Chances Aren't (10 page)

After returning the policy to the file drawer, I sneak past the still sleeping Emily, collect the keys to the office and head out the door. Midway to the office the sun is just beginning to rise behind me and I spot my big tree as I race past it making the sharp right turn.

Arriving behind my desk at just after six, I'm easily the first one on my floor. I scan through my email inbox, rolling my eyes and grinning at the inconsequential bullshit that I'm not going to have to address. There are however a number of things I don't want to leave behind. I'm mostly a miserable bastard, but I do have a few redeeming qualities and I refuse to leave my coworkers with a giant pile of unfinished work.

Scanning my to do list, I identify the important items I wanted to document and knock them out one by one. Just past eight, I've completed those tasks and move on to a few other items I need to finish. Thirty minutes later the office buzzes with activity although no one stops by to see me. Even Greg rushes by, giving me only a nod before he slips into his office and closes the door. At just past noon, I straighten all the papers on my desk, log off my computer and grab my keys and phone.

I poke my head into Greg's office and say, "Sorry for the late notice, but I need to take the rest of the day."

"Everything okay?"

"Oh, yeah, it's just, um, some stuff at the house."

Boss of the decade, Greg smiles like only he can when you drop a bomb like this at the last minute. "No problem and if you need tomorrow off too, that's fine."

Correction, he's actually boss of the century, so I shake my head and hold back a laugh.

"What?" He asks.

"It's, uh, nothing. You’re the best."

Standing in his doorway, I take a deep breath and glance at the chair I sat in when he interviewed me more than fifteen years ago. I curl my lip, suddenly nostalgic even though I've pretty much hated every minute I've been trapped in this building. I know life and your job for that matter are both pretty much what you make them to be, but I've never actually figured out what that really means. I suppose being happy is pretty easy if you're not a miserable prick, but sadly, I'm a miserable prick or so I keep telling myself.

I step into the office and move next to his desk. "Hey, um, I don't think I ever properly thanked you for giving me a chance here."

He chuckles. "What are you talking about?"

"I mean, you took a chance on me. I was working at that job I hated after getting fired from the other place. I was really in a bad frame of mind and you gave me a job when even I didn't believe in myself."

"Sit down." He gives me an odd look, rises up, closes the door and returns to his desk. "What's going on?"

"Besides getting a divorce... nothing."

"Did you try to get in touch with that girl from college?"

I shrug. "I sent a message to her sister, but haven't heard back yet."

"You'll find someone else. I know it."

"Yeah, I think I will." I give him a serious look. "So I just wanted to say thanks."

Narrowing his eyes, he pauses a moment to look me over. "Well, I should thank you more, because you are doing a great job."

"Really? I mean, sorry... I appreciate that." After cleaning my throat, I ask, "How are you?"

"Couldn't be better." He smiles.

"Man." I shake my head, smiling. "I really, really, need to take a little of whatever it is that you are on."

"You've got to enjoy what you can."

"Sounds like good advice."

Standing, I extend my hand to him and we shake.

He says, "See you tomorrow."

"Sure." I turn away before my emotions can get the best of me.

I climb into the car and pull out of the parking lot— I'm not nervous or sweating and I'm driving home like it's just other normal day. It's beyond bizarre, but this is me, what can I say. In twenty five minutes it will all be over— the sadness, the disappointment, the missed opportunities— and I guess I'll actually find out what people have been wondering about forever. What happens after...

I probably should have had a last meal, but I can't think of a decent restaurant to go to. There isn't one that's hasn't let me down at least once. Pulling out the first Counting Crows CD, I slide it into the player and wait for the ridiculously long delay before the first cut starts. Their classic
Round Here
finally begins and I'm listening to my favorite band of the last two decades. I can't remember the last time I listened to it, but it must have been more than a year. I saw them in concert at a little college in Pennsylvania about five years ago and I'm not as big a fan of their recent music, but I do like their first four records. The concert was great, but my interest in the band has fallen off like my interest in most things recently.

I skip ahead to
Mr. Jones
, one of their biggest hits, and by the time it's over I'm about fifteen minutes out. Jumping ahead to my favorite song on the CD, I listen to
Rain King
then
Sullivan Street
and close it out with
A Murder of One
. I'm not sure what the hell that song is really about, but I suppose the title is pretty fitting for what's about to happen— or should I say, what I'm about to
make
happen.

Less than a mile from the tree, I unbuckle my seatbelt. The last thing I want is to be on life support for some absurd about of time. I hit the top of the hill and in the distance I see the red roof of the church and directly in front of it my tree. I step on the gas— fifty four, fifty eight, sixty five... I press it to the floor. Seventy one, seventy eight, eighty four... I'm staring directly at the thick trunk.

Suddenly a minivan catches my eye approaching around the sharp turn ahead. I hear a horn beep then a motorcycle appears from nowhere flying around the van and into my lane headed right for me. Cringing, I hit the brakes, the motorcyclist pulls sharply back over, cutting off the minivan, which swerves then gets caught on the soft shoulder of the country road as it passes me. Watching in the rearview mirror, I see that the minivan driver overcorrects, cutting back to the left and the vehicle ends up on two wheels before bouncing back down on all four tires. I hear screeching, then lose sight of the van as I round the bend to the left. A loud crashing sound causes me to slam on the brakes. I turn fully back, struggling to peer out my tiny rear window. Smoke appears from under the van, but I can't see anything more.

