Terminal

TWO

Like I said, I couldn’t go back to work at the foundry, but I couldn’t go home yet either. Michelle got off from the Minit-Mart at two, and by then, she’d have picked T.J. up at day care. They’d be waiting for me, and Michelle would have questions. Questions I wasn’t sure how I’d answer.

Instead of going back to our crib, I drove around town on autopilot—just aimlessly cruising the streets and back roads and alleys. I’d grown up here, lived here, and the way things looked, was going to die here, and I knew those roads forward and backward.

After a while, I experimented with the radio again. Pink was getting the party started. I turned it back off. Radio sucks these days, with the exception of Howard Stern. Pretty soon, I guess he’ll be gone too, and then I don’t know what the fuck people will listen to. I popped in Dr. Dre’s The Chronic instead. Perfect background music. I kept the volume low and turned the bass down so it wouldn’t make my head hurt more.

Eventually, I rolled by the trailer park where I grew up. The old trailer that I’d lived in with my parents was in pretty bad shape. The landlord was renting it to a group of migrant workers up from Mexico for the summer to pick apples at the orchard in Fawn Grove. There must have been twenty of them living there, and I couldn’t imagine how they all fit under that roof. It had been crowded when it was just the three of us, before Dad left.

I was born Thomas William O’Brien, but everybody called me Tommy. Everybody except for my old man, who didn’t call me much of anything, and my mom, who called me “asshole,” “little cock-sucker,” and “shit-for-brains.” I was white trash from white trash, and I admit it. Around here, you’ve got no choice. Everybody in this town is trash, and everyone is poor. The only difference is the color of their skin, what they drive, and whether they listen to metal, rap, or country music. If you live out in the suburbs, you’ve got a chance, but here in town it’s always the same story.

Hanover used to be a pretty happening place. But when the jobs started disappearing, it changed. First we lost the cigar factory, then the box plant, and even the recycling center. The shoe factory moved to Mexico and the paper mill relocated to North Carolina. Then the mall shut down after the big chain stores pulled out. Eventually, we were left with the foundry and not much else. If you were good at bending a wrench, you could get a job at one of the garages or dealerships. If you wanted to be a telemarketer, there were still a handful of those jobs available. But most people either had to commute out of town or stay here and work in the foundry or some other meaningless minimum-wage gig. Even commuting didn’t offer much hope these days. It seemed like the rest of the country was starting to get hit hard as well. The town used to be alive. Now industrial ghosts haunted every street and corner. The skeletons of dead factories rusted where they stood, providing shelter for the homeless and the rats. The abandoned buildings were depressing and stank of hopelessness and despair. They reminded me of my father. He’d stunk of the same things.

My old man was a horrible father. A drunk. He worked night shift at the foundry, then hit the bars that catered to third-shift drunks like him. He’d drink every morning from six till about noon, then he’d come home and smack my mom and me around until he went to sleep. Then he’d get back up and start the whole routine over again. I hated the bastard. My earliest memory is of me biting his leg to get his attention, and him kicking me across the kitchen floor. That pretty much set the tone for our relationship.

He died when I was seven. Skipped town with a waitress from the VFW, and two days later their car was hit by a train down in Westminster. Killed them both instantly. I remember thinking that something was wrong with me because I didn’t feel sad. There was no crying, and the people on Mom’s soap operas always cried when someone died. But I didn’t cry for him, not then and not since.

Mom didn’t work, so we lived on WIC stamps, government cheese (which makes the best grilled cheese sandwiches in the world) and the paychecks from her string of boyfriends. She dated truckers, mostly. Some of them were assholes. Some weren’t. I liked one guy in particular; we called him Swampy Pete because he was from Mississippi. He used to bring me comic books back from his long hauls across the country, and he taught me how to play baseball and how to fish. I was pissed off when Mom dumped him for a cement truck driver with no front teeth. I didn’t speak to her for a week, and to get back at her, I busted out our picture window with a baseball bat. She beat my ass for that one.

When I was sixteen, Mom got breast cancer. She died halfway through the treatments. But it wasn’t the cancer or the treatments that killed her. One of her boyfriends did. He caught her slow dancing at the bar with another man. He waited for her outside, and after last call, when she and her new friend came stumbling out, drunk off their asses and laughing it up, he shot them both. Mom got it in the stomach and didn’t die right away, so he shot her again. And again. And again. Then he killed himself. Sucked on a gunmetal dick and pulled the trigger as the cops surrounded him.

