The Long Holiday

The Long Holiday

          “Seventeen…sixteen…”

          The metallic voice counted down the floors as the elevator descended. Delwin Phillips wondered why inanimate objects had to talk to you. You couldn’t talk back. Or you could, but it made no difference.

          “Fifteen…fourteen…thirteen…”

          He looked into the reflective surface of the elevator. A compact, neat man. His brown hair with just a little gray at the temples. His brown tie going well with his dark brown suit. Not too bad for a man of sixty-one, he thought. According to the doctor, he would make it to sixty-two, but not to sixty-three.

          “It started in your lungs, but it’s already metastasized. It’s attacked your liver…we can do some chemotherapy…it’ll help…Probably a year if we don’t. Eighteen months, maybe, if we do.”

          Behind door number 1 — twelve months. Behind door number 2 — eighteen months, a lot of that time hanging over the toilet or lying in bed too weak to do anything. I’ll take what’s behind door number 1.

          “Eight…seven…six…”

          Delwin Phillips wondered how it could have started in the lungs. He had never smoked. His wife had never smoked either, although that didn’t keep her from dropping dead from a stroke at fifty-one. He was a man of meticulous habits — brushing, flossing, walking, breathing deeply — regularly scheduled and regularly executed.

          “Five…four…three…two…”

          He would have to talk to Frank so that Frank could find somebody else to supervise customer service. A small shiver of pride went through Delwin Phillips as he thought just how difficult it would be for Frank to replace him. There was nobody who worked at Bennett Supply who knew the products as well as he did, and probably nobody who knew the policies and procedures as well. Because of what he knew and because everybody — the customers and the company — could count on him to do exactly what he was supposed to, the customer service department ran smoothly, without hiccoughs and will only a very occasional change in personnel.

          “One…”

          The doors opened with a quiet swoosh, and Delwin Phillips stepped into the lobby of the Medical Center. People with various visual testaments of unseen problems came and went in the high ceilinged lobby. People on canes, with walkers, with bandages on their heads or hands or arms. I don’t have any of those, Delwin Phillips thought. Nobody can tell that I’m not as healthy as I have always been. Would it be easier if I wore some sort of badge that signified “dying man?”

          He went through the revolving doors out onto Walnut Street. The sidewalks were full of prelunch walkers. A messenger ran by with a long tube held in front of him like a football. A cold wind cut down the street between the mid-rise buildings, and Delwin Phillips leaned into it. The weather report said that it would be sixty today, he thought. He wondered why they couldn’t get anything right.

          The Silver Grill was on the next block, and according to Delwin Phillips watch it was 11:40. Earlier than usual for lunch, but if he went on to his office, it would be almost time to leave for lunch. Besides, stopping at the Silver Grill would give him a few minutes out of the cold wind.

          He waved to several of the people sitting at booths along the window as he walked in, going directly to the back to a table in the corner near the kitchen door. Eileen, the one waitress working, picked up a glass of water and silverware rolled in a napkin and set out to meet him at the table.

          “You’re early,” she said, putting the water and napkin on the table in front of the chair that backed up against the wall.

          He nodded. “Had an errand. Figured I might as well eat now.” He sat down, unrolled the napkin, and put it in his lap.

          “The usual?” she asked.

          Today was Tuesday. That meant that the special was meatloaf, and Delwin Phillips almost always ate the special of the day.

          “Yeah. That’s fine.”

          Eileen hurried off to get his meatloaf. He stared at the room around him. He’d eaten lunch here almost every day for years. And almost every day Eileen had met him with a glass of water and his silverware and asked him the same question. And except for Thursdays when the special was sugar-cured ham, Delwin always answered the same.

          He waved to Fred Arquette who was sliding into a booth near the front. Fred Arquette was a man every bit as consistent in his habits Delwin Phillips. Although they never spoke, they always acknowledged each other’s presence.

          “For about six months you probably won’t feel a lot different…you should be able to maintain the same schedule that you’re keeping now…then you’ll probably start having some pain…and you won’t have as much energy…you should go ahead and make arrangements for somebody to help you…”

          Eileen came back and slid his plate of meatloaf, green beans and mashed potatoes in front of him. She also brought a bottle of Heinz 57 Sauce. She laid the ticket on the corner of the table and left.

          This was, Delwin Phillips thought, the way things should be, just as expected. He ate his lunch, wondering how to deal with this unexpected event. What was he supposed to do now? At what point, when you knew you were dying, did you begin changing your life. He glanced at his watch; it was only a little past twelve, about the time he usually began eating.

