Thicker Than Blood | Page 4

headed for trouble. Why? You're smart. There are
plenty of hobbies you can do that don't endanger your health." Any hint
of sarcasm was gone. "If you want to design machines, fine. But why
continue building them yourself. Your friends know how to work a
wrench, don't they?" "Yes," Joe said quietly. Joe knew a few things

about himself. He liked being athletic, liked building things, and when
he had a good idea, he had lots of trouble expressing it. Most of the
time it didn't bother him, except at times like this. Joe became flustered.
"They can't do things like I can. I can't explain how things fit together,
they just do." "I know I am not your mother, but if you continue to do
this type of work yourself, then I see no choice," Dr. Graceland said in
a condescending, prissy tone. Here comes an ultimatum, Joe thought.
"We had difficulty obtaining the right blood type for you yesterday. We
had to give you half plasma. If you came in for your coagulant shots
every week like you are supposed to, it wouldn't have been so bad. You
need to be here at the hospital, the Tuesday after next to donate blood
to yourself, and every week after that for your shot. I'll be here after
six." Joe breathed again. He was off the hook for now. His father and
aunt bombarded him all the time with extraneous reminders of his
illness. His case was pretty severe. Acne could be an all day affair.
Nosebleeds were frequent and endless. Hemophilia could easily kill Joe,
but he focused his attention on matters more important to men of
twenty-two, as often as his health could stand it. As far as Joe was
concerned, that was all anybody could ask of him. Joe thought about
the extra cash overtime would make him. His mind wandered as he ran
a small winch he had mounted to the transmission cross-member. Its
braided steel cable was pulling a rusty mu?er horizontally toward the
passenger's side of the charcoal gray car. The mu?er was held against
the underside of car by a piece of heavy threaded pipe. Joe operated the
winch from a remote, attached by a dangling wire that almost brushed
the ground. Joe stood about three feet away, just enough to see what
was happening in the dim worklight. A rusty bolt snapped. When he
saw the tailpipe and mu?er give way, he reacted as fast as any human
could. The mu?er swung to the side and down. The steel pipe holding
the mu?er to the car was yanked in the direction of the mu?er's descent.
He leaned back lifting his left foot and pivoting on his right. He felt
something brush against his shop jacket. The quick action had thrown
his body and leg clear of the diving pipe, but pipe caught the wire
attached to the winch remote. The winch remote was yanked from Joe's
hands. The sound of the remote being smashed on the ground was
barely audible over the loud clang of the steel pipe. "That was close,"
he reverberated in the silent garage. Breathing heavily, he walked to the

nearest wall switch and flicked it on. He tossed his shop jacket on the
floor, pulled his shirt off and examined his bare upper body which was
lean and muscular. After spending several minutes examining his arms,
he determined he was not bruised or scratched. He did discover he was
covered with goosebumps. People at work knew of his condition, but
had no idea how severe it was. Two years had passed since he started
working at this garage, and he had managed to avoid a single incident.
To avoid special attention, he built his gizmos after hours. Nervous a
confrontation about his unfinished work would reveal the truth, he
walked to a desk in the corner of the room and scribbled a hasty note
for his boss that he had a family emergency. He was done for the night,
his nerves were shot. He was careful about what he said, he liked his
job and a good job was hard to find. Times were tough. Joe barely
remembered the roaring nineties, he was too young to appreciate the
spoils of the time. He did remember his mom and dad being too busy
for him with all the work they were doing. His father compared the
hard times to the depression his great grandfather lived through. He
called it the endless recession. He lifted the phone receiver and dialed a
thirteen-digit number. He held the receiver to his ear, but the sound of
the ring tone still echoed in the vacant shop.
"Hello?" A voice answered in a light Indian accent. "Hi Mark. How's it
going?" "Hey what's up. Are you