by David Chill
"Dr. Sterling's taken me through your situation," he said, his face scrunched up in a dour expression. "And I've looked at the chest x-ray. There's definitely fluid buildup in the lung. I can do a thoracentesis now. That should help for a little while, anyway."
"A what?"
"Thoracentesis. We drain the fluid from your lung. It'll just take a few minutes. That should take care of the back pain. It's a first step."
"And then?"
"Well, it's only a temporary fix. Most likely, fluid will continue to build. You'll need to do a talc procedure if it continues. But the more important issue is we need to test the fluid for cancer."
The word unnerved me. Cancer. I shook my head. "I don't understand this. There's no history of any cancer in my family. I'm a non-smoker. I'm only fifty years old. How could this have happened?"
Dr. Lynch shrugged. "It could be any one of a multitude of factors. We may never know. Medicine is much better at addressing maladies on a go-forward basis than understanding what caused them."
"That's not reassuring," I said.
"I'm sorry. There are probably going to be a lot of unanswered questions. And we're making progress in treating it, but there is an epidemic of cancer in this world today. One in three people are likely to develop cancer at some point in their lives. It would be nice if we knew why. For now though, we're more focused on treating it."
The doctor left the room and returned a few minutes later, a nurse in tow. After I removed my shirt, Dr. Lynch inserted a needle into my back, a small sting, one that did not hurt much, perhaps because I didn't see it and didn't anticipate it. I remained as still as possible, and a few minutes later he told me they were done. As I put on my shirt, I glanced down at a plastic jar. It was nearly filled with what must have been over a liter of fluid, reddish-brown, the distinct color of apple cider. Or perhaps the color of watered-down blood.
"That came out of me?" I asked.
"Indeed it did," came the reply.
Chapter 7
The Vice President was ready for some recreation. Having flown in this afternoon from D.C., he was a little tired, but nothing that a good romp in the sack wouldn't cure. He grabbed a fresh tumbler from the small bar in his hotel suite, filled it with single malt Scotch, and added an ice cube. All you needed was one. A single cube of ice mollified the burn and opened the whiskey's bouquet, allowing the flavor to expand. But too much ice would be a killer. If single malt Scotch was served too cold, the taste would be muted. Not many people knew that.
He had just come from a Beverly Hills fundraiser, one of those grip-and-grin affairs Greece pushed him to do. He had been to plenty in his career, too many he thought, tiresome sessions where he had to ingratiate himself with a bunch of Hollywood phonies. Unavoidable, a job requirement which allowed him to tap into their multi-million-dollar veins and infuse his struggling presidential campaign with a new influx of cash. After loosening his tongue with a couple of watered-down drinks, he gave a rousing speech, making sure the studio moguls were left with the distinct impression that their interests were his interests. A great politician could make a progressive think he was progressive, and a conservative think he was conservative. And as he finished, he received an enthusiastic roar of applause, an encouraging bellwether that told him he would likely leave with a truckload of their money. In short, a worthwhile venture, but he was simply happy it was over.
When he arrived back at the hotel though, his debrief with the new pollster had given him pause. Ned Baker had struck him as different from that previous pollster, Frank Phelan, the dunderhead who kept coming back to him with bad news. But the response from tonight's focus groups was different. The voters just didn't know much about him. A two-term Senator, a vice president for almost seven years and yet he was still a blank slate. There were a few rays of hope, though. The groups thought he exuded the appearance of what a president should be. Strong, bold, distinguished. Kennedyesque. This was the sort of news he had been waiting for from Phelan. Baker had told him it was all preliminary, too soon to judge with certainty, but he tried to put a positive spin on this. He said the chances of the vice president ascending to the Presidency looked promising. He, Richard Sudeau, merely needed to show off that face and let America know who he really was. But what the voters really liked was Amber, his comely, mercurial spouse. She gave his candidacy a boost, the eye candy that also came with smarts. But she also came with an unsolvable problem.
Walking across the suite, he slipped in between the maroon drapes and the sliding glass door. Flipping the latch, he carefully opened the door and stepped gingerly onto the balcony. This would tick off the Secret Service boys if they found out. They always chastised him for breaking the rules and for not paying enough attention to security. Fuck them. No one knew where he was staying. He lived life on his own terms. And he was starting on a path to become the most powerful man in the world in eighteen months. To emerge from his long years of solitude, of living in the cloistered shadow of his boss. He was finally exiting the cocoon. The Presidency was within his grasp. He could get there, but he had to play his cards right.
He gazed out across the L.A. nightscape. The evening air was cool, or at least cooler than it was in D.C., where June had already brought a wave of sticky humidity. It was different out here, warm in the winter, cool in the summer. An odd place. Upside down. He had never really figured out Los Angeles, the city was a study in contrasts. Beautiful yet alien, straightforward yet vague. He didn't fit in here, but when he had to come, he liked staying in Century City. It was close to the beach, close to Beverly Hills, yet separate from them, a narrow enclave. This was a nice community, not really a neighborhood, more like a freakishly oversized business park. It was a high-end development, with some of the streets named for heavenly galaxies or clusters of stars. A classy area. So unlike where he grew up.
