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Plans, Changed.
May. 31st, 2016 09:01 pmThe original plan he had in mind for the last time (two years ago, give or take) he stepped through the Front Door of Milliways Bar and headed out into his world was simple enough - he was headed north, to the Yukon. There was opportunity there, they were saying. The land was wild. Rugged and untamed. Raw.
He ended up riding into Portland, Oregon on a Friday afternoon. The next train to Spokane wasn't until Tuesday morning, but it would at least give him time to purchase and pack a crate of supplies for the northern territories. Maybe he could even find a mule (or two) and arrange passage for the animals as freight cargo.
It was raining, naturally, as he walked down the streets from the railway station towards downtown. A streetcar rumbled and squealed as it passed by him; people went about their business on the docks despite the dismal weather. Doc felt a smile pull at the corner of his mouth as he passed a particularly busy warehouse, catching a glimpse of the men working at loading crates onto a wagon inside.
Portland, he decided, reminded him just a little bit of New Orleans.
**
Two months later, he's still there. The bar hasn't shown up since he stepped off the train in Portland, and he's beginning to think perhaps it was all part of Her plan to put him in this city. It's dirty, rough and ragged around the edges - a real honest working town, with enough of an underbelly to keep him on his toes from time to time. He's not watching his back like he used to, though. He's got a job working on the docks on the river, nothing more than grunt labor, rafting together massive bundles of logs after they've come from upstream and the many timber camps to the north. It's hard work, but it pays decent enough to keep him fed and housed.
(McCoy would probably want to read him the riot act for a few near-misses he has while working on the river - the risk of crushing a hand, foot, or an entire limb is real and ever-present while he's scrambling over floating, spinning logs and gripping chains that weigh more than he does. But Doc works smart, doesn't cut corners, and manages to avoid getting hurt.)
**
Six months since the door to Milliways last showed up, and he's sitting at the desk of the administrative officer for the Willamette University College of Medicine. Part of him can't believe he's actually considering going back to school, but he's curious to see if he really could hack it. And if they say no, then he'll go back to his job with the timber company full-time and maybe try to land a position at the new outfit they're planning on building in Seattle next year.
"Mr. Scurlock, I think we'd be willing to give you a shot for this semester. You'll have to start with the basic courses since you have no prior experience..."
**
Anatomy and dissection are difficult. Unlike medical schools of the future which will have live and willing patients to learn from (and on), his class practices on cadavers of the poor and homeless of the city, the criminals who die in prison, or the foreigners who have no family to lay claim to them. Doc treats each body with respect, moreso than some of his fellow classmates.
He struggles, and for the first time since he stepped off the train in Portland, he goes looking for the door to Milliways one night.
It never shows.
The next day, he goes back to class and works harder to push himself past his hang-ups in dealing with the dead.
**
Two years after arriving in Portland, he's graduating near the head of his class - not the top, but close. Honors. He can hardly believe it once he's finished and has the diploma in hand, his name finely scripted on the thick piece of paper.
He made it.
Now, he has to see if he can hack it.
**
The property he buys is well-within his means; a small acreage in a developing settlement well-outside of the city. There's a need for a physician in the area and while he's nowhere near able to afford an office in town or even a fine buggy to make his calls in, he manages. Folks respect him, exchange pleasantries at the mercantile, and there's hardly an afternoon he manages to escape from church without being stopped by at least three of the women of the parish wishing to discuss their...maladies.
(It's well-known that the young doctor Scurlock is a bachelor, and that is just...well, it ain't right, they'd said, a nice young man such as himself all alone on that farm.)
**
It had rained all night.
Not uncommon, in Oregon. But when the roof of your modest cabin springs a leak in the middle of a thrasher of a rainstorm, you take notice - and you go out and fix it the next morning once the rain has abated.
That was the plan, at least.
Doc hadn't planned on losing his footing as he made the transition from the rooftop to the ladder leaned up against the side of the cabin; he hadn't planned on falling awkwardly and catching the side of his head (just behind his right ear) on a freshly-split log stacked neatly in the woodpile; he hadn't planned on the sickening snap and crunch of the bone (or bones, he can't really tell, everything hurts way too damn much) of his right arm and shoulder as he hit the ground.
**
He knows he has to get himself into town - the city itself and the hospital would be better, but he knows that there is help within a two-mile walk, sooner if he can catch one of his neighbors in on the way. He's aware enough to recognize that he's broken a bone in his upper arm, and possibly his shoulder - his right arm is dead at his side and there is a ringing in his ears that won't fade away.
He manages to get himself inside and grab his bag, and tie a rudimentary sling around his injured arm in an attempt to stabilize the fracture. (It's not pretty and it's barely functional, but at the least he feels better about it, so it'll do.) He slings his bag over his good shoulder and heads to his front door.
Glancing out the window, he notices it's started to rain.
**
And then he's in the bar. The bar, that hasn't shown up for over two years of his life. Things look different. They feel different, too.
Hoping the infirmary is still in the same place, he heads for the hallway. It is.
The adrenaline and willpower that got him up off the ground, onto his feet, and into and across the bar is starting to wear out about the time he hits the call button for help. A nearby chair is where he ends up, his bag on the floor by his boots, his arm held awkwardly against his torso.
