Gus Clark (Ch. 1 + 2)

Chapter 1

Gus Clark sat back in his chair on the beach. The frigid fall winds swept across the deserted sands, bringing whitecaps to the ocean water, barely visible in the predawn light. He pulled his winter hat from his backpack and put it on. The cap barely covered his ears, and his earlobes began to sting in the cold. He drew his knees up, waiting and shivering. He reached out and stabilized his camera tripod as a stiff breeze caught it and almost made it tumble. Sand in his new camera was the last thing he needed. It was currently set to rapid fire shots for a 10-second span, a feature that required this very expensive upgrade.

His goal this morning, as with every other morning this week, was to catch the elusive “green flash” at sunrise. These rare optical illusions are caused by light refraction at sunset and sunrise, the latter being the more difficult to catch. If the conditions were just right, the view unobstructed, and, most importantly, one’s timing was absolutely perfect, then you have a chance of seeing a small dab of green sitting on top of the sun for a couple seconds. Gus had already caught one at sunset a couple months back, which would satisfy most who are interested in this sort of thing. But he was the superbly curious and mildly obsessive sort. Was the flash different at sunset and sundown? Would he be able to catch both? The latter he took as a personal challenge.

Fingers going numb around the camera’s trigger, despite the gloves he was wearing, Gus waited with growing excitement as the blues over the Atlantic Ocean began to take on a crimson hue. He glanced at his watch. The analog-digital combination sports watched stared back at him, reading 5:47 AM in blue-green illuminated digits.

“Why the hell did I spend the extra five bucks to get the analog face?” he said to himself. “I never actually use it.”

As if in response, Gus heard a seagull from a nearby nest in the beach grass chitter out an answer to his query. He searched for the source of the sound, but only saw the long, green tufts littering the landscape dancing in the breeze. He turned his attention back to his watch.

The cool thing about his watch, though, was that it automatically synced with the atomic clock, so it always had perfect chronological accuracy. And this feature was extremely important for this morning. Sunrise was exactly at 5:49 AM this morning, and he needed to time everything exactly right to catch the flash. Well…he did get to cheat a little with the 10-second burst. But the skill needed to activate the camera at the right time was absolutely crucial.

Gus kept alternating between looking at his watch and looking at the clear horizon. The minute digits clicked over to 48. Now he watched the smaller seconds counter, situated to the lower right of the hours and minutes.

30 seconds…
20…
10…

He fixed his eyes upon the distant sky, the crimson palate of which was beginning to show signs of orange, and revealed exactly where the sun would begin its daily journey.

5…
4…
3…
2…

His hand poised over the trigger’s actuator, he stole one last, quick glance at the camera’s LED screen, just to make sure the camera was focused and aimed correctly. Satisfied, he looked ahead, body tensing in excitement. The tension and energy building up, he felt like he was ready to explode out of the starting line of a 100-meter dash. And…

Gus’ finger slammed down on the trigger when he felt the moment come, hearing the camera blaze to life. It was taking several shots a second, loading the brand new memory card by firehose. He seemed to have a knack for catching things just at the right moment, when it came to photography, and on this chilly, autumn morning, it really paid off. Two seconds after he mashed the red button, he just barely saw a brief green light sitting on top of the orange, fiery mass rising from the ocean’s grip.

He was consumed by exhilaration. He jumped out of his chair, hooting and cheering. In his jubilations, he had just a fraction of a second to notice that his jumping around shifted the sands that were keeping his tripod stable, and it began to topple. Time seemed to slow, like in those cheesy Hollywood special effects, with an exaggerated, otherwise comical “Nooooooo!” as its accompaniment. He twisted his body, throwing his balance, and snapped his left arm out to catch the listing structure. He was not quick enough. The camera hit the sand, lens down, and Gus fell on top of it all. Although the legs of the tripod were a sturdy aluminum, the leg braces that kept them at the proper stance were not, and the plastic bowed and snapped under his weight with a surprisingly thunderous crack. Soon, his face was also in the sand.