The vague hint of a crescent moon hung over the horizon and he could just barely make out the strands of light dancing off of the Pacific. The street lights flickered below him. Taking a deep gulp of scotch, he thought of the sexy package that was set to arrive in a few minutes, an old squeeze, and he relished the thought of her impending visit. But then he heard the sounds. A series of cracks, repetitive, unfamiliar, possibly the sharp noise of firecrackers going off nearby ...
* * *
The soft, cool, morning air hit me as soon as I walked outside, but it was fresh, sweet, and made me feel more alive. And the pain in my back was thankfully gone. I was suddenly very hungry and stopped at an iHOP, gorging on a stack of pancakes, thick, pillowy and sticky sweet with syrup. The bottomless cup of coffee was welcomed, although the vague mineral taste of the iodine concoction remained in the back of my throat, disappearing briefly as I ate, returning once I finished breakfast. I paid the bill and drove to my office, noticing that, having accomplished a few big items on my to-do list this morning, it was not yet ten o'clock.
The office of the Baker Lipschitz Team was active. I was barely at my desk for two minutes when Wanda, my project manager, burst in. She caught me gazing out the window, our view of the glistening Pacific being the one beautiful touch that came with our pedestrian office. The rest of our digs were mostly nondescript and modest.
Wanda had been with me through most of the ten years Blair and I had been together, and she was indispensable. I gave her as many raises as I could push past Blair, in a few cases, sacrificing some of my share of the profits to keep her happy and minimize the chance she'd leave us. Wanda periodically wondered what it would be like to work for a company like Garter, a client firm that had richer benefits and surroundings that were certainly more plush. I didn't want to burst her bubble, but she would not fit comfortably within a client company, if she could even land a job there. Corporations hired people who looked good and sounded good, amiable sorts who got along easily with colleagues. Wanda was none of those things. She was brash, plain spoken, and did not have the physical appeal that made prospective employers take notice. She simply worked har
d and got the job done. In corporate America, that was insufficient. For us, she was perfect.
"Where have you been?" she asked in the mock-scolding manner, the one that a subordinate can temporarily use when she has a good relationship with her boss. "I've been trying to get a hold of you since yesterday morning. You simply have to start answering your cell."
"Sorry," I said, knowing about her calls, but not having felt capable of taking them. "Some things came up."
"Things more important than moderating focus groups for the vice president?" she exclaimed.
I shrugged and gave her the palms-up sign, the universal signal that certain events going on in the world were simply out of my hands. "What do you need?" I asked.
"Oh, let's see. I need to know how many people will be in the back room observing, should we get a camera operator for the video-conferencing, can the facility allow in people who participated in focus groups less than six months ago, should we cap the number of non-Caucasians who can attend. Should we pay to feed them sandwiches beforehand. Little things like that."
"And you can't handle this?" I asked her.
"Sure. But Haley screamed at me last time when I did. So I figured I'd ask first."
"Have I ever screamed at you?"
"Well ... no," she managed after considering this for a long moment.
"Good. Haley's gone, and so's the drama. No one will be screaming at you today."
For a moment I was relieved to think about work. To think about anything but the unthinkable. I gave Wanda the basic instructions. No one from the vice president's office was likely to come, but be sure to video-conference and record the groups. Get a camera operator, nothing in the world is worse than watching focus groups from a static angle that doesn't move. Only allow in past participants from other focus groups if we can't recruit anyone else. Yes, feed the participants dinner. Allow people from any nationality to participate, don't discriminate because of their ethnic background. Try and get a good mix. Make sure all the seats are filled, even if they have to pay people four hundred dollars each to come. Just kidding, but not really.
"Got it," she said, scribbling things onto a pad. "So, what happened to Haley? Heard she's not coming back."
"Just what exactly did you hear?"
"Well. That she departed under less-than-ideal circumstances. Did that naughty behavior finally catch up with her?"
I let out a low whistle. We worked in a small office and gossip doesn't stay hidden. Haley's recent flirtation may have been the straw that broke the camel's back, but the camel's back is never broken by a single straw. The last straw just happened to be when she was traveling with me. Attempting to seduce the boss is not always a good career move.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in," interrupted a familiar voice. We both turned to see Blair strolling into my office. "Wanda, sweetie, can you give us a minute?"
"Sure," she said, rising and walking toward the door. "I'll catch up with you later."
Blair closed the door behind her and sat down. We had been in this office for almost ten years, Blair having insisted upon it, mostly because it was a short three-minute drive from his home in Santa Monica Canyon. My drive from Brentwood was a little longer and growing more so. As the blossoming of Silicon Beach added more and more office buildings to this seaside community, it also added more and more congestion. But the gorgeous view from my window was the constant, and I never passed up the chance to glance at the ocean when I could. And sometimes when I shouldn't.
"Nice day, isn't it?" Blair started.
I reluctantly turned my gaze away from the horizon and back toward him. "Sorry."
"Everything okay with you?" he asked casually, looking down as he examined his manicure.
"Why? Does something seem not okay?"
