s thirty-eight weeks.

  Full term.

  Labor pains.

  Contractions.

  Broken water.

  The whole shebang.

  So far, so good.

  No baby as of yet.

  That’s why I’m driving.

  —C’mon people! It’s a big white box speeding through the streets! Flashy lights! Wailing sirens! Pull to the right and stop like you’re supposed to!

  Allen said he was comfortable by himself in the back with the mom. But from the front seat, I can hear him panting as much as she is.

  —Stay calm! You’ve got this!

  We have two simple rules: No one is ever born in the back and no one ever dies.

  If your heart stops beating, we’ll beat it for you.

  If you stop breathing, we’ll do that for you too.

  When your baby is on its way, so are we, as fast as we can go to the hospital.

  Allen holds on tight to his seat as we zip in and out of traffic.

  He should remember the appropriate questions to ask.

  Gravida: How many times has mom been pregnant?

  Para: How many times has mom delivered?

  — Don’t freak out, Allen! The best way to remember is to imagine babies with little parachutes falling from mom.

  “Call my husband!” shouts mom. “Tell him the baby’s coming.”

  Allen fumbles for mom’s cellphone, pressing buttons while she focuses on her breathing.

  The phone rings.

  Dad answers.

  “Your wife,” says Allen, into the phone, “She wants you to meet us so you can deliver the baby?”

  The right front tire hits a pothole and the vehicle shakes like it might fall apart.

  “You put it in there,” adds Allen. “Why do I have to be the one to take it out?”

  There’s a traffic light up ahead and it’s red.

  I need to slow down to avoid an accident.

  A police officer flips her lights on and blocks the intersection so we can pass through.

  The phone slips from Allen’s hand.

  —Oxygen! Get a mask!

  “Good idea!” shouts Allen.

  The cabinets slide open and soon Allen’s voice sounds like he’s talking through thick plastic.

  “I’ll just put a little oxygen on,” he says.

  —Not you! Put the oxygen on the mom! Hang on!

  We swerve around a pedestrian crossing the street.

  —How far apart are the contractions? Do you remember how to time them?

  I can hear the beeping of Allen’s watch from the driver’s seat despite the sirens and all of the commotion.

  “From the start of the first contraction,” he says, “to the beginning of the next one.”

  —Good job!

  “One, one-thousand. Two, one-thousand,” he counts. “If the next contraction is longer than the one before it, that means the baby is moving farther away.”

  —No, Allen! That’s what you do with thunderstorms! Relax! Check for crowning! Pull Mom’s pants down and look between her legs!

  “Oh, dear baby Jesus,” says Allen.

  Mom screams in pain.

  —What do you see?

  “I can’t do this,” he says.

  —You’re going to do this! Get through it and I’ll buy you dinner! Hard turn, hang on!

  Allen shrieks with terror.

  —Do you see a head or not?

  “No, but her vagina…”

  —What about it?

  Allen stands at the mom’s feet and covers his eyes with one hand.

  “… It looks like it’s mad at me!”

  —We’re only a couple of minutes from the hospital. Just hang on!

  Tires screech and when we straighten out, the next sound is of tape being ripped.

  —What are you doing?

  “I’m putting some tape over it,” shouts Allen.

  —Over what?

  “You know,” he says. “To keep it closed so the baby stays in.”

  —Don’t tape her vagina shut!

  “Call for backup,” he shouts.

  —We don’t need back up. Hard turn!

  Oh boy.

  We’re heading the wrong way on a one-way street.

  It’s okay though.

  When people see us coming toward them, they split apart like a warm knife through butter.

  Mom screams in pain.

  —Does she have the urge to push?

  In the rearview mirror, Allen’s face turns white as a ghost.

  “I have an urge,” he says, “to jump into traffic.”

  —Hang tight! We’re almost there! Call the hospital on the radio! Tell them we’re coming in fast!

  With mom screaming in the background, Allen tells the hospital staff we’ve got a baby coming. He needs the labor and delivery staff to get ready and he needs a Chaplin.

  —What’s the Chaplin for?

  “They can bring the crucifix!” shouts Allen.

  From the driver’s seat, I hear the smacking of mom’s hand against Allen’s thigh.

  It’s not more than a minute later that we pull up to the emergency entrance.

  Allen stumbles out and we hustle, pulling the mom from the back on the stretcher.

  Her legs apart, covered with a blanket.

  We rush through the double-doors.

  “What room?” asks Allen.

  The nurse at the triage desk, smacking her gum, holds a copper pipe chained to a plastic card.

  It’s the badge allowing us elevator access to the labor and delivery floor.

  —Down the hall! Keep moving! Don’t stop!

