Calculus

When he woke up his throat was fucked. This was the third time in three or four months, so he knew what came next: fever, vomiting, sleeping twenty hours a day until the sweat washed everything out, and he was fired. The boss already said next time you’re out.

Thank god you don’t have a family, John. A couple guys there have wives and kids, you know, they’re proud at lunch, but sometimes they whisper their fears. If they fell. If their ankle. You know. There are a thousand ways to lose. You flex your muscles and go back to work.

He stood up and lurched for the closet, the only candle in the predawn room. If he can get his boots on he can get out the door. If he can get out the door, he can get on the bus. If he can get on the bus, he’ll be there when the pickup comes. The boss will see he’s sick, he’ll send John home and he won’t get paid, but he won’t get fired either. He gets a flannel on. Gets a hat on. He leaves the layers, the waffleweave and the t-shirt—with this kind of fever you just sweat straight through and end up colder than you need to be. What you need are your boots and your will. And your health.

Four flights to the front door. Only a long block to the bus.

The doctor already told you, man. A tonsillectomy. Five hundred bucks and a couple of hours. “That’s not bad, Mr. Smith. Best price in the world.” It’s all just calculus.

Amoxicillin and tap water.

He lies under three covers trying to force the sweat out. Dr. Doctor said it looked like rats had been gnawing on them. Two hundred and something for the look, then five hundred to get the little oysters cut out. Three months more to night school.

“Computers, that’s the key. Know the computers, know the world."

Is this story different if his name is Juan?