Jex Blackwell Saves the World

by P. William Grimm

  “And then you had additional chemo after the surgery, which was the primary treatment. That second round is called adjuvant chemo, to try and kill any cancer cells that could have spread before the surgery and to keep the tumor from growing back right away at the operation site.”

  “Yeah,” Joe says, starting to look exhausted. “I get it.”

  Jex holds off for a minute, as Joe seems to be taking things in. “And they found out after all that bullshit, it spread, despite all the treatment. To the lungs and the liver and the stomach. And it reoccurred in the abdomen.”

  Joe nods slowly. One of the two other guys looks like he is about to pass out.

  “And so now the only treatment regime left is to start from scratch, but not just at the abdomen, but also those other places.”

  Joe nods. The room is silent.

  “And they have had to delay it twice because you’ve been sick.”

  “Yeah,” Joe says, anger in his eyes for the first time. “This fucking cancer makes it easier to get sick. And so I keep getting sick. Fucking fever. Fucking snotting. Everything. But I don’t care. I’m not doing it anyways. I’m sick of being sick and I just want to die here.” Joe takes a deep breath. “I’m straight edge man, I’ve lived my whole life being clean. They are not putting another single fucking drug in me. No fucking way.” Tears are running down his eyes. “No fucking way.”

  “Shit,” Sam screams, suddenly alive again and animated. The two other guys jump, startled. Even Joe in his bed recoils a bit from the unexpected outburst.

  “This is such fucking bullshit,” Sam rages. “Total bullshit. This is what we are left with? Either he gets filled with that shit and it makes him lose his hair and puke and shit himself and then he dies, or he just dies in that bed like an old man right now? After all that, those are the only fucking options that we are left with?”

  Sam’s chest heaves, his face all veins and red. Tears are flowing down his eyes, part sadness, maybe mostly frustration. He coughs and chokes. Jex looks over at Joe and then back to Sam. She puts her hand on Sam’s arm. It is not a gesture she often makes. Sam looks at her.

  “Are these our only choices? Our only motherfucking choices,” his voice full of pain and emptied of hope. “No more fucking songs? No more fucking CDs? No more …” He sniffs, choking back snot. “No more fucking gigs?”

  Jex turns to Joe, whose face is scrunched up, tears dripping down his cheeks. Sam looks down at Joe, his friend’s pain etched on his own face. Joe watches his best friend mourn his condition, and coughs out tears. In a friendship that has existed over fifteen years, these are the first tears the two have shared. After a moment, Jex raises her chin and straightens her septum ring. She begins to speak.

  [Are those Joe’s only choices? Can Jex think up other options? Turn to After Leviathan Diagnosis to read Jex’s diagnosis and the conclusion of the story.]

  Jenny the Chicken

  Jex Blackwell is stoned. She looks between the blinds of her second floor bedroom and stares down out at the driveway. Her eyes are bloodshot and kind of vacant, pained by the sunlight. Q, her good friend and frequent partner-in-crime, has been knocking on the front door for the better part of an hour. Jex can’t be bothered to answer. Sitting cross-legged and surrounded by medical textbooks – her headphones jamming the Max Levine Ensemble as loud as it will go – she is perfectly content to be alone; prefers to be alone. Q knows this, Jex thinks to herself, and it makes her vaguely annoyed that she doesn’t just go away. After some minutes of watching Q pace back and forth between her bike and the front door, Jex grows bored and returns to her textbook. It is one of those weeks.

  Her townhouse in Brentwood is modest, but at least it is hers and hers alone. Years ago, her father kept it for his mistress, but she left him soon after he got sick. And, so, when he finally died, after all that pain, all that torment, all that grief, the townhouse went to Jex. Just thirteen at the time, the Court didn’t let her live alone right away. So it lived vacantly on its own for awhile as Jex wiled away the time squatting in her uncle’s basement.

  Her uncle was OK but Jex had never been the kind of person to live under someone else’s roof. She spent much of her time on the streets. For that matter she still does. As soon as she turned fifteen, having already at that point graduated high school two years early, the Court gave her the freedom she wanted so badly. She immediately moved out of her uncle’s basement and into the townhouse, embraced by the calm solitude it offered her. She still loves her uncle, visits him occasionally. But today, as a sixteen year old with experience far in excess of her years, she is independent. That’s the way she likes it.