  Our feet shuffle as the wheels of the gurney spin faster than they ever have.

  Mom hyperventilates.

  “The baby’s coming,” she says.

  Beads of sweat fall from Allen’s brow while the elevator takes its sweet time.

  When the doors open, we see a guy with a tall meal cart is inside.

  His hairnet covers his afro.

  Earphones bump the inside of his head with beats.

  He watches us enter as though it’s nothing unusual.

  —Going up.

  The doors close.


  Mom is panting.

  Baby is coming.

  Allen is fidgeting.

  Just a few more seconds and she’ll be in the care of the labor and delivery staff.

  Bang!

  The floor shakes.

  The lights flicker.

  The elevator is stuck.

  “No, no, no,” says Allen.

  The meal cart guy, his eyes roll up to the ceiling but his head keeps nodding to the beat of his music.

  Sweat streams down Allen’s face.

  The mom shouts, “It’s coming!”

  Allen’s glistening skin turns even more pale.

  —It’s okay. Take a deep breath. Get the OB kit. It has a paper gown, a hairnet, and a face-mask. If this baby has to be delivered in an elevator, then it is what it is.

  But Allen’s face looks panicked.

  He didn’t bring the OB kit.

  He’s not even wearing gloves.

  “I didn’t know we would make it this far,” he says. “I thought we were stopping in the emergency room where they would deliver.”

  Mom’s deep panting breaths become painful cries.

  The urge to push overwhelms her.

  We lower the stretcher as close as we can to the ground and remove her blanket.

  She sits with her legs spread.

  “This isn’t happening,” says Allen.

  —Yes, it is.

  The baby’s head begins to peek into the world.

  Every bit of the female anatomy is up close and personal with Allen.

  —You can do this!

  “I can’t do this,” he says.

  —Babies have been delivered since the beginning of the human race. Cavemen once brought their children in the world with nothing but dirt, rocks, and sticks.

  The man with the meal cart nods, either to the beat of the rap music in his ears or agreeing with the caveman thing.

  —Coach Mom. This has to be done.

  The constant ringing of the elevator alarm is background noise to the screams of her doing this with no anesthetic.

  —Grab a towel. Grab a sheet. Grab something because this baby is coming.

  Allen, with his bare hands, stances off like he’s about to catch a football.

  “What in the hell is that?” he asks.

  —It’s the baby’s head.

  It’s shiny and pushes through.

  “Put it back,” he shouts, over the new added sound of an infant crying. “This isn’t right!”

  —The baby is coming out headfirst, that’s what we want.

  Allen looks mom, up and down.

  “There’s a crying head at both ends!”

  The baby stops at the shoulders.

  —After a few more pushes from mom, we should be home free.

  Allen has to take hold of the head while the shoulders pass.

  Now he regrets not donning gloves.

  —One more big push from Mom and the rest is cake.

  “Don’t say that,” says Allen. “I’m never eating cake again!”

  The mom grunts and bears down hard, delivering the shoulders.

  The baby slips out into Allen’s bare hands like he’s catching it coming off a waterslide.

  —Hold it there. Here’s a towel. Wipe it off.

  “I thought Kraft Macaroni was the cheesiest,” shouts Allen. “Oh, God. What’s that smell?”

  Mom smacks Allen with a towel.

  —Just hold the baby. Warm it up.

  He needs to use the tools strapped to the pockets of his tactical pants.

  He has to clamp the cord.

  His hands shake.

  —Not that! That’s the baby’s penis! You need to clamp the umbilical cord! Grab your scissors. You need to cut it too.

  “No way,” says Allen. “Things don’t work when they’re not plugged in!”

  —Move over!

  The cord is cut.

  The meal tray guy, he snickers, tapping his fingers to the beat on the side of his pants.

  Allen gags a few times while taking the rest of the baby and wiping away its sticky goop with the towel.

  —Smiling suppresses the gag reflex.

  Mom cries.

  The baby cries.

  Allen, smiling big, he cries too.

  —Congratulations to all three of you!

  The mom takes the baby in her arms.

  The alarm bell stops.

  The elevator moves again.

  Allen looks like he’s just ridden a rollercoaster.

  His eyes are wide and his hair is a mess.

  He’s speechless.

  After a moment, the car slows to a stop.

  The doors open wide and reveal a doctor, two nurses, and the mom’s husband standing in disbelief.

  Their jaws hang open to the sight of a blood stained elevator floor and the five of us.

  As the bell dings once more, mom delivers the placenta.

  The only sound heard is it splattering to the elevator floor.

  Allen stands and wipes his hands on his pants.

  His beady eyes stare at the ground.

  “Well,” he says, exiting the elevator. “What’s for dinner?”

