Requiem for the Bone Man. R. A. Comunale M.D.
years later a much-anticipated letter reached Galen, as he was now called in his days at university.
He had breezed through his studies, so he could always find time for extra lab work and experimentation. As an undergraduate he had published eight papers and more kept filtering through his mind, but that all-important letter had dominated his consciousness ever since senior year had begun.
Galen hesitated to open it for fear of what it might not say. Boyle, his roommate, watched him clutching the envelope, not moving, almost not breathing, so he snuck up from behind, snatched the envelope away, but after a second thought and a sheepish grin, he handed it back to the man with those powerful arms.
Boyle had gotten along fine with Galen most of the time, but he had heard what The Bear—as Galen also was known—could do when provoked, and he was not about to tempt fate, not after what Trish had told his girlfriend Mary about her date with the big guy.
Come on, Freiling, finish up. You’re not saying anything new.
Galen sat bored witless listening to his physiology professor drone on, repeating the obvious in less than understandable terms.
“And so, ladies and gentlemen, just remember that beneath the surface we are what our distant ancestors were. Or, to use a catchy phrase, Ontology recapitulates Phylogeny.”
Score another dried-up conundrum for the prune face! Come on! I’ve got a lot to do before seeing Trish tonight.
“We think ourselves superior to the lower animals, and yet, when we are threatened, we revert. We become that lower order of animal whose prime motivation is survival. Then that wonderful powerhouse, the autonomic nervous system, kicks in and floods the body with stimulants, even rage-producing hormones and other chemicals that precipitate the possible alternative reactions of fight or flight.”
… or fucking.
“Just remember that when you think you are the rational beings the philosophers say you are. When you are cornered, you are nothing more than a reptile. Have a nice weekend, and don’t forget your fifty-page paper is due Monday.”
Okay, that’s more like it. I finished your stupid paper last week, so no sweat.
He stopped by the dorm, glanced at what he did have to finish, and decided Saturday would be soon enough. Meanwhile, a quick shower and change, then off to pick up Trish at her room. What a sharp girl—decent-looking and smart, kind of fun to talk with. He checked his finances. Enough put aside from tutoring the freshmen having difficulty with organic chem to have a nice meal at the Alpine in town, then maybe a stroll around the park before the movies.
Let her pick what she wants to see. It can’t hurt to build some brownie points for later.
He was feeling good as he did his shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits knock on her dorm door. He could hear giggling on the other side. The female guardian of coed virtue, who looked like Freiling’s twin and stared at him as if he were vermin, had to relent on her special Power of No to any boy attempting to trespass the girls’ dorm. This was Friday night.
She was standing in the hallway, a few of her dorm mates nearby. He stared at her: saddle shoes, solid gray poodle skirt, and light pink sweater that accentuated her, uh, front-to-back dimensions. Her light brown ponytail topped a strawberry-freckled face.
Oh, yes, he was feeling good tonight!
“How’s the Alpine sound to you, Trish?”
As he had hoped, it sounded great: burgers, cherry Coke, and something new to the college town, pizza. Not the real stuff like the nanas in the old country would make, but none of his classmates would know the difference.
Satisfied, they headed out for a quick walk around the park, then the Hitchcock movie down the street, then … who knows?
The old streetlights cast multiple shadows as the couple rounded the monument to Oliver Wendell Holmes. They were about to do the return half-circle when two of the shadows separated from the darkness and stood blocking their way.
“Looka what we got here, a broad and a pig! Maybe we oughta make pork chops and save the broad for dessert!”
The bigger one laughed, his eyes staying focused on Galen and Trish, his hand wrapped around a snub-nose .38.
The shorter one started to laugh as well. “Let’s see how much pork the pig has!”
He held a metal pipe and started to wave it around in front of the couple, who stood there staring in shocked silence.
Galen felt strange, almost as if he were standing to the side watching what was happening to him. He felt a flush beginning to burn in his face and a fine trembling in his entire body as the short mugger kept waving the pipe closer and closer. He suddenly recalled the part of his physiology paper on the flight/fight syndrome:
When you are fighting for your life there is a weird transformation into the limbic-brained beast that resides within all of us. You function (“you” meaning a person, not you specifically) on two levels, almost standing outside of yourself as you descend into the darkness within. You feel the other person’s life. The rational ghost denies the truth of the outcome while the limbic beast howls both rage and conquest. Then you physically collapse. The difference between that action and the premeditated action of a trained killer is the overwhelming chemical surge as the sympathetic nervous system floods you with all the rage-producing chemicals it can. Then you lash out at those who seek to kill you and return the favor.
The surge that erupted within him could not be controlled. His left hand shot out, grabbed the shorter man’s wrist in an iron grip and swung the pipe down across the hand of the gunman. His ghost image felt the bones break and heard the agonized scream as the pipe clattered to the street.
His right arm moved forward, his hand grasping the shorter man’s neck and tightening until he could feel the cartilage start to give way.
The larger mugger picked up the pipe and started to swing it. Galen dropped the other man, blocked the pipe wielder’s arm and twisted it until an audible crack sounded; again the man let out a guttural scream. Galen started to reach for the screamer’s neck.
“Stop, for God’s sake, stop! You’re killing them!”
He suddenly froze at her words. God, it was real! He was living the prophetic words of his own paper!
He leaned against the lamppost, staring down at the two men writhing in pain on the grass-bordered walk.
Then he turned to her and saw her staring at him—not in relieved gratitude but in fear and horror. He saw it in her eyes: To her, he was the beast incarnate, someone capable of killing, even though he probably had saved her life, or at least her honor.
“I’m going home,” she said softly, then turned and walked away.
“Come on, Galen, fish or cut bait. It’s not going to change if you keep staring at it. Let me open it for you. If it’s not good, I’ll put it down and leave you alone for awhile, okay?”
Galen took a deep breath and handed the envelope over, then sat down on the edge of his bed.
Boyle carefully opened the letter, glanced over it, looked up mournfully at his roommate, put the letter on his desk, opened the door and took a half-step into the hall.
Galen’s heart fell, just before Boyle broke into a big grin.
“You got in, you big ape!” he yelled, taking off as fast as he could down the hallway before Galen could grab him.
He went to the desk and picked up the heavy linen paper letter with the gold-embossed seal at the top.
Dear Mr. Galen:
It is with great pleasure that we notify you of your acceptance to the Class of 1965 of the university’s Medical School. Your exemplary academic record and test scores indicate the potential for a great career in your chosen future field of medicine.
We welcome you. Please submit the