by Steve Lowe
He reached a near-meditative state of concentration, shooting those trim pieces in place. Floorboards, around the windows, interior and exterior, snapping his fingers for the laborer to keep up with him, hand him the correct piece. Slap on the last one and head down the line to the next unit. Don’t get distracted, don’t stop to bullshit. Before you know it, the buzzer sounds and it’s lunchtime.
A queue formed at the tool cage, a supply room made of metal cage walls where every tool used in the plant was stored. The cage man moved fast, checking in and logging each nailer, hammer, pry bar, and screw gun as they were passed through the slot in the cage to him, each tool stamped with a Crestline Homes ID plate that bore a serial number. The nails and screws were doled out by the box at the start of each shift and charged against each man’s rate. It behooved them to be as thrifty as possible with their fasteners, and as such, no one left their boxes lying around. Too many thieves in the lot that wouldn’t hesitate to snatch up someone’s nails if they forgot to hide them away in their locker at lunch. When you worked on rate, time was money, but so were tools.
Jimmy grabbed his bag from his locker and headed for the break room. He sat by himself, though more guys filled in the seats around him, the few who actually brought their own food from home. The majority of guys, on the short side of 25, dropouts and tweakers with cash to burn in their pockets, headed up the highway to the row of fast food joints lining each side. That or they headed off to someplace quiet where they could shoot up, smoke, snort, drink, or whatever their preferred delivery method might be. Lot of guys needed to be high to keep up the pace and make rate. None of them realized that shit was slowing them down over time. Jimmy didn’t care either way, unless it was the laborer assigned to him. Whatever, as long as the junkie kept up with him.
Lost in his thoughts, Jimmy didn’t hear the conversation behind him at first. Didn’t take long to realize they were talking about him, though. Their voices were low, but not that low.
“What’s his name again?”
“Jimmy Paradise. I seen him fight at Brown’s in Chicago a few years back.”
“That place in Downers Grove?”
“No, that one on the southside, Blue Island.”
“Ain’t that Sweeney’s?”
“No, shithead, Sweeney’s is a fuckin’ bar. That’s where Keith picked up that chick who gave him the clap.”
“Then I never went to Brown’s I guess.”
“You’ve been there. Like a year ago we went.”
“Was he any good?”
“Shit yeah, he was. Quick as a motherfucker. Light you up with the combination, Roy Jones Jr. style. Used to be his signature, they called it ‘Two Tickets to Paradise’. The old one-two. Once he got inside a dude and worked the combo, it was over.”
“Meldrick Taylor was faster than Jones.”
“Now I know you’re crazy. You smoke something before you came in here?”
“Hector Camacho.”
“Yeah, you smoked some something, alright.”
Another voice, older sounding, mouth full of food, piped up. “Sugar Ray Leonard.”
The other two fell silent, apparently agreeing with this assessment.
The first guy eventually said, “He’s so good, the fuck’s he doin’ here then?”
That was enough for Jimmy. He tossed his sandwich back in his bag and stood, walked from the room without so much as a glance at the table behind him. Breezed out the door, but stopped outside in the hall and listened. They kept at it.
“I heard he crossed some big shot, or some wannabe big shot in any case. The guy fucked his hand up. You see his right hand?”
“Yeah, fingers all kind of curled in and lumpy and shit. Like a retard’s hand or something.”
“Whoever he pissed off, dude took a hammer and pounded his hand into ground beef. That’s the story told to me anyway.”
Jimmy headed outside, couldn’t stand to hear them talk. Heat of the day cranking up, blistering sun overhead. A new film of sweat washed over him, added to what already soaked into his clothes. Humid and sweltering, temperature in the 90s. No AC inside the plant. Lots of fans but all they did was shove the heat around. He walked across the road to the gas station on the other side, bought two Gatorades and a pack of cigarettes. Felt instantly guilty about the smokes but lit one up anyway. Annie would bitch him out, but only because if she couldn’t have any, he shouldn’t either.
