Terminal Page 4

  That morning, while I stood there sweating and aching, I wondered if maybe the foundry had given me cancer. Maybe Michelle and I could sue them. Then I lit up another cigarette and decided that it didn't really matter one way or the other where I'd gotten the cancer.

  The Number Two line mold machine—specifically, a ten-foot-by-fifteen-foot steel-and-hydraulic monstrosity—was called The Hunter, since that was the name of the company that manufactured it and because “compression mold maker” was too much of a mouthful for some of our more illiterate coworkers. It compressed tons of black sand into small four-foot-by-four-foot block molds. These blocks had a pattern inside of them. In my case, the pattern was of a power steering gear. The molds exited the machine and traveled down a roller belt to the pouring department, where they were filled with molten metal and sent to the next department via conveyor.

  The sand entered the machine through a funnel at the top. Beneath this funnel was a small, cramped space where the pattern was kept. When the sand poured in, the pattern, along with the other three walls of the space, would squeeze together and form the mold.

  Around ten that morning, I was wedged into the space between the pattern and the walls with a socket wrench in hand. I had to change patterns because we were starting production on a different mold after lunch. The machine was locked out, a safety procedure that involved the operator shutting off the power and putting a big red tag on the power button, warning everyone that turning it back on would be a very bad idea.

  Except that Juan didn't know it would be a bad idea because Juan couldn't read English, including the warning in English on the lockout tag.

  Juan was a good guy. He threw darts with his crew down at Murphy's Place on Friday nights, was willing to trade lunches, and had been teaching me to swear in Spanish. We'd gotten as far as Chocho, Chíngate, Chinga tu madre, and Hijo de la gran puta. Now I was learning how to use them in a complete sentence.

  That morning, he stopped by my machine, noticed my line of molds was getting low, looked around, and didn't see me inside the machine. Figuring that I was in the bathroom or on break, and being the good guy that he was, Juan decided to help me get caught up on production. He removed the lockout tag and turned the power on.

  I was still inside when I heard the hydraulics kick in. The motor shrieked to life a second later. I immediately dropped my socket wrench and sprang for the funnel. Juan pressed the first button and I heard a heavy rustling as two tons of sand filled the hopper above my head. I shouted, but with his earplugs and the noise from the furnace, he never heard me.

  Clearing the funnel, I grasped the angle iron and pulled myself out. I slid down the ladder, and he finally noticed me cursing at him in both English and Spanish.

  “Juan! What the fuck are you doing, man? You could have killed me!”

  “Yo, I'm sorry Tommy!” He held his hands up in front of him. “I didn't know you were in there. I figured I would—”

  “Save it, man! For fuck's sake, dog, what the hell were you thinking? Don't you know what this is?” I fingered the lockout tag.

  “I couldn't read it.”

  “Well you better fucking learn!” I grabbed him by the shirt, and his eyes grew wide. He pressed against me, and I shoved him backward, slamming him into the machine. His teeth clicked together, and I saw the anger building inside him. It was boiling inside of me as well.

  “Let go of me, puta!” he shouted.

  “Chinga tu madre, motherfucker! I've got a fucking wife and kid, man.” I ranted. “You want them to have a husband? Huh, bitch? You want them to have a father?”

  He brought his knee up to my groin, but I blocked him. Enraged, I threw him to the ground. Juan landed in a pile of greasy shop rags and rolled to his feet, fists clenched. Growling, he circled toward me. I came in low, feinted left, and plowed into him with a right. He went down again.

  “I. Could. Have. Died.” Each word was short and clipped, and punctuated with my fists.

  “Don't hit me no more, Tommy! I'm sorry, yo!”

  He flung his hands up in front of his face, and I realized what I was doing. What the hell was wrong with me? I was fucking dying anyway! Why take it out on Juan? Was this one of the seven steps of coming to grips with my terminal illness, beating the shit out of my coworkers?

  I dropped my fists to my side and stood there panting.

  “I'm sorry man. You just scared me is all. Dammit, Juan. Look for these things from now on, all right?”

  He nodded, mumbled something in Spanish, then let me help him up. He limped away toward the bathroom, still muttering under his breath. I finished changing the pattern, then zoned out till lunch, not thinking, not speaking. An automaton.

  After we were done teasing John about his hairy dick, we filed out of the lunchroom. I was on my way to take a leak when Charlie had me paged.

  “Thomas O'Brien, please report to the office. Thomas O'Brien, please report to Mr. Strauser's office. Thank you.”

  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—”

  “Relax, Tommy. I heard what happened, and it sounds to me like you were justified—though don't you dare quote me on that, because I'd deny it. Juan will be getting written up later today for not following safety procedures. But this isn't about that.”

  A new headache started up then, centered in my left temple and spreading like fire.

  “Tommy, I'm sure you're aware that we've been having some problems. The economy is down, and as a result, so is our production. You'll recall a that few months ago we laid off everybody with three years or less tenure?”

  I nodded, not liking where this was going.

  “Well, that hasn't had the desired effect that senior management hoped it would have. As the economy worsens, so does our profitability. So now they've made the decision to have another round of layoffs. This time it affects those employees with four to six years of tenure. Unfortunately, you fall into that group.”

  “I—you're laying me off?”

  “I'm sorry, Tommy. I really am.”

  “Shit!”

  “It's not just you, Tommy. I've got the unhappy duty of telling thirty-three more of your fellow workers this afternoon. It takes effect at the end of the shift today. Believe me, that's not my decision. Management says studies show if you terminate an employee or lay them off on a Friday, there's less chance of workplace violence. Not that I think we have to worry about that with any of you guys, but again, it's not my choice.”

