Chapter 1

A Chapter by Vincent

“Dead Dreams”
By Vincent Chapman Sr.

Chapter 1
     The sun glew blissfully through the blinds. Its rays grazed the side of John Woodson’s face as he read the Wall Street Journal at the kitchen table. His wife Cindy, who was a nurse for Langley hospital, had just finished scooping the last of the scrambled eggs onto John’s plate. Moving swiftly, she placed his breakfast in front of him, causing the plate to knock hard against the hardwood table.
     “I love you too,” John said sarcastically as he watched the orange juice wave within the glass.
     “Michael, breakfast is on the table,” she shouted, ignoring his comment.
Cindy meet John at a protest against abortion at this privately owned clinic that resided in Washington D.C. in 1979. Being in the medical field and seeing the innocence of newborn babies; Cindy was totally against legally murdering them. Who knows, she though, they might be ending the pre-life of a future president.
     John, on the other hand, participated with the protesters, but at the same time thought differently. While they made threats at the individuals that took part in the abortion process, John analyzed the entire situation, mentally picturing it as a governmental conspiracy on population control. Some of the protesters were delighted that he joined the movement, but inversely thought he was insane for his way of thinking. He explained to a few that the political administration has used countless facilities for there own good. Cindy, who was among the listeners was enticed by his intelligence and good looks. His thick barrel frame, along with his sandy brown hair and gray eyes infatuated her the more he spoke.
     After the picketing, Cindy approached John and asked him to give her more insight on the government and their plots over lunch. Since that first meeting, they’ve frequently contacted each other. It only took Cindy, who lived with her parents, three months to move in with John who lived on the Northeast side of the District. During her employment at Langley she continued her education so she could qualify herself for a career as a Registered Nurse.
     John worked for Weinhart Investments. A firm that manages high profile accounts and also invest their money into various stocks, mutual funds and equitable estates. He was born in Boston, but moved to Washington to take a high paying job as an Investment Consultant over ten years earlier.
     It only took a year after their initial meeting for her to get pregnant. Michael Woodson was born on the third of November 1980 at St. Jude, a respectable and medically advanced hospital. A hospital that Cindy dreamed working at. After her pregnancy, Cindy kept her well tanned, five foot two frame in shape. Her full lips and ample buttocks were Cindy’s highlight and most discussed at her work place.

     Michael, now five, yawned as he stopped at the kitchen entrance in his Transformers pajamas, with his dog along side of him.
     “Hop up,” Cindy said as she pulled out the chair for Michael.
     “Scruffy,” John said playfully to the dog who paced slowly behind his young master. Michael wiped his eyes before he climbed into chair.
     Cutting his pancakes into squares with his fork and butter knife, John said, “Good morning,” to his son who had the face of his mother’s.
     “Hi dad,” he responded softly, staring at his plate.
     “Honey, what time will you be home tonight,” Cindy asked.
     “Well I got a meeting with Wilbert Jenkins, the Chief Executive Officer of Meezlar Petroleum at three o’clock.
     “That’s not answering my question.”
     “I’m not hungry,” Michael whispered with one elbow on the table.
     “You can’t become a Transformer without eating your breakfast,” John shot back.
     Scruffy barked as if he knew what John was talking about.
     “See,” John said pointing his fork at the dog.
     “What time,” Cindy growled.
     “The meeting shouldn’t take over an hour, so I should be home around four-thirty; five if the traffic is backed up.”
     “Oh my, I’m running late,” Cindy said glancing at her watch.
     The English Collie looked at the floor as the bar stool scraped loudly against the floor as she stood up.
     Cindy walked into the living room to retrieve her purse that was sitting on top of the end table. While strutting back into the kitchen, she tripped over the rug that was laying in front of the sink.
     “Slow down,” John said stretching out his words.
     Even though she didn’t fall, Cindy had to double back so she could fix the rug that was curled at the edge.
     “I’ll try to get home before you I could start dinner.”
     Cindy grabbed her keys that were on the counter, kissed her husband and Michael, then rushed out of the house.
     “Mommy’s fast,” Michael said wide eyed, chewing his eggs with his mouth open.
     “Too fast.”
     “Like a Transformer.”
     “Yes, like a Transformer,” John grinned.
     After they finished their breakfast, John helped his son put on his blue Oshkosh jumper over top of his red shirt. While Michael was strapping his scuffed tennis shoes, John combed his hair making sure it was tidy.
     “Are you ready,”
     “Yep,” he smiled, flashing his missing front teeth.
     Michael grabbed his book bag full of toys off of his bed before he walked out of his colorfully fashioned bedroom. Scruffy was the first to exit the house when John opened the door, followed by his son. When they pulled off, Scruffy appeared gloomy as he paced the inside of the fence line.

