Indiana Jones and the Sacred Falsie

I am all lopsided after my mastectomy.  My clothes don't really look right, and I'm self-conscious about it.  A prosthesis, or "falsie" was in order.   My surgeon happened to have brochures for a couple of "mastectomy boutiques" and I took them home, happy to be able to do something constructive.  There were three places where I could begin. I like to make these sort of trips into adventures, just to make them less boring and dull.  I imagined Indiana Jones and I, on the hunt for an artifact of some sort. The Sacred Falsie, I secretly named it.

Just like Dr. Jones pored over ancient texts and maps before he set off on his trips, I actually read the brochures.  I specifically looked at the hours of operation.  I drove to the closest 'boutique' on the list, soaring music accompanying me on the car radio. I briefly wondered if Indiana Jones would mind riding shotgun.  I was the only one who could drive the car, however; him being imaginary and all. 

On the brochure this was the "Northeast Location" of a company that was on the other side of town.  When I finally located this particular address, the door had a tiny sign that indicated "By Appointment Only". Dr. Jones could not recall if he had ever been thwarted by the Nazis in such a manner; he decided to search his notes.  In the brochure the only mention of appointments was indicated to be "after hours"; the place was supposed to be open 9-5 Monday-Friday.  Annoyed, I looked up the address of the next business, put my car in gear and got back on the road.  Even Indiana Jones did not find his treasure on the first try.

I arrived at the next business at exactly 12:40, only to read that the place closed for lunch from 12:30 to 1:30.  Beneath that was a notation that "Friday's" were appointment only.  I reread the company's brochure, while Indiana Jones repeatedly referred to his notes.  This particular business was supposed to be open from 8-5 Monday through Thursday.  No mention of lunch hour.  Professor Indiana Jones would have used his whip for such an egregious error on the front door; I offered to let him borrow my red pen instead.  We were both concerned.  If a person running a medical business did not know the difference between a possessive and a plural, what sort of prosthetic might I end up with?  We shuddered at the thought.

My husband, the keeper of many sacred vinyl artifacts, advised me via text to call the third place, located on the other side of Texas, before I traveled much further.  I did just that.  While verifying that they were open, I mentioned that I had first attempted their "Northeast Location", only to find it closed.

"Oh, that location has been closed for some time," the receptionist's tone was condescending.  Indiana Jones suspected that Nazi shenanigans were afoot.  I took a deep breath and calmly indicated that it did not indicate on the brochure that the location was closed.

"Well, we give new brochures to the doctors all the time, " the receptionist said.  "It's not our fault that they don't give out the correct ones."

My eyebrows shot clear up into my hairline.  I visualized Indiana punching a bad guy right in the face, said thank you, and hung up the phone.

At the location of the Sacred Falsie, I found myself in what appeared to be a doctor's waiting room, with a small window on the other side where patients might sign in or hand over their insurance cards.  Indiana Jones likely would have leapt through the glass in the tiny window and helped himself. I merely waited. Several minutes passed before someone actually appeared behind the window and slid it open.

"You really should have made an appointment," the receptionist chastised me as soon as she opened the window.

Indiana Jones and I had had quite enough.  If I'm told that I have to make an appointment, I will make an appointment. I'm perfectly okay with making an appointment.  If I know that I am supposed to make an appointment.  It wasn't on the brochure.  It wasn't online. It was not inscribed on the walls of any ancient tombs.  How I might have been made aware of the need for an appointment?

I asked the receptionist that very question.  Indiana Jones asked me if I wanted to borrow his bullwhip.

"You need to make an appointment because it's going to take at least 30 minutes," the receptionist was attempting to deflect me by not answering my question.  Indiana put his bullwhip away and handed me his gun before gingerly taking two steps back.  But I was determined to get the prize. I wasn't leaving without the Sacred Falsie, and that was that.

I did not punch the receptionist in the face, as recommended by Dr. Jones.  I did not drag her out the little window and throw her underneath the nearest truck, which was his next suggestion.  I did not shoot her.  Instead, I sat and waited for twenty minutes while they ran all my insurance information through to make sure that they would get paid.   While Indiana Jones waited discreetly out in the hallway,  I was fitted for a piece of foam that will fit inside a bra so my clothes will fit better and I can pass for what passes for normal. 

On my way out I was again chastised because my doctor did not complete the prescription correctly.  Insurance won't pay if the prescription isn't correct, I was informed, as if I were trying to cheat them out of a piece of foam and two bras.  I simply smiled; I had claimed the Sacred Falsie, and need never return.   Indiana Jones and I drove off, soaring music blaring, to hunt for treasures on another day.