I cried that time. I cried a lot. After the funeral, I lived with my friend John and his parents until we graduated, since my grandparents were long dead and I didn’t have any aunts or uncles.

While I was lost in thought, the toothpick popped out of the stereo. I bent over, feeling around for it, and almost slammed into a telephone pole. It would have been ironic, dying like that. In a way, it would have been like what happened to my mother. But I swerved, found the toothpick, and jammed it back into place.

I drove by my old high school and stopped for a moment back behind the gym. I saw myself, sixteen and hanging out in that very spot, cutting class and smoking cigarettes and selling weed to the jocks and the National Honor Society kids. John used to chill there with me. We’d known each other since first grade, grown up together, gotten in trouble together. Now the two of us, along with our friend Sherm, worked together and drank together at Murphy’s Place on Friday nights.

Cancer. Terminal cancer. Growing at an alarming rate. One month to live, probably… I was going to have to tell John. He would have to watch over Michelle and T.J. for me. I took another look at the school. That was where I’d met Michelle. Where we’d first started dating. How was I going to tell her? I couldn’t. There was no way. It would destroy her. Eventually, I replaced Dr. Dre with Tupac, and continued on down the road. Snubbing a cigarette out in the ashtray, I coughed, felt something loosen in my throat, caught it in my hand, and looked. My palm was slick with blood and saliva. Nothing new—that had been going on for weeks. But now I knew why. Before this, I’d figured it was just a sinus infection. Lots of guys get them from the foundry dust.

I wiped my hand on my pants as I drove by Genova’s Italian Restaurant. They had the best subs in the fucking world; fresh rolls piled high with meat and cheese and veggies. I was definitely going to miss those. I was going to miss a lot of things.

On my way out of town, I passed by the big hill that John and I used to sled down every winter when we were kids. Past the newsstand where I’d gotten my first summer job, delivering weekly newspapers (I’d toss them all in a Dumpster behind the Laundromat and collect my pay from the newsstand owner—lasted three weeks before he caught on). Past the bowling alley, where Michelle and I would go sometimes, when we could find a babysitter for Tommy Junior (I haven’t told you much about T.J. yet—but I will. It just hurts to talk about it, you know?). Past the Fire Hall, where we had our wedding reception. Past the movie theater that still showed The Rocky Horror Picture Show at midnight on Saturdays. Past the strip mall and the fast-food joints.

Past my whole world. My entire existence. The place I’d known for twenty-five years. It wasn’t much, but I liked it. I hadn’t realized how much I’d liked it until that moment. I mean, I hated this fucking town; the smell of the foundry hung over everything and the dirt from it coated our cars, and the people here just seemed so beaten. They looked tired and worn-out. They didn’t wish for a better life, because they didn’t know that one was possible. All they knew was taxes and late charges and shutoff notices and interest and child support payments. The town was full of churches and temples: Take your pick—Catholic, Episcopalian, Jewish, Methodist, Lutheran, Presbyterian, Baptist, we even had a Mormon temple. But despite all those choices of worship, the town had no faith. No belief. The only thing the people of Hanover believed in was that no matter how bad things were, something worse was lurking around the corner. I’ve got to admit, I thought this way too. I called it my “Theory of Gravity”—no matter how high you flew, gravity was there to pull your ass back down and smash you to bits. Everything was so run-down—the buildings, the people, the cars—everything. But despite all that, right then, I loved it. I loved it all.

I cruised out of town, took Dogtown Road, and drove through the woods and up to the top of The Hill. We called it The Hill because you could see the entire town from the top of it. I parked, turned off the truck, and just sat there, looking down on everything. I’d always wanted to see more of the world, but I’d never had the chance. Now I never would. This was my world, this town, these woods and fields. They were my world and not for much longer. Michelle and I had always talked about going on vacation; something within a day’s drive—maybe a trip to Washington, DC, to see the White House and let T.J. gawk at the dinosaur bones in the Smithsonian, or head down to Baltimore to visit the Inner Harbor and take T.J. to the National Aquarium. We’d never had the money to do it though, and even if we had, the foundry paid me at the end of the year for any unused vacation time—and that money came in handy. I found myself wishing now that we’d gone, that we’d visited the museums and the attractions. I imagined lifting T.J. up to see the sharks at the aquarium, or maybe holding Michelle around the waist and staring at the nation’s capitol at nighttime from our hotel balcony, and looking out at all the lights. She liked romantic stuff like that, and to be honest, so did I (though I’d never admit it to John or Sherm—especially not to Sherm). Another headache kicked in then, this one so bad that it made my teeth hurt. I tried cracking the joints in my neck and rubbing my temples, but it refused to go away. Resolved to suffer, I got out of the truck and stood at the top of the hill, stepping to the edge and silently watching my world below. A breeze rustled through the leaves overhead, and I thought about how it felt on my skin, that cool air. It felt good. It felt so damn good. I didn’t want it to end—just wanted that wind to keep blowing forever. I would miss the breeze when it was gone. I can’t describe it. It was just one of those little things we all take for granted, you know? We never think about the air we’re breathing or how we actually breathe it—our lungs working twenty-four/seven without us ever consciously willing them to.

