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me and myself

Alain Marciano

I
    He said, Paul phoned me yesterday.
    I said, Really.
    He said, Really, the phone is over there, on the table. I asked the nurse to help me with the phone.
    I said, I know where the phone is. Paul is dead.
    He said, Dead? How come he phoned me this morning?
    I said, I don’t know. Perhaps it was not him. Perhaps no one phoned you.
    He said, Really, how come you know that.
    I said, Paul died three years ago.

    I didn’t know when Paul died. I didn’t know if he died. Or which one died. One of the Pauls living on earth probably died three years ago. There are so many of them. God bless his and the others’ soul. I didn’t even know whether or not my father ever met a Paul. All I knew was that I had not seen my father since 19XX, when mom and him had just split and I had rushed away from him and his curses and his blows, letting him shout after me, yelling that I was not his son, that I was a moron, a dope fiend and I would end up like the morons, the dope fiends I was hanging with. All I knew was that, today, 25 years later, I had rushed back after a Doctor Jenkins had called to tell me that my father was dying from stage 4 stomach cancer at the Herington Municipal Hospital, Herington, Kansas and that they had not been able to identify any other relatives and if I could come, there was a small chance I would see him alive. All I knew was that, yeah, okay, I had told myself, why not, it is time to settle our lives, eventually, to tell the old bastard one last truth before he left us. And here I was, at 7.30 pm, after a nonstop drive from New York City, after miles and trucks and large regular-coffees-with-no-milk and doughnuts and pseudo-food from Taco Bells and KFC and Wendy’s, after 25 hours spent in a fucking car. Here I was, seated in a vinyl-covered uncomfortable armchair, small-talked by my dying father about a Paul I didn’t give a shit about. The same story again. Old bastard. “I’d better check with the nurses if someone came or phoned”, I said under my breath.

    The small glass-walled nurses’ office was down the hall, next to the vending machine, next to the waiting room, next to the elevator and next to the emergency stairs. Three nurses were in the office. One guy was sitting on the desk, his back to the hall. He was talking to two fat college-looking girls who were slumped in plastic chairs, exhausted after a day’s work or bored or despaired or indifferent. It was not their pain and suffering they were supposed to look after. They did not seem interested either in whatever it was the male nurse was telling them. I bought two diet Pepsis and rapped on the glass-door of the office which was opened anyway. The male nurse stopped talking.
    “Hey there, how are things going?” I said cheerfully.
    The girls did not react.
    “Sir, good evening, how can we help you?”, asked the guy with a soft voice, almost a whisper, dark and charming. I explained that I arrived a few minutes ago from New York after a long drive, that it has been exhausting you know, really boring I added with a smile.
    The girls were still without reaction. Fucking illiterate pigs. They probably have never been to New-York.
    The guy flashed a friendly and beautiful smile that lightened his pale-blue almost transparent eyes. I could tell that he was dedicated. Empathetic was the word I would have willingly used to describe him, even though it was the first time I met him. I liked that. I liked also the full red lips and a dark, tanned skin and his angel face was framed by brown curly hair. Nice and sexy. His nametag read ANTHONY. Nice name. He reminded me of Andrew, the first boy who kissed me.
    Anthony asked again if I needed some help for anything. I looked at the girls and back at him.
    I said, “Thanks, certainly later”. I smiled back. I left. In the elevator, I realized that I had not asked about the people who have visited my father. Or phoned him. I already knew the answer. My father did not know any Paul. One of his tricks. An easy one. He could do better than that. But I might ask later.

II
    Next day, after a good night’s sleep and a long hot shower, like I always used to take, I gave a call to my boss’ secretary. I didn’t like her and it’s reciprocal and we both know that. It makes our relationships easier, helps smoothing out rough edges. I said that I would be away for a few more days. She sighed. Meetings were planned for the rest of the week. I will miss them and I had never missed a meeting. She said that she hoped that there was nothing wrong. “No”, I said. “Not really. My father is not well. Not as well as I expected” but I did not give any details about him dying and about me wanting to stay to tell him something important. Private matters. It was none of her business, of course. But she said she was sorry, although there was no need for her to feel this way. It was not her father. Maybe she was simply being polite, typical from a middle-class woman. Or maybe she cared for her job and her workload and my absence meant more unpleasant work for her to do. She had to tell our boss that I would miss the meetings. It will piss him off and will shout at her with no reason. I didn’t care. Maybe she did and she was sorry.
    “When will you come back?” she asked.
    How would I know? I’m no doctor. I am just a salesman. I didn’t answer. I said, “Now I have to go to the hospital.”
    Again, she said that she was sorry. I hung up on her and left the room. In the lobby, I asked the concierge how to go to the Municipal Hospital by foot. On my way I stopped at a coffee shop and bought a large regular-coffee-with-no-milk and a cream-cheese-bagel. These have always been my favorites. The guy behind the counter was black and I wondered if there were many black people around here. I smiled at him. He had wonderful arms, strong and muscled. Beautiful. There was a bluish scar on his left cheek, a soft spot under his eye. Cute. I asked for a refill of coffee and a second bagel, “with cream cheese, please” I smiled.

