A Bolian Thanksgiving (Part 1 of 3)

Posted on 29 Nov 2013 @ 6:18pm by Lieutenant Olsam Mott

1,491 words; about a 7 minute read

Mission: Episode 04 - Exodus
Location: Indiana, Earth
Timeline: MD 07 - 1400 hrs

[ON]

Only a few days after their arrival back on Earth, Olsam had been pleased to receive an invitation from one of his friends aboard the Odyssey, Lieutenant Rebecca Davis of Indianapolis, Indiana. They had worked together on more than a few occasions over the course of Odyssey's three-year deep space mission; a close friendship formed, and Becca had made it her personal mission to continue to expand and deepen Olsam's forays into Terran culture and customs. The North American continent remained largely a mystery to him, so he had gladly agreed to join her in an exploration of her cultural heritage.

Apparently one of the greatest events of the year for Lt. Davis's family had rolled around, and the invitation indicated that they were eager to share it with him. "Thanksgiving," it seemed, was as much a culinary holiday as anything to do with giving thanks, a cultural holiday surviving hundreds of years and having vaguely something to do with corn and people in odd hats. Some brief investigation and a few animated newsnet clips about it had revealed that the turkey - a fat, noble bird - was the centerpiece of the event's culinary celebration. Olsam saw this as his chance to shine and impress his Terran friends with the breadth of his knowledge about their customs, so he magnanimously volunteered to bring the turkey himself.

But getting one's hands on a real turkey turned out to be more of an undertaking than he'd initially thought. Flash frozen lumps labelled "turkey" were the only things he could find in French supermarkets, and they seemed to bear little resemblance to the feathered fowl from his research. Seeking an authentic experience, Olsam had wrapped up a day's research in Paris and traveled to Indianapolis a day early to seek out a bird to claim as his own.

And so he allowed the hovercar to navigate off Route 16 in rural Indiana, turning right next to a sign labelled "Jansen's Turkey Ranch." The name seemed curious as far as he could tell - weren't ranches where the cowboys of yore rode horses? He imagined a man in a cowboy hat riding amongst the fat birds wandering around in the fields to his right and left, which brought a wide grin to his blue face. That just seemed silly. Maybe he'd recommend a name change to the owner, a one mister "Oldman Jansen" according to the concierge at the Indianapolis hotel that had directed him to this turkey "ranch" near his hometown.

For most of the trip out of the city he'd allowed the hovercar's computer to do the driving; the wide open spaces outside the city and broad American roads almost made him nervous for some reason (aside from the fact that he had no idea where he was going). Although he'd made it a point to travel to a surprising number of locales across Earth, he was most familiar with France where roads were smaller and had fences or something along their borders. Here there was a sense that one could go careening off the highway and continue on forever with nothing more than dried corn stalks to stop you for hundreds of miles in any direction.

Olsam disengaged the hovercar's computer and brought the vehicle to a stop next to the spitting image of a country farmhouse he'd once seen in an old film. Oldman Jansen was standing on the porch waiting for him, likely alerted by the uncommon sound of a hovercar approaching from the highway and the prompt timing of its Bolian passenger, who guessed he was only a minute or two away from the time he'd indicated he would arrive.

"Uh, Dr. Mott, it's a pleasure," the man said, shaking the Bolian's hand firmly by way of introduction. Despite his friendly demeanor, Jansen's brow was furrowed in confusion. What the hell was a Bolian doctor in full Starfleet uniform doing on his turkey ranch in Morgantown, Indiana? "I wasn't real sure I heard you right on the comm. D'you say you need a turkey? How many were you lookin' to get?"

"Just the one, Oldman," Olsam replied, putting his hands on his hips and turning to the side to look across the vast, turkey-filled landscape. He inhaled deeply, expecting to fill his lungs with crisp country air, but he let out a quick, sharp cough as something else filled his nose. Was that the turkeys, or Oldman Jansen? One or perhaps both was in desperate need of a sonic shower.

