The Tumours Made Me Interesting (15 page)

Belinda came running back from the other room and saw us laughing on the ground and the water pouring down around us. “Think the pipe’s broken,” she said.

“Blame Jerry!’ I yelled.

“Nah… blame Brucey’s face.”

We continued laughing.

“Well now I don’t know who or what to blame. Should we try and fix it?”

Jerry helped me to my feet and I fell to the bed. “I don’t know how to fix pipes,” I said. “Do either of you?”

They both shook their heads so hard that Belinda’s quail flew away. She went chasing after it, forgetting about the broken pipe. “Think I’ll just leave it,” I confided to Jerry.

“Yeah… fuck that! Plumbers are expensive and they steal all your underwear.”

We both sat on my bed, the apartment slowly filling with water, flotsam floating around our feet. We spent some time practicing our high fives – this time slowly and gently to avoid further carnage.

“Hell!” said Jerry. “I nearly forgot. I actually came here for a reason.”

It was strange to hear Jerry say this. Until those words left his mouth, I had forgotten he had ever arrived. In my mind he had always been there, in this room. My mind really was starting to slip.

“I came to take you out tonight. Ever since our last adventure, I’ve acquired a taste for partying with you. What do ya say? Feel like getting fucked up and hitting on some women?”

With my newfound confidence buzzing about inside me, I didn’t want to refuse. I knew exactly where I wanted to go. I was a little concerned though. Fiona had expressly forbidden me to leave the apartment without her. She claimed that in my condition I was liable to wander aimlessly into oblivion, never to be found again. But this was different… Jerry would be my guide and keep me safe.

“Let’s go to the Tent Bar again,’ I said.

Jerry slapped his thigh. “You have balls man! Not too many jump at the chance to return to the scene of the crime, if you get my meaning.”

Whether I had balls or not didn’t interest me. I had my mind on one goal – talking to tent girl. I had to know what happened between us that night. I didn’t even know if she’d still be there or if she’d even recognise me. It didn’t matter. I had nothing to lose.

The water continued its slow rise, displacing whatever it came into contact with. Dead insect husks floated to the surface and tickled my toes.

“Oh shit!” blurted Jerry, “I nearly forgot. I have a note from work they wanted me to give to you.”

I watched as Jerry jammed fingers down his throat and foraged around. He was mumbling spit-soaked words that meant nothing to me. Along with strings on internal slop, he retrieved the letter. It was warm and wet in my hands and tore as I unfolded it. It contained the unmistakable, almost Arabic looking, handwriting of my supervisor, Kerry:

Salutations, Bruce,

It has come to my attention that your illness (bowel cancer) has achieved an irreversible state. This news has hit me very personally as I once watched a movie about a man suffering from cancer. It was harrowing and I’d be lying if I said I appreciated the memories your condition has stirred within me. I’m more than willing to forgive the inconsiderate nature of your actions in the interest of harmony. It takes two to tango, after all.

As you know, your position was to remain intact, waiting for your eventual return to the workplace. The meerkats we had replace you are doing a marvelous job and performing their daily duties with a previously unthinkable efficiency. With your death imminent, we have decided to let you go. This has been a very difficult decision and once again, I’m rather upset that you forced me to make it. From what I understand, you were a dependable employee. I’m also led to believe that you refused numerous technology upgrades. We need go-getters, Bruce and your pathological desire to maintain the status quo doesn’t gel with our mission statement at The Nipple Blamers.

I hope this letter finds you in good spirits.

Warmest everything,

Kerry Cartwright-Mueller

The words dove into my consciousness and drowned. I couldn’t help but laugh with joy. My job – that horrible spectre of my previous life was now officially gone. I never had to go back. When I glanced at Jerry, it was no longer as a co-worker, but as a friend.

“What does the letter say?” asked Jerry.

“Open your mouth,” I demanded in reply.

With his mouth wide open, I proceeded to jam the letter back down Jerry’s throat. “It’s nothing. Let it become shit. Swallow the fucker down.”

His face turned bright red as he momentarily choked on the paper before forcing it down his gullet.

“When do we leave?” I asked.

I felt like a teenager sneaking out at night in order to experience mischief. I held Jerry’s hand and together we crept through the lounge room. Just as Belinda had said, everyone was hypnotised in front of the television playing Kid Icarus. Their eyes were unblinking squares of jelly as they focused on the 8-bit sprites. Belinda was busying herself with the quail. She had foraged a small tuxedo from her hair, which she was forcing on the little bird. With the exaggerated steps of a cartoon character sneaking up on its victim, we reached the door. After a brief game of rock, paper, scissors, played in order to ascertain who would be tasked with opening the door, Jerry turned the knob. A short time later we were out and ready to live it up.

2.

J
erry had to carry me for most of our trek to the Tent Bar. My legs weren’t very reliable anymore. My energy levels were fluctuating to the point where one minute I’d feel like I could run a marathon, and the next, I’d be flailing around on the ground. The second time I fell over, Jerry scooped me up without warning and flung me over his shoulder. I didn’t fight it. It was like I was flying. Like I was a superhero – Cancer Man! We must have looked a little odd as we made our way up the crowded city footpath. We attracted more stares than a fisting demonstration. I felt amazing. I reached out my hands, attempting to solicit high fives. Nobody felt the desire to give me one. All that time I’d previously spent practicing with Jerry was starting to feel like a bit of a waste.