But the breeze never dies, does it? It just moves on, unlike us. Eventually we stop moving. I watched the treetops sway in the wind. The leaves were new and green. Just a few months ago, everything had been white and brown and barren. Now the snow was gone, and the whole countryside was alive. A dandelion grew at my feet, and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Without thinking, I plucked it from the ground and brought it to my nose—killing it. For a second, I felt guilty about that. I couldn’t smell its scent at all so I let it slip from my fingers.

When I was a kid, one of my mom’s boyfriends was a big Iron Maiden fan. He’d listen to them all the time while working on his car or puttering around the house. Being a hip-hop fan, I was never into heavy metal, but a snatch of lyric came back to me now: “As soon as you’re born, you’re dying.” I hadn’t understood the line at the time, and he’d explained to me that from the very moment we’re born, our cells begin to break down, effectively starting the dying process. It continues all of our lives, until we’re old and gray. It was happening inside me as I stood there on the hill, except that while my good cells were dying, bad cells were growing; growing at an alarming rate, according to the doctor.

I glanced down at the ground. Michelle and I had once made love on that very spot when we were in high school. We’d stopped coming to The Hill after we got married, but sometimes we’d joke about dropping by again, just for old times’ sake. Now we never would. That was when the full enormity of it sank in, hitting me with the impact of an airplane slamming into the ground. I sank to my knees.

Soon, I wouldn’t feel the wind in my hair and see the green leaves sprouting or the dandelions blooming. I wouldn’t feel the sun or be able to watch the clouds floating by overhead. I would never attend my high school reunion and laugh at those same National Honor Society shitheads who I’d sold pot to, the same ones who were working in fast-food joints or selling used cars now. Michelle and I wouldn’t be going on vacation, or even to the bowling alley, and John and Sherm were going to have to hang out by themselves at Murphy’s Place on Friday nights, and my foreman was going to have to find somebody else to run the Number Two molding machine at the foundry, because I wasn’t going to be doing it for much longer. I wouldn’t be standing there for eight to ten hours a day, wincing every time a hot piece of metal landed on my arm, or picking foundry dirt out of my teeth and ears, or rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet because they hurt from standing so long, and even that I would miss because feeling pain at least meant that I was still alive.

I was never going to catch the new X-Men movie or watch the Orioles make it back to the World Series or see the Steelers go to the Super Bowl and kick some ass. I would never find out what happens next season on 24 or hear the new Wu Tang Clan disc. I’d never take T.J. sledding down the same hill John and I had rocketed down as kids. Never know what Michelle was getting me for my birthday this year, because there would be no more birthdays or anniversaries or Christmases, because no, Virginia, there is no fucking Santa Claus and even if there was, the only thing the fat fuck would leave in my stocking would be a lump of coal, shaped like a tumor and growing at an alarming rate.

I coughed more blood and stood back up. I was scared and my hands shook so bad I could barely light my next cigarette. But eventually I got it lit, so that was okay. The nicotine coursed through my body like rocket fuel.

Never again would I stand in the doorway to T.J.’s bedroom late at night and just watch him sleeping, mystified and speechless at the sheer power of the love I had for him. I wouldn’t hold my wife while she slept next to me, stroking her hair and breathing her scent and feeling her warmth beneath the sheets. I would never hear them tell me they loved me, and I wouldn’t be able to tell them. At that moment, I wanted to tell them so bad. I got back in the truck, drove out to the cemetery, and visited my mother’s grave at the other side of town. It had been years since I’d stopped by, and it took me a while to find the tombstone because I couldn’t remember exactly where it was. There were no flowers or trinkets covering the spot, and brown, withered weeds had grown up around the stone.

“Hi, Mom.”

I noticed the wind had stopped blowing.

I stood there for a long time, smoking and thinking, and dying. I talked to Mom but she didn’t talk back—just like it had been when she was alive.

After a while, I got back in the truck and went home.