I. Denial Duck. It was Monday morning while shaving when Frank first realized his skin was rather—thinning for lack of a better word.
Standing before the mirror in a towel, he felt his chest looked a bit more veiny than usual. Like an earthworm on a wet sidewalk.
And, then, a minute later, scraping the stubble off his cheek, he felt as if god dammit he could see his teeth right through the skin.
He’d been getting skinnier for a month now. Noticeably in the past week or so. Finding his pants suddenly roomy. Shirts not stuck to his belly. Using virgin belt buckle holes. Noticeable to him, that was. His wife hadn’t noticed. Nor his kids, nor his boss, nor co-workers nor the cashier in the coffee shop.
He’d been turning this over and over in his mind. Cancer of course was the likely answer. Cancer of what?—that was the real question. Lungs maybe. He’s smoked before having the kids. Colon? Maybe. He did eat like shit. Brain? Of course. Probably. Skin? Surely. Everyone had a touch.
This was more than a touch. Much more. He was becoming clear. See-through, for fuck’s sake. Disappearing even. He grinned in the mirror not bothering to bear his teeth which could plainly be seen through closed lips. Whatever. If he was really sick he’d feel sick. By the look in the mirror, he ought to feel sick as shit. But he didn’t. He felt fine.
He took a shower noting a few more clumps of hair in the shower than usual. Whatever. He toweled, tiptoed out the master bath past his sleeping wife and down the hall to his room to dress.
He selected some dark sunglasses to hide eyes that seemed to swim in their sockets. The lids probably did little against the sun anyway. This was only a problem if it got noticed. Wife. Kids. Co-workers. Boss. Cashier at the coffee shop. Till then he was fine. Everything was fine.
II. Angry Owl. It was Clarice at Java World who first said, “You know, you look like shit, Joe.”
“It’s Frank,” he sighed, “And I know.”
So. That one didn’t count. At least by his estimation.
When his co-workers offered similar comment. Well, that didn’t count for one reason or another, either. It just pissed him off. Finally his boss called him aside and said, “Seriously, Frank, you look like hell. Like death warmed over. Go home for chrissake.”
“Fuck you.” Frank said flatly in return, “Fuck all of you.” He whirled around the room. Forty-fifty-sixty hours a week he slaved at this job and now they wanted to bail on him just because he looked a little peaked. Fuck them all, he thought, and stormed out.
“What’re you doing home?” his wife asked when he banged in the front door.
“Nothing!” he snapped, but as he threw his satchel down and passed by on his way to the kitchen, he added, “I’m sick!” From the sofa she watched him yank a bottle of Otis Dinklelacker out of the pantry.
“Drinking?”
“I’m sick!” he huffed again and retreated down the hall to his room with a slam and a bang.
Inside he stripped off his hat, coat, sunglasses, suit, shirt, tie. He sat on the bed and looked at himself in the mirror over the bureau as he uncapped the rye and took a swig. He could see it swoosh around in his mouth. Through the teeth, over the gums, he thought, Look out stomach here it comes. He closed his eyes as he swallowed but little good that did through crepe eyelids. Instead he regrettably saw what he was trying to avoid seeing: the brown gulp of whiskey ooze its way down his esophagus into his stomach. Fuck! He thought again, crossed to the light switch and flicked it off and pulled the curtains shut before finding a chair in the corner and drinking till sleep caught him.
III. Bargaining Bluebird. When Frank awoke he was weak. Very weak. He was also glad to be alive. But his fingers instinctively flew to his wrist to assess his pulse. It was there, sure. It was shallow but rapid. A little bird’s heart. Worse, he could easily get two fingers entirely around his wrist. He was becoming frail, hollow. His bones felt sucked of marrow. Things were progressing much too fast.
Perhaps he should have seen a doctor. He’d known that for some weeks of course. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. He capped the rye and tossed it in wastebasket. It was still dark out. His doctor wouldn’t be in for some time. There was the emergency room, of course. He didn’t want to frighten the family.
Whatever he had, he’d neglected it. And he was sorry. He’d have to pay for that. But that was okay. He’d hit a doctor when the sun came up. For now, he’d eat something. Get his strength back. That was all.
He expected they’d have to cut some huge black mass out of some part of his body. Week or month of IV fluids, physical therapy. That was fair. He had thought he could escape this disease as easy as he’d been avoiding confrontation with his wife. And Kids and Boss. And co-workers. And Clarice. Hiding, down a hall somewhere in a trench coat and sunglasses.
