by Tom Reilly
“Timothy, that’s life. Pain. Joy. Hope. Despair. All of it. It’s just life,” Hoffen said. “Pain is as much a part of life as joy. Hope is as much a part of life as despair.”
“Yeah, well, some days, life isn’t that special. . . . I better go help those people with their tree.”
Hoffen watched Timothy walk away and saw despair taking root. Hoffen recognized the confusion and frustration people experienced as they approached life-changing events. He knew fear, doubt, and the pull of the status quo kept people stuck in whatever circumstance they found themselves. He understood Timothy struggled with a simultaneous calling and resistance. This tug-of-war of opposing forces—positive and negative—meant Timothy was on the edge of something big in his life. Hoffen wondered if he had enough time to help Timothy make his transition from feeling helpless to hopeful. He decided to pay Dez and Edna a visit.
He walked back to the shop. Dez and Edna stood there smoking and grinning smugly. Kenny stood in the corner guzzling milk from a pint carton.
“Hey, pea brain. Did you pay for that?” Edna said to Kenny.
“Oh, forgot. Sorry, Ed.” Kenny said.
Hoffen knew Kenny neither forgot nor felt sorry he took it. Kenny paid for the milk and walked out of the shop grinning at Hoffen.
“Ain’t it enough we give someone like that a job? It’s charity, I tell ya,” Dez said.
“There it is,” Edna said. “Then the simpleton steals from us. Shows how stupid he is.”
“It’s downright charity givin’ him a job,” Dez said.
Hoffen knew they laid it on thick for him. They wanted to see what he would say. Dez and Edna stood there grinning and smirking.
“I guess you two are proud of yourselves,” Hoffen said.
“Well, looky here, Ed. Huff ’n Puff’s got somethin’ to say. Say it, old man. What’s on your mind?”
“It’s bad enough you two give Kenny a tough time. I know why he’s here, but Timothy? This young man is trying to build a life, and you two are making it as tough as possible by confusing his thinking,” Hoffen said.
“Hey, you do what you do, and we do what we do, old man. You’re lucky we let you in the game.”
“You didn’t let me in. You had no choice, and you know it. It’s the way the game is played. I’m here to do a job, and I’m not finished yet.”
“Us neither, old man,” Edna hissed at Hoffen.
“It looks to me like you brought out the whole team for this one? This win must be important to your side. What happens if you fail?” Hoffen asked.
Dez grinned, a gaping hole in his face exposing a nasty set of yellow-brown stumps and breath so foul it stunk up the entire shop. Ed coughed a cumulous cloud of cigarette smoke toward Hoffen.
“Don’t plan to fail, Huff ’n Puff.”
“Yeah, we got this one in the bag,” Edna added.
“You haven’t won yet. I’ve got a pretty good idea why this one is important to you,” Hoffen said.
“You don’t know squat,” Dez said.
“I know you’re keeping score and losing,” Hoffen said.
“We ain’t losing nothin’,” Edna said.
“Get outta here, old man, and sell some pine. That’s your job, ain’t it?” Dez said.
Hoffen walked to the back door of the shop and turned to them. “Hope will prevail.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He walked back to the lot and stood there watching Timothy talk to a family about a tree. He knew Timothy faced a tough few days. Timothy was approaching that critical point when the pull of opposing forces was strongest. Hoffen prepared to take bold action.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
TIMOTHY’S ROOM FACED east, and the early morning sun hit his pillow at the right angle to awaken him. Growing up, Timothy loved Sunday mornings. In those days, he slept in, ate a big breakfast, read the paper, and went to church. Those memories seemed more distant than they were.
He lay there for a few minutes thinking about the past week, especially the past couple of days. He spent last evening with Cheryl at her house. He did most of the talking, and she did most of the listening. School, Mom, the hospital, Dez, and Hoffen. He opened up like a ripped sail.
