Terminal Page 6

  “So what are they going to do?”

  “Nothing they can do, according to the doctor.”

  Sherm twitched in his seat. “You mean the shit is terminal?”

  I nodded.

  “That's fucked,” Sherm whistled, summing everything up. “That is so fucking fucked, then fucked some more.”

  John's mouth worked but no words came out. Angie brought six more beers (in addition to my order, Juan and his friends had repaid the round) and we sipped them quietly. Somebody scratched on the eight ball. His drunken curses and the jeers of those around the table sounded extremely loud. A girl announced to the bar that she was horny. Over on the jukebox, the song had changed again. John Mellencamp was singing that he was born in a small town and that he'd die in a small town. I knew exactly how he felt.

  “B—but you can't have cancer, Tommy,” John finally stammered. “You're only twenty-five! Cancer's what old people get!”

  I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “I've got it, John. It's not just old people, man. Babies get cancer, little kids—and guys our age.”

  “I bet it was from smoking. It's got to be, right?”

  Sherm exhaled a cloud of smoke toward him and looked at his dwindling cigarette.

  “Not to change the subject, but did you guys hear that the state legislature wants to outlaw smoking in bars?”

  “Yeah”—I nodded—“but that's one thing I'm glad I won't be around to see.”

  “Word.” He snuffed the cigarette out in the ashtray. “So how long did they give you? What are we looking at? A year?”

  “One month, probably. No more than three.”

  “Only a month? Shit . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did—did you tell Michelle and T. J. yet?” John asked.

  I shook my head. “Can't, dog. I don't know how to tell them. T. J.'s just a little kid. He won't understand this shit. And Michelle . . .”

  The lump in my throat cut off the rest. I drank some beer, washing the emotion down, and leaned back in the chair.

  “I can't tell Michelle. There's just no way.”

  “You've got to tell her!”

  “Well, when I get home tonight and tell her about losing my job—she's already stressed, you know? We're fucking broke and the bill collectors are on our asses again. They keep calling and calling. She doesn't need this shit on top of everything else.”

  “Man, fuck the bill collectors!”

  “She doesn't need the stress right now, John.”

  “But you're going to tell her eventually, right? You're gonna have to.”

  “No, John, I'm not. Not if I can help it. I love her, man.”

  “Well this is a hell of a way to fucking show it, Tommy.”

  Saying nothing, Sherm shook out another cigarette from his pack and watched us quietly.

  “What?” I snarled. “You got a fucking problem with me, John?”

  John held up his hands in surrender. “I'm sorry, bro. I just can't believe this shit. You with cancer. It's just so fucked up.”

  “Yeah.” I rubbed my temples. “Yeah, it is. I'm sorry too. The truth is, I don't know what the fuck I'm gonna do. I'm really scared.”

  Sherm lit the cigarette and started spinning his lighter on the table.

  “Life sucks, then you die.”

  I laughed bitterly. “You know, I was just thinking that same thing the other day.”

  He looked me in the eyes. “Well then live your life so that it doesn't suck, man. Shit, Tommy, you know that it's coming, right? The doctor said it was terminal. You're gonna fucking die, dog! So I say live your life to the fucking fullest. You should be home right now, with Michelle and T. J., or on a trip together or some shit. Why waste it in this shit hole of a bar?”

  Choosing my words carefully, it was a moment before I spoke.

  “Because you guys are my friends. And who knows—this could be our last time together in this place.”

  John turned pale. “Don't talk like that.”

  “Why not? It's true.”

  He started to reply, then suddenly burst into tears. It startled me, scared me in fact. In all the years I'd known him, I'd never seen John cry. Not once, not even in fifth grade when Seymour Peters beat him up for making fun of his name. But he was doing it now. Big, goofy, good-natured, dumb as a stump John sat there bawling like a baby.

  “Hey—” I reached for him. “Come on.”

  “It ain't fucking fair, Tommy! Why's it got to be you? Why? It ain't fair!”

  He jerked to his feet, shoving his chair away from him. It slammed into the table next to us, sending beer bottles crashing to the floor and spilling into their owners' laps.