  The townhouse is two full bedrooms, with quite a bit of space in it, but it is nearly empty. Just a mattress upstairs on the floor of the bedroom, no frame or anything; various pots and pans in the kitchen, mostly unused, some still new in their packaging; and a loveseat with upholstery in the living room that is for some inexplicable reason identical to the rug from the Shining’s Overlook Hotel. Whenever Jex sits in it, she thinks of Danny riding his Big Wheel through the hotel. It is strangely comforting. Sparseness suits Jex fine. She has no intention to add much more to the décor.

  The dull thumping on the front door continues and eventually turns into a piercing knock, almost shrill. The difference is substantial enough for Jex to take note. In a fit of frustration, she pulls the headphones off one of her ears to investigate further. After a moment, Jex recognizes the sound: Q is rapping on the kitchen sliding glass door in the back of the townhouse. She must have jumped the fence. Jex pauses for a bit and then sighs heavily with resignation. She pulls one more hit off her purple bong with the Pat the Bunny sticker on it and stands up wearily. She looks around and collects herself, thinking for a moment about cleaning up or at least running some hot water over her face. She decides not to bother and heads out of her bedroom and down the stairs to collect Q.

  “Boo, what the fuck,” Q shouts at her accusingly, storming into the kitchen in a huff as soon as Jex slides open the door. “You been disappeared on me for like three days, yo. I was starting to worry. Don’t do that to me.”

  “Yeah, what’s up,” is the only response Jex can muster. Dreary. When it’s one of those weeks, that’s how it goes for Jex.

  “Nothing, dude. I was just worried.”

  “I’m cool.”

  “Yeah, I know you’re cool now, but I didn’t know that ten minutes ago. I didn’t know that at all.”

  Jex just shrugs and heads back upstairs to her room, gesturing for Q to follow her. Q stops at the refrigerator for a second to pull out a Yoo-Hoo. She follows Jex up the stairs, shaking the drink.

  When Q makes it to Jex’s bedroom, Jex is already back on the floor, cross-legged, purple bong with the Pat the Bunny sticker in her hand, sucking down a bong load. The music is playing, Spoonboy. “Linus and Me,” the acoustic version. Q sits down next to her and accepts the bong when Jex offers it.

  “What’s this stuff?”

  “Blue Dream, it’s called. It’s pretty strong.”

  Q takes a hit, holds it for a second and lets out a hefty cough. She goes on coughing for several seconds and Jex can’t help but smile.

  “I told you it was strong.”

  “Yeah,” Q chokes out. “Strong,” she agrees.

  Jex chuckles. When Q stretches out her arm to hand the bong back to Jex, Jex waves her off. “Go ahead and finish that one. I’ll make myself a fresh one when you’re done with that.”

  Q shakes her head from left to right and back again, but keeps the bong.

  “So,” Q continues, catching her breath from the coughing fit, poking around the bowl with the corner of her lighter. “What have you been up to? I thought about calling the cops, almost.”

  Jex giggles. “Yeah, right. You call the cops.”

  Q throws her hands up in disgust. “That’s what I’m saying, Boo. You get me all fucked up in the head. You got me thinking about calling the cops.”

  Jex j
ust shrugs again and starts to say something but then stops. “What is it, Jex?” Q urges her on.

  “Nah, it’s nothing. I’m cool. I’m cool. I’m sorry I got you worried. I was just thinking about stuff.”

  “What stuff?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I was mostly reading. I’ve been reading a new journal article on this crazy ass heart procedure and it just got me distracted.”

  Q eyes the fat periodical that is lying next to Jex, filled with post-it notes and dog-ears. Q shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Dude, I don’t know how you read all that stuff, ’specially when you’re so high.”

  Jex laughs. “Whatevs. I’ve been reading that stuff since I was a baby, practically. You get used to it.”

  Q shakes her head some more and rolls her eyes. “I couldn’t never do that. That shit looks nuts.”

  Jex giggles some more and lies back on the floor, watching the ceiling fan spin lazily around. A sad song plays on her iPhone. “It’s no big deal,” she says. “What are you up to today,” Jex asks, not giving Q any time to push back on what Jex has been up to the last few days. It doesn’t matter anyways and Q wouldn’t understand.

