by Rob Rufus
Screw the speech, I decided.
I spit on him. I was too far away for my spit to actually make it to his face. It landed on his shoulder—at least I’m pretty sure it did.
Screw the spitting.
I tensed my arm and swung my fist. Flesh crashed into flesh.
Frank didn’t fucking move.
I hit him right on the cheek. I hit him with everything I had. He didn’t move. I’d put my whole being into that punch.
But my fist just kind of stuck to his cheek—it was still fucking there! I was leaning on his face. I was using him like some kind of crutch.
I breathed hard through my mouth. My vision was cloudy. I didn’t know what to do.
Paul stood watching—he didn’t know what to do. We didn’t have a contingency plan—not for this.
Frank stepped back. He swatted my hand away like an inconvenience.
The swat was all it took. I went down.
I wasn’t sure what was happening. People were moving and the hall was moving and everything was going wrong. I was sprawled in the middle of the floor. I couldn’t catch my breath. I tried to get up, but I didn’t have the strength.
My body lay there, useless.
Through the corner of my glasses, I saw Paul jump on Frank. He was swinging wildly, as he always did when he fought. A teacher rushed onto the scene, and Paul accidentally punched her.
Feet smashed around my head as the onlookers moved closer. I looked at the ceiling. I focused on the cheap foam panels and tried to control my breath. I closed my eyes and let the air flow into my nose and out my lips, into my nose and out my lips.
A sneaker smack exploded beside my ear.
Into my nose and out my lips.
I waited to hear something snap.
FOURTEEN
Cheap Thrills
1
I was low, man.
My “fight” at school was a disaster. Paul was suspended for the rest of the year. So was Frank.
Nat was pissed at me. Nat was pissed at Paul. Nat was pissed that Frank got suspended—he was AWOL. Retaliation was now impossible.
I was too embarrassed to speak to anyone. I didn’t even get online. I didn’t feel like I was worth anyone’s time.
Pathetic × a billion = me.
Worse, every day that passed was a day closer to summer. Brody asked me to make a list of songs that I wanted drummers to audition with. He said he’d found the perfect drummer.
Pathetic × a trillion = my fucking ass.
I felt about as worthless as a dude could feel.
* * *
I was lying on the floor of the empty living room, watching TV.
Jenny Jones wore one of her pink skirt-suits. She was asking her audience if they thought the girl onstage should leave her husband for his brother, or the brother for the husband—I couldn’t tell how the crowd was leaning.
I switched the TV off.
Why was I wasting my day like this? Why wasn’t I playing drums?
How are you going to play drums again if you can’t breathe? If you don’t get stronger? If you don’t get in better shape? Shit, you’re forty pounds lighter—chemo did the hard part. Now all you have to do is push your body a little. . . .
Exercise—come on, I was too weak to get off the couch most days. I’d never been athletic, or anywhere close to physically fit. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
I was too weak to do much. Running and jogging were out, obviously. I wondered if I should check with Dr. Ranalli before I did anything stupid.
But a voice inside kept giving me shit.
You’ve got nothing to lose by trying now—you’re tapped, dude. You’ve got nothing.
As soon as that thought entered my mind, I rolled onto my chest and pushed. There was no thought, no planning.
I just pushed.
I couldn’t believe how hard it was to do a push-up. My arms wobbled. My fingers dug into the carpet and I pushed myself up until my elbows were nearly straight.
I counted it—one.
I dropped back down quickly, trying to use the momentum to propel my body back into the air.
It worked—two.
I tried another. I only made it about halfway up before my arms buckled under me. I fell facedown on the carpet.
I grinned—two and a half.
* * *
The next day, I did a total of six push-ups.
I could only manage a few at a time, so I spread them out through my day. I probably could’ve done more than six, but I puked after lunch—vomiting takes more energy than you’d think.
* * *
On the third day, I did twenty. Twenty!
Twenty fucking push-ups in a single day—I was elated. Before my diagnosis, I never woulda been able to do twenty push-ups, not even in the start/stop method I adopted. So I don’t know how I was able to do it now, while on chemo. I think I was running on willpower alone.
Exercising didn’t make me tired—no more tired than I already was, at least. It made me feel excited. It made me feel like I still had a say in something.
* * *
I went into my parents’ bedroom. I opened the closet. I dug through a pile of Mom’s shoes until I found them—her five-pound aerobic dumbbells.
I picked them up.
They didn’t feel very heavy. I curled my arms up a few times. The weights felt heavier. I curled a few more. My arms turned to butter.
I dropped the weights. I shook out my arms. I caught my breath. I stared at the weights. . . .
I picked them up again.
I arched my back.
I pulled.
* * *
The next morning, my entire body ached and the port in my arm fucking throbbed. My muscles were tense. It was an awesome feeling—I couldn’t believe there were muscles beneath this pale, droopy skin.
I rolled out of bed. I put on my glasses, groaned, stretched, pissed, and walked out into the foyer. Our house seemed so empty.