Jimmy stood under an awning, out of the sun, drained one of the Gatorades, and just finished a second smoke when the buzzer sounded. He flicked the butt away and joined the herd mulling toward the tool cage, sweat running out of him like an open tap.
When the buzzer finally went off again at four o’clock, Jimmy was drenched and exhausted. The others grab-assed around the time clock, chatted at their lockers. Jimmy locked up his leftover nails and headed for his truck as fast as he could without running. He jammed his key into the lock and opened the door. Nearly hit the guy standing behind him with it. One of the talkers from the break room. Two more shuffling next to him.
“Hey,” the guy said. “Jimmy, right?”
For an instant, Jimmy saw it going down, envisioned a left cross into the mouthy bastard’s nose. One quick shot, mash his nose across his face. The others see all that blood and screaming and they back up fast. Jimmy needed a second to hold back, a deep breath.
“Yeah?”
“I thought that was you. I seen you fight before.” The guy stuck his hand out. “I’m Vic, over in framing. These two assholes are Randy and Bobby.”
One of the assholes took a half step forward and said, “My name’s Andy, not Randy. Vic the dick thinks he a comedian.”
“What’s up, guys?”
“We was heading to Sara’s for a beer,” Vic said. “Wanted to know if you wanted to come down, hang with some of the guys.”
Jimmy sighed. He was too damn hot and tired for this shit. “Not today fellas, OK?”
“Come on, man, you don’t drink beer?”
“How much did you lose?”
Vic looked at his boys, laughed a little and said, “What’s that?”
Jimmy closed his truck door, squared up in front of Vic. Set his feet, shoulder-length apart, offset just a bit. Ready to go. “When you saw me fight. You took one look at me, thought it was in the bag, placed your bet, and now you think I owe you something because I won and you lost.”
Jimmy set his shoulders back and watched Vic’s recognition of just how broad he really was. Bigger than he looked. Bigger guy than Vic was willing to tangle with, but now it was too late. Jimmy saw the look in his eyes, the realization that he just walked into a situation he suddenly wished he was no longer a part of. Vic laughed again, looked over his shoulder at his boys again, both of them shrinking back a step.
“I didn’t. I never bet on your fight.”
“No?”
Licked his lips, real nervous now. “No. I already lost all my money. Put it on the Polack in the welterweight bout right before yours. Asshole got knocked out in the second round.”
Jimmy watched him for a second. Vic licked his lips again and Jimmy saw the guy was shaky. He was scared. Not at all the reaction he expected. Jimmy eased his shoulders down, relaxed and nodded. Tried to smile, set the guy at ease.
“Sorry, man. Sometimes guys come at me. Like I personally took their money.”
Vic finally understood and looked back at Randy Andy and Bob. Seemed to understand what the three of them looked like, walking up on Jimmy together like that. “Oh shit. No, my fault, dude. Fuck, we was just coming to invite you to have a beer with us.”
Jimmy opened his door again, a contrite smile on his face. “Thanks guys, I appreciate it, but I’m beat. Gonna head home now.”
“OK, sure.” Vic bobbed his head, filling with adrenaline and more nervous now that he saw how close he’d come to going toe-to-toe with a middleweight. “Maybe next time, OK? I’m buying.”
“Sure thing, thanks.”
&nb
sp; Jimmy got in, started the truck, pulled out of the parking lot. Watched Vic and the boys in the rearview mirror, still standing there trying to comprehend what they almost got themselves into. He shook his head, swallowed the anxiety eating his gut. Felt bad for the way he jumped on those guys.
He lit up a cigarette and felt bad about that, too, but he smoked it anyway.
He woke up on the couch when Annie’s key hit the lock. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep in his filthy, sweat-damp work clothes, but it was that kind of day. He saw the reproach in her eyes when she walked in and got a look at him.
“Hey baby, how was your day?”
She sighed, dropped her purse and keys on the tiny table where they shared their meals, pulled off her coffee-and-whipped-cream-stained smock and tossed that on the back of a chair. Dropped into that chair and leaned back and sighed again.
“That bad, huh?”
“Some guy screamed at me for giving him a decaf.”