But you can’t fly forever. Own up. He would. He’d live. He’d go wake his wife and tell her. Tell her he wasn’t hiding from his feelings anymore. Tell her he loved her. Right now. Before his heart burst from his chest.
As it seemed it might.
IV. Depression Dodo. Frank stole down the hallway towards his wife’s—their—bedroom. He pulled on his clothes, including the coat and hat as no need to frighten her right off and besides. He was cold now. He flung himself head long into the room. He couldn’t help it anymore. His head felt huge, bobbling atop his wasted body.
But she wasn’t there. The bed hadn’t been slept in. The kids’ rooms were equally empty. He went to the bathroom sink to splash what remained of his face. A note there. She’d taken the kids. She could be reached at her friend Carmine’s should he feel like talking about his anger and his drinking and his silence.
Well, then, there wasn’t too much to do now he thought. Save fish the bottle out of the trash in the guest—his—bedroom. Which he did. No, there wasn’t much to do now. He sat at the kitchen table and attempted to cry. But what little moisture he could muster was hot and stinging, dissolving the little remaining flesh along the side of his nose. But that too was mostly gone. At a certain angle the thin gauze that used to be his nose could still be seen between his eyes. The ears were about the same. He took the wide-brimmed hat off and found the remains of his hair stuck to the inside. No. Not much more he could do now.
V. Accepting Eagle. It didn’t hurt though.
By then, he figured his very atomic bonds must be coming apart. Molecules stretching, straining. Dawn was near. His last.
He’d go out. If he crested the hill in their back yard, he could see as far as the ocean. Remember? He asked himself, taking back up his hat and coat. That’s why you talked her into buying the place. Well, mortgaging it anyway. It was one of the only battles he won over the years. And as he slipped out and partly through the sliding patio door, he felt sorry she’d be responsible for paying off the remainder.
He clipped across the yard like nothing. Literally, nothing. He felt he was taking leaps and bounds but he’d need legs for that. He’d need mass. Sailing over the sun chairs he was not so much more than a cloud of atoms. And a consciousness. All lightly stitched together by a trench coat and hat and glasses. An ocean breeze kicked past as he crested the hill catching the hat and coat on an updraft. Particles scattered.
He was flying.
Standing before the mirror in a towel, he felt his chest looked a bit more veiny than usual. Like an earthworm on a wet sidewalk.
And, then, a minute later, scraping the stubble off his cheek, he felt as if god dammit he could see his teeth right through the skin.
He’d been getting skinnier for a month now. Noticeably in the past week or so. Finding his pants suddenly roomy. Shirts not stuck to his belly. Using virgin belt buckle holes. Noticeable to him, that was. His wife hadn’t noticed. Nor his kids, nor his boss, nor co-workers nor the cashier in the coffee shop.
He’d been turning this over and over in his mind. Cancer of course was the likely answer. Cancer of what?—that was the real question. Lungs maybe. He’s smoked before having the kids. Colon? Maybe. He did eat like shit. Brain? Of course. Probably. Skin? Surely. Everyone had a touch.
This was more than a touch. Much more. He was becoming clear. See-through, for fuck’s sake. Disappearing even. He grinned in the mirror not bothering to bear his teeth which could plainly be seen through closed lips. Whatever. If he was really sick he’d feel sick. By the look in the mirror, he ought to feel sick as shit. But he didn’t. He felt fine.
He took a shower noting a few more clumps of hair in the shower than usual. Whatever. He toweled, tiptoed out the master bath past his sleeping wife and down the hall to his room to dress.
He selected some dark sunglasses to hide eyes that seemed to swim in their sockets. The lids probably did little against the sun anyway. This was only a problem if it got noticed. Wife. Kids. Co-workers. Boss. Cashier at the coffee shop. Till then he was fine. Everything was fine.
II. Angry Owl. It was Clarice at Java World who first said, “You know, you look like shit, Joe.”
“It’s Frank,” he sighed, “And I know.”
So. That one didn’t count. At least by his estimation.
When his co-workers offered similar comment. Well, that didn’t count for one reason or another, either. It just pissed him off. Finally his boss called him aside and said, “Seriously, Frank, you look like hell. Like death warmed over. Go home for chrissake.”
“Fuck you.” Frank said flatly in return, “Fuck all of you.” He whirled around the room. Forty-fifty-sixty hours a week he slaved at this job and now they wanted to bail on him just because he looked a little peaked. Fuck them all, he thought, and stormed out.