  “Hey, you stupid motherfucker! Look what you just did!”

  The guy nearest to John jumped up. He was huge, and it seemed to take him forever to rise to his full height. He jabbed a large finger into John's chest and glowered down at him.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you, bitch? What's your problem?”

  Stammering and blinded by tears, John started to apologize and offer to buy the next round. But before he could complete his sentence, the other guy's friends were jumping to their feet as well. They were spoiling for a fight, plain and simple, and I knew that even if we bought them another round, there'd still be hell to pay. There were seven of them and three of us. Not good odds.

  Sherm glanced over at me.

  “I'll tell you one thing. You're right about this being our last night together in Murphy's Place.”

  “That so?”

  “Yeah, because we're about to be barred from coming back.”

  “Sherm, I don't—”

  He sprang up, lightning quick, and his hand darted out, snatching an empty beer bottle and smashing it on the edge of the table. My reluctance to fight instantly vanished. The grin on his face was contagious, and I matched it. A surge of adrenaline and nicotine and alcohol-fueled bravery rushed through my body, and it was the greatest feeling in the world.

  There is no such thing as a fair fight. If you grow up like I did, that's the first thing you learn, long before you know your ABCs or multiplication tables. You don't learn it from watching some purple dinosaur or a bunch of puppets. You learn it from your surroundings. If you're going to fight, fight to win. And if you're going to win, win by any means possible. Kick. Claw. Gouge. Bite. Punch. Repeat as necessary. Win. And that was exactly what I intended to do. Win.

  Unfortunately, Angie stopped us before it went any further.

  “Take it outside, guys. Now! Murphy's gonna call the cops!”

  “They started it,” Sherm said, not taking his eyes off his target.

  “Bullshit, you sons of bitches are the one's that started it, knocking our beers over and shit. Bunch of pussies!”

  Murphy swung around from behind the bar, three-hundred-plus pounds of wiry black hair and hard fat, an aluminum baseball bat clutched in both meaty hands.

  “I don't give a fuck who started it. You continue it in here, or in my parking lot, and I'll have the police down here so fast your goddamn heads will spin. That includes all of you. Tommy, John—Sherm—you guys go first. Get in your car and leave. I see you out there waiting for these guys, and I'm calling the cops. Am I making myself perfectly fucking clear?”

  “But Murph,” Sherm protested, “we're regulars.”

  “I don't give a shit if you're regulars or not. I won't have this in my place. Out!”

  “This sucks, yo.”

  Murphy nodded at the others. “The same goes for you guys. You try to follow them outside and start some shit, and you'll spend the night in jail. I can goddamned guarantee you that.”

  Now that I'd pretty much decided what I was going to do with my last days and how I was going to make sure my family was taken care of, the last thing I wanted was police involvement. I wanted to stay below the radar. I caught Sherm's eye, nodded toward the door, and smiled at Angie. She squeezed my shoulder, saying nothing.

  “Thanks, Angie.”
I handed her my last ten-dollar bill, wondering what the hell I'd do for gas money. “Thanks for everything.”

  She softened. “It's cool, Tommy. Don't sweat it. Now get going before the cops get here. Murphy's plenty pissed off right now, but he won't rat you guys out. Just in case though, I wouldn't come back for a while.”

  I nodded. “Trust me, Angie. You won't be seeing me again.”

  “Stop that. It's just for a few weeks, Tommy. It's not like you'll never be back.”

  Instead of replying, I just gave her a sad smile.

  The other guys stepped away, and Murphy recruited several patrons to act as bouncers. Without giving anybody an excuse to start swinging, we walked to the door. The last thing I heard as we left the bar was the jukebox playing Blue Oyster Cult's “Don't Fear The Reaper.”

  But I did fear him. I was scared of the son of a bitch, and I knew that I'd be meeting him soon.

  My nose started leaking blood again in the parking lot, and I daubed at it as we walked to John's car.

  “That was fun,” I snickered. “Good way to spend a Friday night.”

  “Thanks for taking my back, guys,” John mumbled apologetically. “I wasn't sure what I'd do if all seven of them jumped me.”