“That’s hardly worth screaming at someone over.”
“Especially when it was the coffee his wife ordered for him while he was in the bathroom.”
“Sounds like he needed that decaf.”
“I gotta get out of that rest area. That toll road makes people insane. Like they’re walking into Thunderdome when they come in.”
“Just a little longer, till I get my next increase, then you won’t have to do it anymore.”
She smiled at him, meek, exhausted. She looked how he felt. Then she sat up, her nose to the air like a hound. Stared him down hard and he knew he was busted. Should have gotten a damn shower.
“You’ve been smoking, haven’t you.”
She wasn’t asking him a question and it was impossible for him to lie to her, about anything, so he didn’t even bother to try.
“Asshole, that’s not fair.”
“I know. Sorry. Long day.”
Her scowl faded away. She looked him over and then she looked sad. He must be pathetic standing there in his dirty clothes. Bags under his eyes, shoulders slumped. Rubbing his right hand without even knowing he was doing it until her eyes fell on it. The crooked bones pulsed, sore and already getting arthritic. He was only twenty-six. Hated thinking about his age. About all the bills he had already, how many had already come due. Already been paid for, one way or another.
“I’ll go get my shower now, unless you want to get in first.”
Annie rubbed her belly, just barely a visible bump showing beneath her brown Grinders work shirt. “Go ahead. I think you need it more than me anyway. I just want to sit here and rest for a minute.”
Jimmy walked over to her, squatted and placed his hand over hers, both of them rubbing her belly. “Everything OK?” Different question than ‘how are you feeling.’
Annie shrugged, smiled, not quite as convincing. “Pretty good. At least I’m not throwing up anymore. Just standing all day is starting to kill my back and feet.”
“I know. Another month and you’re out of there. Promise.”
She smiled, a real one this time, and gathered his salty, unshaven face in her hands and brought it up to hers and kissed him. He loved her so much it pressed on his lungs and burned behind his ribs. She had to endure so much just to stick by him. He could look in her eyes right then and see that she still thought he was worth it, but he wondered how long that would last. At what point does it stop being worth it? People get tired. They wear down. Becomes a case of diminishing returns.
Jimmy held her cheeks and kissed her back, deeply. Said, “I won’t let that happen.”
“Won’t let what happen?”
He smiled and stood. “Nothing. Thinking out loud.”
“Well, be careful, Punchy. You’re liable to hurt something up there.”
“I’m getting a quick shower now.”
“OK, I’m sitting on my big, pregnant ass now.”
“That’s not a big ass. It’s tiny.”
“You weren’t here this morning to watch me try to put my pants on.”
Jimmy’s quick shower took twenty minutes. Felt too good, cooled him off down to his bone marrow. Ten hours of working on the floor of a manufactured housing production plant would take the snap out of anyone’s sails, no matter how in-shape they are. Not that Jimmy was in fighting shape any longer, but compared to Vic and the rest of the crew at Crestline, he was fit as a fiddle. He felt closer to normal after his shower, almost good even.
That mood lasted as long as it took to walk out of the bathroom and see Annie standing in the kitchen next to the front door. Arms folded tight under her breasts, which were definitely getting bigger with pregnancy if not her ass. Her face was inscrutable.
“What’s wrong?”
She was pale, lips thin and bloodless. “You have a visitor.”
Jimmy looked into the living room but saw no one. “Where?”
Annie nodded to the door. “Outside. I won’t fucking let him in.”
Whoever it was, it was bad. Jimmy got to the door, began to turn the knob, knew right then whom he would find out there.
Sully was slouched on the cheap Astroturf carpet that covered the walkway leading to their apartment, last on the second floor, end of the building. He stood, wobbly, a hand against the neighboring apartment’s door. He got halfway up, half a smile breaking across his face when Jimmy dropped him with a left jab.
Sully lay on the floor, dazed. Annie creeped to the door and looked around Jimmy. Smacked his arm. “Dammit, Jimmy, why’d you hit him?”
“He’s alright. I barely touched him.”