  I sat there, speechless.

  “You'll need to turn in your time card, and any safety equipment or company tools that you have in your locker or at your machine.”

  “Okay.”

  He reached in a drawer, pulled out an envelope, and slid my paycheck across the desk to me.

  “Here's your check for this week and next week, as well as your severance pay and payment for your unused vacation time. I hope it will help.”

  “I'm out of a job.” It wasn't a question. I was just stating it out loud, trying to get used to the sound of it.

  He lowered his head. “I'm sorry, son.”

  “Damn. Well, I guess that's it then.”

  I started to rise, but he held up his hand.

  “Tommy, wait a moment. Can I tell you something?”

  I sat back down, nodding.

  “I've worked here a long time. In fact, I started out on the Number Two line, just like you. Back then, we only had three lines total, and two men per line. Believe it or not, your father worked with me. Do you remember much about him?”

  “I remember that he was an asshole.”

  Charlie grinned. “That he was. That he was indeed. He was a drunk, and he liked to fight. I never got along with him, and neither did anybody else. In fact, when you applied here, I was hesitant to hire you. Like father, like son, you know? That's what they say. Odds were you'd be an asshole too. But I did take you on, because we needed workers. I figured maybe you'd last a month before we had to fire you for calling in sick and missing days. Or maybe insubordination.”

  I stared at him, listening.

  “But we didn't. You surprised me, Tommy, and after about six months, I realized just how unfair I'd been to prejudge you like that. You're nothing like your father, and I want you to know that. You look like him, yes. God, you look so much like him that sometimes I almost call you by his name. But you're not him. You're a good man, and a good employee. Be proud of that. I'm very sorry to lose you. I've got to tell this to a lot of people today, but I wanted to tell you first. I felt that I owed you that much.”

  “I appreciate it, Charlie. Thanks.”

  “I know that right now things must seem pretty grim. But they won't be for long. Of that you can be sure. You're a young guy and a hard worker. You'll be able to find a job. I'm positive of it. And I'll be glad to give you a reference, tell them that you were a model employee. The important thing is to not let this get you down. Too many guys in this town, guys like your father, would use this opportunity as another chance to get loaded and beat up on their families or knock over a liquor store. You're better than that. Don't dwell on it. If there's one thing that this fight with cancer has taught me, it's not to dwell on the bad things in life.”

  I was gripping the chair so hard that my fingers had gone numb.

  “That's all,” he said. “I just wanted you to know that.”

  I stood up, shook his hand, and walked to the door.

  “Thanks again, Charlie. Thanks for being straight with me, at least.”

  “Like I said, Tommy. Don't dwell on it. You'll be fine. You're young and you've got your whole life ahead of you.”

  I closed the door behind me, then I ran. I ran down the hall and into the foundry. I ran to the bathroom and exploded through the doors. I almost didn't make it in time. The puke and blood sprayed between my fingers as I lurched into the first stall and collapsed to my knees. There was a lot of it. The soup I'd had for lunch, blood, spit—and more of my insides. This time, it was something gray, like an uncooked sausage, covered in blood and what looked like diluted motor oil.

  You've got your whole life ahead of you . . .

  I puked and I cried and I puked some more. I crouched there until I felt like an empty skin. I looked at the piece of myself floating in the water and I howled. Charlie echoed in my head some more.

  Don't dwell on it. You're young and you've got your whole life ahead of you.

  I was young, twenty-five. I'd never live to see twenty-six. My whole life. I had my whole life ahead of me.

  And that added up to not much time at all . . .

  On the way home, I stopped at the bank to cash what would be my last paycheck. Five hundred dollars. That's what I was worth. One week's pay, five years' worth of severance, and my unpaid vacation. Five hundred bucks. And once the immediate bills were paid, that would leave us with two hundred.

  The line at the bank was long. It was Friday and everybody else in town had gotten paid too. Apparently, like me, none of them trusted direct deposit. I
got stuck between a thin, jittery woman with three crying kids, and a wheezing old man that stank of arthritis cream. It took a while, and as we shuffled slowly forward, I counted the security cameras to pass the time.

  Then I counted them again, along with the tellers, the exits, the windows, and everything else. I counted four nondigital cameras; six tellers; one exit (though I was guessing that the employees had a fire exit somewhere); two windows, plus the drive-thru. This bank, my bank, was less than ten minutes from two major highways, plus dozens of back roads.

  “Fuck it.”

  The skinny woman gawked at me, pulling her three kids close to her.

  I grinned until she looked away.

  “Fuck it. Fuck 'em all.”

  I moved forward and the cameras watched me silently.

  I didn't care. Grinning, I gave them the finger.

  The guy who said that money isn't everything was obviously never poor. Money is everything—the root of all happiness. I read in a magazine that the number one thing married couples fight about is money. People lie for money, cheat for money, steal for money, and kill for money. They kill themselves and each other for dead presidents on pieces of paper. Money is what makes the world go round. Lying on your deathbed, you might be judged by the company you kept while alive or the way you treated your family or what those you love really thought about you; but even this stems from money. Maybe it seems like the two are mutually exclusive, but they're not. The more money you have, the better you can treat your family. Money allows you to provide more of the things they need. The friends you have around you are determined by the size of your wallet. Do you think Donald Trump hangs out with homeless guys and crack addicts all day long? In the end, it's all about the green. To paraphrase the Beatles, “and in the end, the love you make is equal to the cash you make.”