The Tumours Made Me Interesting (4 page)

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.

“What’ll it be?” Jerry asked.

I stared at the wall of liquor bottles, scanning their labels for something I’d seen in the movies. “A shot of Jack Daniels, thanks.”

“Adda boy, Brucey! Let’s hit the hard stuff. Two shots of Jack, thanks love.”

The tent-enclosed woman behind the bar smiled politely and spent the next 15 minutes attempting to prepare our drinks. I was mortified at the spectacle, whereas Jerry was laughing like a pre-recorded sitcom audience.

“How can they make these people dress like that?” I mumbled.

“Ha! Just be thankful it ain’t us. There are worse jobs out there than ours, Brucey.”

When our drinks were finally placed before us, the poor bargirl looked dead inside. Her head popped awkwardly through a hole cut in the tent apex. “Thanks,” I said with genuine warmth, trying to inject some compassion into her day.

She smiled, took a few steps back, looked around and approached me again. “Hey, buddy, could you do me a favour and scratch my nose? It’s been driving me crazy and I can’t reach.”

I obliged, scraping my fingernail over the bridge of her nose, feeling good about myself for the first time that day. Knowing my fingernail was collecting her dead skin struck me as intimate.

“Thanks so much! I’ll hook you up with a free round of shots. Make sure you remind me.”

I wasn’t going to remind her. It wasn’t my style. I picked up the shot glass and knocked it back. The bourbon slithered down my throat like a fire snake. I scrunched up my face involuntarily before coughing blood all over myself. Jerry burst into laughter, clearly and thankfully not seeing the blood.

“I’m more of a shandy man,” I joked through sputters.

“Hey, whatever gets you fucked up, my man!”

Three equally painful shots later and I could feel my brain changing. I was gently rocking back and forth on my stool and slurring my words – words which were flowing a lot more freely now. 

“Tell me, Jerry, how the fuck do you manage to be the person you are?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, let’s face it, you just do whatever the fuck you want.”

“That’s the way it oughta be, Brucey. Let me be frank…”

“But you’re Jerry,” I poorly joked.

“Nah, seriously, man… you gotta stop thinking shit through so much. I see your face around the office. You always look so fucking tense, like the world’s out to get you.”

“The world already got me, Jerry,” I burped.

“That’s bullshit,” he replied, handing me another shot which I instantly threw back. “You’re carrying on like a victim. The world don’t owe you shit, Brucey. At the same time, the world ain’t taking anything from you.”

I lifted my leg and farted in response, feeling my pants get wet. “Think I got blood in my knickers,” I laughed.

“You alright, man?” Jerry asked seriously.

“Just hunky fucking dory.”

“Be honest… why were you puking this morning. I like you, and that sorta shit melvins my buzz.”

“Dunno! Guess it was the cancer or something.”

He fell silent and, even in my increasingly inebriated state, I could sense the discomfort I’d caused. Neither of us knew what to say. I think Jerry was trying to ascertain the validity of my claim by throwing back a couple more shots in quick succession. He glanced back at my wobbling body, paying close attention to my shirt. “Shit, is that blood on your shirt?”

I nodded playfully while trying to guide another shot toward my gaping maw. Most of it trickled down my chin but I swallowed enough to feel the increasingly comfortable burn.

“You’re not fucking with me, are you?”

I shook my head from side to side, sensing jowls I hadn’t previously been aware of. “I think my face is getting fat,” I said with a pout.

Jerry ignored my observation and pressed ahead with the questions. “When did you find this out, man?”

“Wouldn’t you know it – it was just this afternoon. Got a text from the good ol’ doc. Says I’m fucked or something.” I waved my phone about as evidence, lost my grip and felt it collide with my penis. “Owww!”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m thinking of taking up smoking again. Seems like the right time.”

Unsure what else to say, Jerry handed me another shot, which in a display of poor coordination, I splashed over my forehead. It stung my eyes and I laughed without reason.

“Screw this!” Jerry yelled, rising quickly from the barstool. “We gotta get you laid, Brucey.”

My upper body flopped forward like an abandoned marionette. The laughter continued, heaving my shoulders and stealing my breath. I scrambled to my feet and began climbing the stool. I stood atop, swaying dangerously, sensing eyes upon me and bathing in the attention.

“Whadaya say, ladies,” I yelled with drunken strings of drool swinging from my lower lip. “Who wants to donate their cunt to me for a little while? I promise, promise, promise that you’ll get it back. You probably won’t even know I was there.”

Jerry was suppressing laughter and tugging on my shirt, trying to get me down. I batted his hand away, determined to continue down my oratory path.

“Before you disregard my request, I feel it’s important to inform you that I have cancer. I’M A DYING MAN!” I screamed. “Who among you would deny a dying man a simple fuck?”

Having become impatient with my semi-balance, gravity grabbed my hair and pulled me down. My legs swept up, knocking over glasses on their journey. I landed hard on my back, taking a few onlookers with me and spraying a thick fountain of vomit upon impact. The last thing I remember was the itchy-nosed tent girl coming to my aid – or at least trying to. There was a brief flash of me in a bathroom, tent girl wiping down my face. Then another flash of me helping her escape the tent. My last memory was of my mouth clamped around one of tent girl’s nipples and suckling like a piglet. At least I
think
it was tent girl’s nipples…

I woke up naked and shivering in a bathtub full of freezing cola. It was my bathtub. I was home and I had no idea how I got there. I knew I’d overdone it. This was part of the reason I didn’t drink much. Whenever I let inebriation take hold, I always woke up in a bath full of something one shouldn’t bathe in. Last time it was pen ink. To this day I still wondered how long I must have spent draining ballpoints to fill the bath.

My body had almost seized and it was a painful struggle to move enough to extract myself from the cola. I shuffled toward the shower, craving warmth. The cola had discoloured my skin tobacco-spit brown. I looked like the tip of a smoker’s fingers and smelled chemically sweet. I fondled with the shower door and realised that I’d fondled incorrectly when the whole thing tore off. I let the shower door fall and shatter around me, stepped over the squares of glass and cranked the hot water tap. Eventually the warmth hit, stinging my freezing body in a glorious way.

With the chill leeching from my body, I began to concentrate on my drunken night. There was tent girl. There was the nipple – it had to be hers.
Did she have sex with me?
I focused all my attention on remembering. I couldn’t recall past the nipple sucking. I inspected my genitals for the telltale signs of intercourse. What were the telltale signs of intercourse? My dick still looked the same as the water cascaded over it.