By Paul Teodo and Tom Myers

THE PHONE ON THE WALL RANG. The long, knotted cord dragged on the floor as she listened carefully to the distant voice. He had collapsed. She stared out the window where he’d usually park, the space empty. It was 95°, but it wasn’t the heat. Not a heart attack, a stroke, or a seizure.

They had sent him into the yard to steam an empty barrel. It had held a toxic mix of volatile solvents. Too awkward to lift. It wasn’t his job. They had laborers for that. He ran the machine. Not a union shop. You did what you were told. He was a company guy. 

Ninety-five degrees outside—was 105° in the yard. The factory heat blistered everything nearby. Days like this he wore long underwear, something about keeping him cool, preserving his sweat. He wanted a pair for his birthday.

“A joke?” his kid asked.

“Nope,” he answered.

“Okay.” His son got him a pair, cotton.

Metal rims of the 55-gallon drum shone bright in the scorching sun. Scraping the cement he tilted the barrel upside down dragging it to the steamer.

Noxious fumes mixing in the barrel turned his stomach, making him dizzy.

The metal rim scraping on the cement.

Then it sparked.

Fumes igniting, fire chasing up his legs beneath his green baggy work pants. Flames snapping at his ankles. Long underwear ablaze. A man saw him running through the yard, silently. Another eyed him near the superintendent’s office, rolling in the sand pit, beating his legs, like a mad man.

They brought him to the company doctor, who carefully cut away his pants, the charred remains of the long underwear, told him he was lucky. The underwear helped. Protected his skin. It was not so bad, the doctor declared. Like a sunburn.

He held his screams as the doctor rubbed his legs with soothing ointment.

They sent him back to his machine, still screaming in silence, barely able to stand. He broke for lunch; his legs begged for relief. He ate the two sandwiches she had made. Asparagus and eggs. A diet. Quit the smokes a month before, weight creeping up. She told him. He drank his diet pop. He stumbled back to his machine.

Two bucks an hour. Bonus on top of straight time. Time and a half if he worked Saturday. Double time on Sunday. 

He collapsed.

It was shock. His eyes bugged out. His body twitched. He bit his tongue.

She listened intently, holding onto what little breath she could inhale as the man on the phone finished. The room spun. She closed her eyes.

They brought him to the hospital.

Where?

They told her.

She went to see him. With cookies. The hell with the diet.

He told her he’d be home in a day or two. Bad sunburn.

The doctor hard to understand. A thick accent.

His voice serious. Third degree. Skin grafts. Plastic surgery. She was able to make out. 

He was not home in a day or two.

Sixty dollars a week, for his burnt discolored leg. His disability. The mortgage ate two weeks right off. They’d starve. The company said they’d be good to him. Sixty dollars good.

Couldn’t handle his legs where the company sent him. Moved to Cook County Burn Unit. They held him up, as he tried to walk. One step, then another. His legs still screaming. In silence. Would he let them graft him?

No.

Purple legs were fine.

He was better. They let him go. Limping, wincing, oozing in silence. 

One month, two, three passed. Hands now soft, calluses no longer protecting his palms.

He worked in his garden. It began to take. Picks, spades, shovels, and hoes, occupying his time. His baby soft hands blistering. 

Sixty bucks a week. Not enough.

Sitting on a lawn chair. Wiping sweat beading on his forehead. Gazing at his garden, legs still screaming. She was doing the laundry.

The phone ringing. He stood and walked, slow, ungrafted legs beckoning him to stop, slow down.

He picked it up. ”Yes?”

They spoke, he listened. 

She would not be happy. It’d only been three months. The County said he needed five. 

The phone silent. White Sox on the radio from the yard next door, muffled in the background. They waited for his answer. Zero all, third inning, it felt like the twelfth.

Sixty bucks a week?

Or. 

Two bucks an hour and bonus on top of straight time.

“Okay,” he said. “Monday.”

She would not be happy.

Ready to leave for work. Two sandwiches staining the brown bag. A pop, that would be warm before he drank it, ripping through the paper.

She smiled and kissed him goodbye.

She was not happy. She was a good woman.

Sixty bucks a week. The company had been good to him. Sixty bucks good.