“What’re you doing home?” his wife asked when he banged in the front door.
“Nothing!” he snapped, but as he threw his satchel down and passed by on his way to the kitchen, he added, “I’m sick!” From the sofa she watched him yank a bottle of Otis Dinklelacker out of the pantry.
“Drinking?”
“I’m sick!” he huffed again and retreated down the hall to his room with a slam and a bang.
Inside he stripped off his hat, coat, sunglasses, suit, shirt, tie. He sat on the bed and looked at himself in the mirror over the bureau as he uncapped the rye and took a swig. He could see it swoosh around in his mouth. Through the teeth, over the gums, he thought, Look out stomach here it comes. He closed his eyes as he swallowed but little good that did through crepe eyelids. Instead he regrettably saw what he was trying to avoid seeing: the brown gulp of whiskey ooze its way down his esophagus into his stomach. Fuck! He thought again, crossed to the light switch and flicked it off and pulled the curtains shut before finding a chair in the corner and drinking till sleep caught him.
III. Bargaining Bluebird. When Frank awoke he was weak. Very weak. He was also glad to be alive. But his fingers instinctively flew to his wrist to assess his pulse. It was there, sure. It was shallow but rapid. A little bird’s heart. Worse, he could easily get two fingers entirely around his wrist. He was becoming frail, hollow. His bones felt sucked of marrow. Things were progressing much too fast.
Perhaps he should have seen a doctor. He’d known that for some weeks of course. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. He capped the rye and tossed it in wastebasket. It was still dark out. His doctor wouldn’t be in for some time. There was the emergency room, of course. He didn’t want to frighten the family.
Whatever he had, he’d neglected it. And he was sorry. He’d have to pay for that. But that was okay. He’d hit a doctor when the sun came up. For now, he’d eat something. Get his strength back. That was all.
He expected they’d have to cut some huge black mass out of some part of his body. Week or month of IV fluids, physical therapy. That was fair. He had thought he could escape this disease as easy as he’d been avoiding confrontation with his wife. And Kids and Boss. And co-workers. And Clarice. Hiding, down a hall somewhere in a trench coat and sunglasses.
But you can’t fly forever. Own up. He would. He’d live. He’d go wake his wife and tell her. Tell her he wasn’t hiding from his feelings anymore. Tell her he loved her. Right now. Before his heart burst from his chest.
As it seemed it might.
IV. Depression Dodo. Frank stole down the hallway towards his wife’s—their—bedroom. He pulled on his clothes, including the coat and hat as no need to frighten her right off and besides. He was cold now. He flung himself head long into the room. He couldn’t help it anymore. His head felt huge, bobbling atop his wasted body.
But she wasn’t there. The bed hadn’t been slept in. The kids’ rooms were equally empty. He went to the bathroom sink to splash what remained of his face. A note there. She’d taken the kids. She could be reached at her friend Carmine’s should he feel like talking about his anger and his drinking and his silence.
Well, then, there wasn’t too much to do now he thought. Save fish the bottle out of the trash in the guest—his—bedroom. Which he did. No, there wasn’t much to do now. He sat at the kitchen table and attempted to cry. But what little moisture he could muster was hot and stinging, dissolving the little remaining flesh along the side of his nose. But that too was mostly gone. At a certain angle the thin gauze that used to be his nose could still be seen between his eyes. The ears were about the same. He took the wide-brimmed hat off and found the remains of his hair stuck to the inside. No. Not much more he could do now.
V. Accepting Eagle. It didn’t hurt though.
By then, he figured his very atomic bonds must be coming apart. Molecules stretching, straining. Dawn was near. His last.
He’d go out. If he crested the hill in their back yard, he could see as far as the ocean. Remember? He asked himself, taking back up his hat and coat. That’s why you talked her into buying the place. Well, mortgaging it anyway. It was one of the only battles he won over the years. And as he slipped out and partly through the sliding patio door, he felt sorry she’d be responsible for paying off the remainder.
He clipped across the yard like nothing. Literally, nothing. He felt he was taking leaps and bounds but he’d need legs for that. He’d need mass. Sailing over the sun chairs he was not so much more than a cloud of atoms. And a consciousness. All lightly stitched together by a trench coat and hat and glasses. An ocean breeze kicked past as he crested the hill catching the hat and coat on an updraft. Particles scattered.
He was flying.
Comments
Post a Comment