The Tumours Made Me Interesting

by Matthew Revert

I withdrew a cigarette from the collective packet on the table. My obsession with smoking had spread to the others with gusto. The others followed my lead and withdrew cigarettes of their own. Whatever suggestive narcotic Fiona had laced these with (she admitted they were laced but wouldn’t say with what), made us feel so damn cozy. We tapped our cigarettes together in the interest of camaraderie before inhaling. A thick cloud of smoke wafted overhead and together we contributed to a puddle of phlegm, courtesy of our hacking coughs.

  “Is Fiona taking more electroencephalographic readings today?” asked Rhonda.

  “Not today,” I replied, "I need a little while to recover from last night’s recording session. That microphone had a fat head and she really had to force it up there.”

  Fiona had made several magnetic tape bowel recordings, which she was selling to members of her group. It was unusual listening to my tumours for the first time. They made a warbling sound, which Fiona swore was rudimentary communication. She had an array of microphones, each with different dynamic ranges, which she used. Last night she was interested in the lower frequencies and had to use a large mic. She virtually had to hammer it home like a tent peg.

  “Will we get a copy of the recording?” asked Vince. “They’re such intriguing things. Rhonda and I frequently make love to your last one.”

  “You don’t say!” replied Arthur. “You two insist on intercourse at the highest decibel level imaginable. I could remove my ears and still find you deafening.”

  “Just because you haven’t been laid since the start of the industrial revolution…” quipped Vince.

  “Always at each other’s throats,” muttered Rhonda with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “You know you’re welcome to join us at any time, Arthur.”

  Those two were always asking the rest of us to participate in their sado-masochistic play. I, personally, wasn’t keen. I wanted Fiona and if I couldn’t have her, I was happy to masturbate. Belinda’s mother, however, occasionally took them up on the offer.

  We had developed into quite an interesting family. I loved each and every one of them. They never said it directly and it was difficult for me to admit, but I got the feeling they all looked up to me. When I spoke, they’d fall silent and hang on my every word like monkey bars, no matter how banal they were. The change in my life since meeting Fiona had been extraordinary. For the first time, I actually felt important. My ability to grow tumours was unprecedented. Their ability to appreciate my ability to grow tumours was unexpected. The last month hadn’t always been fun, but the company I was lucky enough to keep made my lower moments more bearable. They all helped keep me on the track that Fiona expected of me.

  Under Fiona’s watchful eye, I was taught to guide my tumours toward their own cognisance. True perfection would be reached when they weren’t merely malignant growths mindlessly in response to their diseased surrounds. They had to wake up. After the second week, Fiona became convinced this was starting to happen. Electroencephalographic readings suggested I was being communicated with on a psychic level. Although at that stage it couldn’t be proven this psychic phenomena was a direct attempt by the tumours to communicate with me, it seemed likely. If this was the case, there was no limit to what my tumours would be able to accomplish. It was even hypothesised that they may be capable of existing outside of their human host. There was something deeply satisfying about this thought. Almost as if they would be going back into the world that allowed them to form. At the same time, the thought of losing them was deeply troubling. I wasn’t prepared for it.

  A symbiosis between the tumours and I was definitely forming. They often purred and kicked around in my stomach, but that was easily explained as pure reaction to stimuli. It was the same way a leaf might turn to avoid the sun. But toward the end of the third week, I could hear muttering inside my head that struck me as a rudimentary form of language. I would talk to the tumours and the muttering would fill my brain in reply. Continued readings proved that I was experiencing intensifying levels of psychic activity.

  “How’s the diaper?” asked Rhonda as she ground out her cigarette on Vince’s arm.

  I felt my backside – there was nothing squishy. “Think I’m good. Thanks.”

  “Just let me know when you need a change, hon.”

  At Fiona’s insistence, I had been wearing diapers for the last couple of weeks. The mess coming out of me was never pleasant and wildly unpredictable. Rhonda wouldn’t let me change my own diaper. She insisted upon performing this task and always did so without complaint. I must admit, it was nice to feel that regression to babyhood. She would wipe me clean, powder my arse and blow a playful raspberry on my stomach. The sound of the raspberries would make Belinda laugh and the infectious sound of Belinda’s laughter would make the rest of us laugh.

