Alan’s First Labor

By Christopher J. Hamsher

One boy's journey through Hercules's feats of strength changes everything. 

 

It's 1966, and sixth grade offers nothing but challenges for Alan Cower. Since his father's death, Alan feels unmoored, with only his favorite Greek myth—the labors of the legendary Hercules—to keep him company. That is, until Cyril, his kindhearted bus driver, takes Alan under his wing. 

 

While Alan struggles with a budding crush on his classmate Julie and bullies who seem determined to make his life miserable, Cyril guides him through life lessons using myths—a topic they both love. The more Alan discovers from the stories, the more confidence he gains. With each bus route traveled and page turned, Alan has a chance to embrace his own courage. Will he take it? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: TBL Press
• Release date: Aug 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798218183677

Book preview

Chapter 1

Adrift

Reclining on his crisply made bedspread, fingers interlaced and propping up his head on his pillow, feet dangling off the end of the bed, Alan gazed at the ceiling, admiring the Mercury-Atlas model rocket he and his father had so carefully constructed in their basement. It hung in permanent suspension, twisting only when an opened window or door slightly altered the air pressure, neither fulfilling its mission nor crashing to Earth. His life, like this model rocket, seemed lost in its space. His thoughts drifted to Surveyor 1, the lunar module that had recently transmitted images of the moon (from the Ocean of Storms) back to Earth in an attempt to survey for future moon landings. He wished he could find the serenity that Surveyor 1 experienced 238,900 miles away . . . escape his own life’s ocean of storms.

The creak of his bedroom door opening broke Alan’s daze; his mother gently placed her head in the room, smiled, and nudged, Hey, Atlas . . . you’ll miss your bus if you don’t get those big, strong bones of yours moving soon. Alan sighed mightily. She had called him Atlas again . . . but he did not⁠—and maybe could never⁠—feel worthy of the nickname his father had bestowed upon him. Atlas, the Titan who held up the world on his broad, mighty shoulders. I can barely carry myself through a school day, let alone carry the weight of the world. Before he moved to initiate the day, he envisioned the scene that would eventually occur on the playground: Rodney, Andrew, and Scott would corner him and, using only their menacing stares and powerful posturing, force Alan to hand over his lunch money. Every time he cowered to their demands, his life suit lost an ounce of its oxygen supply. At least he didn’t starve: he kept an extra dollar in his sock in case of emergency. And so he peeled himself off the bed, grabbed his lunch companion (a book by Robert Graves called The Greek Myths), and shoved out of his capsule, doubting this day would be any different than the others.

On the ride to school, Alan gazed out the bus window, trying to ignore his schoolmates’ conversations, ones always circling around familiar adolescent topics: comic book superheroes (Spider-Man vs. Batman), baseball gods (Mickey Mantle vs. Willie Mays), or attractive women (Jackie Kennedy vs. Marilyn Monroe). He submerged himself in emptiness, sinking into the background of the black vinyl plastic benches, pretending to admire the lush green, closely clipped lawns, the reds and yellows of the impeccably manicured flower gardens, and the white picket fences as the bus weaved through the side streets of Stamford, Connecticut. Like the population of the town itself, its colors rarely varied.

The bus’s driver, Cyril Patricard, always kept one watchful eye on Alan Cower. When the boy stepped onto the bus, his body moved automatically, his eyes directing him to the same familiar seat and avoiding contact with any of his peers. Cyril found himself peering back at Alan via the rearview mirror at nearly every stop along the route, scanning the aisle for any would-be hooligan who might accidentally hurl something at Alan, ready to throw him a life vest to save him from drowning. While Cyril didn’t know Alan personally, because Alan, thin as a wafer and timid as tissue, could barely mumble a hello or crack a smile when stepping on the bus, he knew the boy’s father had died in Vietnam a couple of years back. At an age when a boy should float and glide on a whim like the wind, Alan dragged himself around like a deflated balloon.

Cyril, who had only started driving a school bus in September, felt the urge to protect the boy from the other students, ones who eyed Alan with suspicion. To save him from any more puncture marks . . . to shepherd him through this valley of whiteness. Cyril understood those stares all too well: as an African American man who had recently moved to Connecticut, he had encountered those accusatory eyeballs; in his former life as a New York City policeman, he had forged an iron will and crafted a shield of invincibility to complement his disarming smile just so White folk would trust him enough to protect and serve, to view his outstretched hand as a friend rather than as a threat.

