From the time he was able to speak, Harry Wong said he wanted to be a fireman. His parents bought him fire trucks of all sizes, from tiny cast-steel models to a wagon with pedals he could drive around in his garage. He had a red plastic helmet he always wanted to wear to bed, but, of course, there was no way to wear one of those and lie down at the same time.
As he grew older, Harry set his sights on qualifying for the Honolulu Fire Department. This, he knew, involved some very strenuous tests, including a one-mile run, sprinting 50 meters carrying a 50-pound coil of hose while dressed in full gear, stair and ladder climbing, and a 100-meter swim. All of these were timed.
There was also a written test that covered areas of basic math, grammar and reading comprehension, logical reasoning, spatial orientation, and mechanical and situational judgment.
Harry was a smart boy who did well in school, so there was never any doubt in his mind that he would kill on the written exam. No matter how hard he tried, however, he could not do as well as he needed to in order to pass the physical test.
No matter how much he ate, Harry could not bulk up. He was a thin boy, and trying to carry a 50-pound bag of sand was something he would try from time to time but could not do. Picking it up was a problem, and if he only had to carry it 10 meters, he might have had a chance, but 50 seemed an impossible dream.
Then, one day in 10th grade, as he was trying to do chin-ups at the YMCA and making no progress toward increasing the number he could do, Harry broke down and cried. Sitting down on one of the benches by the basketball court, he hung his head, dejected and defeated.
“Eh, brah, whas up wit you?” came the husky voice of someone sitting down at his side.
Harry looked up. The boy was big, muscular, and looked like someone who you’d expect to be taking your money from you in the next few seconds. Frightened, Harry sat up and thought about running.
The boy, maybe just out of high school, put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I seen you working out all the time ova here,” he said. “You weak, brah, you know that?”
Harry took a deep breath. This he did know, and the words sounded like the prelude to a request for money. Still, he said nothing.
“Brah,” the older boy said, his voice deep and resonant. “You like me help you get strong. I stay sick watching one weakling like you trying for bulk up. I can help you out, brah.”
“You don’t want to highjack me?” Harry asked timidly.
The boy laughed. “Eh, if I wanted for highjack you, I’d have your money and be gone already. No worry, beef curry. I not going.”
Harry, relieved, smiled. “What do you mean you can help me bulk up?”
“I get two ways, brah. I get pills, and if you real hardcore and not too candy-ass about needles, I get da sauce, brah. An das da way for get muscles on top muscles fast. Try look.”
The boy took off his shirt. Indeed, as he flexed his arms, Harry could see that this guy was built like the proverbial brick house. When the boy began to pop his pectoral muscles, Harry knew that this was what he wanted to look like, and if there was a faster method, so much the better.
The boy, Micah Hind, explained steroids to Harry, and while it wasn’t the same as being highjacked, he took a lot of money from Harry over the next two years.
Everyone at McKinley talked about Harry. He’d gone from a 90-pound weakling to a junior version of Mr. Atlas. Not only was he much stronger now, but his speed increased. The day in senior year when he finally ran 50 meters carrying a 50-pound bag of sand, jumping around like a madman, he wanted to explode with joy.
Instead, he exploded in another way. It was internal. When Harry came to, he was in Queen’s Hospital. His parents stood on both sides of his bed, each holding one of his hands, while Dr. Kamaka explained the nature of the aneurism Harry had experienced.
“You’re lucky you survived this, Son,” said the doctor. “Many people don’t. Being young and, obviously very strong, you had a better chance. This stroke you’ve suffered may have both short-term and longer-term effects. Only time will tell.”
Harry interrupted him. He thought he’d asked a question about the pain he was having, but his mother cried out, and squeezed his hand, and his father closed his eyes, as Dr. Kamaka explained that it was hoped Harry would be able to speak again soon.
Not only had Harry lost most of his speech except for groaning out incomprehensible sounds, but he could no longer walk.
“Don’t give up, Harry,” said his physical therapist, Bobby Decorte. “If you want something badly enough, brah, you’ll achieve it.”
Harry grunted as he collapsed into his wheelchair. Hard as it was to do, he had to see how funny this was. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He’d wanted badly enough to be a fireman.
Achieve it? Probably not. Maybe it would have been better to have died.
Lanning Lee 