  “Aw nothing,” Q responds and takes another hit. “I’m just hanging out. I don’t really want to go home. My mom is being crazy again and I just said ‘I’m out.’”

  Jex nods. “Dig it,” she says and nothing more. Jex closes her eyes and listens to “I Have Regrets” by Garrett Walters. Q watches Jex, and listens along.

  The song ends and it is the last song in the playlist, maybe, because the room goes silent. Jex picks at her fingers. Q asks, “You mind if I stick around here a while, then? I won’t bother you at all.”

  “Nah, that’s cool. You can hang. I’m headed out to the desert in a little bit, though. To see Eugene.”

  Q knows that Eugene is Jex’s weed dealer. He lives out on a reservation a couple hours east of L.A. “Oh, you want some company?” Q asked hesitantly. She knows that Jex can be peculiar about her alone time and particularly time on a road trips. Sometimes she just likes to think. Q doesn’t want to be a burden, but she’s got nothing to do and nowhere to go. She has the sense that Jex knows how that feels.

  “Yeah, you can come along if you want. It will be a few hours, you know it’s all the way down there, almost near San Diego?”

  “Yeah,” Q says eagerly. “I got nothing to do. I won’t say much.”

  Jex giggles. “You can say as much as you want, Q. I don’t mind. It’s not like I’m some bitch or something.”

  “No, I know you’re not saying that. I’m just saying . . .”

  Jex stops her in mid sentence. “Don’t sweat it, Q. I dig it. Come and pop a squat next to me.” Jex grabs her iPhone and pecks at the screen, fishing for a new playlist. She finds a good one, as reflected in her whispered murmur of, “oh, yeah” as she selects it. “This next song is rad.” Q takes one more hit off the bong and lies down next to Jex. She watches the blades of the ceiling fan spin. Radiator Hospital starts to play.

  Jex’s brow curls a little as she sings along in her head, staring off into nothing; staring off into the past. She remembers her father’s eyes and arms. She remembers what she wanted to be then; what she wants to be now. A couple more songs, slower and sad, pass before a single word is spoken. An old Mazzy Star song plays and in the fade away at the end of the song, Q breaks the silence. “Jexy?” she asks quietly, almost in a whisper. Maybe she didn’t want to disturb the melancholy atmosphere of the songs.

  “Yeah, Q?” Jex responds just as quietly.

  “Are you going to go to college in September?”

  There is a long silence. Indeed, the pause is so long that Q begins to think that maybe Jex won’t answer at all. Just when Q is convinced that she won’t, Jex whispers, “I don’t know, Q. I really don’t know.” And then louder, full voiced, shaking her head slightly almost as though she were convincing herself and not Q. “And I really don’t care.” Jex sits up, gathers her stuff, and prepares to leave. Q follows.

  * * *

  Eyes still red and the tone still giggly, Jex and Q walk out the front door of the townhouse and head towards Jex’s red Ford Focus. Replete with bumper stickers, Q pauses a moment to read one on the side passenger door. She points at it as Jex messes with her keys. “This is a new one?” she asks.

  “Which one?” Jex asks back, as she locates the car key and moves to open the driver’s door.

  “The ‘Kill Fascists’ one.”

  “Yeah, I saw that at a house show last week and thought it was pretty rad …” She pauses before waving absently at the bumper sticker. “With the red letters and all.”

  “Yeah,” Q nods approvingly. “It’s totally rad.”

  The two get into the car. The ride out of L.A. is surprisingly uneventful. They reach the 10 in less than twenty minutes. It is sultry outside. Jex and Q keep the windows open, and the hot wind flows through the car. For some reason, neither of them think to turn on some music. It is quiet for a long time, just the air; the sound of the air.

  A dozen mile markers pass by before Jex calls attention to the silence. “You . . uh . . wanna listen to some music?”

  Q nods her head. “Yeah,” she agrees and picks up Jex’s iPhone, which is connected by a wire to her car stereo. “Damn,” Q complains. “This setup is janky.”

  “Whatever,” Jex waves off dismissively. “What do you want to hear?”

  “I dunno,” Q mumbles, flipping through Jex’s iTunes catalog. “You got some good shit in here.”

