Chapter 9

By the end of the day, Timmy was really sick. His nose was pouring, and half the box of tissues was gone. His ears had a funny ache, and he was having a hard time hearing anything. The worst of it was that he didn't know where he was going to spend the night. His money was about gone.

The two block walk to Carrie Nation's bar seemed really long tonight, as his aching muscles protested the activity. Once there, he bought a coke and nursed it, along with his box of tissues, in a booth. He didn't feel good enough to play pinball, and none of the guys wanted to take him home for sex in his condition. He felt himself nodding in and out of consciousness. Mike, who was working, noticed how sick Timmy was, and let him snooze. When the place closed, Mike went over and nudged him.

"Hey, Buddy," Mike growled. "Wake up, man."

Timmy only partly came awake. "Say what... ?"

"You been sleeping for hours. We're closing down," Mike informed him.

"Oh," muttered Timmy, still not focused.

"I tell ya' what. You wait until I get done cleaning up, and you can crash at my place," Mike invited.

Timmy came much more awake. "Really?" he asked. Mike had a reputation for being a grouch. He didn't do favors for anyone.

"Yeah, but don't tell anybody," Mike chuckled. "I got a reputation to uphold."

Timmy laughed, then started coughing. He felt like his lungs were going to tear out.

Clucking like a mother hen, Mike shook his head and went back to behind the bar to wash glasses. Timmy got hold of his coughing, and tried to catch his breath. He felt really miserable.

Finally, Mike was done, and stuffed Timmy into his old Volvo. When they got to Mike's apartment that he shared with three other guys, he gave Timmy a hot whiskey with lemon and honey in it. "Don't you ever, ever tell anyone I gave you this. Lisa'd have my hide." Timmy promised, and gulped the elixir. He was out like a light about 30 seconds after he laid down on the guys' ratty old couch.

Timmy was far too sick to go to work the next day. Mike was still asleep, given the hours of a bartender, and Timmy hoped using the phone was ok as he called Denise and gave her the news. For once she believed him, having seen his runny eyes and heard his sneezing the day before. He slid back down on the musty couch and drifted in and out. Later, one of the roommates woke Timmy up, and asked why he was there, but accepted his word that Mike had brought him home. When Mike woke up and got ready for work, he didn't look too happy that Timmy was still there, but grudgingly permitted him to stay another day. Secretly, he knew he didn't have the heart to kick the boy out when he was obviously so sick. He prepared Timmy a quick meal, and simply said, "Yeah, don't worry about it," when Timmy profusely thanked him. He left before he could see that Timmy hadn't eaten more than a mouthful before his face turned even greener.

At last, all the other roommates had headed out, too. Timmy half slumped across the cushions, his head propped against the hard edged arm. He didn't feel up to doing much, except to think. Most of the time, he avoided thinking because it was too painful. Taking stock of his life didn't make him very hopeful.

He thought about his father. God, the old bastard was such a bigoted asshole. He thought about his job, and although he hated it, he was proud of hanging onto it for three months now. Maybe he'd start to save up, try to get his own place. Well, if he stopped spending so much on dope, he could. Maybe he'd even go back to school. He had been good in school and always got good grades without trying very hard, but high school had been a pretty horrible experience for him before he dropped out. He told himself he'd check into getting his G.E.D. (General Equivalency Diploma) when he got over this cold. Damn, he sure did feel sick, and he wished he had enough money to go to a doctor. He became depressed as he realized that lack of money pretty much had him trapped in his situation.

Then he thought about Paul, and his overdosing. Bringing that up was a mistake. Sour acid filled his gut as he worried. Benji had seen him with Paul. If Benji told anyone, Timmy could really get in trouble. Of course, Benji himself had been there to buy smack, so he probably wouldn't say anything. However, if he was suspected of involvement, he might finger Timmy to get the heat off of himself. This circular thinking kept Timmy's stomach churning.

To escape his thoughts, he tried to watch the television. The sketchy reception and his befuddled state interfered with the boob tube's ability to lull his agitation. He was having a hard time hearing the thing, anyway. Hunger gnawed at his innards, but he knew he would throw up if he ate. Best if he didn't steal food from the kitchen anyway, he wanted to be trustworthy in the face of Mike's goodwill and trust. The only thing left to do was sleep, and finally, given his exhaustion and illness, he did.

