Warnings: Language, brief mentions of cancer, and alcohol abuse/binge drinking
2.) As a rule, firemen don't enjoy being woken up at about two in the morning by a phone call. Two AM phone calls generally meant someone they knew and cared about either dead or likely soon would be, and so Mike prepared himself for the worst as he picked up his phone. His voice shook as he answered, "He-hello? This is Mike Stoker."
"See, that's good ol' Stoker. He's sure-sure a real pal," Chet slurred on the other end of the line, "Shit, I bet I woke 'im up. Stoker, did I-did I wake you up?"
Mike heaved a sigh of relief, replying, "Yeah, Chet, you woke me up, and damn near gave me a heart attack. What do you want?"
"I… I can't talk 'bout it on the phone…"
"Kelly, it's two in the morning, I'm not in the mood for-"
"Can you jus' come down here?"
Mike opened his mouth to say no, to say he would not leave the comfort of his apartment to drive Chet's drunken ass home at two AM… until Chet gave him the most pitiful, "Please," Mike had ever heard in his life. He sighed again, this time in defeat, asking, "What bar are you in?"
"I'm… uh… Joe, where am I again?"
"Chet, hand the phone to the bartender so he can tell me where you are…"
Twenty minutes later, Mike pulled up in front of a little dive bar called Stu's and headed in. Chet was slumped at one end of the bar, head resting on his folded arms. Mike handed the bartender a five for having to put up with the inebriated fireman and set to work getting him out of the bar. He hauled the shorter man out to his truck, half-dragging and half-carrying him, shoving him rather unceremoniously into the passenger seat.
"Mike? Izzat you?"
"Sure is, Chet."
"Where're we goin'?"
"Back to my place. You're in no shape to be alone just now, so I decided it would be easier to-"
"No, Mike, couldja jus' take me home, please?" Chet whined, "I jus' wanna go home…"
Mike hadn't gone very far, so he simply agreed to Chet's request rather than argue with him and adjusted his course for the other apartment building, praying Chet wouldn't throw up in the truck. For his part, Chet held his stomach contents until they got into his apartment, lurching into the bathroom to empty them into the toilet as soon as they'd crossed the threshold. Mike's own stomach twisted unpleasantly at the sound of Chet's retching, but he went into the bathroom anyway, perching on the edge of the tub and reaching out to rub Chet's back soothingly. He threw up for several minutes, until he had nothing left to bring up and sat back, leaning against the side of the tub beside Mike's legs.
"It isn't fair," Chet whimpered.
"What's not fair?"
"Ev'rything. Life. My life," Chet replied drunkenly, "Nothin's ever been fair, Mike."
"That isn't true."
"The fuck you know 'bout it?"
"Nothing," Mike answered honestly.
"Damn ri- you're damn right," Chet slurred angrily, "Tell me somethin'… you still got both your parents? Still-still got all your brothers 'n sisters 'n shit?"
"Yeah, I do."
"Then don' talk to me about fair. Thirteen, Mike. I was thirteen when my life started it's-it's trip down the shitter. It-it only took minutes for me to grow up, minutes for me to go from-from boy to man."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Chet."
"Ev'ryone is, pal. Ev'ryone is."
Mike sat with him there in the bathroom until he was finally done heaving, helped him with a glass of water, and put him to bed.
"Go to sleep, Chet. I'll be out on the couch."
"It's jus' not fair," he whimpered again, "Why-?... Why's she gotta be sick?"
Mike's stomach gave a little flip. Poor Chet… I wonder who's sick… He didn't pry, however, instead making sure Chet was comfortable and repeating, "Go to sleep," in a softer tone. He found a blanket and extra pillow in a closet and curled up on the couch to sleep. Chet's retching woke him at about seven, so he went in to check on him, feeling sorry for him as he dry heaved. After Chet's stomach seemed to calm a little, Mike went into the kitchen to make breakfast. Chet said nothing while he ate, likely due to embarrassment, nausea, or both, and Mike didn't press the matter.
A few weeks later, Mike received a similar call, though this time from Chet's apartment. The lineman sounded even worse than the first time, drunk and upset and utterly wretched, babbling on about the unfairness of life and wondering why bad things always had to happen to him. When Mike arrived at the apartment, Chet looked no better than he sounded, an empty fifth of Wild Turkey clutched loosely in his hand.
"She's gon' die," Chet slurred, his face wet, "Jus' like that-…"
He tried to snap his fingers and failed but didn't seem to notice.
"What do you mean?" Mike asked.
"See, she's not jus' sick now, she's dyin'… a month-a month ago, she was jus' fine, and now she's dyin' and if that ain't the biggest bitch ya ever-…"
Mike never got a straight answer. He stayed up while Chet slept, making sure the younger man wouldn't choke on his own vomit during the night. Poor guy, it's gotta be a family member. Probably someone close. Chet only slept for a few hours before he woke and stumbled into the bathroom with Mike's help, his stomach wanting to expel the excess of whiskey. He sat with him once more, trying to provide comfort.
"I'm sorry, Mike," Chet choked out during a break in his heaving, "I'm such an ass… keep wakin' you up, makin' you come over in the middle of the fuckin' night…"
"Trust me, Chet, if I didn't wanna be here, I wouldn't be here. I wanna help you. I can see that… that you're hurting, and I wanna help you. I want you to know that."
Chet ran a hand through his sweaty hair, saying nothing. Mike sighed, continuing, "I think you know it, too, or else you wouldn't keep callin' me at two AM. Just… you can talk to me, Chet. About anything. Got it?"
"Thanks, but… b-but I can't. I just can't."
"That's okay. I still wanna help, though. I want you to call me anytime you need help, especially if you're feelin' low like this, okay? You could really get yourself into some trouble doin' shit like this."
Chet agreed, so Mike went and made breakfast again. That was March of '71. In August, Chet took a few weeks off for reasons he only made known to CPT Stanley, and Cap wouldn't spill any secrets left with him. Mike took it upon himself to do some digging, though, and found an obituary for a Mrs. Catherine Mary Buchanan Kelly, aged fifty-one, who died of lung cancer on 15 August. She was predeceased by her husband, Mark Sebastian, in 1958, and her son, Brian Sean, in 1968, and she was survived by her three remaining children, Thomas Mark, Chester Buchanan, and Charlotte Rose. Mike just didn't know enough about Chet's family to be sure it was related, and when Chet returned to work with a series of water bombs, Mike pushed the matter from his mind entirely.
