Short Bus Hero (13 page)

Ally trips down the stairs, camera in hand. Lois stands up and takes it from her.

“Okay, Stryker,” Ally says, “Stand up so my mom can take our picture!” He stands and shuffles to the one space in the room that two people can stand next to each other. Ally throws her arms around him.

In the picture, he looks like he’s trying to get away.

15.
Athazagoraphobia /
ă-thăˈ-zə-gōr-ə-fōˈ-bē-ə
/
the fear of being forgotten or ignored

B
ack at his tenement
in Braddock, Stryker sits on the plaid sofa that came with the place, drinking Bud Select, ignoring the pervasive urine vapors that waft from multiple but unidentifiable sources within his apartment. His new place has all the charm of an oversized public toilet. The newspaper ad had described the unit as “cozy but airy” with “gleaming hardwood floors” and “loads of charm.” What that translated to in reality was: claustrophobic and drafty, with something shiny and sticky staining one corner of the scarred bare floor, and kitchen appliances straight out of “The Flintstones.” One of the kitchen chairs broke beneath the weight of his overflowing suitcase and the other tilts at a crazy angle, perfectly parallel with the mid-century laminated table. The toilet had a pull-chain flush, which came off in his hand the first time he’d used it, and the permanently rust-stained bathroom sink is missing the cold water tap handle. He brushes his teeth with tepid water that smells like sulfur. Generations of funk paint the walls and ceiling a depressing shade of yellow. Cheap wooden baseboards and leaning splintered doorframes hold the aromatic stories of a hundred destitute denizens.

His recent memories tread close to the surface of his psyche, where I can see them. Stryker recalls the way the morning sun used to filter through the skylights in his bedroom, warming the already heated cherry floor. Sometimes, when he hadn’t closed the blinds properly, and had slept in the precise wrong position, he’d swim up through his dreams and open his eyes on a harsh and blinding glare shot right into his face by the heavy-framed dressing mirror beside the door to his walk-in closet (which was roughly the size of his new apartment). He only thought he’d hated that. Now, that very same sun pokes feeble rays through his tiny kitchen window, splashing shadows of filth across the dented refrigerator and heavily abraded Formica counter, throwing his abject desperation into bas-relief.

“Research,” he’d told Lois. He laughs. He has two dollars in his wallet and eighty-three bucks left on his Visa. The only research he plans to do is finding out how cold it gets in Bermuda in the middle of January. As soon as he shakes some money out of the Forman National Bank, of course. The only question is, how much can he get away with? And how long could he make it last?

The outdated television, with its black converter box, shows him the late-night repeat of the local news as he sits in his brand-new squalor.

Hey, what’s that?

Hope?

The sports announcer, some nameless Ken doll, throws it to an aging jock with a mic standing at some familiar venue with Stryker’s old buddy, Gemini.

Stryker leans forward, frowning and absently grabbing the hand sanitizer off the wobbly coffee table.

“Don, I’m standing here at Steel City Sports Bar with WWC phenom Gemini. Gemini’s got something really exciting to tell us about. What could that possibly be, sir?” He holds the mic to Gemini’s chin. Gemini grabs it in one gigantic paw and barks into it like…well, like a professional wrestler.

“Dudes, I got something totally awesome to announce here tonight, at Steel City. You’re gonna love this, brothers,” he says at near-maximum volume. “In a couple of weeks, the WWC is gonna hold an open casting call for all you tough guy villains out there. Now, it’s not gonna be here in the ‘burgh because it’s way too big for any building we’ve got here. It’s gonna be huge. It’s gonna be awesome. It’s gonna be the chance of a lifetime. It’s Vegas Villification, and it’s gonna be held in Vegas, baby, Vegas.”

Much posing and “dude”ing and “brother”ing follow, accompanied by the date and location of the event.

Stryker jumps up and spills his beer.

The red light goes on behind his eyes again.

There’s been a change of plans.

16. Necrophobia
/ nek-rə-fōˈ-bē-ə /
fear of dying

A
s soon as the words
fall out of Trish’s mouth, Lois recalls how she’d meant to ask her about Jason looking so pale at Christmas. Trish just told her, choking on the lump that narrowed her throat, that, oftentimes, the first tell-tale sign of myelodysplastic syndrome is anemia. A vortex of panic opens up beneath Lois’s feet. The kitchen spins around her and the telephone crashes against her temporal bone with a thunk as she falls onto a chair. Being the parents of children with Down syndrome, all of Lois’s friends know about MDS and pray that their kids will never be afflicted. Not always, but frequently, the illness is the precursor to AML—acute myeloid leukemia. Those Dear Ones are at an elevated risk for that specific cancer.

