Happy Birthday to Me

by Brian Rowe

  We made the way to his office, and he switched on the bright overhead lights.

  “Take a seat,” he said.

  “Dad, you’re scaring me.”

  “Just do it.”

  I sat down on a stiff white chair as my dad kneeled down. He shined a small flashlight into my eyes and started moving it from my forehead down to my chin.

  “OK, let me figure this out,” he said.

  He uncapped a black sharpie with his mouth and started marking up my face. He drew on my eyelids, my nose, my cheeks. He put little marks under my hairline and under my lips. And then, strangest of all, he made little dots in a circular motion around my face. He stopped and sported an awkward, oddly sinister smile.

  “There,” he said. “Do you want to see?”

  “See what?”

  He brought a mirror to my face. My skin was barely recognizable. I had black ink everywhere.

  “You want me to dot my face with black ink every day?” I asked. “That’s your cure?”

  He laughed. “No, of course not.” He stood up and made his way to the door. “My two assistants just arrived. Get in your garment. We’re gonna start prepping you in the next few minutes.”

  “Prepping me? For what?”

  “I’m making this go away, Cam,” he said. “I’m giving you a face lift.”

  He grinned whimsically, as if he was about to hand me a bar of chocolate to munch on instead of a scalpel to tear my face apart.

  After he shut the door, I waited a few seconds, just enough time to ensure that he had walked all the way down the hall.

  You forget, Dad. I was just here for the lipo.

  I know the side way out.

  I quickly and assuredly opened the door and peered down the hallway to see my father talking to that young girl and that old man. They both were yawning.

  I tiptoed in the other direction, down one hallway and into another, until I found the exit that led to a hidden stairwell.

  Once my foot hit the top step, I started running as fast as I could, down, down, down. I didn’t take a single moment to rest until I made it to the bottom and crashed through the metal exit door, revealing an empty parking lot and a pretty pink sunrise.

  I found a place to hide near the edge of the lot as I called my mom from my phone, which I had thankfully kept in my right jean pocket overnight.

  She arrived ten minutes later in a bathrobe. The only time I had ever seen her so upset was a day last year when my dad ran over her foot with his car.

  And this was worse.

  15. Forty-Six

  “Another,” I said.

  “Cameron, do you really think—”

  “Another pitcher. The amber ale.”

  “Coming right up,” the bartender said.

  Wesley placed his elbows on the bar and smiled at me, shaking his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t get carded.”

  I playfully punched his right shoulder. I wasn’t drunk yet. I didn’t really know what drunk was. “It’s because you’ve got a beard, Wes. Makes you look mature.”

  “Yeah, but I’m still only eighteen. And it’s not a quarter as thick as that beard you were sporting a few weeks ago.”

  “I’m just happy the guy didn’t assume I was your dad.”

  The overflowing pitcher arrived right away. I poured some of the beer in Wesley’s glass first, and then filled mine to the brim. I took a sip. It was perfect.

  “Now that is delicious.”

  I had wanted to invade one of the downtown Reno bars all day. I woke up in the morning with a headache, a backache, a stomachache. Worst, I looked in the mirror to see a middle-aged curmudgeon with a full head of gray hair. That was that. The beautiful brown hair was gone forever, unless I wanted to stop by the nearest beauty salon and pick up a cheap can of hair dye.

  “How have you been feeling?” Wesley asked.

  “I’ve been better.”

  “Yeah? How’s basketball going?”

  “It’s OK,” I said, not trying to hide the truth. “I just wish I could play more. Our big game’s on Friday. You should come.”

  “Is this the one you need to win to—”

  “—get to State, yeah,” I said, finishing his sentence.

  “That’s so cool. You’ve never made it that far, right?”

  “We’ve gotten close. And now… well… I just can’t believe it. The one time we have a shot, I’m like this.” I brushed my hands against my prickly gray chin hair and started massaging my neck.

  “I know. That sucks, dude. Is the coach letting you play at all?”

  “I’ve talked my way into playing a little bit. We’ll see about Friday. I’m gonna try to play if I can.”

  “That’s good,” Wesley said, patting me awkwardly on the back. “Anyway, it’s nice to see you outside of school, Cam.”

  “Yeah! You, too, Wes. Glad I could get you into this bar without any hitches—”

  “And you look really good.”

  My head hurt from his lie. “Oh yeah, I’m sure I look great.”

  “You do! I like this new suave and sophisticated salt-and-pepper look.”

  I laughed. “It’s really more salt than pepper.”

  “I see some pepper in there. It’s scattered, but it’s there.”

  I smiled at him. I could tell he was trying. “Well I’m happy you wanted to meet up. This was a good idea.”

  “Of course,” he said. “We’ve known each other forever, man. You’re my best friend. You know I’m here for you. For whatever you need.”

  “I know you are.”

  I looked down below his bar stool to see the case for his camera. I had seen it when he met me outside, and I didn’t think to ask. Now I wanted to.

  “So what’s with the camera? Do you just treat that thing like a wallet and take it with you everywhere you go?”

  “Pretty much,” he said. “You never know when something significant might happen.”