He glanced at Alan again. He’s such a shell. How can I help this young man? Cyril noticed that Alan carried a book about Greek mythology with him every day. He, too, knew the legendary tales of Hercules, Perseus, and Theseus. His deceased wife had taught him about them, and he had entertained his son with those ancient stories. He quickly moved away from that thought, though.

When the bus arrived at its destination, Grebe Elementary School, the students scurried off, but before Alan could disembark, Cyril said, Hey, Alan, could I talk to you for a moment, son?

Alan turned and glanced suspiciously at him. Why would the bus driver want to talk to me? Did he just call me son? Uh . . . sure.

I noticed that book there of yours. What do you know about Hercules? I always hear his name, but I don’t know what he ever did . . . besides like being strong. I think I remember Zeus required him to complete some tasks . . . but I’m not sure. Cyril was lying. He knew all about Hercules’s Twelve Labors. But maybe this question would open dialogue between him and Alan.

Well . . . umm . . . , Alan mumbled. He stared down at his canvas Chuck Taylors, his toes pressing against the shoes’ tips. Well . . . as a punishment for murdering his family⁠—

"Whhhaaattt??? Cyril interrupted, acting as if he’d seen a ghost. Hercules murdered someone? I thought he was a hero!" Cyril’s grey eyebrows climbed, his head now cocked to one side like a confused dog.

Alan placed his foot back onto the last step of the bus and leaned in. It wasn’t his fault! Hera tricked him into killing his wife and children, and as a punishment, he was forced to serve King Eurystheus for ten years, and that king tasked him with feats to atone for his sin, ones requiring such bravery and wit that no mortal man could ever accomplish them!

For the first time in the school year, Cyril noticed Alan’s eyes breathe with life.

Alan continued. So, his first labor was to slay the Nemean lion, which had terrorized the village of Nemea. Hercules first gathered some arrows, hoping to use his archery skills to kill it, but learned after his initial attempt that its brilliantly golden fur was impenetrable. Alan, like a skilled storyteller enmeshed in a trance, placed a pause for dramatic effect. To punctuate the effect, Mr. Patricard widened his eyes and exaggerated his breath. So, he decided he would use the element of surprise: he snuck into its cave, stunned it with a blow to its head with his olive-wood club, and then strangled it with his mighty strength. Then, Athena appeared, and since she was the goddess of war strategy, she instructed him to skin the lion because its hide could be used as impenetrable armor. However, his own knife’s blade wasn’t sharp enough, so he used the lion’s own claws. To indicate the tale’s conclusion, Alan leaned back and waited for his audience’s reaction.

Mr. Patricard firmly tapped his hand several times against the wheel to substitute for applause, a habit he had so as to not jeopardize his task of driving. Wow! Quite a story, young man. His head, salt-and-peppered with patience and wisdom, shook several times in affirmation, and then he continued. The way I see it, Hercules had to approach the problem from a different perspective, take a different route. Anyone with a bow could kill a foe from a distance, but only the bravest of us will enter the arena of battle and risk his own mortality. It was his bravery, his willingness to lean into the enemy⁠—not necessarily his strength⁠—that allowed him to defeat the lion.

Thrilled to have an outlet for his story and another human being’s complete attention, Alan inadvertently failed to acknowledge his bus driver’s observation, blurting out, So, Hercules’s next labor was even more challenging! He⁠—

Alan, immersed in the imagery of the tale, had lost awareness of location.

Hey, Mr. Cower, hold that thought. You need to get to school. How about you tell me Hercules’s second labor on the ride home?

Okay . . . yeah . . . sure. That’d be great. Alan turned around, now with a lighter step to his long stride, with the splintered rays of the morning October sun illuminating his path, feeling the sun’s warmth cradling his fragile shell, and launched through the school’s doors. For one fleeting but glorious moment, Alan felt connected to someone in the present rather than to some story from the past or a rocket launch in the future. Cyril noticed Alan’s long, confident shadow, dark and bold, a solid figure rather than a flinching kitten. It looked as if it had the strength to support the world.

But off in the distance, beyond the horizon and out of the picture frame, foreboding storm clouds gathered to greet him on the playground, the boxing ring of childhood anxiety.

Chapter 2

Prey

Alan’s morning subjects had drifted by as if bouncing on their toes, mostly because he had daydreamed and considered Hercules’s second labor, slaying the Lernaean Hydra, a monstrous, nine-headed snake: he thought about exactly how he would explain the story with simplicity and efficiency to Mr. Patricard on his ride home from school. His positive mood even propelled him to participate in answering some of the more challenging math questions from his lesson, which did not go unnoticed by his teacher, Ms. Metis, as she always worried about why she often overlooked this tall, bright young boy during her lessons; he may as well have been faded wallpaper even though everything about Alan Cower stood out.