He woke up when he felt someone sitting down on the edge of the cushion. "How ya' doing?" Mike interrogated, scrutinizing Timmy.

Timmy tried to respond, but only made dry, gasping croaks. "Stay here," Mike said, and went to the kitchen. A few minutes later he returned with a hot cup of herb tea. "Drink this," Mike ordered. The liquid soothed Timmy's throat.

"I'm not feeling too good," Timmy finally managed to say. Mike said something, but Timmy didn't catch it. "What?"

Mike repeated himself a little louder, "I think you should go to a doctor."

"I don't have the money to go to a doctor," Timmy said, plaintively.

"Aren't you underage?" Mike asked. "Where are your parents?"

"What?" demanded Timmy, still not hearing well.

"I said, where are your parents?" yelled Mike.

"Oh. They, well, they won't help," responded Terry, looking sad.

"I think you should go to Welfare, then. You've got to get some help," said Mike, thoughtfully.

"What?" asked Timmy again.

Mike shouted, "Go to Welfare! There's something wrong with your ears!"

Timmy nodded. "I know, man. I can't hear. Maybe I can get Medicaid or something."

Mike said, loudly, "Go tomorrow. Don't put it off."

"Yeah, I will. Thank you, Mike," Timmy replied gratefully. Another coughing fit wracked his lungs.

Mike ruffled Timmy's hair. "No problem, Kid. Just take care of yourself."

Timmy felt only marginally better in the morning. He thought about playing hooky from work again, but groaned. It was payday, and he needed the money. Skip, one of Mike's roommates, agreed to drop him at work on the way to his own job, so at least Timmy didn't have to walk in.

"Good morning!" Denise said brightly when he arrived. She talked so loudly on a normal basis that Timmy heard her just fine. "You look like death warmed over."

"Er, thanks, Denise," Timmy responded. "That makes me feel better."

She guffawed irksomely. She laughs like a horse, Timmy thought to himself.

"Well, good, 'cause there's lots to do today. Yesterday's work is all waiting for you," she assured him.

"Great!" Timmy muttered. Taking a day off just meant two days work to catch up on his first day back.

At his work station, he found the bundles of fabric towering over him. Sighing, he got started.

The fumes rising from the cloth made his cough worse than ever. The good news was that he couldn't smell them given his blocked nose. He struggled to keep going, feeling so ill that he felt he'd give anything to be able to quit. Sheer stubbornness kept him there.

Just before lunch, Honey came around and distributed their pay checks. Timmy received his pay for the previous two weeks and left on break with relief.

The state offices were on the next parallel street. He went in, ducking his head as several young women with young children pulling at them stared hard. He told the bored looking receptionist he needed to talk to someone about getting some medical care.

"How old are you?" she asked, chomping her gum. He asked her to repeat herself. She did.

"Uh, 17," he answered. She attached a form to a clipboard, and handed it to him.

"Fill this out," she said. He didn't hear her, but he guessed what she meant, and he took it and sat down. He answered the questions quickly, having few resources to list, and returned the paperwork to the front desk. He returned to waiting. One by one, the mothers were called, and Timmy began to doze off. Then, a woman appeared in front of him, waving a hand in front of his face.

"Timothy Barker?" she asked, sounding impatient. She was youngish, and pleasant looking. Timmy nodded, and got up to follow her.

"You must have been in your own world," she said, ahead of him.

"Pardon?" queried Timmy.

She stopped, turned around and looked at him. She said, slowly and carefully, "You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?"

"I haven't been able to hear too well since I got sick," Timmy replied. She nodded thoughtfully, and continued leading Timmy to her cubicle.

Everything she said was now given much greater volume. "My name is Jennifer Jones, you can call me Jennifer. How long have you been sick, Timothy?"

"Please call me Timmy, everybody does. I've been sick about three days. I want to go to the doctor's, but I don't have enough money," he explained.

"Ok, Timmy. It says here that you work, and that you earn about sixty dollars a week. Is that right?" she questioned.

"Yes."

She sighed. "Well, I'm afraid to tell you that you earn too much to qualify for general assistance - if you were an adult. As a minor, there are some possibilities for help, but they are a long shot unless your parents are unable to provide for you. I see you've left your parents' names blank. Are they alive, Timmy?"