Pushing the door open, I climb out of the car for a better look. The van has hit a tree, not my tree, but another of equal impressiveness. Smoke billows inside the vehicle and I take off running for it. When I reach the car, I see a man in the driver's seat, cut and bloody but conscious. In the passenger seat a woman, probably his wife, and behind them a child seat facing toward the back of the van. The woman's airbag has deployed, but not the man's. I try to open the driver's door, but it won't move. That side of the van looks to have taken the brunt of the impact and at least eighteen inches of metal are crunched all the way to the wheel well. The front tire sits at an unnatural angle with the hub cap split in two. The driver's side window is rolled down about an inch and I move close to it. "Are you okay?"

"My wife," the man mutters before resting his bloody head on the steering wheel.

Rushing to the other side, I pull open the passenger door, fight past the escaping smoke and deflating airbag as I reach for the woman's seatbelt. Holding my breath, I squint and after successfully releasing the belt, I lean the woman forward until her head is resting on my shoulder. I hear a baby crying and wrap my arms around the woman and pull her out of the vehicle. Lifting her higher, I try to get a better hold of her more than one hundred pounds as I shuffle away and place her safely on the grass.

Turning back to the crash site, I see black smoke now and flames under the back of the van. I bolt back to the side door and pull on the handle, but nothing happens. I climb through the passenger door, making the mistake of not holding my breath and inhale a thick mouthful of smoke. Coughing, I press my body between the seats while the heat inside is almost unbearable. The child's cries grow louder.

"Get her out, please," the man calls out.

"Is there only one?" I scream.

"Yes, my daughter."

Fighting through the thick smoke, I first attempt to pull the car seat up, but it only moves an inch or so. Sadly, I have no experience with kids or car seats or any of this, although it makes sense that it would be attached in some way. I'm running purely on instinct. I smell the horrid odor of burning plastic and plunge my hand over the seat feeling around the child until I find the strap. Moving my hand lower, I fumble around until I find the buckle. I fool with it for what seems like forever, still holding my breath and fighting to see it through the smoke. Discovering the button, I press it, then lift the straps over the child's head and pull her out of the seat.

With my eyes watering, I turn my head toward the daylight, take a desperate breath and then cough violently. I push off with my elbows, cradling the child in my arms and my head smashes into the windshield. I shriek in pain then drop my foot out of the car to the grass and take off toward the woman. When I reach her, she's coughing now and semi-conscious.

I kneel down beside her. "Are you okay?"

Opening her eyes barely, she pleads, "My baby?"

"She's here." I place the child into her arms and hear the sounds of sirens in the distance. The child coughs then starts to cry. The woman holds her tight.

Rushing back inside the smoke filled car, I unbuckle the man's belt then reach past him to open the driver's side door. It won't budge. Grabbing him by the arm, I pull toward the passenger side and he yells out in agony.

"My leg... it's stuck."

I reach down his pant leg with my head smashed into the steering wheel and feel something hot and wet. He cries out once again and I push my hand further feeling cold steel. Taking hold of his knee I pull up and he shrieks in pain.

"Are they okay?" He asks.

"Yes, they're fine." I lower my head and take a quick breath, then cough out the poison smoke. The heat is now pouring from the back of the van. It's almost overwhelming. Reaching past him, I try the window and with one press it lowers all the way. The smoke clears a bit and I see the man's face.

"I'm getting you out!" Springing out the door, I run to the other side and try the handle to the driver's door while pulling on the door frame. It still won't move.

"Get away from here," the man says.

Smoke fills the car once again hiding the man's face. I feel the heat from under the van on my feet and ankles. The man grabs my arm. My eyes focus on the tattoo on his wrist of what looks like a bracelet of interconnected stars.

"I know what you're trying to do." He looks me in the eye.

"What?" I hear the sirens louder now and the sounds of brakes and gravel shooting up.

"Don't do it." He coughs right in my face. "Go."

I look at him confused until it hits me, then I'm grinning because this is perfect. But how does he know? I turn my head to the fresh air and take a deep breath. "No, I can get you out." I pull on the door, but it's of no use. I'm content this is how it will end. With me a hero and everyone happy, even me. Smoke fills the van once again, obstructing my view of the man.

"Ben, don't do this."

"What? How… how do you know my name?"

The man slumps over the steering wheel and I simply hold on to the car, cowardly leaning my head away and holding my breath.

"Sir! Hey!" A voice booms out right behind me.

Arms wrap around my chest and pull me away from the car. I'm dragged backwards as the black smoke rises from the burning van. Fire hoses douse the wreckage as I cough and lay slumped on the grass ten feet from the woman and her child.

I'm released from the county hospital just before midnight and the police have my car waiting for me in the parking lot. Other than some minor smoke inhalation and first degree burns on my ankles, I'm perfectly fine physically. Mentally, I'm exactly where I was before all the excitement happened fifty feet from my tree. I would not let them call Emily, so she probably has no idea what transpired and although I did see news vans for all the major Baltimore TV stations in the parking lot when I looked out the window, I managed to avoid the interviews that were requested.

After spending the night in a local motel, I change into a questionably clean pair of shorts and T-shirt that I found in my trunk and head to a department store that opens at eight to buy some clothes to wear to work. I really don't know what else to do. I probably should take the day off, but even if Emily isn't home I don't want to take a chance that I might see Nina or worse yet her husband Tom.

Inside the dressing room, I change into jeans and a button down shirt, and head to the register carrying my gym clothes.

"Do you have scissors?" I ask.

The female cashier pulls a set from the counter and hands them to me. Our eyes meet and from the way she looks at me I think she knows me, but she doesn't mention it.

I hand her the tags and she rings me up. After sliding my card through the machine, she says, "I thought I recognized you."