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October 27, 2004
cancer
There were six of us sitting there with a shot glass in front of each of us. We had two bottles of whisky on hand, one of Crown Royal (to be consumed first) and one of Jim Beam (to be consumed after). We starting doing rounds, and we went fairly fast. I had six shots inside my stomach, and was just remarking how not very drunk I felt, when those six shots must've finished whatever pow-wow they were holding, and stuck their fists in the middle and yelled "break!" Before you know it, I knew it: this was the most drunk I'd ever been in twenty-seven years of life.
Next thing I knew, I'm sitting on the floor because it was handy, and that's where my friends were. Things were hilariously funny. Things were incredibly sad. I felt disconnected, I felt I was part of a pack. People who never cried were crying, telling me to hang in there. I could beat this thing, I was told. I was the greatest guy, it just wasn't fair. That's life, I told them. I was reeling, swimming, drifting. I pulled myself up onto an ottoman and sat like an emperor, surveying my empire. Grimacing and groping on the floor, like children looking for contact lenses, my friends and my wife were hugging each other. Some of them smoked and didn't act very drunk, but sat on the floor like amiable adults interacting with the kids.
Why had I never done this before? Why would I never do it again? I had to go home. I had to get up in the morning, make a presentation, shake hands, seal a deal. I made a show of standing up, and found that I could manage if I stood still. I took a step, and crumpled, catching my fall with my left hand. There was a vague pain in my wrist, nothing serious. But the serious little voice which was prepping me to get home to sleep, to get up for the presentation knew it was serious. I finally staggered out into the cool night air, across the overgrown grass of the backyard, into the alley. I stood swaying for a moment, like a man about to relieve himself, and stared up into the crystalline sky. The stars danced with me, streaking from right to left, moving as I moved, but opposite. My eyes began to fill, and I moved my mouth to speak some thanks to heaven. Then I stuck my finger into the back of my mouth, bent double, and wretched out my dinner.
The six shots (or what was left of them) came out the way they went in, but with no shot glass. I was on my knees I don't know how long. My head began to clear, and I saw my left hand was now clutching a vomit covered tuft of grass. My mouth tasted like acid, but the stink was gradually yielding to the smell of cigarette smoke. I looked up at my friend who was standing quietly, looking up at the sky, his long-ashed cigarette dangling from his lips. I stuggled up, and he offered me his pack of cigarettes without looking at me. I hastily wiped my left hand on my jacket, took a cigarette with my right hand, spit a couple times into the grass, and lit up.
"You're going to fight this thing, man."
"Yeah." I said. I inhaled shakily and stared back up at the sky. This time the stars were melting together. "I'm going to fight this thing."
Posted by joel at October 27, 2004 01:58 AM
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Comments
Thank you for sharing - I certainly don't know how I'd handle such news. Keep fighting. (or is the fight over? if so - congratulations)
Posted by: Worldgineer at October 27, 2004 12:22 PM
wooshk. This was strong, descriptive stuff, Joel. You're handy with the fiction, aintcha.
(Now where did I put my tuft of vomit covered grass? Had it just a second ago...)
Posted by: honest + popular at October 27, 2004 01:22 PM
Love this one so much to the tenth power. good work.
Posted by: k_sra at October 27, 2004 01:49 PM
Yeah, sorry, World, wasn't trying to punk anybody. This is a work of fiction. I don't have cancer (knock on wood), but much of the rest of the story was based on personal experience.
Posted by: Joel at October 27, 2004 05:29 PM
It's ok. I'm getting used to it.
Posted by: Worldgineer at October 28, 2004 12:22 PM
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