What We Trade Our Hearing For (a North and South Story)

8. Can't Finish What You Started

           

"I think I've known it for a long time

Suffice to say, it's been a while

You're too afraid to face the outcome

Quite likely, you're a failure

It's a shitty thing to say, but hey man - the clock is ticking"

-Motion City Soundtrack

John

It was nice to see The Mill once again in a flurry of activity. The roadies were unloading sound equipment and lighting from the truck, there was a line at the box office, for the first time in weeks. It had been much too quiet lately. There were a few young men replacing boards on the side of The Mill and touching up paint. John looked over it all with a sense of satisfaction that had escaped him of late.

Mrs. Thornton had stopped by to check on John and check up on the work being done. He appreciated his mother's assistance; her shrewd eyes often caught small mistakes that slipped his notice. While she was watching the work progress on the outside wall, there was suddenly a scream and a scuffle.

As John was about to rush over to see what the problem was, his phone rang, the number of an important promoter flashing on his caller ID. He answered, seeing that his mother has the situation under control, anyway.

One of the young workers had shot through his hand with a nail gun. It was a gruesome injury, making Mrs. Thornton flinch at the sight. The boy couldn't be more than 20 but carried himself with the weariness of someone twice his age. He stuck out his hand for Mrs. Thornton to examine at her request, looking queasy and grimacing in pain.

"I'm sorry, son, you're going to have to go to the hospital. I'll have John call for the ambulance in just a moment." She said, after a cursory exam to confirm that the nail had indeed gone all the way through his palm.

The boy blanched whiter, which she hadn't thought possible. "Please, no ma'am. I can't afford the ER, much less an ambulance ride! I don't have insurance. It'll ruin my family."

She could tell that this young man was more afraid of the financial repercussions of the hospital bills, than he was at the thought of losing his hand. She sighed, hating that this was the way of the world they lived in. Turning to the other young man standing there, she said, "Did you drive here?" When he nodded, she continued. "Take him to the hospital in Midtown, the one near Peachtree and Pine. I'll call ahead, talk to some people for you. Don't worry," she said, cutting off the injured boy's protests. "They'll take care of you. Go straight there, okay? Do as I say, focus on getting well, and everything will be alright."

With that, she sent the young men on their way, hoping that they listened to her instructions. Wearily, she went inside The Mill to make her phone calls, wishing she could pull enough strings to help every youth in a similar situation. She took solace in this small act, glad that she was able to help even one person, as kind hearted people had helped her family in their years of struggle.

John was hanging up the phone from his call as she walked by. "Thank you, mom, for handling that. Everything is okay, then?" He asked, having noticed her sending the boys off.

With a small smile she nodded, glad to help her son, even in the simplest ways. "Yes, I've just got to make a few calls real quick, then I'll be on my way home." She disappeared inside to settle the matter.

Maggie

The Thornton's house was not what she had expected. In her mind, she'd always imagined a bleak, cold, modern building, fitting for someone like John and his permanent scowl. Instead, as she sat in the living room of their house, she looked around noticing the warm touches of the historic home. It was a huge place, as you'd expect, but not ostentatiously so. It was the kind of house she could imagine living comfortably in, filled with happy children and pets, laughter and memories. Shaking her head to rid it of those odd thoughts, she looked up as Mrs. Thornton reentered the room.