    It was 10.30 when I knocked on the glass door of the nurses’ office on the second floor of the Herington Municipal Hospital’s cancer ward. They were three again, two men and a woman. They looked as stupid as the two girls I saw the day before. “Good morning sir, how are you today, what can we do for you?”. I said I wanted to see Anthony. “You a friend of his?” asked one of the men. “No, no, not a friend. My father is over there, room 216. Mister Persky. I just arrived yesterday from New York to see him”. “Anthony does the night shift, starts at 8:00 tonight” he said and after a silence he added, “I’ll show you the way to room 216”. I replied that it’s not necessary, that I was there yesterday and I would easily find my way back to my father’s room. It would not be a problem. “OK, I thought that”. He stopped and added, “This way”. I knew the way.

    When I got into the room, my father was sleeping. I took a newspaper, sat on the same vinyl-covered uncomfortable armchair I was seated in the day before. There was no TV in the room. I took the newspaper I had bought with me. A local waste-of-paper in which not even the sport section was readable. I started to feel bad. Nauseated by the hospital odors. From too much bad coffee. Car-lagged—I am sensible to time difference, even between ET and CT. I eventually fall asleep and slept the whole day away. At 6 p.m. I decided to leave. I did not want to walk back to the hotel after dusk. My father hadn’t said a word, hadn’t even open an eye. They probably stuffed him with sedatives—sleeping pills of some sort. He must not suffer. And not hear me. I was frustrated. I was finally not allowed to defend myself.

    At the nurse’s office, I asked the girl if Anthony was there or if she knew when he would be there. “Tonight, yes, tonight”, she said. “Night shift until the end of the week. It starts at 8 p.m.”. We were a Tuesday. My father was supposed to die before the end of the week. This is what Doctor Jenkins had told me on the phone.

III
    Wednesday. A hot shower and a breakfast. A Large-regular-coffee-with-no-milk, a cream-cheese-bagel, the black waiter and his strong muscular arms and the tiny blue scar under his left eye. The hospital, the vinyl-covered armchair and the newspaper. And hours spent dozing with my dying sleeping father. Antony was still doing the night-shift and what could I say to my father?

    Later that day. Doctor Jenkins was in the room. He shook me awake and asked if everything was okay and if I had any questions. I thought about it but I didn’t have any. He stood there, in the room, looking vaguely at my father, then at me, saying nothing. He left. He had nothing to say either. After a while, I left too. I needed to move. Move. Move. Shake my life. It was the middle of the afternoon but I went to a cafeteria downtown and ordered something to eat. A cheeseburger that I drank away with two beers while watching sports on the huge flat-panel LED TV set. It was exactly the sort of TV I wanted to buy. Nice. Cool. The kind of stuff that gives you the impression that life is easy. The TV was tuned on ESPN-U. I watched four back-to-back broadcast of the same SportsCenter. I had more beers, after which I dragged my car back to the hospital.

    The cancer ward, second floor, the nurses’ office. Anthony was there, alone. “Hi man” I said. It was nice seeing him again. “Good evening sir”, he said. “I was looking for you”, I replied and asked “Could I stay a moment with my father tonight?”. He said that what was happening to my father was so sad and that he was so sorry and so depressed to see people in this situation and people like me, suffering. How kind of him. I could tell that he was really caring, feeling something true for my father and for me. That was good. I liked that. I asked, “Could you show me the way, please?”. Yes, of course he could. We walked along the hall and then we were in my father’s room. Bip-bip-bip-bip, there was an electronic noise and green lights in the room. We stayed a few minutes without moving.

    I felt him close to me. I felt his warmth. I had not anticipated that it would happen and that I would find that so exciting. His smell, too was unbelievable. I had a hard-on like I had not had for weeks, months maybe. I raised my left arm and stopped. I left in a hurry, running in the corridor. I heard Antony saying something behind me. It sounded like “I understand” or was it “Don’t leave”.

