A Six-Pack and Sympathy
Story by Dark Jester

 

  I have worked with Tim for a very long time at various different construction sites. He was the hardest worker of anyone I've ever met, and he frequently told, if any paid attention, the stories of how his father had taught him all about the benefits of hard work and self-pride. Many laughed it off and thought him silly. He was hardly regarded or noticed by any of our co-workers, me included.

Still, there was always this urge in me to listen to what he had to say. Oh, I'd laugh like the others, and I'd convince myself I didn't care, but a small part of me listened nonetheless. And I noticed something: There was nothing I've ever heard in my life that was so touching as to see his eyes light up every opportunity he got to talk about his wife.

I had paid enough attention to know that they had been married for twelve years. And it seemes as though there was more love between them today than the day before. He spoke about her as though he were a child talking about that new bike he got for Christmas. She, to him, was his only prized possession, and he would never need any other.

I'd worked with this man for eight years, and it is amazing how you never break through that wall of pride to admit someone means something special to you . . . until they day that they are gone.

The part of me that wanted to know him more did not get its wish, for the greater part of me killed the opportunity. He never went with the guys as we all took to the bars and after the ladies. For this reason, all I ever knew of him was his talks about Suzie, his valiant upbringing, and his outstanding character. It didn't hit me how odd it was that after all this time, I had never met this saintly woman. Not until the day that, sadly, Tim's life came to an end.

It was a hot day in August and all of us were getting dizzy in the sweltering heat. We were rushing the job and looking blindly forward to that five o'clock whistle, that it didn't occur to us how much more carefully we needed to do everything. Not until the accident. We looked up and saw that Tim was suddenly hanging by his left leg from the tower we were working on. Hanging upside-down, he screamed for help. He had been there, holding perfectly still for at least fifteen minutes, an eternity in the July sun. The screams for help never vanquished, yet sadly, help could not come in time. To climb the still flimsy tower would've thrown everything off balance. They tried, but it was no use. With nothing else for him to grab onto, he finally fell off of the tower to his death.

It was only then that I instantly realized how the only real moral person in my life was now gone, and how much a crime it would be that I never missed a night out with the boys to simply spend time with a special man and his wife. As a penance, I instantly knew that it was my duty to be the one to break it to this woman whom he lived for.

A couple of the other guys came with me but opted to stay outside while I went in to confront her with the news. I shook off the urge to call them cowards, and reminded myself that I wasn't any better than they were. That though I may have listened to Tim's stories when they did not, I mocked him in my own cowardice, too afraid to admit my heart was getting soft. So I approached the house alone, feeling as though I was having to tell a child he had become an orphan.

It wasn't long before I had come right back out of the house holding in my hands a six-pack of the finest beer from Germany.

The boys were obviously curious. They'd expected a long, drawn-out ordeal of emotion and comforting. Merely ten minutes had passed. They had questions as to how she took the news, and why it went so fast. And they were very curious, yet delighted, about the beer. And so I told them the whole story. Not much to it, really.

I had only just knocked, when I instantly heard a very sweet voice say, "Just a minute!" Shortly thereafter, the front door opened to reveal a home smelling of fresh pot pie, and decorated with awards, some of the kids', some for her, and a couple for Tim. The whole house had the aura of happiness and contentment. Not in the stereotypical and cheesy sitcom kind of way, but rather a more humble and believable feel. Everything you saw and everything you felt was the epitome of the perfect neighbor you've always wanted; the true friend you've always knew you needed. And it teased my tear ducts to know I had let it all pass me by, too worried of what the other guys would've thought.

And before me stood a very simple-looking woman. At a glance, I'm sure the common man wouldn't think much, but eight years of hearing the stories Tim told of her, it had trained me to see what he had seen. She had the eyes of an angel. And it had taken all of the courage that I had mustered up to even address her by name. By the time I could look in her in the eye and had convinced myself that I was going to say what needed to be said, there was too little left in me for tact's sake.

And so I had to come straight out with what I had come to say. I blunderously asked her, "Are you Tim's widow?" And my error made me want to kick myself.

She replied with a snicker, and a reluctant, yet kind smile, "I'm not a widow!"

To which I replied, "I'll bet you a six-pack you are."