Recovering quickly from the jarring fall, he jumped to his feet. Pain slammed him, and it was a whole lot more than he expected from such a short fall. He assessed himself. There was a throbbing ache on his ribcage, where he landed on one of the legs. He would have a nasty bruise there…maybe a cracked rib. Continuing his triage, he found where the primary source of pain emanated: In the pale light of dawn, he could see that his gray shirt had a dark, wet circle, and it was slowly growing. He tentatively lifted his shirt off and over the wound. The blood that was not soaked up by the shirt was a wet smear upon his skin. Gingerly inspecting it, the gash was about an inch long, with a slow, but steady, trickle of blood flowing out of it. Not enough to cause an alarm, but something that definitely would need a few stitches.

A bit of sand dotted the wound, adding a peppering of earthy coloring. He held up his shirt with his left hand, and, brushing the sand off of his right hand on his pants, he tried to get the granules he could out of the area to avoid infection. His fingers touched a small black fleck, and was instantly engulfed in pain. It radiated out like an electric shock, making his head swim and his knees weak, but was able to steady himself.

“Oh, joy,” he muttered.

Gus slowly folded up his chair, shouldered his backpack, and picked up his camera and tripod without disassembling it. He could deal with that particular travesty when he got back from the hospital. He made his way back up the dune and to the nearby parking lot, where his truck sat. He placed the tripod and chair in the back of the truck, wincing as pain shot through him when he lifted them over the side. He opened the door, tossed his bag to the passenger side seat, and held his breath while he exerted himself to climb behind the wheel. When the majority of the pain and the wave of nausea passed, he reached over to his backpack, extracted the extra sweater he had stowed in there, and put it right below the wound on his abdomen. His truck was his baby; he didn’t want to get any blood on the interior. He started up his tan-colored Chevrolet Silverado 1500, lights illuminating the cement blocks retaining the dunes. He backed up from the parking space in the still barren lot, and headed towards the hospital.

Chapter 2

During the drive over the bridge and across the city to the hospital, Gus tried to distract himself to keep his mind off of the pain. He thought about his grandfather. It had only been 6 months since he passed, but he had lived a long, incredible life. Sean MacSweeney was his name, but most everyone just called him ‘Mac’ or ‘Big Mac’. He was born in Boston right after New Year’s in 1919 to two Irish immigrants. His parents came from the Aran Islands, off of Counties Clare and Galway, where Irish was the common tongue, and English was shunned as the language of usurpers. This did present challenges when they first arrived, but eventually became an asset, after their veritable crash course in English. Irish was the language of the house, Latin was the language of the Church, and English was for everywhere else. Mac was the fourth and youngest child of the family.

Within a week of his birth, a devastating event occurred in North Boston. Due to poor planning, construction, and testing, coupled with gas buildup from fermentation on that unseasonably warm day, the walls of an enormous tank of molasses used to brew alcohol burst open, causing a wave of over 2 million gallons of the sticky liquid to rush forth, reaching up to 35 miles an hour at points, causing deaths, injuries, and massive property damage. Mac’s father, who worked as a blacksmith in the North End Paving Yard, was killed by debris caught up in the enormous flood. He was, however, remembered as a hero, as he ended up saving several people by taking quick action when he heard the tank starting to fail. Despite her devastation, Mac’s mother always saw him as such, and never remarried, working very hard to raise her four children alone.

This often left his eldest brother in charge while she worked, though. Though he took on the role as caretaker, he left a lot to be desired as far as a father figure. He would frequently play practical jokes on Mac and his two sisters, and generally did very little to provide a good example of how to be a decent person. By the time he was in his early teens himself, Mac realized that he needed to take charge of his own life. He would read his mother’s recipe books and eventually started cooking for the family, making far more palatable and nutritious meals than his brother or sisters would throw together at the last minute, as they, too, were often working odd jobs to help out. During the summer break from school, he would walk down the street to the Paving Yard, where his father had worked and would sweep the floors and fetch materials for the workers. He would constantly observe the workers as he hurried around, taking everything in.