  And then I remembered. “Wait, didn’t I break your camera?”

  “Yeah, you did.” Empathy erased itself from Wesley’s face for a second. But then he smiled. “Don’t worry. Got it fixed.”

  I didn’t know whether to apologize or just nod nonchalantly. “I’m sorry I messed with it. I promise to not lay a finger on it again.”

  He laughed and took a sip of his beer. He looked like he had something to get off his chest, but he wouldn’t look at me.

  “Cameron, listen, I had a question for you.”

  I suppressed a yawn and looked around the bar. It was mostly empty, aside from two burly businessmen chatting a few bar stools down. I nodded at Wesley.

  “So, you know that movie I made with Charisma?” he asked.

  Ouch. Just the mention of her name hurts. “How could I forget?”

  “Yeah, I’ve decided to abandon it.”

  I perked up. I couldn’t have heard him correctly. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I started editing it. Some of the scenes were OK. But the movie doesn’t work. It’s too artsy.”

  “I see.” I was at a loss at the point he was trying to make. “So… what does that mean? What does that have to do with me?”

  For the first time since we’d sat down, Wesley started to chug his beer, downing the contents of the entire glass in the next ten seconds.

  “Thirsty?” I asked.

  “Nervous,” he answered.

  “Nervous? Why?”

  “I don’t want to make a piece of fiction for my final film, Cam. I want to make a documentary.”

  I waited for the punch line.

  “I want to make a documentary about you.”

  I couldn’t have heard him right. “Me? What about me?”

  He gave me a knowing look. “Cameron, whether you want to admit it or not, what’s happening to you is something extraordinary, and unprecedented. Your condition is something the world needs to know about. I want to make a film that documents your final days—”

  I could tell he regretted
phrasing his words like that.

  “My final days, Wes? You want to make a movie about me dying?”

  “No, of course not. That’s not what I meant.”

  “Well, what did you mean?”

  He sighed and licked his lips. “Your story deserves to be told. What’s happening to your body… it’s remarkable that you’ve been able to survive it. I really think it’d be a shame for your condition to not be documented in some way.”

  “I see.”

  I threw some cash at the bartender and started pulling my jacket over my head. “I see what this is all about. You just wanna benefit from what I’m going through, is that it? You want to film me in the days leading up to my death and then collect the riches—”

  “Now wait a second,” Wesley said, standing up and nearly knocking over his glass of beer.

  “What are you gonna do, Wes? Distribute the DVDs to everyone at my funeral? Twenty bucks a pop?”

  “Cameron, I swear, my intentions are just to tell your story. Because I—”

  “What?”

  He looked down and took a step toward me. He looked me right in the eyes. “I love you, man.”

  Before I could turn away, Wesley wrapped his arms around my weakened shoulders. It was one of the stronger hugs I’d been given in a while, and he didn’t seem to want to end it.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I asked.

  He finally backed away and put his hands at his side. “I’m sorry. Was that weird?”

  “A little bit, yeah.”

  He bit down on his bottom lip and turned away from me. “Sorry. I’ve wanted to do that since I got here.”

  “You’re freaking me out, Wes.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just really scared for you.”

  I took a step forward and brought my hands to my pockets. “I’ll be OK. I know it looks bad, but, I promise, you don’t have to worry about me.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “I know I might be naive. But I’m still optimistic.”

  “I guess you have to be, don’t you?” Wesley tried to smile but what appeared was the world’s most depressing frown. “Look, if you don’t want me to, I won’t make the movie.”

  I leaned against the bar stool. I sighed and stared at the wall of hard liquor, analyzing most of the hang-over friendly bottles, rocking my body back and forth, knowing what I was about to say would stun Wes and even myself. “You promise me you’ll make something good? Like, really good?”

  “Cameron, it would be nothing short of amazing. It’ll be brilliant.” He paused. “It… well… it’ll be your legacy.”

  “OK,” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

  “Awesome.”

  “Bartender!” I shouted. “Scotch on the rocks! And make it a double!”

  I sat back down on the bar stool, and Wesley pulled his camera out of his bag. He inserted a brand new HD Mini-DV tape into the camera and pointed it at my face.

  “OK, first question,” Wesley said, pushing his right thumb against the red recording button.

  “All right,” I said, wondering if I had made my decision too hastily.

  “Cameron… tell me… who are you gonna take to Prom?”

  I stared at him in disbelief. I hadn’t even thought about it.

  Prom.

  16. Forty-Nine

  Dunk!

  “Yes!” I screamed, sitting on the bleachers, watching another two points added to the scoreboard.

  There were only a few minutes left in the Friday night game, and we were neck and neck with our competition, the Chargers from McKinley High.

  “Defense!” Coach Welch shouted, pacing up and down the sidelines. “Come on!”

  I was agitated, borderline depressed. I had been proving day after day in practice that I still had what it took to play. Even though I was starting to look like any one of my teammates’ dads, I felt so useless just sunbathing on the sidelines, watching the game like any other spectator in the massive, rowdy crowd behind me.

  “Coach, can I go in?” It was the fifth time I had asked him since the game started.

  He didn’t even acknowledge my presence. He just kept marching down the sidelines with his eye on the court.

