The League of Helmets

It was the five-year anniversary of my father’s passing, and as a remembrance, I decided to rifle through a bin of his belongings that he had left for me. I myself, recently was given a death sentence from my doctor; a result of a rare incurable disease similar to Leukemia. Two months of precious life was the estimate, give or take a month or two.

I carefully removed the lid and saw a strongbox full of family pictures from various intervals of his life. Some photos drew smiles, some laughs, and some face wrinkling to defend against tears. I dug deeper into the bin and saw my dad’s awards from his service as a firefighter. He died in the line of duty, in a high-rise building, trapped after guiding others to safety. I dug deeper and reached for his helmet. I picked it up to eye level and massaged the perforated contours. The station number tag embossed to the front made for a distinguished item. I tried the helmet on for size and was taken aback by the weight of the object. Under the brim was a flip shield that I toyed with until finally bringing it down over my eyes.

Suddenly, my eyes fought to adjust to floating objects of a supernatural nature. It was what I imagined wind would look like if one could see it. A slow vibrating hum emanated as the experience began to entrance me. I threw off the helmet and shook my head to clear the effects. I stepped away from the bin and looked back at the helmet, questioning my sanity.

I went to the kitchen to hydrate, catch my breath, and decide whether or not to further investigate this odd object. I’ve juggled several places to don the helmet and endure its impacts. I finally decided on the great outdoors and a nature trail my dad and I used to frequent.

After gulping down my beverage, the adventure of the moment got the best of me, and I marched back to the den to retrieve the helmet. I threw on my jacket and headed to my SUV in the driveway. A ten minute drive led me to the woods. I stepped out of my vehicle, trekked across the gravel parking lot with helmet in hand and encroached on the mouth of the woods. The gusting breeze of the autumn weather kicked up leaves as I stepped over downed tree limbs. I stopped a moment to take in the beauty of nature and its surroundings and mentally prepared myself for a supernatural adventure.

I adjusted the helmet brim symmetrically even with my eyebrows. I slowly dropped the shield and the metaphysics began much like it did the first time. I grew bolder as I started walking around with the helmet on, although it put my equilibrium to the test.

Suddenly, I saw a figure walking from right to left through the leafy terrain. I lifted the shield and the figure disappeared. I flipped the shield back down and the figure reappeared. I could now tell it was dressed as an underwater diver. The figure was walking towards a log house, which was only visible with the shield down. The figure’s helmet was of brass metal that glistened off my visor. My instincts made me follow behind him at a comfortable distance. He entered and moments later I scaled the creaky wooden steps to a wraparound porch and into the house.

A thick smoke welcomed me as I waved my hands to get a clear look around. To my surprise the house was only a house on the outside, and a bar inside. The underwater diver found a booth to the right and was greeted by three men dressed as a miner, an army soldier, and a football player; judging by his face mask I would guess a lineman. All were wearing helmets and then all removed their helmets when the underwater diver sat down.

I sat at the bar opposite them and within earshot.

“Looks like we have a live one,” rasped the diver, while scratching his wild beard.

“Good one,” the miner cackled, somehow knowing I wasn’t one of them.

“What’s your pleasure?” half-smiled the bartender, whom I later learned was named Lucy. I squinted through the visor, caught in the mystery, and ordered a rum and coke, to go along with the charade. She nodded, and began to prepare my drink. Lucy wore an aviator’s hat with unsnapped sleeves that tickled her shoulders. As I looked around the bar I couldn’t help but notice everyone was either wearing a helmet or was once part of a vocation that wore helmets. The young man next to me wore the uniform of a telephone pole utility worker.

“What’s with all the helmets?” I asked, as Lucy put a cardboard coaster under my drink.

“You are among the League of Helmets, poor Living Thing. This bar, the bar with no name, is where we gather and wait until a mission comes along for one or several of us. Everyone in this bar died in the line of duty. ”We wait in Limbo, I guess that’s what you might call it, until whatever is next.”

“But, that’s not exactly a helmet you’re wearing.”

“And you’re not exactly a fireman,” she responded, with a twisted smile that intimidated me.

Before I could question her knowledge of me, she spoke, “Be a Dearie and bring these drinks to the table behind you.”

“Uh, ok,” I stammered, trying to adapt to the supernatural. It took me two trips to bring the foursome their drinks. The underwater diver eyeballed me skeptically and then smiled.

“Sit down, Fireman.”

I slowly grabbed a chair from the next table and sat. All eyes were on me. The diver smiled as if he knew dirty little secrets of my life story. The miner chuckled, exposing soot on his lack of front teeth. The army soldier and football player just stared blankly at me, as if I wasn’t there.

“Take your hat off,” said the diver. I removed it and all that was seen was now unseen, including the chair I sat on as I landed on my rear on a bed of leaves out in the woods. I quickly put the helmet back on, amid wild roaring from the bar attendees.

“Get’s them all the time,” howled the miner, slapping the football player on his shoulder pads. The army soldier was a little more compassionate, as he helped me back onto the chair.

Suddenly, I heard drumsticks whacking against each other, as music followed.

I turned to see a woman holding a mike, dressed in a purplish velvet jumpsuit that complemented her curves. She was flanked by an electric guitarist and bass player, a saxophonist with pink, round sunglasses, and the drummer with more tattoos than skin.

“They're not wearing helmets,” I turned to the diver.

