by Brian Keene
T. J. was wearing his tan Osh Kosh and fraying old sweater, and it reminded me of my nightmare. I shivered, despite the scalding dishwater, as I recalled those cancerous tentacles wrapping around him.
“How was breakfast?” Michelle asked.
“Great.” I smiled. “Bacon was crispy, just the way I like it. Eggs were great too. Thanks for making it.”
“Must have been. You wolfed it down quick enough.”
I nodded and forced another smile.
“Okay, we've got to jet. We're late and Mom's going to have a fit. Will you be here when we get back?”
“I promised John I'd help him change his timing belt, then I'll pick up the prescription. Should be home by two or three at the latest.”
“Okay. Sounds good.” She gave me another quick kiss, and I hugged T. J. and told him to have fun. Michelle made a fuss about me getting soapsuds all over his clothes, and T. J. giggled. Then she ushered him out the door.
I stood at the kitchen window and watched them walk down the sidewalk together, hand in hand.
I cried. I cried for a long time and used a dishrag to dry both my hands and my face.
Then it was off to the bathroom again for another battle with my stomach. This time, it came out both ends, and there was blood in both my vomit and my stool. After about twenty minutes, when I felt like an empty, dried-out bag of skin, I stood up and got on with the business of dying.
The truck didn't want to start right away. It felt about as healthy as I did. When I finally got it running, I stopped at the big supermarket on Carlisle Street with the pharmacy inside. I had lied to Michelle about my plans. There was nothing wrong with John's timing belt, and in fact, I didn't even plan on seeing him all day. The last thing I wanted to do was spend the day hanging out with John and Sherm. There were other things that I needed to take care of instead.
I had a To Do list for the day . . .
I walked through the produce section, past the paperback rack and the aisles for bottled soda, potato chips, and pet supplies before I found the pharmacy. There was a big guy behind the counter, dressed in a white lab coat with a name tag that said CASEY. He looked more like a club bouncer than a pharmacist.
“Good morning.” He grinned. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah. I've got a prescription that I need to get filled. Wasn't sure you'd be open today, to tell you the truth.”
“Yep, we're open on Sundays. That's why I'm stuck here today instead of at home watching the game. People get sick seven days a week. Let's take a look at your prescription.”
I handed him the crumpled-up piece of white paper. He unfolded it, smoothed out the wrinkles, and carefully deciphered the doctor's handwriting.
“Hmmm, eighty milligrams of OxyContin, to be taken twice daily. Not a problem. Should be about fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“Okay.”
“I just need to see your insurance card, and I'll also need your date of birth.”
I looked down at my feet. “I don't have any insurance.”
“That's okay. Lots of people in this town don't have health insurance.” His voice was still friendly, but his smile had drooped a few notches. “Will you be paying by cash, credit, or debit card?”
“Um, none of them right now,” I said. “I was just wondering if you could tell me how much it was going to be. That way I know how much to set aside for next week.”
He paused, studying me. “Well, eighty milligrams per day, taken twice daily—that comes to six hundred and fifty dollars per month.”
My mouth dropped open.
“Jesus fucking Christ! Six hundred and fifty bucks? You've got to be shitting me.”
“You're lucky, pal. Just be glad that your doctor didn't put you on one hundred and sixty milligrams. That would be even more expensive. On the street, they call OxyContin the poor man's heroin, but there's nothing poor about it.”
“What do you mean, ‘on the street'?”
“OxyContin, if taken properly, is released slowly into the body. It's a time-release capsule. But drug addicts circumvent the time release by crushing the pills and inhaling or injecting the powder. It gives them a heroin-like high, supposedly. The cops blame it for part of the rise in crime across the country here lately. Between that, and the fact that there's no generic version, the prices stay high.”
“Well, this is bullshit, man. I can't afford this.”
His smile completely vanished.
“Look, buddy, I don't set the prices. If that's not affordable for you, then talk to your doctor. There are generic versions of other painkillers that he can prescribe.”
“How cheap would they be?”
He shrugged. “Anywhere from three to five hundred a month.”
“Nothing cheaper?”
“Not unless you want to walk over to aisle six and get yourself a bottle of aspirin or ibuprofen.”
“Well, I guess that settles that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Don't worry about it. Look, don't take it personal, okay? I'm sorry for bothering you. Just been trying to figure out what I'm going to do, and this may have helped me make up my mind. Thanks for your help, Casey.”
“Whatever you say. Hang in there.”
Without another word, I turned and left the counter. I'd promised Michelle that I would get my prescription filled. As far as I was concerned, I'd tried. Now there were no doubts in my mind about what I had to do. The bank robbery was the only way, even if just to pay for my painkillers.
Before I left the store, I remembered that I was down to three cigarettes. I strolled up to the customer service booth and flashed the girl behind the counter my best flirtatious smile, the same one that had finally won Michelle over.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Boy, I really hope so. I put a five-dollar bill in the soda machine outside and not only did it not give me a soda, but it won't give me my money back either. I think it must be broken or something.”
“Well, that's not good.”
“No it ain't. Do you have one of those little envelopes that I can fill out for a refund from the vendor?”
