The following is part of a serialized story, Everyone Thinks I Dream of Chocolate. You can find the first chapter here.
Dick grew up on several military bases. A son of an American father and a Japanese mother, he grew up as many army brats do, moving from place to place. On the surface, his upbringing was as typical as it got as someone born within those conditions. Looking at the details in the cracks, however, his life was a collection of stories ranging from Kids on Bikes Style Shenanigans to Vonnegut-esque absurdities.
One Sunday shift, after the lunch rush had died down, we were standing around the deli looking out for customers. We never made chocolate on the weekends (unless Dick became impatient with the lack of customers). So, we stood around telling stories.
“So, I used to live on a military base,” Dick said. “I’m pretty sure this was back when I lived in Japan.”
“I was sitting by the window looking out at the classroom when suddenly, a helicopter comes out from the sky and lands on the pad.”
He never described the scene outside, but I always imagined that the chopper landed on a school blacktop. There would be some basketball hoops and white lines that paint out little arenas for games like Four-square and Taps. Although, now that I think about it, Japanese schools are more likely to have sand fields. I can see gold particles swirling around the blades, blending the scene into an hourglass.
“And out comes this guy in a helicopter jumper. Must have been some high-ranking soldier or something that just came back from some assignment.”
“Anyway, so out comes this woman and child. And the kid was obviously his because he comes out running and rushing towards the soldier.”
“And the soldier picks up the kid and throws him into the air, his arms out waiting to catch him.”
I can see the child’s feet slapping the ground, their little feet kicking up the dirt into small little pulses in the dirt ground, the particles picked up by the wind of the chopper blades, joining the swirl of the scene that makes it seem so magical. For some reason, the kid is a boy in my recreation. I imagined the father catching him, then giving him a kiss on the cheek. In that moment, the sun would be caught right in the middle, illuminating everything but the father and sun. The shadow would create resonating contrast. A silhouette. A picture-perfect moment captured in a single moment in space and time.
“That’s nice,” I said.
“Yeah. Except that the father caught a body without a head.”
“What?”
“Yeah, the son was so small that the soldier threw him up in the air too high. The helicopter blades just chopped that kid’s head clean off.”
“Oh.”
“Can you imagine how awful that the dad must have felt?”
I could. I wondered how far the helicopter blades could have smacked the little boy’s head away. I’m not a physics major so I can’t decide in my mind’s recreation if it launched like a Babe Ruth Home Run? Or, did it merely tumble a few feet away, then slowly roll through the field, the face and hair picking up sand and dirt along the way.
Just how fast were those chopper blades going? Was it fast enough that the boy had no idea of his imminent doom? So fast that the boy’s face was frozen in that moment of familial bliss, knowing the love of a father? Or, did he see the blades coming at him in that last moment of life? Did that last second stretch into an eternity, molding his last facial expression into one of fatal futility?
I don’t think even Dick ever really thought about it.
A customer went up to the counter. Dick went back to the kitchen. Christian went over to the chocolate shop to do some inventory. I picked up a notepad and a pen and went over to the counter. The customer had a smile on their face. Probably, because they had never heard a story about a father’s love accidentally chopping off his own child’s head. Good for you, ignorant customer.
“Hello, how can I help you?”
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Danger Wonka 