The Classic Crusade of Corbin Cobbs

by Michael Ciardi

If any man expected to thrive with a sense of accomplishment, his first obligation was to eradicate the bitterness from his past. My own veiled rancor had ushered me to the place where I now hunkered like a beleaguered prisoner. When I awakened from my most recent episode, I found myself curled over in the front seat of my car, appearing more fetal than formidable in my pursuit to discover the source of my own ailment. After checking my watch, I realized that I had only about eight minutes to get to my scheduled appointment on time with Dr. Pearson. Fortunately, his office was no farther than a five-minute drive away from the high school.

  I inspected my face in the rearview mirror and cringed at the pallor currently pasted on my cheeks like an ivory mask. Particles of dried blood still crusted over my left nostril. Adding to my ghastly visage, my eye sockets looked increasingly hollow and rimmed with circles the color of deep contusions. At this point I considered it a minor miracle that I still had the resilience to forage through this day.

  Before leaving the parking lot, I noticed the afternoon buses lining up in front of the building, thereby marking an end to this school day. Most of the kids filed onto their respective buses as I drove my car out of the rear exit. I continued to assure myself that the majority of my spells occurred at least ten minutes apart; this justification was necessary for me to attempt to drive to Physicians’ Park. There was only one plaza constructed on the four-mile stretch of roadway between Ravendale and Willows Edge. As it was with most modern construction projects, larger retail conglomerates consumed the bulk of square footage. A Super Wal-Mart, roughly the size of an urban hospital, was solely responsible for bankrupting most of the mom-and-pop businesses along Main Street about ten years ago. But a few strategically placed medical residences made picking up a gallon of milk and eggs, along with a clean bill of health from the family doctor, a matter of convenience.

  My parents’ doctor was the senior William Pearson, who retired from medicine about five years before his death. In true nepotistic fashion, the elder groomed his oldest son to take over his practice. Since that transition over a decade ago, William Pearson Jr. successfully increased his father’s patient load threefold. Some attributed this growth to the ambitious son’s superior diagnostic skills and bedside manner, but I presumed it had more to do with a surge in Ravendale’s population. On the few occasions in which I did step into his office over the past several months, I was reminded of the need for a larger waiting room.

  The biggest challenge I encountered during the drive was after I arrived in the undersized parking lot. The bargain shoppers’ vehicles spilled over into a narrow area originally designated for the medical plaza. Despite numerous signs threatening fines and towing, people parked wherever a space opened up. Of all days, I hoped that my doctor’s secretary had slotted me in at a time when I wouldn’t have to stew in anxious silence among other patients. As I approached a neatly manicured landscape of perennials adorning the building’s front walkway, I paused and recited a passage from Dante’s The Inferno. From my perspective, the quote seemed strangely appropriate: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

  Before my headaches started to become unbearable a few months ago, I had inherited my father’s irresponsible strategy when it came to attending regular checkups by a doctor. Narrow-minded men like Chester Cobbs considered a physical examination to be a telltale indicator of frailty. It was either that or maybe he was just secretly afraid to discover the facts about his declining health. As a boy, I remembered admiring his toughness, but it was this same obdurate demeanor that steered such men into their graves prematurely.

  I couldn’t boast about four decades of a physician-free existence even before my symptoms became problematic, but I was by no means a regular customer. My mother had a much more proactive approach to evading illnesses. She spent the latter period of her life in various waiting rooms and pharmacies, warding off the inevitable. Ultimately, she outlived my father, but not without ingesting a cabinet full of medication on a nightly basis. I sometimes wondered if my father had the right idea all along.

  Obviously, I wasn’t in any state of mind to proclaim this as a lucky day for me, but at least the waiting room was essentially vacant when I entered the office. Maybe this was an omen of good news yet to come, but a morose-faced receptionist hastily dashed any hope I harbored of sustaining such an illusion. She sat motionless at an organized counter behind a plate glass window. This middle-aged woman, outfitted in blue scrubs, looked familiar; perhaps she assisted me on a prior visit. Yet I couldn’t be certain on this point. I remembered her hair being blacker, longer, and not flecked with as much silver around her temples.

  As I shuffled closer toward her station, I studied her expression with a measured scrutiny, thinking that she’d reveal something her in mannerisms that previewed what she no doubt already ascertained in regard to my health. At least I didn’t smell an odor of cucumbers permeating the office. The distinct detachment in her steely eyes was unmistakable, and I likened her gaze to the Ferryman of Hades before delivering the deceased travelers across the shores of the rivers Styx and Acheron. Eventually she forced a smile to straighten her pursed lips, and then a mode of professionalism resurfaced.

