The Daily News

The Daily News

Henry rubbed his eyes and struggled to sit up and face the stark, black emptiness of 4AM. The alarm clock on the dresser buzzed in his ears, and he rose wearily, stumbling toward the bathroom. The cold water did little more than propel him forward to the coffeepot, where he poured liquid motivation into a cup.

More papers. Always the goddam papers. What happened to my life? I used to have a life. A wife, two kids. A car. What happened to all that? Now, all I do is go out every morning with a pile of goddam newspapers and dish out a fresh plate of misery to people who never to even seem to enjoy what they see in there. The stock market's down, the President's a buffoon, the mountains in California are on fire. Jesus Christ! I never thought I'd end up on the edge of this godforsaken pit!

Henry slumped at the kitchen table and set his coffee down carelessly. It splashed over the rim, onto his bare hand. He cursed and reached his scalded hand across the table for the remnants of last night's Jim Beam. It trembled slightly as he splashed a hefty gurgle into his steaming coffee.

Just a little bit...... Just a little bit to get me goin'. I swear, I just can't face another day of this crap without somethin. I wish Dorrie and the kids would come back. Can't find a decent job. Can't make enough to feed my kids,. Dorrie never would stand for the drinkin'. She'd put a stop to that right off.

He sighed deeply, cradling the mug with both hands. The fumes of cheap whiskey drifted up, mingling with the pungent aroma of the coffee. His clouded brain cleared briefly and crisp memories came flooding back. They'd started off pretty good together. After high school, Dorrie had just wanted to get married and start a family, and Henry had gotten a good job down at the refinery on the night shift. Dorrie's parents were fairly well-off and had given them the money for a down payment on a small house out near Walmart. Their first year together had been wonderful, and the following summer Dorrie had given birth to the twins, Nathan and Natalie. Life had been a busy and satisfying for them both.

The night it all came crashing down around him, flashed before his eyes like a recurring nightmare. It had been cold. December. Crisp and breezy. His nostrils flared at the remembered stench of hot steel and burning chemicals, and the blood thundering in his ears echoed the explosion that had killed three men that night and taken his right arm. Henry clearly remembered going back into the burning building after the first explosion to search for his partner. The second explosion had been the one. It had blasted him into a blackness that he would awaken from three days later, minus an arm. The stump hung uselessly below the shoulder in an empty sleeve, but Henry would have sworn that sometimes he could feel his fingers move. Phantom feeling. That's what the doctor's called it. Like they knew anything.

The insurance had taken care of things for awhile, but the rest of the money had flowed into a bottomless pit, trying to save his mother from a bout with cancer. It had lasted two years and taken nearly $200,000 of the amount Henry was expected to live on for the rest of his life. His grief at his mother's death shadowed and dissolved into shock when he discovered the state of the family's finances. His father had accumulated sizeable debts, which he'd managed to keep well hidden. The rest of Henry's money had drifted away to finish his own rehabilitation and try to put all their lives back together.
Dorrie hadn't held up well. Henry had seen worry and frustration etch her lovely mouth with hard lines of anger and resentment, as she'd watched him get turned down for one job after another. She'd become sullen and unresponsive, snapping at the children and making rude comments. She'd threatened to go home a million times before she actually did, and it was a day Henry could never forget. It remained fresh and even more painful to remember than the accident. He thrust the thoughts away angrily and poured another generous splash of whiskey into his steaming coffee. Another sip brought some feeling into his legs, and he heaved himself up tiredly and began to put his day in motion.

He pulled on the tan workpants and cinched them up with a worn, black belt, Another notch farther in this month. Times were tough. People weren't buying the papers liked they used to. Henry guessed they were either reading the news on the internet or had just given up on it altogether. He had a few regular customers that drove by his spot every day. They never said much. Just stuck their dollars out the window and maybe mumbled a distracted thank you. Henry wondered how the same person could buy a paper from him every day except Sunday and act like they'd never seen him before. The men hardly even glanced at him beyond making sure he counted out correct change, and the women held their money out gingerly like they were afraid of catching whatever social disease he had. It made him feel invisible, like he blended into the noise of the freeway. He pulled on a grayish t-shirt and covered it with a shapeless hooded sweater. He stepped out into the cool morning, glancing at the sky. Dark clouds hovered and threatened rain, which didn't improve his bleak mood.

Ah, shit! Wouldn'tcha know!

Jerry and the new kid, Larry, were waiting on the corner for the newspaper truck that always picked them up promptly at 5:30. They huddled together under a sagging bus stop that no busses ever came to anymore. Henry spotted them and raised his hand.

"Hey, ya'll. Think it's gonna rain on us today?"

"God, I hope not," Jerry replied. "I had enough of that shit last week! Got a smoke?"

Henry handed him one of the five he'd counted out for the day, and they puffed in silence. The huge, panel truck lumbered around the corner at 5:28, They ground out their butts and climbed in the back. The papers rose up in bound stacks on either side, each man claiming his share, settling in for the ride. It was 45 minutes every day, with diesel fumes rising around them like swamp water. The city came alive like an angry beehive behind them. Hondas and SUV's swarmed like a maddened army onto feeder roads, through metered lights. Henry closed his eyes and tried not to think. It had begun to drizzle, and a damp wind whipped through the back of the open truck. He drew his hood down a little closer, praying for a short day.

They screeched to a halt at Henry's stop and he jumped down, pulling his papers off behind him. The rain had steadily increased while they drove, and Jerry handed down a few sheets of plastic as a small offering of consolation.

"Sorry, bud. Looks like this is what we got today. Try to stay dry."

"Yeah, right!" Henry muttered.

He pulled his papers up under the overpass, and tried to cover them all with enough plastic to get through the worst of it. He wished he'd brought a raincoat. He wished he'd brought a thermos. He wished he were anywhere except under the goddam freeway with a pile of soggy newspapers. He leaned back and dozed, tryng to will himself dry. It seemed almost possible.......
The scream of brakes and sliding tires startled him. His eyes flew open to meet headlights bearing down and a vehicle out of control on the wet street. A gasp was all he had, then the sickening crash of metal against concrete. Henry heard voices, as if from a distance.

"Is somebody under there?! For God's sake, there a man under there......! Somebody call an ambulance."

Henry's memories flowed through him and poured out onto the pavement like blood and spilled whiskey. He thought crazily that he wouldn't have to come to work tomorrow. It was quiet here, and dry. He heard the sirens coming closer, and he heard his mother's voice caliing.

" Henry! Get up and bring in the paper! Your father's waiting.......!"

He drew one final breath. Beyond the nothingness, traffic snarled helplessly. The morning commuters pounded their steering wheels and turned up radios. Some saw the traffic stacking up far enough in advance to steer around the whole mess. A few were Henry's customers. They glared at their watches, cursing the idiot that was making them late for work. They calculated an extra 30 minutes and wondered where they would pick up a newspaper. They detoured around him in slow motion, but they didn't see him. They never could.