I knocked on my parents’ door—no answer.
I went back into their closet. I pulled out the weights.
I shouldn’t be able to do this, I thought to myself.
And then I did it.
2
That year of my life was defined by extremes.
My band was playing in an empty basement . . . my band was in Rolling Stone.
I was a cheeseburger away from obesity . . . I was emaciated beyond recognition.
I couldn’t get a date . . . I was banging a cheerleader.
I didn’t do drugs . . . I took handfuls of pills and mainlined poison.
There was no in-between. Not for me.
And those two weeks were no different—the fight with Frank had made me face the fact that I was broken, that my body had been ravaged by the war within it. That truth had pushed me lower than I’d even thought possible. The more I rallied against my negative thoughts, the faster I sank.
And you know what? The sinking feeling came with a strange kind of peace.
All the uncertainty I felt was gone, replaced with the knowledge that I had nowhere to go but up. I could try to get my head above water. Or I could stay where I was, and drift wherever I may. This was my call. It was the first time since my diagnosis that I felt like a choice was up to me.
So I regained a small amount of control over my own fate. I was imposing my will—and it was working. It opened my heart to possibilities. I started thinking, If I can do this, then I can do that. And this. And that . . .
I heard subliminal messages in my old records—all the rebel anthems in the world were now united against a common enemy. Sure, I knew that the songs had nothing to do with my situation . . . but their fuck-you attitude did. The attitude was contagious.
When I didn’t have the will to get out of bed, or th
e strength to push myself off the floor, I would try to think like a punk rocker—one who needs no other reason to act besides the cheap thrill of defiance.
* * *
School was almost over now. Soon, the summer would begin. I didn’t care anymore.
Nothing would change for me. I would stay focused. The more alone I got, the more I could focus. I didn’t need visitors. I didn’t need bullshit.
The time came for me to return to the hospital. I welcomed it.
The sooner I could finish that round of chemo, the sooner I could deal with cancer on my own fucking terms.
3
Hospital. Cancer ward.
After the results of my first-day tests, Dr. Ranalli decided we should change the drugs in my “chemo cocktail.” The bleomycin was causing side effects far beyond puking and shitting—my tinnitus and nerve damage continued to get worse.
More important, the drug was causing the muscles of my heart, lungs, and kidneys to harden, making them work less effectively. Dr. Ranalli feared that another dose would cause further damage.
The drug he switched with the bleomycin was similar, but less toxic. He warned that I might get a little more nauseous, but said that the long-term side effects would be minimal.
I didn’t care. I was willing to take whatever he told me to take. Fuck risks. Fuck aftereffects.
I’d worry about aftereffects after. I was thinking in the now.
* * *
Dr. Ranalli came back to my room during the second day of chemo, after a discussion with the specialists in Indiana.
The tumor was shrinking considerably. Dr. Einhorn’s team was still confident that with surgery, and a few more rounds of chemotherapy, I had a chance at beating this thing.
Dr. Ranalli was trying to organize a meeting between Dr. Einhorn and me. He said that after one more round of chemotherapy, they would be prepared to operate. They wanted to examine me in person before the surgery was scheduled.
So, after the next round of chemo, we would be driving to Indiana. After that, I was going to take a break from treatment—before and after the operation—so my body wasn’t completely depleted.
Only a couple more rounds of treatment would follow.
Then I would be totally done. I might even get to start my senior year with everyone else.
Surgery. A few more sick weeks. Then everything gets back to normal.
No problem.
FIFTEEN
Pity Tucks
1
The landscape rose up in soft green arches, and the blacktopped street that ran straight through town looked like a river of tar. The humidity and the smell of catfish overwhelmed the senses. Even the trees slouched over in exhaustion.
Another West Virginia summer began.
* * *
To me, the summer meant company.
The school year ended with an uneventful shrug. My parents didn’t even ask to see our grades. None of us cared.
Nat was home now. Paul came over every day. As tour loomed closer, the house would become more and more alive. The time had come to audition drummers.
I was trying not to act jaded about it. I mean, finding a fill-in had been my idea to begin with—but that didn’t make it any easier. I kept reminding myself that things were how they were—I could either deal with them or give up.
Like I said, there were no more in-betweens.
The first drummer who auditioned was Brody’s boy, Doyle. He played drums in some emo band from Ashland.
He arrived at our house in a small blue hatchback. The windows were covered with mud. I couldn’t see the driver.
I waited on the porch, probably as nervous as he was. Doyle ducked out of the front seat—he was at least six and a half feet tall. His hair was spiked into thick, uneven clumps that made him even taller. He had a perfectly round beer gut. He wore all black and a studded leather belt with a skull on the buckle.
A pair of chipped drumsticks stuck out of his right pocket.
Doyle walked onto the porch. He came straight to me. He shook my hand.
“It’s sure as hell nice to meet ya,” he said. “Wanted to tell ya how much it means to get a chance to play with y’all.”
His accent was so thick I had to strain to understand him.