    In the bar, there was a NCAA football game. Bowling Green vs. Buffalo. I drank. I was drunk after a while.

IV
    Thursday could just have been another day. Except that it was not. It started with a dizzy dream. Antony was dead. It left me uncertain and nervous. I was in the hospital. All the lights had been turned off. I groped my way to my father’s room and to his bed. A sheet was covering his face. I removed it and it was not him. In the bed, obviously dead, was lying the nurse. Anthony. I woke up shivering, covered with sweat and with a painful hard-on. It was 5.47 am. I left the room and drove to the hospital. I parked on the other side of the street in front of the main entrance. The parking lot was almost empty. It was now 6.14 am. At 6.14 am in this part of the world no one is outside wandering in the streets. A dark, gloomy and quiet place to die. Or to live. At that time, I was looking for life. I waited for Antony. The night shift would probably end soon. And then ... then, when he finally left the hospital — it was 6.49 am — I engaged my car in the street after him. I followed him. It was exciting. I was a teenager again, when I drove in empty streets looking for lovers and when I returned home in the mornings and my father had a used leather belt with which he beat me just because I was home late. He did not even know what I was doing. My father ... I u-turned in the middle of the road back to the hospital where I found my father awake. The eyes opened, at least. Eventually. Time to speak to each other, man to man.

    He said “Yesterday your brother came.”
    I said, “My brother came. Yesterday.”
    He said, “Yes, your brother, Paul.”
    I said, “I don’t have a brother”.
    He said “Paul is your brother and he brought me a cake his wife had cooked for me and showed me a picture of my grandkids”.
    I said, “I don’t have a brother, you’re being ridiculous”.
    He said “Of course you have a brother but you are not married and don’t have children, uh?”
    I said, “Anyway, he is dead”.

    A brother? I could have a stepbrother, true enough. After all, who was this man lying in this bed in front of me? My father? Yes, my father and he had a life without me and I had a life without him. I had spent all my life without a father. Without a mother or without a family. But if I had a brother and if the old fart was not lying why could the doctors not have found him and why did they call me? And why didn’t I see him when I was there — because I was there. Why were there no pictures of the grand-kids and any cake left? The same story again. False Pauls to trick me. Again. There was no Paul. No brother. No more father. What could I tell him that would be important for both of us? Nothing, actually. I made a decision. I did not care any longer. It was time to head back home. The day after, I would be leaving. Before that, I would spend the night here, at the hospital. I would wait for Anthony.

    I went to the hotel, checked out. The girl at the front desk said they would charge the night because it was a late departure and I had not warned them. I said that I could not have warned them. My father had passed away suddenly in the afternoon and he hadn’t warned anybody. I was leaving right away. She said, “I am so sorry sir, really sorry. All my condolences”. She was tall and skinny, so skinny that she could probably not really feel anything for other living beings. “Why do you say that, it was not your father” I replied. I folded the bill and put it my trousers’ pocket. I left. I put the suitcase in the trunk and drove to the hospital.

    I asked Antony if he could come along to my father’s room. What had happened the day before had given me the creeps. I don’t know if I want it to happen again or not, I said. Of course he said and he accepted. He was the kind of man to accept this kind of request. MY request. And again we were in the room. The smell was stronger than the day before but I could feel Antony’s presence next to me. Cooler than the day before. Different. But he was the same man. I turned towards him, put my left arm around his waist and raised my my right arm towards his face. “What the hell” he cried and pushed me away. “Come on, please, come on” I said and I tried to touch him again. This time he pushed me violently. I swayed backwards against the bathrooms’ door that was unlocked and it opened under my weight and I fell on the floor. I saw him opening the door of the room. A ray of light came from the hall and enlightened the room. Anthony slammed back the door. I was alone in the dark, seated on the floor of the bathroom and I still had a hard-on. I unzipped my fly and began to masturbate myself. It was short but really good. I stood up, washed the sperm off my hands and left. It was 9:05 at my watch. I was in the elevator when I realized that I had not given a look at my father. What for? He was sleeping. Again. It wouldn’t have changed anything. I could call on my way back home.

V
    In the middle of the night, I stopped to put some gas in my car. I ate a cheeseburger and drank a cold diet Pepsi. The vague smell of the antibacterial soap on my hands reminded me of the hospital. I gave a call from a public phone on a highway service area. The nurse on duty told me that my father had died the day before at about 9:00 in the evening.

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