Terminal

Charlie Strauser was the plant manager. I didn’t know him well, but he seemed like a decent guy. I got the feeling that when he had to give us shit, he was just following the shit dished out on him from above. And you know what they say about shit and hills and the force of gravity. I knew what this was about— the fight with Juan. It had to be. Somebody saw us and reported it, or maybe the little fucker had decided to drop dime on me. I didn’t need this shit, and to be honest, I couldn’t see getting fired for it. Last year, Big Greg and Marty got into a knock-down, drag-out brawl over Dale Earnhardt Junior forcing another driver off the track, and Big Greg put Marty in the hospital for three days. But they didn’t lose their jobs. Still, at the very least, I’d get a few days’ suspension— probably without pay. And that paycheck was the one thing Michelle and I really needed right now.

I opened the door to the plant offices and stepped through it, savoring the air-conditioned coolness. The door swung shut behind me, and the silence was loud. Gone was the whine of the machines, the buzz of the grinders, the roaring furnaces. They’d been replaced by the quiet sounds of typing, and a phone ringing somewhere behind one of the closed doors. I walked down the hall, my boots leaving black footprints in my wake. Reaching Charlie’s office, I knocked on the door and waited. There was no answer, but I heard a voice inside, so I opened the door and peeked in.

Charlie was seated at the desk, his back to me while he talked on the phone. Without looking, he motioned for me to come in. I closed the door behind me, and stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do next. Finally, I sat down in one of the oversized chairs and tried not to eavesdrop.

“No, I don’t think it’s what needs to be done. For Christ’s sake, Steve, you’re talking about half my work force. Half! And yet you don’t expect me to cut production. The night shift is shorthanded as it is, and attrition on the day shift always goes up in the summer . . .”

I tuned him out and looked around. On the desk was a family portrait; Charlie, his wife, and their two kids. Both looked about my age, maybe a little younger. Pencil holder from one of our vendors. Stapler. Big computer with the company logo flashing as a screen saver. Coffee mug, also with the company logo. A Far Side calendar. In-and-out basket. A few assorted other items. All in all, it was much cleaner than my work area.

But what really caught my eye was the wooden desk plaque. It read: I have gone out to find myself.

If I should get here before I return, please hold me until I get back.

“Fine,” Charlie continued. “That’s fine. No, I’m not being facetious, Steve. Whatever you say is how it goes. You’re the boss, right? And since you’re the boss, I’ll let you explain it to the media when they show up this afternoon.”

He slammed the phone down, then swiveled around in the chair to look at me. I froze, gaping in shock. His face was . . .

“Sorry about that, Tom. That was the main office.”

“That’s okay, Mr. Strauser.”

I stared at his face.

“Is it Tom, or Tommy, or Thomas? What do you prefer?”

“Tommy’s fine, sir.”

“I let your foreman know that I needed to see you, so he has somebody else running the Number Two machine.”

“Okay.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He looked like a character from a Marvel comic book. His skin was pale, and his face and neck were covered with red and blue lines, like somebody had drawn on his skin with a Magic Marker. He stared back at me, and I tried to tear my eyes away, but couldn’t.

“Cancer,” he said, and I jumped in my seat.

“W-what?”

“Cancer. I’ve got cancer, Tommy. The blue and red lines on my face and neck. You’re staring at them. Don’t worry; everyone else has as well. It’s part of my treatment.”

“Oh.” Speechless, I felt like I was back in the doctor’s office again. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Strauser.”

“Charlie, Tommy. Everybody calls me Charlie.”

“Well, that’s messed up, Charlie. I’m sorry to hear that you’re sick.”

“It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

He shrugged, and I felt like punching him in the face. How could he be so nonchalant? He had cancer, for fuck’s sake!

“The doctor’s pretty positive that they got it all. I’ve got a few more treatments, then we’ll know for sure, but I think that I’ll be sticking around a while longer. Somebody needs to run this place. And I’ve got a grandbaby on the way— our first. Don’t want to miss that!”

“Oh. Well that’s good.” I felt like puking. My fingers clenched the chair arms, digging deep. He was quiet for a moment. He shuffled some papers around on his desk, took a sip of coffee, and dropped a pen into the pencil holder. Then he sighed, sounding a lot like my doctor had before he’d delivered the bad news.

“Tommy, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Here it came . . .

“Look, Mr. Strauser, if this is about what happened with Juan, he was the one that—”