“What’s the treatment?” Lois’s brain throbs behind her creased forehead. How would she tell Ally? Oh, my God, Ally will be devastated. And with her history of depression, the news could push her over the edge. Again. Lois studies the junk surrounding her and is struck by an urge, no, a need to shop.

“The doctor said he wants Jason to have chemotherapy.” Trish blows her nose. “God, Lois, chemo! He talked about a bone marrow transplant, too, but—” She makes a spitting sound.

“But he doesn’t have leukemia, right?” Lois always thought chemotherapy was just for cancer. While she knows of MDS, she is unfamiliar with its treatment. She’s confused.

Trish snuffles. “No. At least not yet.” She sobs.

Lois waits for the crying to die down, trying not to think about going to Target. “Okay, do you know why the doctor wants to put him on chemo?”

“Um…” Trish can barely remember the doctor’s actual words. Her auditory nerves bore the brunt of the shock that he’d delivered to her as she sat in his oak-paneled office. Then her vagas nerve took over and she puked on his Persian rug-covered parquet floor. She didn’t even remember driving home. “Something about slowing down the progression to leukemia and not needing as many blood transfusions.”

In MDS, the patient’s bone marrow releases immature blood cells, which can’t function properly. Transfusions replace some of these cells, warding off infection and fatigue, but such treatment is considered “supportive,” and doesn’t do anything to actively improve the underlying condition. Chemotherapy is a more aggressive measure, burning out the mutant cells that are causing the problem. Trish cannot articulate this, even on the best of days.

Lois notes the “slowing down the progression to leukemia” part. To her, it sounds as though the doctor expects Jason to develop the cancer, but she can’t bring herself to ask her friend if that is the case. She tells Trish to take it easy and that she and Ally and Earl will be right over. (After they stop at Target and shop for more random shit to cram into their exploding house.)

A part of her wonders if winning the lottery hadn’t been some sort of curse.

* * *

“Don’t cry, Ally,” Jason tells her yet again. “I don’t feel sick at all. I’m just ti-tired.” He manages to offer her a weak smile as she takes a seat at the foot of his narrow bed. He’s been feeling more and more tired ever since Christmas, maybe even before that—he can’t really remember. He’s quit the Cool People’s bowling team, his job, and can no longer find the energy to belt out “Eye of the Tiger” at karaoke (which had always been everyone’s favorite part of the night, since he’d don a pair of boxing gloves and shadow box during his breathless and jumbled rendition). His doctor gave his mother a wheelchair to take him out in, but he hates that thing. It makes him feel completely helpless.

“Are you scared?” Ally searches his face for some trace of emotion. There is none. The smile has retreated, leaving his round face a blank moon floating above his WWC comforter.

Jason looks away. His aquarium hums, filling the long pause. “I’m not as scared as when I thought you were going to die,” he whispers, still not looking at her. He hasn’t forgiven her yet for pulling such a selfish stunt. But, he will. He will always forgive her.

Shame fills every one of Ally’s pores and turns her face bright red. She never meant to hurt her family and friends. She just wanted to be a normal adult. She thought things would be easier for everyone if she and her stupid ideas just disappeared. She knows it was a stupid mistake. She doesn’t want her friend to leave her, the same way he hadn’t wanted her to leave him.

She admires Jason’s bravery. She wonders if he’ll see the colorful sparks she saw when she had almost passed. The sparks had been pretty and the memory makes her wonder what lay beyond that shadowy veil that the pills had draped over her that day. Heaven? Hell? Nothing? Something else entirely?

She has complex thoughts for someone who is considered mentally challenged.

I love that.

“Besides,” Jason says, turning to look at her, “I might not die, you know. There’s medicine and the doctor said I might be okay.” His wan smile reappears.

I hold my silence until later that evening—even though I am knocked out of my proverbial socks by an insane and illogical human urge to throw my arms around both of them and murmur that everything will be okay. Such hardship endured by these Dear Ones at a time when they should be celebrating their good fortune and long-awaited independence. As jaded as I’ve become, it hurts me. Call it healing.

Ally and her family head for home after bringing in dinner for Trish and Jeff (not that anyone feels like eating). I stay behind, standing in the shadows near the window in Jason’s second-floor bedroom. When he thinks he’s alone, he pulls open the drawer of the nightstand and takes out a spiral notebook. He unhooks a pen from the helix of wire and opens the journal to a blank page. He stares into his bubbling aquarium. Tears spill from his eyes and splash on the blue-lined paper. He draws a lopsided heart and writes “J + A 4evah” inside the leaning figure.