Recess occurred before lunch, and his classmates spilled out onto the dark chaos of the playground’s cosmos; Alan usually docked himself under the northern red oak tree adjacent to the swings: the tree’s shadow offered a place where he could avoid the sun’s harsh heat as well as several of his classmates’ standoffish stares. Like John Glenn orbiting above Earth, Alan could detach himself from his inner space while he paged through his books and contemplated outer space, uninterrupted by the recess cacophony. He could also steal glances at Julie, the only other student in his class who could possibly understand Alan. Her complexion, light golden brown, seemed to garner a bit more trust from their classmates⁠—as if someone’s skin color counted for credit. But whereas Alan floated through space, hovering above humanity and avoiding any conflict, Julie rocketed through this plane of existence, launching herself into every playground game with a smile as big and broad as a crescent moon on a summer night. And while he was a tall drink of water easily knocked over by an unintentional insult, she was a taut, balled fist ready to jab at the first indignity, intentional or otherwise. They were like complementary angles⁠—just existing in different circles. He marveled at her assuredness despite her diminutive stature.

However, Alan, in fact, did not retreat to his sanctuary today; his confidence from this morning spilled over onto the playground, and Julie’s gravity pulled him towards the swings, a place where he could both safely cement himself to a tangible object and observe Julie, who was engaged in a frenzied game of freeze tag. His classmates looked like electrons chaotically bouncing around an atom. Alan settled into the unforgiving wooden seat and gently rocked back and forth to the cadence of a comforting creak, his feet never thinking to leave the ground. In contrast, Julie darted over the blacktop, eluding outstretched hands and, if tagged, contorting her face in frozen fear, entertaining herself and her classmates, suspended in disbelief. After several minutes of close observation, he noticed only a few of her classmates actually tried to tag Julie⁠—most only faintly attempted to touch her, never fully extending their arms. Their efforts were weak and obligatory at best. Did she notice it, too? But this did not dampen Julie’s enthusiasm for the moment.

As Alan drifted off, further lost in thought, he hadn’t noticed Rodney, Andrew, and Scott lurking like sharks: Alan’s scent seemed to always attract their predatory instincts; they circled around the swing set and confronted him head-on, ready to strike straight with full force. Alan instinctively opened The Greek Myths, nibbled on his upper lip, and buried his nose deep into its pages as if avoiding eye contact could somehow throw off their olfactory instincts.

Rodney, always the lead instigator, had dark, menacing eyes and an eerily quiet countenance, one he used to intimidate by occupying every square inch of space within his reach. His ability to intimidate his classmates⁠—and even unseasoned teachers⁠—was legendary; the tendrils of his actions extended miles beyond his physical presence. Rodney’s two lackeys, Andrew and Scott, shifted their stances from side to side, posturing as if their gravity could alter Alan’s course. If Rodney was Jupiter, Andrew and Scott were two of its inconsequential moons⁠—space debris at best.

"Hey, boy . . . ," Rodney derogatorily whispered. He stepped within two feet of Alan, leaning in and cocking his head ever so slightly. Alan averted his eyes towards the ground, but even Rodney’s shadow had already encroached upon his personal space. When Alan acknowledged the form in front of him, Rodney’s rusty-brown hair waved slightly in the breeze, rustling leaves on an autumn day, but his deep, dark pupils, detached and vacuous, hinted at something far more menacing. A burst of gold encircled his steely blue irises; was this halo being sucked into the abyss or trying to escape? So, do you want to make this difficult or easy on yourself? I know you ain’t gonna say nothing to Ms. Metis either . . . ’cause that’d just complicate the matter for all parties involved, wouldn’t it? His words were a firm pillow rather than a punch, blunt but not bombastic. How could Alan disagree? Rodney allowed his words and their unsavory message to slowly constrict the awkward silence that followed, a silence clouding any ray of bravery. Like crimping a hose to cut off the flow of water, Rodney’s stoicism strangled Alan’s oxygen supply. Alan wilted in Rodney’s fatal radiation, paralyzed in fear. Rodney’s cruelty was unusually casual.

Without making eye contact, Alan pulled himself off the swing’s seat, shoulders slouched, reached into his pocket, and surrendered his fifty cents. Rodney sneered in approval, winked at Alan, and deposited one quarter in his front pocket; he then meticulously placed the other quarter on his thumb and flicked it over his shoulder in the direction of his two henchmen. Four eyes followed its descent back to earth, and after it splashed down onto the blacktop, Andrew and Scott became hungry wolves, snarling and clawing at each other until one emerged victorious. Like any clever but nefarious leader, Rodney shared the spoils of conquest⁠—but not equally or graciously.