The Return of the Ark

"Indiana?"  I called my grandfather by his given name, that was the only name he ever seemed to acknowledge. Age is a high price to pay for maturity; I wondered if his frail body would ever recover from the stress of today. And I was worried; the crowd around us was quiet now, since he had slid open the Ark, or whatever he called it. But how long before they remembered that he had interrupted their day?  What would happen when the police realized that curfew had passed and all these people were in violation?

"It all began to fall apart when we stopped believing, Marian."

My grandfather seemed coherent at this moment.  I was hesitant to send him back to where ever he went when his mind wandered. At the same time, I wondered if he was right.  With all of the technological wonders discovered over the centuries, there no longer seemed to be any reason to believe in what we could not see or hear. There were still some who practiced the Old Ways, of course. I had heard of historical buildings in other places where the worship of Theists was still conducted.  This city state did not condone such practices, however, and even now I could hear sirens in the distance.

"Indiana?  We need to go now," I grasped his arm. "The police are on their way."

"No," He shook my arm off. "I have to bring it all back, and if that means that I die, so be it."

Tiny wisps of smoke had begun drifting up from the Ark.  A soft golden glow emanated from inside, as though a small fire had started when it was exposed to the air. I heard small whispers, voices long dead, stirring from the shadows inside.  Curious, the crowd began to push forward, surrounding us and the Ark.  I looked for a means of escape; the sea of humanity around us was too vast.

"Marian, get down!"  My grandfather had knelt, and pulled me down beside him. His face was more frantic than I had ever seen.  "Whatever happens, do not look at what is in that box!  Do you understand me?  Do not look!"  

We knelt next to the Ark, our gaze centered upon the concrete beneath us.  I felt the movement of people around us as they crowded around the Ark. The whispers seemed to curl around us, flowing outward from the Ark and circulating like fog. Small sparks landed around us; I started to lift my eyes, but Indiana grabbed my hand and pulled my arm down as a reminder. 

At first, the crowd seemed awestruck by whatever was occurring; I heard small sounds of wonder and appreciation.  A child's laughter echoed in the air, and people moved closer still.  The police had arrived; a firm voice over a microphone warned that crowds gathered after curfew were subject to immediate dismemberment.  There was a sudden scream as sentences began to be carried out.

That's when the golden glow from the Ark, that gentle light, seemed to become a conflagration of unbearable heat.  Screams began echoing around us, and around us, bodies began hitting the ground suddenly. I shut my eyes tightly, terrified. What had Indiana done?

And then there was silence.



This was a continuation of last week's adventure.


Age is a high price to pay for maturity  (from the Light and Shade Challenge)

“... it all began to fall apart.”

Looking For Indiana

“He wore a faded brown fedora.”  

"What did you say?" The statement grabbed me, pulling me out of whatever hole my thoughts had fallen into.  Grasping the stranger next to me by the arm, I forced him to stop, heedless of the disapproving stares of the other pedestrians trying to make their way down the sidewalk. Curfew was coming, and everyone was in a hurry.

"Get off of me!" The man threw my arm off, and started to turn away. I grabbed at him again, desperate.  I tried to soften my tone this time, and forced my face into what felt like a smile.

"Please--what did you say about a brown fedora?"  The man looked at me, and must have seen my distress, because he softened.

"There was some old guy over on First, wearing one.  He had a brown leather jacket and a bullwhip, and kept hollering about an Ark or Covenant,"  He said.  "Do you know him?"

"He's my grandfather," I whispered, my every fear realized.  It was my fault; I hadn't realized that the old man was so far gone.  I'd only stepped outside to buy some milk before curfew, never realizing that he'd figured out how to open the door by himself.

"You'd better get over there if you want to catch him before the cops do," My reluctant informant moved away, blending into the crowd as if he'd never existed; we were all wearing the same black and gray uniforms.

Mindful of the time displayed on digital clocks everywhere, I hurried the two blocks over to First Street.  As I turned the corner, I heard a familiar voice yelling at the crowd to get back.  There would be no hiding him now.  I pushed my way to the center of the crowd to find my grandfather standing on top of a wooden crate.  On the ground around the box were littered the bodies of several unconscious men. My heart sank as I realized that my grandfather had a crowbar.  He used it to open the box, jumping to the ground to pull the top with him.

The sides of the crate fell away to reveal another box, made of what appeared to be gold. The crowd fell silent, mesmerized as the last lights of the day were reflected off the shiny material.  I could see that there were letters carved into the sides of the box, symbols that meant nothing to me. It may have been an old religious icon, but religion had been outlawed centuries before. I moved to my grandfather's side. 

"It's time to go home, Indiana," I told him; he might not recognize me, but he knew his name.  My grandfather smiled at me, his eyes radiating a secret knowledge.

"Yes. It is time to go home," he said. Then he pushed the lid off the golden box.