     “What time is it,” Judy the babysitter asked squinting her eyes that were getting pierced by the morning sun.
     Michael ran into the house, kneeling down in front of Thomas, one of the two cats that she owned.
     “Eight o’clock on the nose,” John responded looking at his Tag Heuer timepiece.
     “It felt like I just closed my eyes,” she whispered.
     “Rough night?”
     “Nah…on the phone all night with my boyfriend,” she responded scratching her head.
     “Well look, I have to go. He has already ate breakfast and did the morning mumbo jumbo, so you don’t have too much to worry about this morning. Also, make sure you help him with…..,” he tried to explain as he took steps backwards.
     Judy closed the door in his face mid-sentence. Everyday was the same line, same situation. This morning she was too tired to hear his repetitive words and instructions. John got into his Honda Accord, which was too small for his size, backed out of the driveway and pulled off slowly.

     Langley was a prestigious hospital that accommodated some of the finest doctors in the country. It’s five hundred bed facility qualified it as one of the largest hospital’s on the east coast. Even though Cindy loved working at Langley, she still wanted to transfer to St. Jude, which offered more money and also was more reputable.
   In 1977, Langley was sued for three hundred and fifty million dollars over a wrongful death and discrimination case. Madeline Cooper, an African American breast cancer patient was denied further treatment from the doctors and administration because she didn’t have enough insurance coverage.
     After being sent home, she succumbed in her bedroom days later. At the same time, Donald Richardson, a member of the board at the hospital was at the meeting that caused Mrs. Coopers release. Donald, who always was the first to speak against the hospitals “shadow policies”. Policies that only members of the board knew about.
     Former director Frank Garner, along with two associates, Karen McMillen and Todd Davenport was at the meeting along side Dr. Zitcher. Donald was not only mad about the decision alone, but what the director and his associates based it off of. Zitcher, who was a veteran doctor, explained to the director that Mrs. Cooper’s condition required more medical attention and possibly three to four additional operations.
     Frank told Zitcher to step outside of the room, so that him and the other members could discuss the matter. Like always, Donald was always the first to speak up.
     “So what are we going to do Frank,” Donald asked after he took a sip of water, looking him dead in the eyes.
     McMillen and Davenport looked at Frank waiting for his response.
     “I’m going to release her,” he said calmly as he jotted a few words onto a notepad.
     “Why,” Donald asked angrily.
     “Look, Ms. Cooper is 84 yrs old and doesn’t have enough insurance to cover the expenses,” pausing for a second, pointing the pen at Donald, “Secondly, we don’t have enough man power to assist a n****r who doesn’t have anything to live for.”
     Donald stood up sharply, causing his chair to roll backwards hitting the wall. “You racist prick. All you care about is yourself and the money that comes through your filthy hands. Ms. Cooper has been a patient for over, “ he snatched the paper that had her history on it, “for over…..30 years and this is how she gets treated.”
     The associates didn’t say one word. Their heads moved back and forth from Frank to Donald as they argued about the subject at hand. It looked like they were watching a tennis match at the Wimbleton, the way their heads motioned in unison.
     “Michael, you’re a white American that…..”
     “It doesn’t matter who I am. Race, color, or creed. All I know is, that lady out there needs immediate attention.
     Frank stood up and walked slowly towards the window, looking at his feet, as if he was calculating his steps. The look in his face told the story of a man who went through this topic many times before. He stopped in front of the glass admiring the view of the Washington Monument, before he spoke.
     “One thing I noticed about you Mr. Richardson, is that you care about other people and that is a good thing, that is what you’re here for I suppose, to help individuals and make this facility a better environment for our patients.”