  “Hello, Mr. Cobbs,” she said in monotone. “If you’ll have a seat, Dr. Pearson will be right with you.”

  In such tense moments, I figured a dose of comic relief was the proper prescription. I jokingly gestured toward an empty column of vinyl chairs behind me and quipped, “Pretty dead in here today, huh?” Naturally, my ill-timed humor produced no trace of mirth in this receptionist’s hickory wood visage. She duplicated the same awkward gaze as my students after I tried to inject humor into the classroom before a major test. Before our conversation became even more discomfited, I retreated to the waiting area like a boy scolded by his mother.

  I didn’t claim to know what the interior of all doctors’ offices looked liked, but I assumed there was a circulating catalogue that the decorators of such venues followed dutifully. A calming shade of mint green paint bathed the walls. Randomly hung artwork consisted of framed reproductions of Robert Wood’s landscapes and a few sun-splashed cottage scenes by Thomas Kinkade. The furniture was cheap but pragmatic. A circular table stacked with an assortment of trendy magazines served its function for superficial reading material. Adding to this predictable ambiance, and perhaps my own misery, was elevator-inspired instrumentals piped in from speakers hidden in the ceiling. All of this fluff, of course, amounted to nothing more than a hackneyed disguise for the paranoid occupants who assembled beneath an intrusive glow of fluorescent light.

  After surveying the room, I noticed one other patient in company. He initially escaped my inspection because he purposely wedged himself into a corner seat out of view from anyone coming in or leaving the office. Evidently, the man was quite old, and visibly malnourished. His skin appeared as white as bleached linen, save for a stream of purple veins bursting through his hands and neck like uncoiled wire. As a matter of courtesy, I attempted to avoid staring at this haggard fellow, but this effort was similar to trying to avert a gaze from a terrible car wreck or fire.

  I instinctively grabbed a copy of an issue of Sports Illustrated from the table; at least it was the swimsuit addition. Then, still feigning an aura of disinterest in the antique man’s slouching posture, I sat down a few seats away from him. He didn’t acknowledge me at first, and I assumed he had drifted to sleep during his own wait. Ordinarily, the scantily clad images of airbrushed beauties sunbathing amidst tropical tides would’ve provided a sufficient diversion from this oldster, but my eyes kept swaying to him as if we had met before. For all I knew, it could’ve been in this very place.

  He sported an earthen-colored suit badly in need of tailoring and undoubtedly borrowed from a wardrobe dating back at least thirty years. His charcoal shoes and socks were tattered, seemingly as timeworn as their owner. I sensed apathy simmering beneath a grizzled brow. The guy had lived no fewer than eighty years, but whatever disease ravaged his gau
nt body made him appear at least ten years older. His eyes were generally mild, but stained colorless by cataracts. He reeked of unwashed armpits, cherry-flavored tobacco, and cheap booze. But there was another odor too that I couldn’t readily identify.

  Generally, when occupying space with strangers in any medical setting, it was wisest to keep conversation to a minimum, hence the hoard of magazines. Yet, within one’s mind, it was almost inevitable to compare illnesses to alleviate anxiety. I decided to keep my thoughts private, but offered a nod of my chin at the elder in case he sought any type of acknowledgment. It didn’t take him too long to breach waiting-room etiquette.

  “I liked your joke,” he murmured in a voice that sounded as if he chewed flaming tobacco leaves for the past five decades.

  “Thanks,” I responded, nearly forgetting what I said only a few minutes beforehand. “I guess this place could use a little lightheartedness, huh?”

  The wizened man then dislodged what sounded like a puddle of mucous from his throat, which he surreptitiously deposited into a handkerchief. I noticed two scars on his throat that gave a clue to the nature of his disease, but I refrained from asking any questions that might’ve upset him.

  “You look so young,” he wheezed, “much too damn young to be stuck in this hellish place anyway.”

  “I’m almost forty-three,” I informed him. But as I knew well, recent years hadn’t been especially kind at preserving my once-boyish features. In truth, I didn’t appear much healthier than the man sitting beside me, and he looked as if he had just crawled from a crypt to make this appointment. Whether sickly or otherwise, I realized that older people relished the past more so than the present. Seeing what grim ends we all had to look forward to, I couldn’t fault anyone in this capacity. After all, no one ever reminisced about being feeble and incontinent. I already surmised that this man’s appetite for nostalgia was just as famished as the rest of his body.

  “Would you believe me if I told you I never smoked a cigarette in my entire eighty-three years of life? God be my witness on that one.” I wasn’t certain if his question was rhetorical, so I politely shrugged my shoulders while flipping through the magazine. “How was I supposed to know that cigars would be my downfall? My own pop puffed on them for sixty years and never had so much as a sore throat.”