  I excused myself and went to my room. Fiona had given me a list of daily exercises aimed at tumour enhancement. Bolstered by the results of the readings, she was convinced they could understand me, so many of the exercises were verbal. I had a mantra I was required to repeat 100 times each day.

  I give you the strength to be all you can be.

  Your success is my success.

  I give my life so that yours may flourish.

  You make me interesting.

  This mantra was repeated passionately. I had to believe the words when I said them. I had to inhale deeply on a cigarette after each repetition. Fiona had taught me how to absorb most of the smoke into my body, which allowed my disease to process more of the nutrients. The second mantra was a little ambiguous to me:

  I am your daddy.

  I carried you.

  Learn to forget me.

  Run to mummy.

  I massaged my stomach with firm fingers while saying this mantra. The tumours bucked and kicked against me. It was invigorating. If I concentrated enough, I could hear them, and not just out loud. I could hear them directly within my brain too – disembodied whispers muttering over each other. I couldn’t determine any recognisable language, but I could sense their tone. They were excited. I knew in my heart that this wasn’t pure response. My tumours were becoming all they were destined to be.

  In my bedside drawer was a jar of radiation suppositories. This was also a gift from Fiona and I had to insert ten each day. My bowel sucked them up, and the tumours devoured them like ravenous animals.

  This regime took a lot out of me. Even at the height of health I wasn’t endowed with stamina so now, with the complete disintegration of my body, I was constantly fatigued. Fiona was accommodating when it came to my requirements and it wasn’t uncommon for her to perform her procedures whilst I slept. All I had to do was remind myself that this wasn’t about me, personally, it was about what I grew inside.

  I was making us both a lot of money by allowing Fiona to sell homemade merchandise dedicated to my tumours. She owned a website that boasted a network of over 700,000 illness enthusiasts all over the world. DVDs of my interior were made available and sold in the tens of thousands. Amongst this community, I was an idol. I received fan mail daily from men, women and children who pined to make contact before I died. Artistic representations of my tumours were common and a few of them were even fridge worthy. The managing editor of a magazine called ‘Oncophiliacs Monthly’ was in negotiations with Fiona to have me on their next cover. There were even whispers that an independent film based on my illness was in the pipelines. I was told that living long enough to see this film onscreen was unlikely.

  It was a lot to take in. I can honestly say that I loved the attention – thrived on it. No other period in my life had instilled me with such a sense of self-worth. I’d lived more in the last month than I ever did in the decades leading up to it. I was finally something.

  The gentle knock on my bedroom door roused me from rest. I was lathered in pink sweat with a quail gnawing on my armpit. I brushed the quail to one side and, through a fit of coughing up what looked like mashed grapes, slurred, “Come in”.

  Belinda emerged throu
gh my door and tip toed toward me. “Is that a bird?” she asked, pointing at the quail.

  I nodded with a smile.

  “Can I keep it, Bruce? Pleeeeaaaasssee…”

  I nodded again. “It’s all yours kiddo.”

  She clapped her hands and scooped the quail up with delight.

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  She stroked her chin and glanced upward. Her hair performed a spindly dance that left it a frightful mess. “I know!” she yelled. “I’m going to teach it to swim.”

  I chuckled and wheezed. “Sounds like a hell of a plan. Did you want me for something?”

  She was already nursing the quail in her gentle arms when her eyes bulged in recollection. “Oh yeah! There’s a man here to see you. His name’s Jerry. I don’t know what to do about it. Fiona said you weren’t supposed to have any visitors, but everyone’s playing Kid Icarus and no one is paying attention.”

  The name Jerry didn’t mean anything to me at first. I massaged my temples, trying to recollect if I knew a Jerry. The temple rubbing turned into a dumb slap. Jerry! From work! Shit… I hadn’t seen him since… the night at the bar. The night with… tent girl. I hadn’t thought about tent girl either… not since everything started.