He hoped this week would turn out better than last week. He planned to take advantage of this last study day before exams. A knot in his gut told him it might not work out exactly as he planned. When does life work out for me as I planned? I didn’t plan to get shot down. I didn’t plan to lose my best friend. When do I get to drive the bus? I’m tired of being a passenger.
He mentally ran through his day—a trip to the hospital, Mass in the chapel, Schoen’s for a couple of hours, and home by midafternoon to study the rest of the day. He wanted his exams behind him so he could make decisions about his future.
He took a shower, shaved, and gobbled a couple of hard-boiled eggs and toast. No coffee. He forgot to buy some. No problem. I can get a cup at the hospital. He hopped in his car and gave it a few pumps of the gas pedal. It woke up on his third attempt. The car hated cold mornings more than his leg did.
He drove to the hospital by way of the doughnut shop. Mom liked a particular jelly doughnut they had, and he didn’t want to wait for coffee at the hospital. He visited with Mom for about half an hour. She seemed about the same as the day before, though her breathing sounded better. The nurse told him they still didn’t have the results of the tests but should have them by Monday morning. He thanked her and left for the chapel and then Schoen’s.
He arrived at Schoen’s on time and Dez met him in the lot.
“Why don’t you get rid of that piece of junk and get yourself something decent. I can see the smoke from that thing a block away. You’re polluting all of Brentwood.”
“It started, Dez. That’s about all I can expect at this point.”
“I’ll tell ya what I told the mole head and the ol’ man. I want all of those trees gone today. Do whatever ya gotta do to get rid of them. That’s what I pay you morons for—to move pine. Anything left after today I’m burnin’ in my woodstove at home.”
“Really? Your woodstove?” Timothy asked. “Is it safe?”
“Hell yeah. Pine burns good after it sits for a couple of months, and it’s cheap fuel. Now, get back there, and help those schleps sell some trees.”
As he walked away, he heard Dez mutter under his breath about charity cases, retards, and retreads.
“Hey, next time I see ya I want an answer about working those hours we talked about. You’re lucky I’m still willing to give you that job,” Dez yelled after him.
Timothy nodded and walked away. He wanted to say no at this moment but couldn’t. The economy teetered on the edge of a recession, and jobs were tough to find right now, especially ones that paid a decent wage. He couldn’t say no to Dez without having something else to say yes to.
Maybe Dez is right. College isn’t for everyone.
About that time, a brand-new 1973 Chevelle SS pulled into the lot and parked next to Timothy’s heap. Timothy wanted to laugh at the contrast, but he didn’t have it in him. The Chevelle had a midnight-blue, metallic overcoat with rally wheels and enough chrome to blind a person on a sunny day. Timothy looked at the car like a poor child looks in the window of a toy store. The door opened, and Timothy couldn’t believe his eyes.
This is the last person I want to see today.
He quickly walked over to a family comparing two fir trees to avoid helping the driver of the Chevelle.
Dez came over to Timothy and said, “See that guy over there with the fancy overcoat? Take care of him.”
“I’m busy here with these folks, Dez.”
“Go. I’ll finish up here. I want you to deal with this guy,” Dez said.
“What about Kenny?” Timothy said.
“No. I got that idiot doing somethin’ else, and the ol’ man’s in the shitter. Now go. No more back talk,” Dez said.
Timothy turned and walked slowly toward the man in the cashmere overcoat. Of cours
e this asshole’s wearing cashmere. He hoped if he walked slowly enough the man would leave before he got there. No such luck.
The man saw him and approached Timothy. “O’Rourke. I’ll be damned. What are you doing here? Do you work here? Of course you do.”
“Goodenough?” Timothy said.
“Yes, old man. How are you?”
Old man. You pretentious asshole.
“Fine. You?”
“I’m fine, just fine, and Constance is fine, too.”
“Constance? You mean Connie?” Timothy asked.
Timothy did not want to talk about Connie. That bus left the station a long time ago.
“Yes, of course. She no longer goes by Connie. She decided her full, given name is more sophisticated. She thought Connie sounded too bourgeois,” Goodenough said.