  “Some things can’t be predicted in life,” I offered. Admittedly, my response was robotically lazy and cold, but I didn’t want to pretend to care more about his predicament more than the one currently confronting me. My indifference, however, did not dissuade the man from proceeding with his rant on human suffering.

  “Let me tell you something: once cancer gets you in its greedy clutches, it ain’t lettin’ go. And believe me, I’m the last fellow in Ravendale who’d ever give up in a winnable fight. Hell, I worked for over forty years without missing a day’s work.”

  Not so atypically, this oldster seemed eager to prove to me that he still possessed the vigor of a much younger man. I had no cause to contradict him. But I was more intrigued that he lived in this area for so long and I didn’t recognize him, at least by his present appearance. I decided now was as good as time as any to redirect the course of our conversation.

  “How long have you lived in Ravendale, sir?” I asked.

  The codger scratched his balding head with a crusty fingernail before replying, “Must be over half a century now, give or take a year.”

  “I’m surprised we never met. I’ve lived in Willows Edge most of my life, too.”

  “Is that so? What’s your name, stranger?”

  “Corbin Cobbs.”

  The man’s expression froze momentarily as he pondered what I told him. “I knew there was something a tad familiar about you,” he commented in a raspy voice. “You wouldn’t be related to a Chester Cobbs, would ya?” My face must’ve looked equally petrified upon hearing him mention this name.

  “He was my father,” I declared. “Did you know him?”

  The oldster snickered at me unabashedly before proclaiming, “Indeed I did. We worked together for close to thirty years at Tillens. Your old man was a hard workin’ fellow, mainly. Accept my belated condolences on his passing.”

  “Of course. Thank you. What is your name, sir?”

  “Benjamin Hunchler. The guys around the plant used to call me Benji. It still suits me fine to go by that name.”

  “You know, Benji, I think I remember my father mentioning your name from time to time, but I don’t recall seeing you at his funeral.”

  “I don’t go to funerals. They’re for dead people. I’m still tryin’ to wangle a scheme to keep from attendin’ my own.”

  The old man’s unforeseen humor induced a modest chuckle from me. I might’ve even laughed more audaciously if he hadn’t instigated such an eerie chill to stir within me. After I repeated his name a few times over in my head, I began to remember some of the stories my father shared with my mother over the dinner table about Benjamin Hunchler. To my memory, most people who knew him referred to his antics in less than flattering terms. My father was no different in this regard. As foreman of Tillens’ Labeling, Benji merited the reputation as a domineering, belligerent boozer who verbally harassed his employees regularly.

  It was difficult to look upon this cracked shell of a man now and link him to the brooding image my father depicted. But Chester Cobbs rarely censored or exaggerated his opinions of people he despised, especially in the seclusion of his own home. In such moments, I wondered if it was fair to judge a man’s temperament based on hearsay. I decided to refrain from provoking the formerly cantankerous guy by rekindling such memories. Many years ago my father forwarded some indispensable insight about the truth: two versions existed, and the reality resided somewhere between them both. Besides, I had neither a desire nor the determination to extract the other half from a dying drunkard. I was perfectly content to permit our introduction to end at this moment, but Benji viewed this as an opportunity—perhaps his last—to spew forth some gin-laced rhetoric into the room.

  “Here’s my philosophy on life,” he continued as if each slurred word had invaluable import. “The crueler a man is, the longer he’ll likely survive. Take me as an example. There probably ain’t three people in this entire town who wouldn’t describe me as the rottenest son-of-a-cuss who ever lived in Ravendale. But in spite of what they’d say, I’m still breathin’. Even mouth and throat cancer can’t take me down as quickly as it does others. Up until a few years ago, I hadn’t experienced so much as a hangnail, and I’ve drunk, womanized, and cursed every goddamned day of my life. Funny thing is, Corbin, most of those folks who despised me are already nestled in for their dirt naps. You hearin’ my point? It’s not bein’ wicked that kills a fella; it’s holdin’ it inside that rots a man’s body from marrow to flesh.”

  It’s common sense to recognize that a man with alcohol on his breath was not a good source of wisdom. But I still couldn’t assess this observation as purely being the drivel of an inebriated cynic. What if Benjamin Hunchler was right? As I sat contemplating this dour possibility, I felt the sting of the old man’s eyes jabbing at my skin like two heated sickles. He already perceived a characteristic about me that I was unwilling or unable to amend.

  “Look at you,” he remarked piteously. “You can’t be half my age and yet you look like a man who’s already givin’ up.”

  “I’d rather not talk about it right now. Okay?”