At that very moment, Julie, frozen in animation after being tagged, happened to notice the exchange. Again? she thought to herself. Why can’t Rodney leave Alan alone? Why can’t Alan stand up for himself . . . or at least send the teachers a signal to alert them to his danger? She thawed herself without consent and directed her intention to Alan, who was now withdrawing to the shelter of a giant oak tree. None of the other players seemed to mind her breaking protocol. She reached him before he could slide down the tree’s trunk. Grabbing his arm and spinning him around like a parent disciplining her toddler, she scolded more than stated, Alan, why don’t you stand up for yourself just once? You can’t let Rodney and those two other turds treat you that way!

Alan turned away, his dignity dented, embarrassed that a girl⁠—one half his size⁠—had to remind him about bravery. Julie’s ferocious kindness jarred him, and she thought she saw a tear form in the corner of his eye, but it retreated as if ordered before it could plummet to the ground or be wiped away by the back of his hand. I don’t want to talk about it, Julie, Alan mumbled. Sensing his shame, she placed one hand on his back in reassurance for slightly longer than a moment. Julie understood her words would not provide any comfort; she returned to the freeze tag game but could not cool herself down enough to be frozen again.

•   •   •

That afternoon, Mr. Patricard pulled up the bus to the main entrance of Grebe Elementary to escort his students home. As they embarked, he greeted them warmly and called each by their name. Aware that a bus driver was the first and last face most kids saw before and after a day of school, he embraced his transportation task as more of a role than a job, providing each student with a small piece of reassurance and kindness every day. This job required nothing more than an open heart, a big smile, steadfast patience with his passengers, and the required driving skills, a welcome change from his previous profession filled with the potential for violence around every corner. His defensive posture had hardened his stance, but these calluses concealed his naturally curious and congenial disposition. Unlike many of his Brothers in Blue, who loved to maintain the illusion of order, Cyril was acutely aware that his previous profession caused him to close himself off too much and too often; whenever his wife, Lilian, noticed this reaction, she had reminded him of spring’s rebirth, that the universe always reinvents itself, that the world is in constant chaos and in a state of disruption. And so on this particular gorgeous October afternoon, with the autumn foliage bursting with color, he felt extra blessed to continue his conversation with Alan.

But when Alan boarded the bus, Mr. Patricard noticed his heavy tread and sullen countenance, his sad shoulders hauling a heavy sack of worries. Sensing something⁠—or someone⁠—had caused Alan despair, Mr. Patricard decided not to dredge up the day’s disgust. Instead, he would try another tactic: distraction. Hey, Alan! How ’bout you tell me ’bout that second labor of Hercules. I was thinkin’ about it all day.

Relieved to put the playground incident in the rearview mirror and retreat to the safety of his home, Alan settled himself directly behind the driver’s seat and informed Mr. Patricard about Hercules’s second great feat⁠—slaying the Lernaean Hydra, a nine-headed water monster Hera had raised specifically to kill Hercules; he included all the fantastic details of the task: how Hercules, with the help of his nephew, Iolaus, cut off each of the monster’s nine heads, wielding a flaming golden sword (provided by Athena) that cauterized each stump so that the heads could not grow back. Upon completion of the labor, Hercules slit open the great beast and dipped his arrows into her poisonous blood. While Alan recounted the story, Mr. Patricard lobbed leading questions over his shoulder and offered exclamations of wonder, and by the time Alan had finished the tale, the bus arrived at the corner of West Avenue and Burr Street, just around the corner from his mother’s small but tidy home.

Before Mr. Patricard pulled the lever to open the bus’s door, he turned around, swiveling his right shoulder and placing his hand over his seat, to ask a simple question: So, what’s the moral of the story, Alan?

Alan thought for a second, frowned slightly, and stated, Uh . . . I’m not sure, Mr. Patricard. I’ve never really considered that question.

Like a wise teacher, Mr. Patricard knew students needed to arrive at their own conclusions. If a teacher told students all the answers and never allowed time to reflect, their conclusions would never settle in their cement. Well, Alan, every great story has a lesson. Think ’bout it and maybe you can answer it on tomorrow’s ride to school.

Alan did not respond immediately. Instead, he got up out of his seat, stepped off the bus, and slowly turned around, textbooks piled under one arm. I’ll try, Mr. Patricard. I promise. A shadow of a smile peeked out behind his wall. "And