“Misty and the Fog is their name. They’re entertainment, they don’t need any,” blurted out the football player.

Misty’s voice was a slow, sexy moan, that made you purr inside when she held a note. The rest of the band followed her vocals and their rhythm sent a soft vibration that ricocheted off the deep green walls and slithered its way into my ears. The diver described their music style as ‘Spooky Jazz with Razzamatazz’ and said it while throwing his head back as if succumbing to a welcoming breeze.

Her hypnotizing tone enrapt me in an aura of serenity until the diver’s interjection broke my trance. “If you’re looking for your dad, he’s not here,” he said, flatly, as he ran his fingers around the rim of his drink glass.

He read my expression through my visor.

“You are wearing your dad’s helmet. I could tell by his department number. My guess is your dad vanished when you occupied his helmet. I was with him when he disappeared,” he said. “Your dad is a good man, he is the leader of the League of Helmets."

“You know my father?” I asked, eagerly awaiting his reply.

“Yes, my advice is you return the helmet where you found it so your dad can continue on as our leader."

My face dropped at this sullen information. It would’ve been nice to see him. The helmet and all its properties led me to believe it was fate that led me to him.

Suddenly, a shrieking alarm sounded.

“That’s us, guys.” called the diver, quickly rising to his feet. His band followed his lead. “Fireman, come with us. I think you can be of assistance.”

“Me?” I poked a finger to my chest.

He ignored my attempt at being startled and waved me along. I apprehensively followed, with a lump in my throat. I followed the foursome out a side door and directly to the site of the action. It was a burning tenement, churning from the top downward. The same kind of inferno that claimed my dad. I saw the foursome enter the building. Each one duty bound to carry out their mission to save lives. The diver used a phantom flurry to unleash a water hose, spraying water to the top levels. The soldier guided the injured to safety. The miner pick-axed the flames, deflecting and redirecting them away from a handful of victims, while the football player blocked the fire from reaching the remaining humanity that were trapped in the building.

I looked up and marveled at their deeds, when suddenly a voice came from my right. “You, the fireman, get up there.”

I slowly stepped towards the building wishing I was at the end of a bad dream. Unfortunately, it wasn’t, and I was now faced with the challenge of playing a firefighter with zero on the job experience.

I crept inside and labored four flights, the smoke and the effects of my failing condition weighed heavy against me. I was about to continue my assent up when I heard the cry of a child coming from the floor below. I rushed down, coughing out the fiery pollution and located a child, I estimated about seven years of age, on his knees, and wrapped in a blanket. I rushed to him and scooped him up into my arms.

I immediately carried him towards the stairway when a force of flames threw us towards and through an exterior window. I held the child tightly in my arms as gravity took us down. With eyes shut, I quickly mouthed a prayer as we landed in a dumpster; my body shielding the child from impact. And then all went black.

Whispers engulfed me as my eyes opened. Blurred at first, my eyes slowly adjusted and the four servicemen of the League of Helmets stood around me.

“Well done, Fireman’s son. You saved that little boy’s life. You are a hero, just like your dad,” announced the diver, as the rest of the guys nodded their approval. I adjusted my helmet as the soldier helped me to my feet. They all looked at me with warm smiles that smeared the notion of acceptance into my thoughts.

“Welcome to the club, “ the football player announced.

I squinted through my visor, and before I can offer a retort, the diver pointed towards the bar. “You’ll find what you are looking for in there.”

I slowly walked towards the bar as I tried to reason what led me to their fiery mission. I opened the door and the band was in full swing, with couples dancing to a song called the ‘Bloodhound Boogie’ and I learned the dance was called the same name. It was a lively dance for ghosts. A dance you wished you had someone to dance with.

I strolled in, snaked around the dancing, made eye contact with Lucy, who gave me a friendly wink, and headed towards the booth where the League of Helmets sat. As I approached, I noticed the back of a man’s head. The closer I got, the more I recognized him as my dad. I touched his shoulder, and he turned to me.

“My son,” he uttered, with a beaming smile.

I studied his face, free from all the scars from the toils of his profession. I dove into his arms and held on, lost in curious wonderment.

My dad broke my grasp and exclaimed the good place he was in. Serene bliss highlighted his face, which comforted my condition.

He gazed upon me alternating between my face and the booth table as if he wanted to say something important but not exactly sure how to say it.

Finally, he spoke, “Son, you can take off the helmet now.”

My face crinkled at a loss until it hit me. I slowly removed the helmet and saw everything that denied me without the helmet on. I had died saving the young child’s life.

"You wanted to be a firefighter when you were little," smiled my dad.

"I wanted to until I burned myself touching a lit match," I laughed.

I looked around the bar, and was greeted with warm smiles, many lifting a glass in my direction.

“Welcome to the League of Helmets,” sang Misty and the Fog, as the dancing couples stopped a moment to acknowledge me. I enjoyed the pleasant aura of the moment, swaying to the music, when I was approached by Lucy, soliciting a dance. I eagerly obliged, as the music gradually slowed. We danced with her head on my shoulder, as her warm body melded to mine. The song ended and Lucy broke away, massaged my chin, smiled, and returned to her post behind the bar. I returned to my dad.

"I don't have a helmet. I feel a little like I don't belong."

"Son, you wore a helmet when you died in the line of duty," he said, with proud tears. "Besides, you can always say you're with the band."

By Jon Moray

From: United States