Jansen's eyes went wide. Oldman? "Uh, excuse me? Oldman?"

"Yes, Oldman," Olsam repeated, furrowing his own brow. How did he not know his own name? He briefly contemplated reaching for his medical tricorder to assess brain damage or memory degradation; however, he thought it might be more likely that he misunderstood the concierge. Those sorts of things were always happening to him for some reason. "That is your name, right? Oldman? Oldman Jansen?"

"Oldman... Jimmy Oldman is down on Route 73. My name's Harol-...aw, shit, doc." He let out a long, raspy laugh. "My name's Harold Jansen, but folks 'round here call me Old Man Jansen. On account of my age and all." Seeing the look of confusion still hadn't entirely left the Bolian's face, he sighed and racked his brain for a response that might help. "It's a cultural thing, doc."

"Oh. I understand," Olsam lied. He couldn't even begin to fathom pointing out the age of either of his co-fathers, who'd likely take it as offensive commentary about the state of their health. "Well, I need a big turkey, and the concierge at the Canterbury in Indianapolis said you could help me."

"You want it as like a pet or something?"

"I don't know," Olsam replied, looking thoughtful. It had never really occurred to him to have a turkey as a pet. Turning to survey the turkey "herd" once more, he figured they'd really be too big to fit comfortably in his apartment. And could it even do tricks? Just being fat was hardly a trick; he knew that well enough.

How would he even get it back with him? Did they allow turkeys on the intraplanetary transit? He didn't recall seeing a little sign with a turkey silhouette and a line drawn through it but you could never really tell with Federation protocols - they were so voluminous that sometimes not everything that was prohibited could fit on a sign. And he certainly didn't want to waste transporter credits on a simple trip from the American Midwest to France...

"No, I think just a regular non-pet turkey will be fine."

Jansen eyed him suspiciously. "You aren't gonna perform any kind of medical experiment on it, are you?"

"No, of course not! I'm going to eat it with my friends."

"Alive?" he asked, alarmed. He'd heard about Bolians - they supposedly ate weird stuff.

"What? Yes, of course we'll be alive," Olsam said, eyeing the turkey farmer. What a weird man.

"Not you, the turkey."

"What about it?" Olsam asked, looking truly confused.

"Are you going to eat the turkey alive?!"

"Oh!" Olsam laughed, dispelling some of the tension. "No, of course not. We're not Klingons."

"You're gonna...kill it yourself then?"

"Sure, for Thanksgiving," his blue head bobbing up and down in affirmation. He held up the medkit in his hand and beamed. "I came prepared. 25 cc's of neurozine should be enough, right? I'd have to get an exact weig-"

"Now see here, that ain't the way you kill a turkey, doc. It won't be fit to eat that way. You ever done any butchering before?"

"Hmm," Olsam paused and seemed to take an actual moment to mull the question over. "No, I suppose I haven't. But I once overheard an Orion woman say the surgeon 'butchered' her nose, so in that case I have probably performed surgical butchery at some point in my career. I am an accomplished physician, but sometimes it's difficult to get every suture perfect."

The Bolian physician could detect certain tell-tale signs that Jansen was becoming more emotional - reddening of the face as blood was pushed through capillaries closer to the skin from increasing blood pressure; deepening of wrinkles along the forehead and around the mouth; rising respiratory rate; formation of light perspiration. Olsam had learned these were usually signs that someone was losing their patience with him.

He saw it often.

"No, surgery don't count," Jansen said, grumbling something about the Bolian not being right as he turned toward his front door. "Wait here; I'm gonna get some things, and then I'll help you get this bird in shape to eat tomorrow, okay?"

"Great!" Olsam exclaimed. Relieved, he turned away from Jansen to survey the birds once more, all the while wondering precisely what shape was best for turkeys.

They all looked pretty round to him.

[TBC]

Lieutenant (JG) Olsam Mott, M.D.
Starfleet Medical Corps
VM-899-6519

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