          He wondered what he was going to say to Frank. “Sorry, Frank, I’m going to have to leave. Health reasons.” Or, “Sorry, Frank, I’m dying.” And what would Frank say? “I’m sorry you’re leaving, Delwin.” Or, “I’m sorry, you’re dying.” Or, “Do you think Jimmy is up to taking your job?”

          Delwin Phillips walked out of the Silver Grill into the cold wind on Walnut Street. It’s hard to walk against the wind, he thought. He checked his reflection in the window of the men’s shop to see if the wind was mussing his hair. He noted that his coat, buttoned at the middle button, still fitted him well, just as it had when he bought it a dozen years ago. Why did men quit wearing vests? he wondered. The suit would look even better with a vest.

          Certainly you can get a second opinion if you want, Delwin. But there’s no real question. I’m sorry.

          Frank had sent him to a seminar one time, and the young man leading the seminar was urging them to do more, to do the choose-to parts of their jobs. He paced up and down in front of the room, waving his arms like a cheerleader, telling them they could change. “Today is the first day of the rest of your life,” he said. And he stared at them for a moment, hoping for a response. Delwin Phillips remembered that the response from the group had been a blank stare. The seminar leader went on, but his pacing looked more dogged than energetic, and his voice had more volume than enthusiasm.

          “This is the first day of the rest of your life.” What if the seminar leader had told them that this is the first day of the end of your life? Would they have been more interested in changing something?

          Delwin Phillips stopped at the corner, waiting for the traffic light to turn. He looked down Walnut Street. The street was like a wall that ran through the city. If you turned right off of Walnut on any large street, you saw office buildings, Mercedes and Lexus, and well-dressed young women hurrying to shop on their lunch hours. You saw buildings with granite facades and discreet signs above the door. And you saw the people who moved the money around the city. That’s if you turned right off of Walnut.

          If you turned left, first you saw the pawn shops and the liquor stores. You saw cars that weren’t new and that weren’t expensive when they were new. Further down you saw clots of men standing on the street corners, not crossing because they had nowhere to go. And you saw empty storefronts darkening the block like missing teeth.

          The worlds were different to the right and left of Walnut. Delwin Phillips was proud of the fact that he had lived his life to the right of Walnut. That’s the world he knew. He never looked to the left.

          As he walked on down the street, the lunchtime crowds began to thin; people had made the transition from office to restaurant or shop. As he passed an alley, he heard a noise.

          The man standing in the alley was really more of a boy. He wore a black stocking cap and a navy pea jacket. The collar was turned up to protect his face from the cold.

          “Come here a minute, man.”

          Delwin Phillips just looked him. He wondered what this person had to do with him.

          “Just…could you come here a minute?”

          The boy’s voice was almost pleading. There was something wrong with him. Delwin started to walk on, but he didn’t. If there was something wrong, he shouldn’t just leave him. He turned and stepped into the alley.

          The boy moved around him, standing between him and the mouth of the alley. He pulled something from the pea jacket pocket, a short nosed gun. He held it in front of him so that it couldn’t be seen from the street. Delwin Phillips stared at the gun. He was surprised how large the hole in the short barrel looked when it was this close.

          “Give me your money,” the boy said. He gestured with the gun to give his shaky voice emphasis.

          Delwin Phillips looked at the gun. He thought I should be afraid. He was surprised that he wasn’t. Today is the first day of the end of your life.

          “Give me your money,” the boy said again, this time louder and with a larger gesture with the gun.

          Delwin Phillips smiled. “No,” he said. “I’m not going to give you my money. If there’s something I can do to help you, I’ll do that, but I’m not going to give you my money.”

          The boy looked at him, his eyes even wider. “I have a gun,” he said.

          Delwin Phillips nodded. “I know you do. I can see that.”

          The boy looked at the gun. He looked at Delwin Phillips. His left hand rubbed across his face, then across his pea jacket. He started to say something.

          Delwin smiled at him.

          “You’re crazy, man,” the boy said.


          “Maybe,” Delwin Phillips said, “But I’m not going to give you my money.”

          The boy looked at the gun again. He looked at the small smile on Delwin Phillips face. Then he turned and ran out of the alley.

          Delwin Phillips walked out onto Walnut street, down to the next corner. He waited for the light to change. When the light turned green, he crossed the street.