She didn't, of course, and I knew that. The store automatically refunded your money on the spot, then squared up with the vending company later on. But I played stupid.
“I can take care of it for you right now, sir.”
“You can? Awesome! That would be great. Normally, I wouldn't bother, but five bucks is five bucks, you know what I'm saying?”
She nodded in sympathy, filled out a little piece of paper, had me sign it, and gave me a crisp, new five-dollar bill. Easy money, and soon, there'd be more where that came from.
I climbed back into the truck, drove across the street to the discount tobacco store, and bought a fresh pack of smokes. I walked out with a buck in change, enough for a soda later on. Then I went to the library, second on my agenda for the day.
The library was only open for limited hours on Sunday, and I had to wait until somebody unlocked the doors. Despite the fact that it was a beautiful, balmy spring day, I stood there shivering on the sidewalk. Eventually, I got back in the truck and let the heater run. I rubbed my hands together in front of the dashboard vents, trying to get some circulation in my numb fingers. By the time the librarian showed up, I was almost warm.
I gave the librarian my driver's license, signed in for a computer, and logged onto the net. I typed ALTERNATIVE CANCER TREATMENTS into the search engine, waited a moment, and got seven hundred and ninety-nine thousand matches. The sheer amount of information was pretty daunting. There was information on herbs and supplements and vitamins, some of which were supposed to prevent you from getting cancer (too late for me on that one), and others that were supposed to help combat it, either taken separately or with prescribed medication from a doctor. I clicked on a few links, but the herbs were just as expensive as the painkillers my doctor prescribed. Next was heat therapy, which supposedly killed the cancer cells from the inside out. One wee
k of intensive therapy cost seventeen thousand dollars, and the recommended treatment was a minimum of two weeks. Just a little bit out of my price range. Other cures and treatments involved acupuncture, something called applied kinesiology, emulsified vitamin A, Cesium Chloride, holistic meditation, vitamin E, essiac tea, ellagic acid, mushrooms (that didn't sound too bad), marijuana ingestion (that didn't sound too bad either), Aloe Vera extract, Rife technology, infrared treatment, mistletoe pills, hypothermia (which kind of invalidated the heat treatment theory and cost the same amount), peroxide therapy, hyperbaric units, flax oil, high doses of vitamin C, shark cartilage, kelp, harmonic vibration therapy, whale song therapy, and thousands more—each one more whacked and expensive than the last. It was all bullshit. There were doctors and clinics outside the US that I could visit for help, but I couldn't afford gas money to York, let alone a plane ticket to Argentina or Switzerland.
I slammed the keyboard in aggravation and the librarian gave me a stern look of admonishment. A new headache pounded behind my eyes. Frustrated and angrier than ever, I logged off and stormed out of the library. I had two more things on my To Do list for the day.
Okay, so I was definitely going to die. I'd given up all hope of there being any last-minute reprieve. The doctor wasn't going to call and say that it had all been a mistake, just one of those crazy mix-ups. Traditional medicine wasn't going to work, and the alternatives were no fucking alternative.
My life was a bitch, then I died. End of story. It was time to shut the fuck up and get on with it. Get on with dealing with it. Get on with dying. And especially time to get on with making plans to cover my ass and my family. The bank job was only part of that insurance policy.
Next on my list was the funeral parlor. Stop and think about it for a minute. How many people really get to plan their own funerals? Not as many as you might think. I figured that I'd take advantage of the opportunity.
I'd driven by the Myers Funeral Home a thousand times, but I'd never been inside. I guess it's that way for most people. A funeral home isn't the kind of place you go to hang out on a Friday night. You don't go there unless you have a very specific reason.
There were only two other cars in the parking lot, a black hearse and a matching black BMW. I got out of the truck and stared at the building. My mother had been taken care of by the funeral home across town, and this was the first time I'd seen this one up close. It was pretty daunting—cold, gray granite walls and huge weeping willow trees that kept the place hidden in their sprawling shadows. Tall pillars and a stone archway crowned a set of red marble stairs that led up to the main doors.
Swallowing hard, I climbed them. Dead leaves crunched under my feet. After a moment's pause, I went inside. It was quiet, quieter than the library, and it smelled like a hospital. You know that chemical, antiseptic smell? I don't know what I expected—flowers maybe, or even formaldehyde—but not that empty air.
An older man with jet-black hair and a matching black suit met me in the lobby and smiled politely. He smelled just like the rest of the place. When he shook my hand, his palm was like dry ice.
“Good afternoon, sir. My name is Anthony Myers. Welcome to the Myers Funeral Home. I'm pleased to be of service.”
“How you doing,” I mumbled, letting go of his hand. “I'm Tommy. Tommy O'Brien.”
“How do you do, Mr. O'Brien?”
His usage of Mister in front of my last name made me think of the doctor. I shrugged it off.
“How can I be of assistance to you today?” he asked.
“Well,” I struggled, unsure of how to put it, “I need to check into funeral prices and stuff like that.”
He gave me a sad, sympathetic smile and nodded. “I see. I see. Well, Mr. O'Brien, let me assure you that both of my sons and our entire staff are ready and able to assist you. This is a family-owned and -operated business, so we understand families quite well. We want to ensure that your immediate needs as well as your anticipated needs for the future are fully satisfied.”