I billow the twill curtains.

Jason’s attention snaps to the window. Not seeing anything, he struggles out of the bed and draws near to see if the window is open. It’s winter, so it should be locked tight. And it is when he checks.

I step out of the shadows and whisper his name.

17. Kakorrhaphiophobia /
kä-kə′-raf-ē-ə′fō-bē-ə
/
fear of failure

“I’
m sorry,
we had some bad news today, but you’re welcome to come in,” Lois says, holding the glass storm door open. Stryker pats her on the shoulder and steps through the front door into the family room. The piles of newspapers, magazines, and clothing have multiplied in the couple of days since his previous visit. Germs from all corners of the room congregate on the surface of his body. His skin crawls.

“Gosh,” he says, unzipping his coat and slipping it, along with billions of microbes, off, “I hope it’s nothing too bad.” He drops his leather jacket on a waist-high stack of assorted junk, hoping it won’t cause an avalanche.

Lois calls for Ally to come downstairs and takes a seat on the littered sofa, opposite Stryker’s chair. She straightens a pile of newspapers and other scraps of paper on the coffee table and places her feet on top of the precarious stacks. She hates visitors. They’ve been making her feel more and more ashamed of her home. At least Jim Beam doesn’t care if the place is a disaster area.

“It’s Ally’s friend, Jason Gibson. He has something called myodysplastic syndrome, which is like a blood infection. It’s very serious.” There’s an ache in Lois’s chest every time she has to tell someone about Jason. It makes her feel like buying something.

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Lois. Is there anything I can do?” He can’t imagine what help he could possibly offer, but he’s trying to be polite. He hopes she won’t ask him for blood or bone marrow or anything. It would be fair, considering what he’s about to ask her for, but, shit, he remembers hearing that donating bone marrow really hurts.

“That’s very nice of you, but I don’t think so.” (Whew, Stryker’s mind sighs.) “We’re just trying to keep his family going through this tough time. He’s going to need chemotherapy, starting next week. It’ll be hard on him and even harder on his mother.”

Ally trudges into the room and squeezes onto the sofa next to her mother, not even smiling at Stryker. Not a good sign for him. This might not be the best time for what he has in mind, he thinks. But, if he waits any longer and gets drawn into their soap opera, he’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve.

“Well,” he says to them, clapping his hands together, “I have some good news that may cheer you up.” He gives them his best used car salesman smile, white teeth glistening through the crowded dusky gloom. This might be a good time after all. Get them while they’re weak. “Sweep the leg,” as the evil Cobra Kai yells in
The Karate Kid
.

The bastard. I hate that he’s doing this, but it’s necessary. Kind of like amputating a limb before it spreads its lethal infection throughout an otherwise healthy body.

Lois puts her arm around Ally, protecting her. From what, she doesn’t know. It’s that maternal instinct. “You can try,” she says.

“Okay. I’ve done some research, and I have some ideas about getting started on our wrestling venture.” He pauses. When they just stare at him, he continues speaking. “I think I can get us into one of the smaller national organizations—I’m not going to name names just yet—I don’t want you to get too excited because it’s not a sure thing. But, one of their big guys is going to be over in Philly, you know, for the Brotherly Shove, and I can meet with him there and talk about buying him out.”

Lois and Ally continue staring from their alcove in the junk.

“Okay,” Lois says. “What does that mean?”

“That means we might own—
you
might own, a professional wrestling organization in, like, two weeks!” He grins widely, casting the bait, which Ally takes.

“OMG, no way!” she shouts, forgetting about Jason, jumping up and down. “Woo-hoo! That’s awesome! Mom, did you hear that?”

“What do we need to do?” Lois asks. She’s too exhausted to bother with suspicion. She fights an urge to kick him out of the house, though. She needs a drink and a nap.

I whisper to her to let go. Call it a necessary evil.

He looks Lois directly in the eye and clears his throat. “Well, the first thing I’ll need is, um, some seed money.” He studies both of their faces. Where he expects to see resistance, he sees only fatigue. Heh heh.

Trusting souls, they buy his whole damn story, detailing how the organization he wants to approach will be more likely to take him seriously if he offers them some cash up front.

In good faith, he says.

He thinks they buy his bullshit story all on their own. But, he overestimates his salesmanship.

I whisper to them to let it happen.

Lois isn’t listening, but she’s tired of fighting every little thing, so she leaves it up to Ally.

Ally writes him a check for half a million dollars.

Stryker spends the next week buying airline tickets, reserving a hotel room, and working out.

News flash: he is not going to Philly.