  We all watch Allen leave.

  We’re all in disbelief.

  So long in fact, we see the elevator doors close again.

  More to come…

  Facebook.com/BigWhiteBoxShorts

  ALSO BY BRADLEY CARTER

  “BRIGHTSIDE” (fiction/humor)

  Felix Hines is a data entry specialist, and that’s as exciting as it sounds.

  It’s only for the love of his coworker, Brittney Masterson, that keeps him pressing on throughout each day. Since childhood, Felix has battled an uncontrollable condition that keeps him from pursuing her, or anyone else, but it doesn’t stop him from being chased.

  However, he has found a way around the issue of a real relationship. When he discovers that his alpha-male boss is trying to win the hand of Brittney, and his pursuer is closer to a stalker, Felix becomes desperate to find a solution to his private problem.

  When all of his problems collide, reality becomes stranger than his fantasies.

  Brightside

  A novel by Bradley Carter

  Chapter 1 : SENSE OF FALLING

  My brain takes a minute to transition from dreaming to reality. It’s an uncanny experience even though you would expect me to be used to it by now. Clear droplets fall from the edge of the kitchen sink and my toes are pressed in a puddle of warm liquid.

  A moment ago, the repetitive buzzing sound from my bedroom was a civil defense siren, warning me of a hazardous leak from a nuclear power plant and that the whole world was about to explode.

  Storages of volatile uranium had become unstable. A nuclear chain reaction was about to occur. The end of humanity. Flesh and bone instantly turned to carbon.

  A recording of a woman’s voice was repeating over the loudspeakers in the city’s crumbling skyline. The prevailing wind direction. Chances of precipitation from the dark skies, clouded with nuclear fallout— the radioactive residue that remains in the atmosphere.

  For those not in the general vicinity of the blast, it’s radiation sickness— exposure to ionizing gamma rays. Be on the lookout for symptoms such as nausea, vomiting, loss of appetite, hair loss, and skin lesions. Bodies melt and fall apart within days.

  In reality, the only thing that has sprung a leak is me. The noise is becoming even less obnoxious now that I realize that it’s only my alarm clock.

  The woman’s voice is from the television, the weather highlights from the Channel-6 friendly forecaster, Sierra Preston. Today is going to be cold. Winter isn’t over yet. But later this afternoon, the sun will ease some of these bitter temperatures.

  There’s no surprise here. This was bound to happen. It’s something I’ve experienced my entire life. Something I’ve grown accustomed to preparing for.

  Noctambulism— Sleepwalking.

  My vision focuses. The light from the windows
seems brighter than usual. There’s no threat of death from a nuclear explosion but I fear something just as awful— I’m going to be late.

  My white boxer shorts are crumpled around my ankles and soaked in yellow. The floor is bare and my toes are numb and turning red from the cold surface. The bottom of my white V-neck T-shirt is the only thing covering my limp private part.

  There’s a reason you’re not supposed to wake someone while they’re sleepwalking. Some people believe that it’s harmful to them, but the truth is that it takes time for the consciousness to resurface from the subconscious.

  During that time, the dreamer might react as if they’re still experiencing whatever scenario they have playing in their heads.

  It’s like stepping into a cold shower. You have to let the water warm up gradually. Otherwise, it can be somewhat uncomfortable. For some, it takes no longer than a few seconds. For others like myself, it may take a minute or so.

  Rushing through the hall, I’m careful to remove my clothes and not to let anything drip from them. I toss my soiled garments into the hamper and turn the knob on the shower’s faucet. As far as adjusting the temperature, there’s no time for me to wait. It’s like bathing in ice water but the more I shiver, the faster I scrub and rinse.

  It’s not until I’m finished and ready to step out that it becomes warm enough to tolerate. My skin hasn’t completely dried before I put on a pair of clean white boxers and black dress socks.

  The translucent plastic sheet draped over the television blurs the weather map on the screen. In addition to the other tarps from the couch and tables, I roll them together and toss the wad into the kitchen closet. My pantry has shelves stocked with spray bottles of all-purpose cleaners, rolls of paper towels, and stacks of drop cloths. There are no rugs on the floor. The hard surfaces are okay to leave uncovered because they’re easier to clean.

  Last night while lying in bed, just as I was about to doze off, there was a jolt that shot through my body.

  A hypnic jerk— The reaction to the sense of one falling.

  It doesn’t happen often, but it’s my warning sign that I’m going to wake up some place other than where I fell asleep. When this myoclonic jerk happens, I have to force myself to get up. All of the furniture, carpets, and appliances have to be covered in plastic before I crawl back into bed. This is about as much as I can do to prevent soiling anything.