  “Yeah,” Jex agrees pensively, staring out at the tan mountains as she thinks. She shakes her head and says, “I don’t think I feel like listening to anything too, you know. . . No Johnny Hobo, OK?”

  Q nods. “I get it,” she says, tapping through songs. When she gets to the K section, she stops and smirks. “Yo, I got it.”

  “Oh, yeah? What is it?”

  Q smiles. “You’ll see in a sec,” as she hits play. In just a second, the music begins. Jex recognizes it immediately and begins to giggle. The sound of the wind is loud and the music is louder. Jex and Q sing along and the world falls away as they speed down Interstate 10, laughing and enjoying the ride as the afternoon turns into early evening. Ke$ha blares out of the speakers, and the two make the most of the night like they were gonna die young.

  * * *

  The two are still singing silly pop songs at the top of their lungs. “Style” by Taylor Swift is on when Route 79 turns off onto Camino San Ignacio, which snakes quickly into the less-than-imposing entrance of Los Coyotes Reservation. The poverty of the area seems immediately apparent. Jex doesn’t seem to notice but Q does not hesitate to remark.

  “Shit, Jexy. Why do we got to come all the way out here to get smoke? There are ten places we can get it without leaving West Hollywood.”

  Jex shakes her head. “No, I don’t trust anybody in L.A. They treat me like I’m just some dumb kid.”

  Q laughs. “You are a dumb kid.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Jex smiles. “Well, I don’t like being treated like one, anyways. Besides, I like Eugene. I’ve known him forever and he’s cool.”

  “Yeah,” Q agrees. “Eugene is proper.”

  “And it’s a nice ride, you have to agree,” Jex says as she turns off the main road and onto a nameless side street. Her car kicks up dust as they drive into what seems like nowhere.

  “Yeah,” says Q as she sticks her head out the window, greedily taking in the last of the day’s sun. “It’s a nice ride.”

  Jex’s Ford Focus pulls off the side road onto a side-ier side road and in just a few minutes they pull into a dirt driveway on the side of a mobile home. There is dust everywhere and a laundry line in the back next to a blue above-ground pool that has seen better days. There is a black Chevy Cavalier convertible in the front that seems to be more dust than paint. The sky is clear above, a smear of color that lies between black and blue, smudges of orange and white splattered throughout. The first twinkles of
stars appear. Jex pauses and looks all around her, eyes brilliant with wonder.

  Q is already halfway to the front door by the time Jex shakes herself from her momentary distraction and closes the car door. “Come on, Jexy,” Q urges her. Jex walks over, her ubiquitous backpack thrown lazily over her left shoulder, and joins Q. Just as she gets to Q, the front door of the mobile home opens.

  Standing in the doorframe is a young man, maybe nineteen or twenty, with dark hair tied behind his head in a long ponytail. He is well over six feet tall, and perhaps two hundred fifty pounds. His wide yellow-toothed grin cracks through the imposing appearance and his deep, raspy voice is welcoming and immediate. “Jex! Q!! Good to see you, my friends. Please come on in!”

  Jex and Q wave merrily. “Hi, Eugene,” they yelp out in unison as he gestures them in.

  The Grateful Dead plays softly in the background as Eugene, Jex, and Q lounge on the floor, legs stretched out and the three of them positioned roughly in a circle. It sounds to Jex like it might be something from the 1971 tour, maybe 1972 but Jex isn’t positive. Definitely pre-Donna. Eugene lights incense. The lights are dim.

  “So, how have you been, my brilliant young friend?”

  “I’m good,” Jex responds enthusiastically. “I’m feeling really good. Happy enough at the time.”

  Eugene smiles widely as he was wont to do. “That’s good, Jexy. That’s good. You staying out of that trouble, now?”

  Jex nods. “I am, Eugene. I’ve put enough people through enough problems. I’m being a good girl now. Well,” she continued. “Good enough, I guess.”

  Eugene’s forehead furrows deeply as he continues, asking sternly, “You drinking?”

  “No, no,” Jex confirms quickly, a note of seriousness in her tone. “I’m not drinking anything.”

  Eugene looks at her severely and stares more deeply into her than before. His eyes look tired and red, while still remaining deadly serious and alert. “Nothing else heavier than smoke?”

  “No,” Jex states firmly, in a tone of conciliation that she reserved for only her closest and most trusted friends. “I promise. I’m good.”