  I glanced up at the scoreboard. It was 82 to 78, with our team trailing. There were just two and a half minutes on the clock. My palms were hot and sweaty, and my heart was pounding at an unhealthy rate.

  This is going to happen. This has to happen.

  “Coach Welch!”

  He turned toward me, clearly recognizing that his name had been called out. But he still didn’t acknowledge my presence.

  I turned my head toward the bleachers. It was the most crowded I had ever seen our high school gym. People were standing on the ground floor and on the steps. I could see my family sitting toward the top, excited to be attending the game, but clearly disappointed that I wasn’t playing. I waved to them. Only my mom waved back. I could tell she hadn’t been too happy with Dad ever since his failed attempt to restructure my face.

  You put him in his place, didn’t you, Mom?

  A buck-toothed giant from McKinley High made another basket. They were now six points ahead. And time was running out.

  “Time!” Welch shouted.

  The players huddled in a circle. I wanted to hear what the coach was saying—probably something inane yet somehow inspiring. Welch pointed his finger every which way before shouting: “NOW GET OUT THERE!”

  I have to be a part of this. I have to.

  I stood up, revealing my baggy basketball jersey and shorts. I didn’t want to believe that I had shrunk in the last couple of weeks, but I was definitely swimming in this once tight-fitted outfit.

  The boys were back on the court. Welch stood still, tapping his feet. I recognized that he could see me coming toward him.

  “I want to go in!” I shouted, getting in his face.

  “That’s not gonna happen, Martin! Sit down!”

  “You see that camera guy over there, Coach?”

  I pointed at Wesley, who was filming more of me with his camera than the actual game.

  “What about him?” Welch asked, barely turning his head toward the bleachers.

  “He has the capability to stream your lap dance session on every TV screen in school on Monday. You want that to happen?”

  That got his attention. “Wait, what? You got video, too?”

  “Of course. What do you take me for? An idiot?”

  “You would never, Martin. That would cost me my job.”

  “Exactly.”

  “No. I don’t believe you.”

  I pulled out my cell phone and played the brief clip of Welch slapping the saggy buttocks of the middle-aged stripper. “Every TV screen, Coach.”

  “You little—”

  I thought he was going to strangle me, or try to decapitate me with his long, sharp fingernails. His face turned bright red.

  “You are evil!” he shouted. “You hear me? Evil!”

  “Only when necessary,” I assured him. Only when absolutely necessary.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Welch said. He turned to the court. “Skyler!”

  One of the lesser players on the team, a gangly senior with curly black hair and bad back acne, raced over toward Welch. “Yeah, Coach?”

  “You’re out.”

  “What?”

  “Martin, you’re in.”

  Skyler was devastated. “You’re taking me out and letting in that freakazoid?”

  “You’ve had three chances to score tonight, and nothing!” Welch shouted at him.

  “Fine.” Skyler pushed past me and made his way to the benches.

  “Get in there, Martin,” Welch said, shoving me toward the court. “And don’t you dare make me look like an idiot.”

  It was surreal, jogging onto the court, suddenly and without warning hearing a huge wave of applause erupt behind me. At first I thought a famous young pop star o
r even the President had walked into the auditorium. But that wasn’t the case.

  They’re cheering for me?

  I saw my parents stand up, but before I could take in one of the few highlights I’d experienced in my last few weeks, two players pushed past me, and the game was back on.

  “Martin!” Welch shouted from the sidelines. “What are you doing?”

  Taking it all in, Coach.

  Matt scored again, and then again. The best thing I did in those next couple of minutes was intercept the ball from an opponent and toss it to Aaron, who dribbled it down the court just in time to make another basket. We were tied.

  People were standing, screaming, cheering. Time shifted to slow motion.

  Ryan intercepted the ball from an opposing player in a matter of seconds and ran toward the basket. There were just seconds left on the clock.

  “Ryan!” I shouted. “Throw it to me!”

  An opposing player almost knocked the ball out of his hands, but he recovered. He ran straight toward me.

  “I’m open!” I shouted. “Ryan! Over here!”

  I had to admit it. I looked weird out there, a gray-haired adult who looked close to fifty, tonight just another member of the varsity basketball team. I wondered what all those cheering fans in the audience were thinking. Were they clapping out of guilt, or did they legitimately want to see me play? Did they all share the collective knowledge together that this may well be the final basketball game of my life?

  “Ryan!”

  He ran toward me so fast I thought we were going to bump heads. I jerked my arms up high to catch the ball.

  But he didn’t throw it at me. Instead he knocked himself against me and slammed his right elbow against my nose.

  I landed butt first on the cold gym floor. My back hit the ground next, and all the wind escaped my body. I couldn’t breathe for a moment. I looked to my right just in time to see Ryan dunk the ball into the welcoming hoop.

  The buzzer sounded. The audience cheered. Coach Welch started jumping into the air.

  “We’re going to State!” Ryan shouted.

  He charged toward the other players. They all started jumping into the air and hugging one another.

  I stayed on the ground for another minute or so, just staring up at the ceiling, feeling both joy and disbelief.