  “Send him in,” I said.

  Belinda skipped out, quail in hand, boundless excitement – the promise of life. I was nervous. The last time Jerry saw me, I was making an arse out of myself at the Tent Bar. Why was he here? In the past month, I hadn’t really interacted with anyone from my pre-Fiona life.

  A tooting sound came toward my room. Jerry slid by in a body stocking, wrapped in tinsel. “Brucey!” he screamed. “How ya bin, ya sick fuck?”

  We both stared at my emaciated body and burst into laughter.

  “You seem chipper,” he said with delight. “What happened to the downer we all know and love?”

  “I tell you, Jerry. This cancer is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. It turns out this is what I’m good at.”

  He sat at my bedside and rubbed my leg in an unwelcome way. “I tell ya, Brucey… we’re all good at something. You’re lucky you found out what it was before you died.”

  He held up his hand for a high five, which I tried to return, but succeeded only in falling out of the bed and hitting my head on the floor. While trying to help me up, Jerry stepped on my face and slipped backward, falling through the bedroom wall and bursting a pipe. Water gushed into the apartment. While nursing our recently acquired injuries, we rolled around laughing.

  Belinda came running back from the other room and saw us laughing on the ground and the water pouring down around us. “Think the pipe’s broken,” she said.

  “Blame Jerry!’ I yelled.

  “Nah… blame Brucey’s face.”

  We continued laughing.

  “Well now I don’t know who or what to blame. Should we try and fix it?”

  Jerry helped me to my feet and I fell to the bed. “I don’t know how to fix pipes,” I said. “Do either of you?”

  They both shook their heads so hard that Belinda’s quail flew away. She went chasing after it, forgetting about the broken pipe. “Think I’ll just leave it,” I confided to Jerry.

  “Yeah… fuck that! Plumbers are expensive and they steal all your underwear.”

  We both sat on my bed, the apartment slowly filling with water, flotsam floating around our feet. We spent some time practicing our high fives – this time slowly and gently to avoid further carnage.

  “Hell!” said Jerry. “I nearly forgot. I actually came here for a reason.”

  It was strange to hear Jerry say this. Until those words left his mouth, I had forgotten he had ever arrived. In my mind he had always been there, in this room. My mind really was starting to slip.

  “I came to take you out tonight. Ever since our last adventure, I’ve acquired a taste for partying with you. What do ya say? Feel like getting fucked up and hitting on some women?”

  With my newfound confidence buzzing about inside me, I didn’t want to refuse. I knew exactly where I wanted to go. I was a little concerned though. Fiona had expressly forbidden me to leave the apartment without her. She claimed that in my condition I was liable to wander aimlessly into oblivion, never to be found again. But this was different… Jerry would be my guide and keep me safe.

  “Let’s go to the Tent Bar again,’ I said.

  Jerry slapped his thigh. “You have balls man! Not too many jump at the chance to return to the scene of the crime, if you get my meaning.”

  Whether I had balls or not didn’t interest me. I had my mind on one goal – talking to tent girl. I had to know what happened between us that night. I didn’t even know if she’d still be there or if she’d even recognise me. It didn’t matter. I had nothing to lose.

  The water continued its slow rise, displacing whatever it came into contact with. Dead insect husks floated to the surface and tickled my toes.

  “Oh shit!” blurted Jerry, “I nearly forgot. I have a note from work they wanted me to give to you.”

  I watched as Jerry jammed fingers down his throat and foraged around. He was mumbling spit-soaked words that meant nothing to me. Along with strings on internal slop, he retrieved the letter. It was warm and wet in my hands and tore as I unfolded it. It contained the unmistakable, almost Arabic looking, handwriting of my supervisor, Kerry:

  Salutations, Bruce,

  It has come to my attention that your illness (bowel cancer) has achieved an irreversible state. This news has hit me very personally as I once watched a movie about a man suffering from cancer. It was harrowing and I’d be lying if I said I appreciated the memories your condition has stirred within me. I’m more than willing to forgive the inconsiderate nature of your actions in the interest of harmony. It takes two to tango, after all.