“Really? What can I do for you?” Timothy said, though he didn’t want to do anything for Goodenough except punch his Jodie face.
“I’m here for a tree. Constance and I just returned from a two-week ski trip at my family’s cabin in Utah. We forgot to get a tree before we left, and Constance insists on a big spruce. Can you help me?”
“Sure. We’re running low, as you can see, but we have a few spruces left. Follow me.”
Timothy led him to the back of the lot to the spruce trees.
“Best you’ve got. Money’s not an issue. Can’t disappoint the little lady,” Goodenough said.
“I’m sure. What do you think about this one?”
Timothy pulled the tallest and fullest spruce out of the tree stand.
“Perfect. Constance will love it. What do I owe you?”
How about an apology for stealing my girl while I was in Vietnam? How about apologizing for being an arrogant asshole? How about an apology for sucking the same air I breathe?
“Twenty bucks,” Timothy said.
“Sounds like a bargain. Can I get some help carrying it to the car?”
Goodenough handed Timothy a twenty.
“Sure. I wouldn’t want to see you get some tree sap on that cashmere coat.”
Goodenough walked behind Timothy. The cold air and the weight of the tree pressed hard on Timothy’s leg. Though he tried not to limp, he couldn’t escape the pain.
“Say, old man, I heard about your accident in the Army,” Goodenough said awkwardly.
“It wasn’t an accident, Goodenough. The VC shot me down.”
It’s only a little worse than getting shot down at home.
“Yes, I heard that. Whew! That must have been scary. My draft number was forty, but with my 2-S deferment, I was able to avoid that mess.”
“We missed you,” Timothy said with piercing eye contact. “There was plenty of room for you guys that had deferments.”
Goodenough let it pass.
“So, what are you doing these days? Is this your full-time job?” Goodenough asked.
“I work here part time during Christmas and part time at the hospital. I’m a full-time student,” Timothy said.
“Sounds tough. I can’t imagine going to school full time and working, too,” Goodenough said.
“Well, Goodenough, some of us have to pay our own way, and that’s how we do it.”
Goodenough let that pass, too.
“This is my car here—the new Chevelle. Picked it up before our ski trip. It’s a four-speed, 350 cubic-inch screamer. Good thing it has bucket seats to hold us in when I wind it out. Constance wanted me to get the jade green, but I had to put my foot down on the blue. You know, it’s a guy thing.”
Timothy looked at Goodenough and wondered if he had a clue how he sounded. This guy could be the biggest asshole I’ve ever known.
“Say, careful, if you don’t mind. Don’t want to scratch the paint,” Goodenough said.
“No problem, I’ll tie it down tight so it won’t fall off when you accelerate,” Timothy said.
“Ha, that’s a good one. Here, for you,” Goodenough said.
He handed Timothy another twenty.
“No, that’s okay, Goodenough. I don’t accept tips. If you don’t mind, put it in the collection plate on Christmas.”
Goodenough’s face turned red. Timothy knew this guy didn’t have the guts to be mad, so it must have been embarrassment.
“Oh, I didn’t mean anything by that offer. I hope you’re not offended,” Goodenough said.
“Not in the least,” Timothy said.
A few moments of awkward silence passed as Timothy tied down the tree.
“Have you ever thought about applying for work at the railroad? My father and I have some influence there and might be able to help you.”
“Thanks, but I’m working around my class schedule.”
“Of course. Even though you don’t have a degree, there may be something in one of our entry-level hourly positions—the mailroom or something. Many of our folks get their start in those lower-level jobs.”
“Is that where you started, Goodenough?” Timothy couldn’t resist the jab.
“Oh, heavens no. I began in the management development program, but you need a degree for that. I’m now in charge of scheduling for the Tri-State Region.”
Timothy held onto his cool while this bag of arrogant chattering bones talked to him, but he had his fill by this point.
“You’re set to go. Have a nice Christmas,” Timothy said.
“Thank you, and you too. I’ll tell Constance I ran into you,” Goodenough said.
“You do that.”