  “Should have thought of that before you started bawling like a baby.”

  “Fuck you, Sherm.”

  “Fuck you, Carpet Dick.”

  All three of us started laughing then, great bellyaching laughs that left us breathless after they'd passed. We climbed in the car, John behind the wheel, Sherm stretched out in the back, and me riding shotgun.

  “Yo, let's hit the diner,” John suggested. “I'm hungry.”

  “That's cool with me,” Sherm shrugged. “I could use some coffee.”

  They looked at me for approval.

  “Sure. Sounds good. We need to finish talking anyway.”

  “Christ,” Sherm adjusted his Ford cap. “There's more bad news?”

  I shook my head. “No. But you guys asked me what I was going to do. I figured I'd tell you. I owe you that much.”

  They were my best friends, and I loved them. I really did. But I didn't trust them for this. I didn't trust John because he was stupid and I didn't trust Sherm because he was crazy. But I was going to tell them anyway. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, or the fact that we'd just thrown down together, but right then, I decided to tell them everything.

  John put the car in gear, and we pulled out of the parking lot.

  “So what are you gonna do?” Sherm asked. “You're not going to cap yourself or something like that, are you?”

  “No, suicide is for pussies.”

  “Well what then? What are you going to do?”

  “I'm going to rob a bank.”

  Get the fuck out of here, Tommy! Rob a bank. You really had me going for a second. Why you bullshitting us?”

  When I didn't reply, John gripped the steering wheel even harder while Sherm twitched in the backseat.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” John continued. “That cancer's ate away at your brain, dog! You ain't robbing no bank!”

  I smiled. “You heard what Sherm said back at the bar. Live like there's no tomorrow. Life's a bitch, then you die. Well, I intend to grab the bitch by the balls before I go.”

  “Word.” Sherm agreed. “That's how I'd do it.”

  “But that's crazy! What about Michelle and T. J.? Why would you do that to them?”

  “I'm doing it for them, man! They deserve a better life, better than the one I can give them. What the hell do you think will happen to them when I'm gone? We sure as shit don't have any life insurance. You think they can make it on what Michelle gets paid at the Minit-Mart?”

  “The same thing happens if you go to jail, Tommy. How are you gonna support them behind bars? Do you want to go to jail? You know what happens in there? You ever watch Oz? The homeboys try to fuck you in the ass and make you their prison bitch, or else you end up with the skinheads just to stay alive!”

  I put my hand on his shoulder.

  “John, if they bust me and I go to jail, so what? What's the worst thing they could give me? Life in prison? Big deal. I don't have much of that left anyway. Life in prison is a maximum sentence of one month for me. Think about it. I'm fucking dying, man. Hell, I'd probably be dead before it even went to trial.”

  Chewing his lip, John slowed down to turn into the diner.

  “Keep going,” Sherm said.

  “I thought you wanted coffee?”

  “I do, but that was before Tommy dropped the robbery bomb on us. The middle of the diner isn't the place to be talking about this shit. Use your head. ‘Hello, police? We heard about the bank robbery on the news tonight, and just last week, my husband and I were enjoying a piece of apple pie at the diner, and we overheard Tommy O'Brien and his two hoodlum friends talking about doing that very thing.' See what I mean?”

  “So where are we going?” John quit chewing his lip and began chewing the cuticle on his thumb instead.

  “How about the lake?” I suggested.

  “Works for me,” Sherm agreed, “but let's stop first. I still need smokes and coffee. I'm jonesing bad, man.”

  We stopped at a twenty-four-hour drugstore, the kind that sold nicotine patches right next to the cigarettes, and Sherm went inside. John was quiet, gripping the wheel and staring straight ahead while we waited.

  Finally, I couldn't stand his silence any longer.

  “What, John? What's wrong now?”

  He continued staring ahead. His voice was nothing more than a whisper.

  “I don't want you to die, Tommy. I'm scared.”

  “I don't want to die, John. I'm scared too.”

  He loosened a bit, sinking back into the seat and staring out the window. I got the impression that he was looking at something far away and out of sight.