“We’re just glad you could do it!” Brody said loudly.
Doyle didn’t notice.
“Really, man, you’re one of the best drummers ’round here. I ain’t gonna fuck up all them parts you wrote.”
“You’ll be great!” Brody said, walking between us. “Let’s get to it, big man.”
He slapped Doyle on the back. Doyle shrugged. We walked single file down into the basement.
* * *
I wanted to hate him. I really did.
But Doyle was a fan of the band. Doyle saw me as a musician, not a fucking cancer patient. He treated me like a peer, not a living corpse.
Plus, I had to admit—Doyle was a damn good drummer.
He looked ridiculous towering over my kit. But he’d learned every single song on the audition list. He played simplified versions of the parts, removing the fills, keeping it straight. It was strange to watch my band play without me. But Doyle laid down a solid foundation for Nat and Brody to do their thing.
They jammed for a half hour. When they finished “Without You,” Doyle sat on my drum throne and looked at me, trying to gauge what I thought.
The roundness of his stomach extended to his knees. He kept staring at me. He looked like a puppy, begging to be adopted.
I stared back at him, expressionless.
Then, slowly, I gave him the thumbs-up.
What else could I do? Tour was coming. We had to find someone. If it wasn’t Doyle, it would be someone else—or, shit, what if no one else was good enough? By the time I was cured, we would have already blown it. This funny hillbilly was my best chance to keep the dream alive.
I felt like it was the right decision. And a temporary decision. Doyle was just a fill-in. All of this shit was just temporary.
As the three of them set up a practice schedule I excused myself. I needed to lie down.
2
Rehearsals ran from noon until five, four days a week. I sat in the basement for the first few, giving Doyle notes and helping with ideas for the set. But after a while, I left them alone. They were sounding tighter as a separate unit—I didn’t want to interfere with that.
I stayed upstairs, exercising out of sight.
That last round of chemo was a blow to my workouts, and getting back into the swing of it was tough. I was exhausted. I was frustrated. But I kept trying. If I paced myself, I knew I could do it.
* * *
Ali spent a lot of time at the pool that summer. She lay in the grass with her friends, smoking cigarettes and pounding vodka from empty Sprite bottles. She invited me to come with her a few times, but I was still supposed to stay out of the sun.
One day, Ali showed up at my house with a blue plastic kiddie pool that had been sitting out in front of Love Hardware. She saw it on the way to work, and she bought it on sale.
I filled the pool up with the garden hose. Ali changed inside. I positioned the pool at the bottom of the back stairs—now she could sit in the sun, and I could stay under the stoop’s tin awning. I grabbed a small trash can, in case I felt sick.
If Ali and I were together that summer, chances were she was in her pool. The water couldn’t have been more than twelve inches deep; the pool was barely big enough for even such a small girl.
She liked to wear this purple bikini (Jesus). I can still see her, leaning back on the edge of the pool, her stomach and top glistening as she stretched. Her freckles practically glowed.
She would float in that water and talk with me for hours. We spent entire afternoons that way—me in the shade, her out there in th
e sunlight. She rose from the deep, my lost queen of Atlantis. She didn’t belong in a world like mine.
I sat in the shadows, squinting into the light.
3
Having a birthday really pissed me off.
I mean, what the fuck? I was about to go back to the hospital for chemo session number four. Now, suddenly, I was supposed to be stoked about turning eighteen? My life was supposed to be on hold.
Everyone knew it. It was hard enough for me to watch my twin brother progress—continuing on and on and on. I didn’t want a party to celebrate a transition that everyone damn well knew I wasn’t making.
But Mom insisted on doing something—so she ordered pizzas and picked up a Baskin-Robbins ice cream cake. I invited as few people over as possible.
Ali, Paul, Doyle, Tyson, Ashley, Angela, Brody, and Jamie all stopped by at some point in the day. Our grandparents came by. Random relatives came by.
Paul gave me a hardback copy of The Count of Monte Cristo, one of my favorite books. I got Nat a new skate deck for the road. Nat got me a Black Flag jacket, a new beanie, and a new hair dryer.
“Something to look forward to,” he joked.
Ali handed me her gift last. It was wrapped in pink notebook paper. I tore it open.
It was a framed photograph—a picture of the two of us. The picture David snapped on the day they found the deathmass rotting my chest . . .
The amateur black-and-white processing made the photo look out of another time, one where cancer and pain had no place. This was just a boy and a girl. Smiling. Careless. Healthy. Untouched.
I realized that my hand was shaking. I sat the picture down.
“Do you like it?” Ali asked.
She was smiling her smile.
I cleared my throat. “I love it, baby.”
I smiled back at her. I wondered if the kids in the photo would even recognize my face.
* * *
By eight o’clock, the party finally died. Ali was working the night shift at the drive-thru. The other relatives and friends drifted off on their own.
Mom was finishing off a bottle of wine. Dad was watching TV. Paul sat around the kitchen table with Nat and me, counting our birthday cash.
