Smoky

Bill was laying in a hospital bed in Knoxville with an oxygen tube in his nose and an IV line in his arm.  The latest round of radiation was still working its magic on the tumor in his chest, but he didn’t have a clue if it would work or not.  The government, paying for his treatment, was probably hoping it didn’t; in spite of the morbidity of the thought he had to laugh a little at the irony of his situation.  “What the hell are you laughing about?”  That was the new guy in the other bed, who looked to be some white-collar jerk in for a routine checkup; he sounded annoyed that Bill’s existence was interfering with his own.  “Nothing you’d understand,” he replied.  “What are you doing in this damn hospital?”  The other guy, who had said his name was Bert and promptly started ignoring Bill, looked a little put out at the intrusion, but after a second he said, “Just a workup before I start over at Oak Ridge.”  “On second thought, I’ll let you in on the joke,” said Bill.  “My first posting in the army was to Nevada back in ’57, just in time for an Operation Plumbbob.  Ring a bell?”

Bert considered that for a minute, a look of dawning recognition on his face.

“You know, never mind.  That’s a story I’d rather not hear.”

Sources:

Slaughterhouse-Five

The Cold War