Sherm watched two girls wiggling next to the jukebox. “I still say it’s coke.”
“It’s not coke, dammit!”
“Yo, tell that bullshit to someone else, Tommy.”
“Let’s drop it, okay?”
“Shouldn’t be fucking with that white powder, man. It’ll make your dick shrink.”
“I said it’s not coke, you asshole!”
“Well what is it then?”
“It’s not coke. It’s fucking cancer!”
John choked on his beer. Sherm stared at the girl’s ass a moment longer, then slowly turned to me.
“Say what?”
I lowered my voice. “I’ve got cancer. There, you satisfied now?”
“That shit ain’t funny, Tommy.”
“Do I look like I’m joking, Sherm?”
The words hung in the air, but I was happy to be free of them. I felt lighter somehow. Lighter, but guiltier too. I’d lied to Michelle about it, only to turn around and tell my best friends. In the background, somebody was playing another somebody-done-somebody-wrong song on the jukebox. John sat speechless, looking like someone had punched him in the stomach. Sherm fumbled with his Zippo, lit another cigarette, snapped the lighter shut a little too loudly, and shook his head.
“You’ve got cancer?” he repeated. “Since when?”
“I found out yesterday.”
John set his beer down and shifted away from Sherm’s cigarette smoke.
“Is it from smoking? I bet it is.”
“Maybe. Who knows? I don’t know what it’s from, John. But it’s not good.”
“So what are they going to do?”
“Nothing they can do, according to the doctor.”
Sherm twitched in his seat. “You mean the shit is terminal?”
I nodded.
“That’s fucked,” Sherm whistled, summing everything up. “That is so fucking fucked, then fucked some more.”
John’s mouth worked but no words came out. Angie brought six more beers (in addition to my order, Juan and his friends had repaid the round) and we sipped them quietly. Somebody scratched on the eight ball. His drunken curses and the jeers of those around the table sounded extremely loud. A girl announced to the bar that she was horny. Over on the jukebox, the song had changed again. John Mellencamp was singing that he was born in a small town and that he’d die in a small town. I knew exactly how he felt.
“B— but you can’t have cancer, Tommy,” John finally stammered. “You’re only twenty-five!
Cancer’s what old people get!”
I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “I’ve got it, John. It’s not just old people, man. Babies get cancer, little kids— and guys our age.”
“I bet it was from smoking. It’s got to be, right?”
Sherm exhaled a cloud of smoke toward him and looked at his dwindling cigarette.
“Not to change the subject, but did you guys hear that the state legislature wants to outlaw smoking in bars?”
“Yeah”— I nodded—“but that’s one thing I’m glad I won’t be around to see.”
“Word.” He snuffed the cigarette out in the ashtray. “So how long did they give you? What are we looking at? A year?”
“One month, probably. No more than three.”
“Only a month? Shit . . .”
“Yeah.”
“Did— did you tell Michelle and T. J. yet?” John asked.
I shook my head. “Can’t, dog. I don’t know how to tell them. T. J.’s just a little kid. He won’t understand this shit. And Michelle . . .”
The lump in my throat cut off the rest. I drank some beer, washing the emotion down, and leaned back in the chair.
“I can’t tell Michelle. There’s just no way.”
“You’ve got to tell her!”
“Well, when I get home tonight and tell her about losing my job— she’s already stressed, you know? We’re fucking broke and the bill collectors are on our asses again. They keep calling and calling. She doesn’t need this shit on top of everything else.”
“Man, fuck the bill collectors!”
“She doesn’t need the stress right now, John.”
“But you’re going to tell her eventually, right? You’re gonna have to.”
“No, John, I’m not. Not if I can help it. I love her, man.”
“Well this is a hell of a way to fucking show it, Tommy.”
Saying nothing, Sherm shook out another cigarette from his pack and watched us quietly.
“What?” I snarled. “You got a fucking problem with me, John?”
John held up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry, bro. I just can’t believe this shit. You with cancer. It’s just so fucked up.”
“Yeah.” I rubbed my temples. “Yeah, it is. I’m sorry too. The truth is, I don’t know what the fuck I’m gonna do. I’m really scared.”
Sherm lit the cigarette and started spinning his lighter on the table.
“Life sucks, then you die.”
I laughed bitterly. “You know, I was just thinking that same thing the other day.”
He looked me in the eyes. “Well then live your life so that it doesn’t suck, man. Shit, Tommy, you know that it’s coming, right? The doctor said it was terminal. You’re gonna fucking die, dog! So I say live your life to the fucking fullest. You should be home right now, with Michelle and T. J., or on a trip together or some shit. Why waste it in this shit hole of a bar?”
Choosing my words carefully, it was a moment before I spoke.
“Because you guys are my friends. And who knows— this could be our last time together in this place.”
John turned pale. “Don’t talk like that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
He started to reply, then suddenly burst into tears. It startled me, scared me in fact. In all the years I’d known him, I’d never seen John cry. Not once, not even in fifth grade when Seymour Peters beat him up for making fun of his name. But he was doing it now. Big, goofy, good-natured, dumb as a stump John sat there bawling like a baby.
“Hey—” I reached for him. “Come on.”
“It ain’t fucking fair, Tommy! Why’s it got to be you? Why? It ain’t fair!”
He jerked to his feet, shoving his chair away from him. It slammed into the table next to us, sending beer bottles crashing to the floor and spilling into their owners’ laps.
“Hey, you stupid motherfucker! Look what you just did!”
The guy nearest to John jumped up. He was huge, and it seemed to take him forever to rise to his full height. He jabbed a large finger into John’s chest and glowered down at him.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, bitch? What’s your problem?”
Stammering and blinded by tears, John started to apologize and offer to buy the next round. But before he could complete his sentence, the other guy’s friends were jumping to their feet as well. They were spoiling for a fight, plain and simple, and I knew that even if we bought them another round, there’d still be hell to pay. There were seven of them and three of us. Not good odds. Sherm glanced over at me.
“I’ll tell you one thing. You’re right about this being our last night together in Murphy’s Place.”
“That so?”
“Yeah, because we’re about to be barred from coming back.”