“Uh-huh.” I nodded. It sounded like he was reading off a cue card.
“Normally, we have family counselors on hand to answer your questions, but since this is Sunday, I've given them the day off. That's one of the benefits of being the owner. I will, however, be more than happy to assist you. Curiously enough, do you have fire insurance, Mr. O'Brien?”
The question threw me for a moment.
“No. Why?”
“Well, many people do, yet the chances of a fire are one in one thousand three hundred. You have automobile insurance, I presume?”
Rather than telling him that the policy was about to expire if we didn't pay the premium, I just nodded.
“Of course you do. All drivers in this state are required to. Yet the odds of being in an accident are only one in two hundred and fifty.”
“So what's your point, Mr. Myers?”
“My point is that your odds in this case are one in one. It's a service that everyone eventually needs. And my family has been providing that service for over a half century. In short, we can help you.”
“Okay, okay. I get the picture. Look, let me be straight up with you. I'm not interested in a sales pitch. I need cold, hard facts, not a brochure.”
“I understand, and I apologize if I came across that way. We don't view it as selling, Mr. O'Brien. Easing a difficult time is our objective. We offer nothing less than total perfection, and we demand that of ourselves as well. You may be wondering how we do that. Well, by not losing our compassion for the families we serve. Who is the deceased, if I may ask?”
“I am. I'm the—the deceased. Well, I will be soon, at least. I—I have cancer. At a very advanced stage.” I almost added It's growing at an alarming rate but didn't.
He paused, then found his way around the roadblock and back into the sales pitch.
“I see. How regretful. How tragic. You certainly have my condolences, Mr. O'Brien. You would not be the first person we've assisted in a similar situation, but it always saddens me deeply. Of course, prearranging your funeral service is something we can assist you with as well, obviously. People often feel uncomfortable talking about it. Many think that prearrangement means a preoccupation with death, but that is simply not true. Rather, it is a personal tool for a family's emotional and financial preparation. Many of our customers prearrange their own funerals. In your case, I think it is very much the right and honorable thing to do. Have you conferred with the rest of your family?”
“Not exactly. Sooner or later I guess I'll have to, but I haven't gotten around to it yet. It's hard to bring up.”
“I certainly understand. Well, the first step is to get together with your family. Offer them your thoughts and listen to theirs carefully as well. I would strongly recommend that you pursue that course of action before we proceed. If you consider it for a moment, Mr. O'Brien, you'll see that your funeral will most directly affect your family, so it is essential to include their suggestions in your plans. When will you have the opportunity to speak with them regarding this? Perhaps they could accompany you back here, or we could make an appointment to meet with you all in your home?”
“To be honest, right now, I just wanted to get an idea how much it was going to cost and everything, you know? What all's involved and stuff like that?”
“Very well.” He gave me a curt nod and continued. “Normally, the next step, as I said, would be to arrange a conference between myself and your family members. During that meeting, we would discuss the funeral choices that will help to create a tribute that is appropriate and meaningful to you all.”
“Is there a charge for that?”
“For the counseling meeting with the family, Mr. O'Brien?”
“Yeah. How much does that cost?”
He cleared his throat and began to repeat himself. “Well, that's all part of the process, you see. Funding a prearranged service eases the financial burden on your family members. It allows you to be assured of an adequate fund for future payment. Howev
er, in a case like yours, an exception would have to be made. If you don't mind my saying so, I take it that I'm correct in assuming that a five-year financing plan is not something you'd be interested in?”
“Yeah, you could say that. In five years, the whole thing would be kind of moot.”
“I see. And how would you be paying for any services rendered by us?”
“Cash and up front.”
He brightened.
“Have you given any thought as to what type of service you would like?”
“I don't know. I'm Irish, so I guess a wake would be kind of cool. I could see my friends hanging out and getting drunk over the casket, you know? Pump some tunes in, maybe turn the bass up. That would be all right.”
“Sadly, I'm afraid that we do not allow alcoholic beverages on the premises, Mr. O'Brien. You need a liquor license in the state of Pennsylvania to do that.”
“Oh. Well, that's okay. My wife would have probably shit a brick if we did something like that anyway.”
He flinched, then asked again.
“So, other than a wake, do you have any preferences?”
“What do you recommend? To be honest, I really haven't been to too many funerals. My dad died when I was young and I don't really remember his. My mom's was a few years back, but it wasn't much. Don't take that personally, though. Mom didn't have any money. Your competition across town did that one. Didn't they go out of business since then?”
He gave a polite chuckle.
“Yes. Indeed they did.”
“Well, there you go.”
There was an uncomfortable moment of silence between us and I could feel the sales pitch building in him again.
“Hey, Mr. Myers, let me ask you something. You ever see that horror movie where the undertaker is shrinking people's corpses down and turning them into dwarves? Had those flying silver balls in it and this little kid and an ass-kicking ice-cream delivery guy that fought them? Phantasm, I think it's called?”
He frowned. “No, I don't believe I've had the pleasure of viewing that particular film. Why do you ask?”