  “I guess it has to be okay, but keepin’ the misery harnessed inside ya ain’t gonna make your pain go away any sooner. Look how far your silent agony has gotten you in life, Corbin. You’ve become an enemy to yourself, and I rate that as a whole lot more loathsome than being surrounded by a room full of people who hate your stinkin’ guts.”

  As Benji relayed his thoughts in unrestricted terms, I felt bits of spittle flicking off his tongue and spattering against my cheeks. Rather than move from my current position, I glanced toward the receptionist. She still perched like a militant official
behind her glass and drywall fortress, which was seemingly impervious to the banter occurring less than fifteen feet away from her. The woman didn’t even acknowledge my discomfort. Meanwhile, since I neglected to chide Benji for his unsolicited analysis, he viewed this oversight as permission to bore a bit deeper into the pockets of my persona.

  “I want you to know something about your father,” he told me. “As I said, Chester was a reliable worker, which is more than I can say for half of those slackers down at that plant back in those days. Like most plain-minded folks, he lived for his job. But let me ask you something personal. Did you ever see your father smile when he came home from work at the end of the day?”

  “My father didn’t smile very often,” I thought aloud.

  “I figured as much. Shit, I guess there wasn’t much to smile about after comin’ home from Tillens. Fixin’ labels on cans and bottles ain’t all that thrillin’ when you come right down to it, if you know what I mean.”

  “Well, considering how many hours my father put in at that factory, I always believed he found some escapism from it. I know this much: he spent more time worrying about his paychecks than he did his family.”

  “Sounds like someone didn’t get enough daddy time.”

  “Look, Benji,” I said adamantly, “I didn’t come here today to discuss my father, and I don’t think you did either. So why don’t we just drop this subject right now, huh?”

  “Why? Is it makin’ you a tad edgy to talk about your old man?”

  “I said drop it. I’m not kidding.”

  “At least you’re showin’ a bit of moxie now,” he commended me. “But for your own damn good, let me clue you in on something vital. Trust me, I’m not one for idle chatter. Just like you, I got business elsewhere. I mentioned your old man for a reason. Hell, I’ve known you just shy of five minutes and I can already see that the nut didn’t roll far from the chestnut tree. You and your daddy have a lot in common. Chester was the type of fella who kept things to himself, which ain’t so bad all the time. But a boilin’ vat has got to let off steam now and again. Am I makin’ any damn sense to you?”

  “I don’t want to think about this right now. Didn’t I make myself clear?”

  “Let me end this by sayin’ that it’s worth gettin’ a little riled from time to time. Besides, you ain’t doin’ anyone any favors by keepin’ all that resentment shackled in your head. If you do, it’ll turn your brain to muck.”

  “The only thing I’m resenting right now is that you think I’m walking around angry at the world.”

  “Not the world, Corbin, just the people in it,” Benji muttered. “I’m tellin’ you what I would’ve told my own son if I ever had one. Young men fight for what others tell em’ to believe in. Old fellas take arms for what they truly feel. When you find out what makes your own pulse pump faster, then you’ll know where to draw the scrimmage line.”

  Benjamin Hunchler then settled back against his chair and assumed the quiescent posture that I witnessed when first entering the waiting room. But it was already too late to pretend his words hadn’t unnerved me. I sensed a chill seeping down the length of my spine as I studied his wan features. Naturally, most of my sorrowful thoughts bent towards my father. Was Chester Cobbs really an embittered man? It’s not as though I hadn’t considered this possibility before, but it registered as realer when delivered by a source outside my family.

  If this was so, how much did I ever really know about the man Chester Cobbs? Perhaps it was an unfair expectation for any son to comprehend his father’s yearnings. Most of us were conditioned at an early age to believe that parents thrived only through the accomplishments of their children. It dismayed me to speculate that my father catered to my needs while simultaneously neglecting his own. How could I ever be expected to repay a man for his selfless sacrifices when I was too young to appreciate them? In truth, I never discovered the things my father cherished. What music did he listen to? Who was his favorite ballplayer? What did he dream about when he was a young man? Sadly, I knew the answer to none of these questions.

  If I remained in this setting for another minute contemplating these unchangeable regrets, I might’ve instigated another episode. But the receptionist must’ve watched me fidget in my chair one too many times. In the process, I nearly tore the magazine I held in half. She maneuvered from behind her desk and opened the door, thereby giving access to Dr. Pearson’s examination room. Since Benjamin was obviously waiting longer than me, I wondered why he wasn’t called in first. But I didn’t let a possible oversight stop me from jumping ahead of him. If I was a religious man, now might’ve been the appropriate time to recite a hundred prayers. But the only heady words in my mind at the moment were the final ones uttered to me by my father before he died: ‘I want to live.’

  Chapter 57

  2:59 P.M.