A few years later, during the mid-1930’s, he was asked if he wanted to try an apprenticeship by the blacksmith. Mac agreed, began his lifelong passion of working with metal. After years of observing the techniques of the people in the shop, he picked it up very easily. He seemed to have a natural gift for it, as well. He had no issue forging particularly difficult pieces, shaping the glowing metal as if it was bending to his will, instead of his hammer. He always seemed to be able to pick out the best pieces of raw iron to work with. By the time 1941 rolled around, he became one of the youngest and best master smiths in Boston.

Everything changed when the war came to our shores at the end of that year. Mac heard about the disaster around the shop on Monday, the day after the attack. By the end of the day, he gave his notice to the foreman, and was in the recruiting office by Tuesday morning. He enlisted as an engineer. He had never learned how to fire a rifle, but he had the ability to build and fix things, even rigging solutions when proper supplies weren’t available. By Friday of that same week, he was on a bus to Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri. Every week, he would send his pay home to his mother. “I don’t need it…the Army gives me all I need,” he would say.

Mac did not really open up about his time in service. He served for 10 years, seeing action in both Europe, and later Korea. When asked about his experiences and the impressive stack of ribbons he wore on Veteran’s Day, he would merely shrug and say, “Eh…I worked hard, helped my buddies out, took hell and gave ‘em hell, then came home. Nothing that the troops to my left and right wouldn’t have done for me.”

But the Distinguished Service Cross, Silver Star, and the multiple Purple Hearts awarded to him showed that there was a lot left out.

When he finally hung up his greens and came home, he went straight back to metalwork. By day, he lent his skills to the construction of the Central Artery, amongst many other projects around Boston over the years. He would take classes at night, thanks to the Montgomery GI Bill, and earned dual degrees in Metallurgical and Mechanical Engineering. Mac would eventually assist Harry Cobb in designing what was formerly known as the John Hancock Tower, the tallest building in New England, advising about the compositions and strengths of the materials to be used. But he would always be home to cook dinner for his family, even if that meant going in early, or going back to work after eating.

And he also continued his trade, even on the side. He built a forge in his backyard, away from the house so it would not be a fire hazard if anything happened, and so the noise wouldn’t be a bother. Gus remembered as a child that, if Mac wasn’t in the kitchen, he was usually out in his shop in the backyard. Gus would find the sweat-sheened, muscled giant that was his idol shirtless, wearing a leather apron, and pouring his efforts into yet another project. He would often let Gus help out around the forge when his parents dropped him off for the weekend. Although his skill was nowhere near that of his grandfather’s, Gus eventually learned how to forge knives, cast tools, and salvage useful materials from what others would consider junk.

And like a fine wine, Mac's skill had only improved with age. Mac was always making sculptures, fixing or making replacements for broken parts, and even made elaborate toys for his grandchildren. He continued working with his hands until the years finally began to take their toll, and then he would just find other ways to keep himself busy. When he passed earlier this year, at 97 years old, an unfinished piece of wood and a whittling knife lay on the bedside table. His will stated that he wanted to leave his forge to Gus. The house and his brand new truck was included as an extension to this inheritance. As if he knew of his impending demise, he had written Gus a letter. It said, in the beautiful, elaborate handwriting that did not befit a man who swung hammers for a living, that a young man “would need a place to clean up and get some rest when he isn’t working, and a way to get more materials to work with.”

Lost in thought, and a little woozy from blood loss, Gus missed the turn to the hospital.

“Damn!”

Gus pulled up the next side street, and turned down the connecting avenue towards the hospital. He pulled into one of the spaces reserved for ER patients. He slowly and delicately got himself out of the driver’s seat, and made his way into the doors as fast as his unfocused eyes and weakening legs would bring him. He misjudged the height of the sidewalk’s curb, and nearly fell flat on his face, but regained his balance just in time. The quick movements, however, caused renewed bouts of pain. The searing bolts shooting from his abdomen did provide a sudden clarity to his vision, and a nice second wind to get him inside for care. He managed to check in and stumble over to a chair and sit, before darkness inched its way into his vision. The last he remembered was wondering if there was any way they could turn the heat up.