  “Remember when we used to ride our bikes out the old Bowman Road? We'd go swimming down in the creek, and afterward, we'd stop off at the newsstand and you'd buy comic books and I'd buy baseball cards.”

  I nodded, smiling. “Wish I still had those G. I. Joe and Transformer comics, and the one where Spider-Man got his black costume. Those are worth a lot of money now. And even if I didn't sell them, they'd be cool to pass on to T. J., you know?”

  “Yeah. My mom threw my baseball cards out. I'm still pissed about that. Do you remember the Millers who lived on Bowman Road? They had that Doberman pinscher. What was his name?”

  “Catcher,” I answered. “Jesus Christ, I hated that fucking dog.”

  “Me too. Sometimes Catcher was outside and he'd tear down the driveway after us when we rode by. Remember when he bit Rich Wagaman?”

  “Oh hell yeah! Took eleven stitches to sew his leg up and he couldn't do anything the rest of the summer.”

  “I was always scared of Catcher—but you, Tommy, you weren't scared of nothing. I'll never forget that day we were riding to the creek, and I slowed down, listening for the dog. He came running toward us and I was so scared I fell off my bike. I almost shit my pants. Then, just as he was about to bite me, you pulled out that squirt gun with the lemon juice in it and you shot him in the eyes. Right in the eyes! He yelped and ran away and after that, Catcher never fucked with us again.”

  “Busted a cap in his ass.” I smiled, remembering. “And four years later he got run over by a tractor. Fucking beautiful.”

  “You've always been there for me, Tommy. With Catcher and with everything else, you know? You're smarter than me and you're not afraid of anything or anyone, and you always had my back. I—I don't know what I'll do without . . .” He trailed off in frustration.

  “Look,” I said softly, “it's not like you're gonna be all alone. You'll still have Sherm.”

  “That's not the same, Tommy. Sherm didn't grow up with me. And besides . . .”

  The door to the store opened and Sherm stepped out, balancing three jumbo coffees, a pack of cigarettes, three slices of pizza, and a two-liter bottle of soda. He flas
hed a grin as he walked toward us.

  “Besides what?” I asked.

  “Sometimes—sometimes Sherm scares me,” he whispered. “Sometimes I think he's crazy.”

  “Me too.”

  Sherm opened the door and handed me the coffee holder, then slid into the backseat.

  “You too what?”

  “We were both saying that we needed a coffee.”

  “Don't bullshit a bullshitter, Tommy.”

  “Okay. In that case, we were both saying that you were an asshole.”

  “Now that I believe.” He handed out the pizza and we drove away without speaking. John popped in some old school, Ice-T's Home Invasion. We ate and drank and smoked and nodded our heads in time with the rhymes and beats. The silence and the rhythms were broken only by my occasional fit of coughing.

  Finally, Sherm asked, “So you really do have cancer? You're not just fucking with us? This isn't a big joke?”

  “It's true, man. I wouldn't make some shit like that up.”

  “And you're serious about this bank robbery then?”

  I nodded.

  “And you really think this is what's best for Michelle and T. J.? You're sure?”

  “Yeah. I am. I can't think of any other options, and believe me I've tried.”

  “All right then. Here're some things to think about.”

  “Wait a minute,” John interrupted. “Who made you the expert on robbing banks?”

  “Shut up and drive, John.” He turned to me again. “You got a location picked out yet?”

  “Yeah, I figured my bank. I cased it today when I deposited my check.”

  “Your bank. Okay, so you'll be wearing a ski mask then?”

  I paused. “I hadn't really thought about it.”

  “Of course you hadn't. If you had, you'd realize what a fucked-up idea that is, robbing your own goddamned bank without something to disguise your ass. You go to that bank, what, every Friday?”

  I nodded. “At least. Sometimes more.”

  “That's no good, man. They'll recognize you. Shit, none of the banks here in town are any good. What if the teller went to school with you guys or knows Michelle or something?”

  “Well then the same thing goes for York or Gettysburg,” I countered. “This county is small enough that everybody knows everyone else sooner or later.”