Chapter 8

Crumb walked into Hobson's room; he opened his mouth to ask how he was doing, but closed it wordlessly when he saw that the kid was sleeping.

A chair was placed near the bed, and Crumb quietly sat down. His eyes took in the multiple IV poles laden with bags dripping mysterious fluids into his friend's veins. Wires snaked under the covers, presumably attached somewhere on Hobson's person. An oxygen mask was resting over his nose and mouth; a small plastic bag attached to the bottom of the mask; moving slightly in and out in time to Hobson's rapid breathing.

Somehow, Crumb didn't think the kid would be going home in a few days. He looked too sick. Crumb was surprised at how young and vulnerable Hobson appeared while sleeping. Like a little kid.

Crumb sighed and thought about leaving. It was almost time to go get McGinty's ready to open, but he hated to go without talking to Hobson; making sure that he was okay. He'd give it a few more minutes.

Gary coughed, the pain in his chest waking him. He glanced around the room, sensing another's presence.

"Oh, hey Crumb." Gary pushed the button to elevate the head of the bed.

Crumb stood up and took a step to bring him next to the bed. "How are you feeling, Hobson?"

Gary shrugged. "Okay, I guess." He gave Crumb a tired smile and admitted, "I've felt better."

"So, when were you planning to tell me how sick you were? Or was I gonna have to wait until the funeral home called?" Crumb folded his arms in front of him, giving Gary a stern look.

"Uh, sorry. I didn't plan on--well, that is, I didn't know--I guess it just came on so suddenly that I didn't get a chance to tell anybody," Gary finished lamely. He was surprised. If he didn't know better, he would have thought that Crumb was worried about him. Usually Gary had the impression that while Crumb liked him, he also thought that Gary was a bit strange, and so kept his distance a little bit. After all, they had only known each other for about eighteen months, and for the first twelve, Gary had been nothing but a pain in the neck to Crumb.

Crumb's expression softened slightly. "Well, okay. Did you let your parents know, at least?"

Gary shook his head. "I couldn't. They're traveling around the country. I don't even know where they are right now. They call about once a week to check in, but they aren't due to call me for another four or five days."

"Humph," Crumb snorted. "What about Chuck and Marissa? I really think you ought to tell them."

Gary looked undecided. "What would be the point, Crumb? They have their own lives and problems. I don't need to burden them with mine. They've already done so much in the last couple of years it wouldn't be fair."

"Well, I don't know exactly what you're talking about, but if you mean helping with McGinty's, well, I'm sorry, but Fishman was your partner. He was supposed to help you. Now he's off chasing some pipe dream in California, while you're stuck with all the problems."

Gary glanced away, not wanting Crumb to see how close to home he had hit. He felt guilty for feeling that Chuck had abandoned him. After all, Chuck was entitled to live his own life. Gary knew that, but then why did he feel resentful?

Gary sighed. "I know, Crumb, but I still wish you wouldn't call them. Please?" Gary closed his eyes, the conversation exhausting him.

Crumb put a hand on Gary's shoulder, "Okay, Hobson, but I don't like it." He sat back in the chair.


Chuck opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of beer. Taking a long, satisfying swig, he wandered over to his answering machine. The red light was blinking. Chuck hit the play button, and flopped down into an easy chair next to the machine. He took another sip from the bottle, ignoring the messages from hopeful actors, would-be writers, and second-rate directors. He didn't know how it happened, but somehow these people were able to ferret out every little project that might possibly need their 'talents'.

There were no messages from anyone that mattered. Chuck sighed and hit the erase button on the machine. He found the remote trapped between the cushion and the side of the chair and turned on the television. He flipped through the channels, more to have something to do than because he was actually interested in watching anything.

"Oh, hey, the Cubbies!" Chuck exclaimed when he came across a Chicago game on cable. He got up to get another beer and grabbed a bag of pretzels to munch on. He re-settled himself in the chair, happily singing along to a recording of Harry Carey singing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame".

The song took him back to the time he and Gary had gone to a double-header in Wrigley Field. They had sat in the right field bleachers, and, along with the rest of the crowd, had good-naturedly teased the opposing team's right fielder. Several beers into the game, neither of them had even felt the sunburn on their backs. Gary had caught a homerun ball, but since it was hit by the other team, he had heaved it back onto the field, a silly grin plastered on his face.

Chuck chuckled at the memory. He focused on the TV when Sammy Sosa came up to bat. The guy was red-hot. Wouldn't it be a kick in the butt to catch one of his homer's? Chuck wondered if Gary had gone to any games this year. He'd have to remember to ask him next time they talked on the phone. Chuck shifted guiltily as he remembered the last time Gary had called. It had been nagging at him ever since. He'd had those production bozos over and had been unable to concentrate on what Gary was saying due to all the racket the guys had been making. He had meant to call Gary back the next day and apologize, but he had gotten busy and had never found the time. Well, Gary would understand. Gary was nothing if not understanding.

Chuck finished his first beer, and opened the second one that was waiting on the table. Yep. That's Gary. Mr. Understanding. Chuck took a long swallow, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He wondered if Gary had been up to anything exciting as far as the paper was concerned. He hated to admit it, but he almost missed the thrill of helping to try to change the future.

Chuck set his beer down, and picked up the phone, dialing Gary's number. He frowned when the answering machine picked up. He left a brief message. Chuck glanced at his watch. It was eight o'clock his time, which meant it was ten o'clock Chicago time. He dialed the number to McGinty's.

"McGinty's."

"Hey Crumb! How are ya doin!" Chuck sat forward on the edge of the chair, grinning from ear to ear.

"Fishman? That you?"

"Yeah, it's me. How are things going?"

There was a pause, and Chuck's smile slowly faded. "What's wrong?"