Timothy walked back toward the lot. Goodenough’s car roared to life on the first turn of the key. He refused to turn around and look at it.
Of course his car started right off. Of course he’s the manager of some bullshit department in a bureaucratic cubicle farm. Of course they went skiing at the family ski lodge. Of course he’s married to someone named Constance.
As Goodenough pulled out of the lot, he jerked the clutch, killed the engine, and the car abruptly stopped. Timothy grinned. Karma.
Timothy did not see Dez approach him.
“I see you took care of him,” Dez said, grinning mischievously. “Big tip? Do you know that guy? Seems like you know him. An old friend?”
“No tip and sure as hell no old friend, but he gave me some good advice,” Timothy said.
“Yeah, what’s that?” Dez asked.
“He told me to get an education, or I would end up working in a mail room or a tree lot for the rest of my life.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Dez said.
Timothy walked back to the trees.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
TIMOTHY WOKE EARLY with anticipation. He had studied hard all semester and prepared for the challenge. As he lay in bed, Timothy thought about his plans for the week. Ace this poly-sci exam today, get my B for the semester, and I’m done with Professor Leibert. Next, I can focus on my other exams. I’ll be done with all of them by Wednesday. Then, I can make decisions about the future.
He planned to eat a good breakfast and leave early to arrive at school with enough time for some last-minute cramming. He was surprisingly upbeat considering the past couple of days. Maybe Hoffen was right. Things can get better if I hang onto a little bit of hope. Hope was a good traveling partner. Timothy compartmentalized the events of the past few days—even the interaction with Goodenough. Denial or compartmentalizing worked for him.
He showered, shaved, and ate like he was fueling for an athletic contest. He planned to get coffee at the Student Union. When he opened the front door, a thirty-degree northwesterly wind slapped him in the face. He went back into the house to get a warmer coat and gloves. He had to walk a few blocks when he got to school.
His car was stubborn this morning. Come on, not this morning. Not today. Timothy coaxed it to life. He turned onto the entrance ramp and gunned it. The Fairlane roared back. He amused himself with the thought, This may not be a Chevelle SS, but this old baby still has some life in it. He pushed the Fairlane to the red line and, before the automatic tran
smission could shift, he heard a clank and a grind, and the engine started missing.
“No, not today. Not today. Not this morning,” he screamed at the car, hoping it would cooperate. He looked out the rearview mirror to check traffic and saw a cloud of black smoke in the car’s wake. “Come on, I need a break today, please.”
The car limped up an exit ramp to a Texaco service station. One last push on the gas pedal nudged his car into the station. He shut off the engine as soon as possible. A full-service attendant approached.
“That doesn’t sound good. What happened?” the attendant asked.
Timothy stepped out of the car and told him what happened. The attendant said he would get a mechanic to look at it. Timothy stood there, thoughts racing. How long is this going to take? How do I get to school? Will I be late? What about work? What’s this going to cost? For a guy who could compartmentalize, his mind ran wildly from one worry to another.
The mechanic came outside, wiping grease off his hands on a shop towel and said, “What’s the problem? The other guy told me this thing is making some noise.”
“I don’t know,” Timothy said and rubbed his neck. “I got on the highway, opened it up, and heard this clank and grind.”
“Did you red line it?”
“Yeah, probably.”
“You can’t do that with an old engine, especially in this weather. It doesn’t wake up that fast. Crank it up and let’s hear what you got.” The mechanic sounded like a doctor talking to a patient.
Timothy started the engine.
“Yeah, what I thought. Rods, bearings, or rings. Sounds bad anyway. You can’t drive it like that or the engine will seize up on you, and you might as well salvage it.”
“Can you fix it?” Timothy asked.
“Sure, we can fix it, but it ain’t gonna be cheap. Probably take a week or so.”
“A week? You’re kidding! What are we talking about money-wise?”
“To tell you the truth, if it was me, I’d sell it for parts and get a new car. This will probably set you back a thousand bucks, and for that, you could get a good used car without too many miles.”