Blair kept examining his nails, and started running his thumb over them, moving it rhythmically back and forth. It looked like he admired his fingers so much that he had to touch them.
"Your back still messed up?" he asked.
"I think it's under control now. You noticed?"
"I notice everything. Things okay at home?"
"Is this twenty questions?"
"If it were, you'd use up all twenty," he said. "I'm starting to get ... concerned."
"About what? Me?"
"Yeah, you. We're about to reel in the biggest fish in the ocean. The largest whale we've ever come close to landing, and yeah, I'm concerned. I'm concerned you're going to fuck everything up."
I stared at him. "Have I ever?"
No," he shook his head. "You're the one who gets stuff done. I'm the one that gets stuff. And the stuff I just got could be the nicest payday we've ever had. Or might ever have. And it all rides on you tomorrow night. Those focus groups are critical. They have to go well. No, better than well. You have to hit a home run."
"A home run would be good."
"Make it a grand slam, then," he countered.
"You don't want to put any more pressure on me, do you?"
"I shouldn't have to. But I've been watching you the last couple of days. You're acting funny. Different. I just don't know what it is."
He was right, of course, things were different, very different. My world was suspended, balanced on the critical scans that could reveal my fate. If I would live or if I would die. But since I had yet to tell my wife and daughter about my medical condition, I surely wasn't going to confide in Blair. There was always a chance the scans could end up being negative, that this was just a big, needless scare, a mistake that any doctor could make, fearing the worst, steeling the patient for the unvarnished news that few people could bear to hear. That you might not live much longer.
This was the reality I was not able to ignore. There is no cure for cancer; no doctor needed to tell me that. But no doctor could give me a mental game plan either, a mission, a mode of thinking that could guide me. That had to come from within. I had no desire to take a trip around the world, I had seen enough of it. I did not need to go back and visit old friends, long lost acquaintances from Charleston or Berkeley.
"You don't have to worry," I managed, thinking in the back of my mind that I'd be doing enough worrying for everyone.
"I don't have to, but I do."
"Let me ask you something, Blair," I said, trying to change the subject. "What did you think of the vice president?"
"How do you mean?" he peered at me.
"I mean, when you looked at him yesterday, did you see a future president? Did you see someone you respect? Someone you wanted to lead this country?"
"You're really acting funny now."
"No, seriously," I said. "I'd like to know. What do you see?"
"What I see," he said evenly, "is a great big pile of cash. Starting with a big check that's supposed to arrive tomorrow with the FedEx guy. And listening to you, I'm also starting to see it vanish into thin air."
"Is that what drives you? Just money?"
"I want to be rich and famous. Just like Sudeau. That what you wanted to hear?"
I shook my head. When I looked at Richard Sudeau, I saw the same thing as when I looked at most politicians, a level of narcissism, but every politician was a narcissist to some extent. They had to be. It was what drove them, the tenaciousness to throw themselves into the bonfire of public scrutiny. Running for high office required a level of courage, as well as a neediness that bordered on the dysfunctional. The desire for others to exalt you. It was common in celebrities and political leaders and corporate executives. It was a trait of Rich Sudeau. And it was also a quality I saw in Blair Lipschitz.
"Look. I respect the vice president," Blair said, caustically. "As much as I respect any client."
"Which is to say not much."
"Hey. You know the drill. This is how it works. You don't have to love them. You just need to make them think you do."
And therein was another issue I was grappling with. Whether it was Garter's new product to enhance a woman's sexual experience or Rich Sudeau's new image des
igned to enhance the public's view of him. Something else was bothering me. With Garter, the product made me uneasy. There was nothing wrong with couples having more sex, but the idea of launching a supplement that wasn't FDA approved yet was a concern. There was nothing ostensibly wrong with electing Richard Sudeau as the leader of the free world, although he never answered my question as to why he wanted to be president. I looked at Blair and quickly realized my resolution on these issues would not come from him. And I reminded myself I still had a family to support.
"All right," I said, suddenly feeling the need to end this conversation quickly.
"All right what?"
"I'll nail it tomorrow."
"Atta boy. I sure don't want to have to go out and find a new partner."
I stared angrily at him. This wasn't the first time Blair had nibbled around the margins of that idea, but a joke often reveals the truth in a cagey disguise. When Blair and I argued, I sometimes sensed the invisible fraying of our bond, the snap of a cord that could propel us on our separate ways. Blair could replace me with someone who could roll up their sleeves and do the work, I could replace him with someone who could go out and scrounge up business. But the net effect would end up being the same. We had different roles, and our roles often chafed against each other. But like the person who angrily divorces their spouse and remarries, they often go find a new partner, different in some ways yet still having the same underlying and unsatisfying qualities, ones that brought out the exact same troubles that the previous spouse had managed to evoke.
"No need to test the waters," I sighed.
"Good," Blair smiled and stood up. "I've got the future mapped out. We're going places, you and me. Just watch what happens. This is going to be fantastic. For both of us. This is going to launch us into the stratosphere. My plans are coming to fruition!"
I stared at him and shook my head. No matter how keenly you planned things out, the world had an unfailing way of altering them.