     “You can say that,” he responded, leaning against the wall looking at the back of Franks head.
     “McMillen,” Frank said turning around, back against the glass, “how much are you clearing annually?”
     “$120,000.00 per year sir” she responded slowly looking at Davenport low browed.
     “And you?”
     “About the same Mr. Garner,” Davenport shot back.
     “Are the both of you comfortable with your salaries?”
     Karen and Todd both nodded in agreement that they were well off.
     “What about this facility? Is it not a place where you meet Nobel peace prize candidates and also mingle with award winning doctors such as: Zitcher, Richard L. Edleman, and Swedish psychologist, Phillip E. Bodara,”
Frank said pacing the floor.
     Speaking for the both of the, Davenport said in a preppy but crackly voice, “Yes”, fixing his bow tie, “yes, this facility is one of a kind.”
     Pacing, looking towards the ceiling, Frank made his way back to the window and looked out the glass which reflected his puzzled facial features. Frank extracted a cigar from the inside of his jacket pocket and stuck it between his thin lips. He lit the Cuban with professionalism, causing the smoke to float in groups upwardly, so the smell wouldn’t get into his Versace attire.
     “Donald,” he spoke, rolling his name off his tongue like an Italian, “are you not satisfied with your position. The last time I checked you were making over $200 thousand per year.”
     “And the last time I checked,” Donald quickly shot back, “the policies for every hospital in the nation was not to discriminate regardless of the individuals financial situation.”
     Frank took two more puffs and watched as the thick clouds dispersed towards the ceiling. The wrinkles that infested the corner of his eyes, stretched outwardly as he squinted wickedly at Donald.
     “McMillen. Davenport,” Frank nodded straightening his blazer, “Will you please me and Mr. Richardson if you would be so kind.”
     The associates looked at each other puzzled for a slight second before they gathered their belongings and exited the plush conference room. When the door connected with it’s latch, the sound of the click along with the cigar smoke created a menacing atmosphere within Donald’s mind. Before he could snap out of his mental movie, Frank had him jacked up flush against the wall. His powerful biceps flexed within his blazer as he had fistfuls of wrinkle free cotton balled up in his palms. Donald squeezed his eyes slightly as his blood pressure numbers escalated.
     “Listen you little punk.” Frank groaned between his stained, but perfect teeth. Athletic veins bulged out of his thick neck. His face turned beet red, lips inches from Donald’s eardrum.
     Continuing, “The next time you embarrass me in front of my staff, I will personally cut your balls off and send them to your wife.”
     Donald didn’t respond. He was still shocked by Frank’s sudden actions.
     “Do you hear me?”
     Still , no response.
     “I said, do you hear me you little b***h.”
     Spit sprayed unevenly across Donald’s face, as Frank jerked his head back. The combination of cigar smoke and coffee breath caused Donald’s nostrils to spread.
     A deep sigh ejected from Donald’s lips, “If you don’t let go of my Lauren, I will personally cut your dick off and shove it up your a*s. Call your wife and tell her that you are a f****t, then tell your kids who their real daddy is.”
     Frank backed off, looking at Donald’s white shirt that had turned into a knot of wrinkles. The sunrays had peered through the glass, giving the room a majestic, but at the same time a boring feel. Michael straightened his attire and stormed towards the door.
     “By the way,” Frank said placing the lit cigar between his lips after lifting it from the corner of the table, “you’re fired.”
     Donald turned the knob exposing the nosey associates that had their ears placed against the door. They jumped back, embarrassed at the moment at hand.
     “I quit,” he said pushing pass McMillen and Davenport, slamming the door in the process.
     Frank cursed himself.
     “Oh, if you didn’t know,” Donald said opening the door again smiling, “It’s against the hospital’s policy to smoke in the building.”
     Frank stood in the middle of the room defeated as Donald slammed the door.