Trying his damn hardest not to black out.
Welcome back, he thinks to himself.
He ended up riding into Portland, Oregon on a Friday afternoon. The next train to Spokane wasn't until Tuesday morning, but it would at least give him time to purchase and pack a crate of supplies for the northern territories. Maybe he could even find a mule (or two) and arrange passage for the animals as freight cargo.
It was raining, naturally, as he walked down the streets from the railway station towards downtown. A streetcar rumbled and squealed as it passed by him; people went about their business on the docks despite the dismal weather. Doc felt a smile pull at the corner of his mouth as he passed a particularly busy warehouse, catching a glimpse of the men working at loading crates onto a wagon inside.
Portland, he decided, reminded him just a little bit of New Orleans.
**
Two months later, he's still there. The bar hasn't shown up since he stepped off the train in Portland, and he's beginning to think perhaps it was all part of Her plan to put him in this city. It's dirty, rough and ragged around the edges - a real honest working town, with enough of an underbelly to keep him on his toes from time to time. He's not watching his back like he used to, though. He's got a job working on the docks on the river, nothing more than grunt labor, rafting together massive bundles of logs after they've come from upstream and the many timber camps to the north. It's hard work, but it pays decent enough to keep him fed and housed.
(McCoy would probably want to read him the riot act for a few near-misses he has while working on the river - the risk of crushing a hand, foot, or an entire limb is real and ever-present while he's scrambling over floating, spinning logs and gripping chains that weigh more than he does. But Doc works smart, doesn't cut corners, and manages to avoid getting hurt.)
**
Six months since the door to Milliways last showed up, and he's sitting at the desk of the administrative officer for the Willamette University College of Medicine. Part of him can't believe he's actually considering going back to school, but he's curious to see if he really could hack it. And if they say no, then he'll go back to his job with the timber company full-time and maybe try to land a position at the new outfit they're planning on building in Seattle next year.
"Mr. Scurlock, I think we'd be willing to give you a shot for this semester. You'll have to start with the basic courses since you have no prior experience..."
**
Anatomy and dissection are difficult. Unlike medical schools of the future which will have live and willing patients to learn from (and on), his class practices on cadavers of the poor and homeless of the city, the criminals who die in prison, or the foreigners who have no family to lay claim to them. Doc treats each body with respect, moreso than some of his fellow classmates.
He struggles, and for the first time since he stepped off the train in Portland, he goes looking for the door to Milliways one night.
It never shows.
The next day, he goes back to class and works harder to push himself past his hang-ups in dealing with the dead.
**
Two years after arriving in Portland, he's graduating near the head of his class - not the top, but close. Honors. He can hardly believe it once he's finished and has the diploma in hand, his name finely scripted on the thick piece of paper.
He made it.
Now, he has to see if he can hack it.
**
The property he buys is well-within his means; a small acreage in a developing settlement well-outside of the city. There's a need for a physician in the area and while he's nowhere near able to afford an office in town or even a fine buggy to make his calls in, he manages. Folks respect him, exchange pleasantries at the mercantile, and there's hardly an afternoon he manages to escape from church without being stopped by at least three of the women of the parish wishing to discuss their...maladies.
(It's well-known that the young doctor Scurlock is a bachelor, and that is just...well, it ain't right, they'd said, a nice young man such as himself all alone on that farm.)
**
It had rained all night.
Not uncommon, in Oregon. But when the roof of your modest cabin springs a leak in the middle of a thrasher of a rainstorm, you take notice - and you go out and fix it the next morning once the rain has abated.
That was the plan, at least.
Doc hadn't planned on losing his footing as he made the transition from the rooftop to the ladder leaned up against the side of the cabin; he hadn't planned on falling awkwardly and catching the side of his head (just behind his right ear) on a freshly-split log stacked neatly in the woodpile; he hadn't planned on the sickening snap and crunch of the bone (or bones, he can't really tell, everything hurts way too damn much) of his right arm and shoulder as he hit the ground.
**
He knows he has to get himself into town - the city itself and the hospital would be better, but he knows that there is help within a two-mile walk, sooner if he can catch one of his neighbors in on the way. He's aware enough to recognize that he's broken a bone in his upper arm, and possibly his shoulder - his right arm is dead at his side and there is a ringing in his ears that won't fade away.
He manages to get himself inside and grab his bag, and tie a rudimentary sling around his injured arm in an attempt to stabilize the fracture. (It's not pretty and it's barely functional, but at the least he feels better about it, so it'll do.) He slings his bag over his good shoulder and heads to his front door.
Glancing out the window, he notices it's started to rain.
**
And then he's in the bar. The bar, that hasn't shown up for over two years of his life. Things look different. They feel different, too.
Hoping the infirmary is still in the same place, he heads for the hallway. It is.
The adrenaline and willpower that got him up off the ground, onto his feet, and into and across the bar is starting to wear out about the time he hits the call button for help. A nearby chair is where he ends up, his bag on the floor by his boots, his arm held awkwardly against his torso.
Trying his damn hardest not to black out.
Welcome back, he thinks to himself.
