The Tumours Made Me Interesting

by Matthew Revert

  The concept actually made me laugh. Jerry had a habit of asking me to go out clubbing or bar hopping with him and although a part of me had a strange desire to accept the offer, the anxiety-ridden cripple that made up my greater self always refused. “Nice offer, Jerry but look at me? Think I need to get an early one.”

  “Suit yerself, man,” he said with a firm back pat, “but the offer stands. Nothing gets rid of them gut nasties better than drunken debauchery.”

  He leapt from my desk and began mock flying around the office cubicles yelling, I am Super Batman! I remained soaked in vomit and wishing I was Super Batman.

  I’d managed to get myself more or less cleaned up. I flushed my soiled shirt, clogging up the unisex work toilet pretty bad in the process. I just wore my singlet and suit jacket and from a distance, I looked comfortably banal. My keyboard was still an issue. It was caked in vomit and my tentative keystrokes were met with a squishy resistance. It was official: I needed to request a new one. This was easier said than done. In the 13 years I’d been an employee at The Nipple Blamers, I had never been given a technology upgrade. I was the only one in the office still using a computer less powerful than my piece of shit wristwatch. It drove me crazy. While the other staff were enjoying widescreen LCD monitors, Blu-Ray burners and computers faster than male orgasms, I was stuck in the mid-nineties. My primary mode of data transfer were floppy discs. I had three which I had to juggle my important data between. The fact I was able to fit my important data on these discs indicated how unimportant my job was. I didn’t have internet access, which meant I had to commandeer other computers to read the fusillade of work e-mails that arrived daily. I had to stoke a bellow-desk furnace with coal just to keep the monitor illuminated and my keyboard possessed an ancient alphabet, no longer in use by the populace. It was a cruel timestamp, never letting me forget how long I’d been here.

  I unplugged my rancid keyboard and walked it toward my supervisor’s office. I’d requested tech upgrades before and it was always met with, I’m sorry Bruce, we’ve blown our tech budget – try again next quarter and I’ll see what I can do. I needed stark proof that an upgrade was necessary and my fetid vomit was the ticket. The fetid stench it kicked up was firmly on my side. I couldn’t help but think that if my impending death helped earn me a new keyboard, it was in some ways worth it.

  My supervisor, Kerry, was a strange woman both in appearance and demeanor. She had an obese person’s head, which sat atop an anorexic body. It was a jarring combination that, no matter how many times you saw it, always led to double takes. Encounters with Kerry always made me a little nervous. If I were being honest, this had more to do with my relationship to authority figures rather than her curiously confronting appearance. As I approached her office I could see her hurling heads of iceberg lettuce against the wall and yelling the names of zodiac signs with each impact. She caught me out of the corner of her eye and ushered me into her office.

  “Hey, Bruce. Want to sling some lettuce?” she said in a voice that fluctuated in pitch. “What’s your star sign?”

  “Umm… I’m a Scorpio.”

  She took a step back and waved her hands comically. “Oh, I should keep away from you. You’re a dangerous one.”

  I don’t know whether the smell hit her first but she caught a glimpse of the keyboard in my hands. “What’s all this about?”

  “I had an accident, Kerry. Think I finally need a replacement.”

  “You threw up on that, didn’t you?”

  I nodded slightly, my cheeks flushing with shame.

  “Are you okay, Bruce? Perhaps you should go home and sleep it off.”

  “It’s okay. Just need to get my keyboard changed over so I can get back to it.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” She hurled another head of lettuce. “The tech budget is blown… unless… give me a minute, Bruce. I think I can help you out.”

  A smile filled my face. I was finally about to receive something new. I imagined my fingers tapping the pristine keyboard and the smile grew larger. Kerry was on her hands and knees, boney arse jutting skyward. She was shuffling around under her desk. I remained lost in new keyboard fantasies.

  “Eureka!” she yelled, eventually reemerging with another keyboard.

  My heart sank. It was exactly the same as my current keyboard, sans vomit.

  “I thought we’d trashed all these things. Pretty sure yours is the only computer it even works with. Your lucky day!”

  “Thanks,” I seethed. I plucked the new/old keyboard from Kerry’s hand and stormed out of the office. I flung the old one in a bin. The sound of pelted lettuce accompanied my exit.

  I was ruminating on the sheer inequity of life when my phone started barking. I dropped the new keyboard, a few keys coming loose and shooting straight up. With my phone in hand, I stared in dread. The message was from my doctor. I opened it with eyes shut. When they opened, I was faced with the following:

  Hey Bruce. The Doc here. Checked out the tumour. It’s definitely a tumour. You’re pretty much fucked. It’s okay though. Heaps of people die of cancer. You should come and hear me jam some time. We seriously fucking rocked last night! Later, dude.

  3.

  “You’re gonna love this place, man. It’s called ‘The Tent’. All the people behind the bar dress in a tent! It’s nuts. You should see ‘em try to pour a drink in those things.”

  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 enou
gh 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.

  I remembered my stool-top cancer speech and I felt anvils of shame flatten me. I remembered tent girl coming to my aide and wiping the puke from my face. That means… if she did have sex with me, it was out of sympathy. This possibility sat very poorly, and I began instinctively scrubbing at my body with a cracked bar of soap. It wasn’t right. I’d used my cancer like a divorced man uses his children to attract women. I’d become somewhat desirable by virtue of my impending demise. I wanted to throw up again but my stomach was too empty to wretch up anything other than foam. I needed to lie down. I needed to go to sleep and bypass waking up. All of a sudden, my death couldn’t come too soon.

  4.

  Bed was really kind to me, hugging my body in all the right places and cocooning me from the world in general. This made the shrill ring of my phone all the more frustrating. I ignored it at first, adamant that whoever was trying to destroy my warm bliss would lose the fight. I remained still with my eyes stubbornly closed for what must have been 15 minutes. Then I started counting the incessant rings. 90 minutes and over 500 rings later, I gave up. I caught a glance at my bedside clock. It was 2pm and it was a work day. This sped my pace dramatically. I couldn’t believe I’d allowed work to slip my mind. I had only ever been late for work once and that was because my home was invaded by Spaniards. This was a case of getting shitfaced and sleeping in. This wasn’t on. I dived for the phone (although, after nearly two hours of ringing, the last minute dash seemed inappropriate). I snatched the receiver and held it nervously against my ear. It wasn’t an angry supervisor like I expected. Instead my ears were being caressed by a gentle, measured female voice.