Terminal

After getting turned down by the Marines, I started out bagging groceries, but that didn’t last long. Eventually, like it or not, I got a job at the foundry, because it was either that or work part-time at the bowling alley or one of the convenience stores or fast-food joints— or collect unemployment. Michelle and I moved in together, living in a tiny second-floor apartment over the hardware store. Six months later, we got married. Her parents lent us the money for a down payment on the trailer and John and Sherm helped us move in. We bought a big-screen TV we couldn’t afford, Michelle got a job at the Minit-Mart, I picked up some extra shifts at the foundry, T. J. came along, we got deeper in debt, the trailer depreciated in value like all trailers do, and everything was right with the world.

Then I got cancer. End of story. Fade to black . . .

I wondered what Michelle’s life would have been like if we hadn’t hooked up. Would she have gone to New York and become an editor for some big publishing house? Or maybe moved to Philadelphia and opened some bookstore-coffeehouse-type thing? She loved to read, and I know she would have been good at something like that. Instead, she’d settled for T. J. and me; picked this run-down trailer over a fancy apartment looking out over Times Square. She’d chosen us and she’d chosen this town, and I loved her for it.

I heard her in the bedroom, reading. She was just getting to the good part.

“And at that very moment, we heard a loud whack! From outside in the fields came a sickening smack of an axe on a tree. Then we heard the tree fall.”

You need to think of T. J. and me. What would we do if you got really sick?

Heard the tree fall . . .

The pain came barreling back then, crashing through my head so fast that I almost screamed. My stomach churned. I lurched into the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before the convulsions began. I turned on the exhaust fan so that Michelle wouldn’t hear me, and collapsed in front of the toilet.

I was choking. I couldn’t breathe, and my vision blurred. This wasn’t like before. Something pink and black and solid rushed up from inside me and splashed into the bowl, leaving a trail in the water.

What the fuck?

I’d just thrown up a piece of myself.

I knelt in front of the toilet for a very long time and just stared at the debris. I’d never been more scared in all my life than I was at that moment.

* * *

When I came out, after gargling with half a bottle of mouthwash, Michelle was back sitting on the sofa, engrossed in her book.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just another headache is all. It’ll go away.”

“You were in there for a long time.”

“I had to take a monster shit. You don’t want to go in there for at least an hour. Better not light up a cigarette either!”

“Tommy,” she gasped, smiling, “you’re horrible!”

“Hey”— I smiled back—“you asked.”

We sat there for a while and she told me about her day. Irritating customers buying lottery tickets and paying for cigarettes in loose pennies and her manager’s latest personal crisis and the joke of the day that the potato chip delivery guy had told them. The most boring shit in the world, and usually I tuned it out, but not then. Not this time. I wanted to listen, wanted to hear it all. Wanted to know every detail. Wanted her to know that I loved her and that I was really interested in what she had to say.

The phone rang, interrupting her story of what happened when the lottery ticket machine broke down. We both looked at it.

“It’s probably my mom,” she groaned.

I reached for the phone. “She’s going to wake T. J. up, calling this late.”

“I know. I’ve told her.”

I picked it up on the third ring, and said “Hello?”

There was a pause, followed by an electronic whir, and then a nasal, female voice that I didn’t recognize.

“Hello?” I said again.

“Hello, may I please speak with Mr. Thomas O’Brien?”

“Whatever you’re selling, we’re not interested. Put us on your Do Not Call list.”

“I’m not selling anything, sir.”

“Then why are you calling?”

“Are you Mr. Thomas O’Brien?”

I sighed, exasperated.

“Yes. Now who the hell are you?”

“Mr. O’Brien, I’m calling from Gulf Financial Credit Services, in regards to your Visa account.”

“I don’t have a credit card with Gulf Financial.”

“Yes, I know that, sir. We’re a collection agency, and we’re handling your account on behalf of Visa. Are you aware that your account has exceeded the credit limit and is currently past due?”

“Well no shit, Sherlock. That’s why we haven’t been using it.”

“When do you plan on making a payment, Mr. O’Brien?”

“When do you plan on getting a real job?” I countered. “Don’t call here again, you bitch!”

I slammed the phone down, and immediately felt better. Fucking around with telemarketers. There’s nothing like it in the whole world.

“Who was that?” Michelle asked.

“A bill collector.”

“Which one?”

“The credit card.” I sighed. “Guess they want their money too, just like the insurance company and the phone company.”