  As you know, your position was to remain intact, waiting for your eventual return to the workplace. The meerkats we had replace you are doing a marvelous job and performing their daily duties with a previously unthinkable efficiency. With your death imminent, we have decided to let you go. This has been a very difficult decision and once again, I’m rather upset that you forced me to make it. From what I understand, you were a dependable employee. I’m also led to believe that you refused numerous technology upgrades. We need go-getters, Bruce and your pathological desire to maintain the status quo doesn’t gel with our mission statement at The Nipple Blamers.

  I hope this letter finds you in good spirits.

  Warmest everything,

  Kerry Cartwright-Mueller

  The words dove into my consciousness and drowned. I couldn’t help but laugh with joy. My job – that horrible spectre of my previous life was now officially gone. I never had to go back. When I glanced at Jerry, it was no longer as a co-worker, but as a friend.

  “What does the letter say?” asked Jerry.

  “Open your mouth,” I demanded in reply.

  With his mouth wide open, I proceeded to jam the letter back down Jerry’s throat. “It’s nothing. Let it become shit. Swallow the fucker down.”

  His face turned bright red as he momentarily choked on the paper before forcing it down his gullet.

  “When do we leave?” I asked.

  I felt like a teenager sneaking out at night in order to experience mischief. I held Jerry’s hand and together we crept through the lounge room. Just as Belinda had said, everyone was hypnotised in front of the television playing Kid Icarus. Their eyes were unblinking squares of jelly as they focused on the 8-bit sprites. Belinda was busying herself with the quail. She had foraged a small tuxedo from her hair, which she was forcing on the little bird. With the exaggerated steps of a cartoon character sneaking up on its victim, we reached the door. After a brief game of rock, paper, scissors, played in order to ascertain who would be tasked with opening the door, Jerry turned the knob. A short time later we were out and ready to live it up.

  2.

  Jerry had to carry me for most of our trek to t
he Tent Bar. My legs weren’t very reliable anymore. My energy levels were fluctuating to the point where one minute I’d feel like I could run a marathon, and the next, I’d be flailing around on the ground. The second time I fell over, Jerry scooped me up without warning and flung me over his shoulder. I didn’t fight it. It was like I was flying. Like I was a superhero – Cancer Man! We must have looked a little odd as we made our way up the crowded city footpath. We attracted more stares than a fisting demonstration. I felt amazing. I reached out my hands, attempting to solicit high fives. Nobody felt the desire to give me one. All that time I’d previously spent practicing with Jerry was starting to feel like a bit of a waste.

  Jerry placed me down at the entrance. “You’re on your own from here, man.”

  I gave him a goofy thumbs up before falling through the door. Jerry shook his head in disbelief, picked up my leg and dragged me toward the bar. Des’ree’s ‘Life’ seeped through the jukebox in slow motion. The neon lights cut through the dim murk in furry swathes. This was the tent bar I remembered.

  From the sticky ground, the bar looked so high. A mountain I needed to ascend. My one hope was that the summit would reveal my precious tent girl. I could already picture her in my mind, waddling about behind the bar, trying to pour drinks; that awkward costume getting in the way. Jerry was already seated. His arse crept around the edges of the barstool. The sight elicited a giggle. I began my climb. Rigid hands clung to whatever was available. My body lifted ever so slightly. My inner audience applauded the achievement. I took a mental bow. I found Jerry’s leg and used it to gain leverage. I lifted a little more. I decided to take a break and smoked a celebratory cigarette. My tumours purred in appreciation. The packet was getting a little empty. This concerned me. I pushed it from my mind. It didn’t matter right now. This was all about getting off the ground and finding my tent girl. I spat the diminished cigarette from my mouth and continued to climb. My fingers clung to the edge of the bar. I was nearly there. I flexed every muscle and furrowed every brow in concentration and lifted. With the aid of flatulence, I found my footing. I was there. I was on my feet. Triumph coursed through me like electricity. The triumph evaporated like the confidence of a jilted prom date when I finally turned my attention behind the bar. She wasn’t there. I wanted to cry.