My supervisor, Kerry, was a strange woman both in appearance and demeanor. She had an obese person’s head, which sat atop an anorexic body. It was a jarring combination that, no matter how many times you saw it, always led to double takes. Encounters with Kerry always made me a little nervous. If I were being honest, this had more to do with my relationship to authority figures rather than her curiously confronting appearance. As I approached her office I could see her hurling heads of iceberg lettuce against the wall and yelling the names of zodiac signs with each impact. She caught me out of the corner of her eye and ushered me into her office.
“Hey, Bruce. Want to sling some lettuce?” she said in a voice that fluctuated in pitch. “What’s your star sign?”
“Umm… I’m a Scorpio.”
She took a step back and waved her hands comically. “Oh, I should keep away from you. You’re a dangerous one.”
I don’t know whether the smell hit her first but she caught a glimpse of the keyboard in my hands. “What’s all this about?”
“I had an accident, Kerry. Think I finally need a replacement.”
“You threw up on that, didn’t you?”
I nodded slightly, my cheeks flushing with shame.
“Are you okay, Bruce? Perhaps you should go home and sleep it off.”
“It’s okay. Just need to get my keyboard changed over so I can get back to it.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” She hurled another head of lettuce. “The tech budget is blown… unless… give me a minute, Bruce. I think I can help you out.”
A smile filled my face. I was finally about to receive something new. I imagined my fingers tapping the pristine keyboard and the smile grew larger. Kerry was on her hands and knees, boney arse jutting skyward. She was shuffling around under her desk. I remained lost in new keyboard fantasies.
“Eureka!” she yelled, eventually reemerging with another keyboard.
My heart sank. It was exactly the same as my current keyboard, sans vomit.
“I thought we’d trashed all these things. Pretty sure yours is the only computer it even works with. Your lucky day!”
“Thanks,” I seethed. I plucked the new/old keyboard from Kerry’s hand and stormed out of the office. I flung the old one in a bin. The sound of pelted lettuce accompanied my exit.
I was ruminating on the sheer inequity of life when my phone started barking. I dropped the new keyboard, a few keys coming loose and shooting straight up. With my phone in hand, I stared in dread. The message was from my doctor. I opened it with eyes shut. When they opened, I was faced with the following:
Hey Bruce. The Doc here. Checked out the tumour. It’s definitely a tumour. You’re pretty much fucked. It’s okay though. Heaps of people die of cancer. You should come and hear me jam some time. We seriously fucking rocked last night! Later, dude.
3.
“You’re gonna love this place, man. It’s called ‘The Tent’. All the people behind the bar dress in a tent! It’s nuts. You should see ‘em try to pour a drink in those things.”
Jerry was ecstatically happy. After receiving the text message to end all text messages, I decided that numbing my brain with alcohol was a good idea so I accepted his offer. He was bouncing down the footpath with me lagging behind.
“Gotta say, dude. I never expected you to actually get fucked up with me. I had you pinned as a stay at home kinda guy. Hell, it’s a Tuesday!”
“Normally I am that kind of guy. I just feel in the mood today.”
“How’s the ol’ upchuck problem?”
“Better,” I lied. Truth was, the nausea hadn’t subsided and now it was joined by a stabbing pain in the pit of my stomach. News of the cancer had given my body permission to start feeling everything that was wrong with it. Each ache was amplified and now it was almost as if I could feel the tumours in my bowel dancing. The birth of awareness heralds the death of ignorance, no matter how blissful.
“Know what we need, Brucey?”
“Please, tell me.”
“We gotta get laid! My balls are packing so much baby batter that I’m about to spit jizz.”
I found the upfront way in which Jerry spoke uncomfortable. The self-censor that controls most of us, especially me, didn’t appear active in him. Getting laid was something that filled me with excitement, but I knew it was unlikely to happen and I’d certainly never announce my desires out loud. My sexual life wasn’t something worth writing home about. I’d been laid once when I was in my mid-twenties. The girl’s name was Polly and she thought I was someone else. I was in the pharmacy picking up some medication for my mother and Polly waltzed in, drunk out of her mind. She stumbled toward me and lowered her sunglasses while staring. She kept calling me Patrick, asking over and over where I’d been. I tried being virtuous and informed her I wasn’t who she thought I was. The alcohol had a hold of her pretty bad though and she simply wouldn’t believe me. Before I could really comprehend what was happening, I’d been dragged back to her apartment. I was frozen with fear, wondering if it was finally about to happen. I watched as Polly stripped naked. It was such an unusual feeling to actually see a naked woman in person who wasn’t my mother. She climbed on top of me. My erection was so intense that it hurt. She tore into my pants like a birthday present and I watched in awe as this stranger manipulated my penis with her hands. I couldn’t believe that someone other than me was touching it — it looked so big in her small hands. After that, I became so paranoid about cumming that I couldn’t enjoy the moment she slipped me inside her. After five awkward hip twists, it was over. Polly collapsed beside me and I snuck out, never seeing her again. I was finally sexually active. A few years later, I accepted the fact I was dormant again. I guess I always assumed some dream sex life would greet me one day. Now that prediction seemed unlikely.
When we arrived at ‘The Tent’ I was reluctant to go inside. I hadn’t been in too many bars and on the occasions that I had, it was usually with large groups of people, allowing me to easily blend in. Now it was just Jerry and I, one on one. I would be expected to participate.
Jerry darted inside too fast for me to adequately procrastinate so, like the good lamb I was, I followed him. The bar was dark with long bars of garish, multi-coloured neon light strewn awkwardly about. Half-speed Shania Twain songs droned from the jukebox.
“They’re juke has been fucked for like, three years,” said Jerry. “How awesome is that? It’s become expected so they never bothered fixing it. People actually come for the slow-mo music. Weird fucking world, man”
The drifting music hovered above the room while clusters of people mapped various areas beneath. Their combined voices congealed into an ugly foreign language that hurt my ears. The bar itself was the only brightly lit area in the whole place. Three bar-staff dressed uncomfortably in tents were attempting to maneuver around each other while serving. They kept colliding, spilling drinks and looking understandably agitated.
“Let’s liquor ourselves up, man,” said Jerry, making a bee line for the bar.
He pushed through strangers and I followed, growing more disoriented with each step. I was led to a barstool and sat down gratefully.