Jerry placed me down at the entrance. “You’re on your own from here, man.”

I gave him a goofy thumbs up before falling through the door. Jerry shook his head in disbelief, picked up my leg and dragged me toward the bar. Des’ree’s ‘
Life
’ seeped through the jukebox in slow motion. The neon lights cut through the dim murk in furry swathes. This was the tent bar I remembered.

From the sticky ground, the bar looked so high. A mountain I needed to ascend. My one hope was that the summit would reveal my precious tent girl. I could already picture her in my mind, waddling about behind the bar, trying to pour drinks; that awkward costume getting in the way. Jerry was already seated. His arse crept around the edges of the barstool. The sight elicited a giggle. I began my climb. Rigid hands clung to whatever was available. My body lifted ever so slightly. My inner audience applauded the achievement. I took a mental bow. I found Jerry’s leg and used it to gain leverage. I lifted a little more. I decided to take a break and smoked a celebratory cigarette. My tumours purred in appreciation. The packet was getting a little empty. This concerned me. I pushed it from my mind. It didn’t matter right now. This was all about getting off the ground and finding my tent girl. I spat the diminished cigarette from my mouth and continued to climb. My fingers clung to the edge of the bar. I was nearly there. I flexed every muscle and furrowed every brow in concentration and lifted. With the aid of flatulence, I found my footing. I was there. I was on my feet. Triumph coursed through me like electricity. The triumph evaporated like the confidence of a jilted prom date when I finally turned my attention behind the bar. She wasn’t there. I wanted to cry.

“I tell ya, man. You were a sad sight down there, flailing about,” said Jerry.

“You could have helped me.”

“Nah,” he replied with a laugh. “What are you drinking?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

He held his tumbler of chunky pink liquid up for me to see. “I doubt you’d like it. It’s fermented bacon fat. An acquired taste.”

I snatched the tumbler from his hand and took a sip. The revolting slush clung to my throat, inviting vomit. My whole body cringed. “Perfect,” I said. “I’ll have one.”

“Whatever you say, man.”

He gestured toward the barman, then toward his tumbler and then toward me. The barman nodded and made his way over to something resembling a clothesline from which hung strips of vulgar bacon. He milked the bacon strips into an empty tumbler, which filled gradually with liquid ipecac.

It was placed in front of me with nonchalance. I gave a nod and shuddered a mouthful down, making strangled duck noises all the while.

“Do you remember that girl I was talking to last time we were here?” I asked Jerry.

“Which girl?”

“I scratched an itch she had. Ring any bells?”

“Vaguely, man… I think she took you into the backroom after your little ‘incident’”

 My eyed bulged. “That’s it! So I
did
go out back with her?”

“More like you were carried, ya drunk fuck.”

“What did we do while out back?”

He shotgunned the remaining bacon broth and wiped his lip. “I dunno, man. I figured you were taken care of, and if I remember correctly, I hooked up with a couple of midget chicks in a long trench coat.”

“What do you mean?”

“They were pretending to be one person, man!”

The chances of me gleaning anymore information from Jerry were unlikely. I needed to speak to
her
. I gestured toward a barman. He made his way slowly toward me.

“What’ll be?” he asked, clearly uninterested.

“Do I look familiar to you?”

“Nope.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and pressed on. “Does a lady work here?”

“Yep. You after any lady in particular?”

The only reference point I had was someone dressed in a tent. Given everyone behind the bar was dressed the same, I doubted it would help.

“She had an itchy nose when I was here last time.”

“You mean Becky?”

“Maybe…” I replied. “Is Becky prone to getting an itchy nose?”

“You could say that. We all get itchy, but she’s the only one I’ve ever seen ask a customer to scratch her.”

“Do you know when she works next?” I asked with desperation that made my voice squeak.

He glanced at the fluorescent blue clock behind him. “She starts in just over an hour. Now are you ordering anything or what?”

I lifted my arms triumphantly like I’d just won a Winter Olympic curling event. The barman shook his head and walked away.

“What are you so happy about?” asked Jerry.

“Looks like I found her.”

“Found who?”

I shot him a dismissive glance. “That tent girl I was telling you about. She starts her shift in an hour.”

Jerry chuckled. “Well you’ve got an hour. Build up some courage.”

He passed me another tumbler of bacon muck, which I choked down against anything resembling better judgment. I felt a tap on my shoulder.

It took me a good 20 minutes to turn myself around. When I did, a woman was staring at me. She looked… okay. Her teeth bore evidence of lifelong chain smoking. What looked to me like labia swung like bulldog cheeks beneath her micro mini skirt. The skin around her cleavage looked like an aged map, and the breasts themselves seeped through the arm holes of her singlet.

“Hey, don’t I know you?” she asked. Her voice sounded like liposuction.

“Umm… I don’t think so.”

With an exploratory finger excavating the innermost recesses of her nostril, the woman cocked her head and gave me a squint. She withdrew her finger and pointed toward the ceiling when recognition hit – a worm of blood drizzling from her nose. “I know! You’re the tumour guy!”

I was stunned. It was like how Casper Van Dien must feel – occasionally recognised. This woman suddenly appeared more attractive to me. Her labia retreated. The skin on her cleavage whitened (as did her teeth).