Sully sat up a bit more, reflexively rubbing the red blotch on the side of his jaw, probably thanking God in his head that it wasn’t broken. “It’s fine, Annie. He took it easy on me. I deserve a lot more than that.”
He did and knew it and Jimmy didn’t bother reminding him. Sully knew that Jimmy should beat his ass to death, his face to wood pulp, but yet here he was, turning up on Jimmy’s doorstep with a smile on his face. Like they were old friends needed catching up. Slowly, one finger at a time, Jimmy unlocked his fists. His right hand only opened halfway, ached like hell.
Sully got to his feet and Jimmy saw what little was left of him. Never was a thick kid by any stretch, but Sully was positively sickly now. Jimmy couldn’t help himself, winced at his old friend. Wished he could take that punch back. He said, “Goddamn, Sully, what the hell?”
Sully looked down at his feet. Despite the heat, he wore long sleeves and still looked cold. His whole body trembled. “I look pretty bad, huh?”
“Yeah, you do.”
“Well, I guess it is pretty bad.” He looked up, eyes wide and wet. “It’s ALS.”
Jimmy pushed the door open for him, stood aside. Sully stayed where he was, watched Annie. She stood her ground, arms still tucked tightly around her chest. She scanned him up and down and looked at Jimmy. He tilted his head at her, said with his eyes, ‘Just for a minute and then he’s gone.’ Annie shook her head and walked back into the apartment. They waited until they heard the door to the bedroom close. Jimmy said to Sully, “Come in.”
“I didn’t come here to rile up your old lady.”
“It’s alright, she’s just tired.”
“Liar.”
Jimmy smiled, quick and then it was gone. “You thirsty? Or hungry?”
“Jimmy, man, you’re my like my brother. More of a family to me than my real brother ever was. You know that, right?”
Jimmy did and nodded. “Come on.”
Sully dropped his shoulders and his head and shuffled in. Jimmy stood in the open door for a second, watched the cars streaming by out on the road just beyond the trees that lined the apartment complex property. Then he shut the door.
Sully sat on the couch, looked around at the place. “Looks real nice,” he said.
“Thanks.” Jimmy sat in a battered recliner they picked up out by a dumpster when they moved in. “What are you doing here, Sully?”
He rubbed his skeletal hands together and stared at th
e carpet. His whole body shook with tremors. “I’m dying,” he said to the floor.
“Soon?”
Sully shrugged, held his hands up. They bobbed in the air. His head wobbled like an old man’s. “Maybe. Yeah, soon.”
“Sorry for hitting you.”
“Don’t apologize. I need to do that.”
Jimmy waited for him to do that. He didn’t hold his breath, though.
“Jimmy, I fucked you over, man. I’m not even going to sit here and try to blame the drugs or say it was Sonny’s fault. It’s totally on me. I left you hung out to dry. Man, I know my word doesn’t mean shit, but you have to believe me when I say that I’m truly sorry.”
Sully’s eyes fell back to the floor, but Jimmy was impressed he managed to hold his gaze all the way through that. Knew how hard it must have been for him. Jimmy got up and went to the fridge, pulled out two beers, popped the caps off, and handed one to Sully. He took it and pulled a pill bottle from the pocket of his jacket. Jimmy watched him and Sully held the bottle up.
“Don’t worry, it’s not street,” he said. He washed the pills down with a long drink from his beer. “It’s just diazapem. Supposed to help with the tremors.” His hand still shook when he put the pill bottle back in his pocket. He laughed and said, “Not that they do much.”
“So, what’s the story? You have to take like chemo or have a surgery or something?”
Sully shook his head. “No cure for this. Just wait for it to get worse, until I’m a quivering bowl of jello and the lights upstairs go out.”
Jimmy cracked a smile, couldn’t help himself. “You still a Yankees fan?”
Sully grinned back and said, “Hell no. Fuck Lou Gehrig.”
They laughed quietly. Not too loud, though, so Annie wouldn’t think they were partying out there. Sully looked down the hall at the closed door and said, “She going to make you sleep on the couch for letting me in?”
