that you stop thinking about things. Even further back. I remember Iggy Pop. Safe havens in Bosnia. Me as a teenager. I didn’t really know it at the time but there was nothing to it. It’s not that things fade in time. It’s that they were never really there at all. All of it. Light as birthday cards. Gone.We are at the loading dock behind the hardware store. Y has snuck in to steal a blade. Narcotics have encased my bowels in concrete. It’s better than collapsing in shit, but it hurts. It’s hard to move freely.
What I think I have is . . . it’s a cancer that coats organs in the abdominal cavity. Doesn’t enter the lymphatic system. Not for a while. I hope it hasn’t anyway. It starts like a coating on the spleen. A woman’s shawl. And it triggers peritoneal fluid to build up. Ascites. The bells thicken and the cancer cells are released into the fluid-like spores from a bumped fungus. They drape the liver. They drape the colon. The stomach lining. The fluid accommodates this by separating the packed bodies. Creating living space for itself. And the more this cancer silt builds, the thicker and heavier the mucous becomes. Eventually the spleen sloughs off its new deadly skin and releases it as a transparent tube, a hovering jellyfish in a dark thick sea. It is a new part of you. It is a distinct creature looking to live in you. Your body recognizes it. Even in the insensate mash of glue and fatted lungs, it is awake to this new thing, the birth of this tube. And your body trusts its origin. It is a child of the spleen. It is your tissue. It is splendid and structured and hungry. So the body feeds it. That’s how you die. Your body is so desperate that this tube survive that it takes all the blood and oxygen away from what you really are and feeds this new child. This lovely tube-shaped wonder. It flattens and expands and floats. It is free. It is alone in you. It is wonderful. And then you die. Not of cancer. The cancer is just starlight. The cancer is a maker. You die of a neglected liver. Abandoned to necrotize like an old city. You are ruins.
So I’m cutting it out. I’m waiting for Y. I look around for a place to do this. I can’t walk far. I walk bowlegged to a derelict car by the dumpster. I will sit with my feet on the ground and my belly hanging. That way when we cut the base it’ll drain straight away. The cut will have to be big enough for his hand to get in. He’s going to have to pull this out.
Y rolls across the loading dock and drops, crouched, on the dirt. He has something in his hand. Before I look I put four oxys and a couple Lorazapam under my tongue. Liver spot on his hand.
“Here.”
Y holds out a box cutter. Still in the package. Not sure what I was expecting, but I guess nothing’s gonna be great.
“Okay.”
Y bites it open and removes the knife. He pushes the small triangular blade out.
“Is this clean?” I take the knife and smell it.
“Factory fresh. You ready?”
I take my shirt off and push my stomach down closer to the ground.
“Now? Here?”
I hand him back the cutter. “No time like now.”
He takes the knife.
“Is this going to kill you?’
He wants to know what happens to him.
“Maybe.”
We look at each other for long moment. I’m supposed to say something.
“If I die, you have to leave town.”
Sorry, kid. That’s all I got. There’s not much else, believe me.
“You ready?”
He’s holding the cutter like it might jump outta his hand. Good grip.
“Ok. We’ll go easy here. Nothing fast or too big.”
I point to the base of my stomach, where it’s closest to the ground.
“You wanna cut here. The full depth of that blade. Then let’s see what comes out.”
He looks at me expecting more.
“If I pass out, this is what I want you to do. There should be lotsa fluid. Let it drain. You can squeeze the sides of my belly to help it along. But easy! Go easy. You don’t wanna pop my guts out onto the ground. Right?”
He
What I think I have is . . . it’s a cancer that coats organs in the abdominal cavity. Doesn’t enter the lymphatic system. Not for a while. I hope it hasn’t anyway. It starts like a coating on the spleen. A woman’s shawl. And it triggers peritoneal fluid to build up. Ascites. The bells thicken and the cancer cells are released into the fluid-like spores from a bumped fungus. They drape the liver. They drape the colon. The stomach lining. The fluid accommodates this by separating the packed bodies. Creating living space for itself. And the more this cancer silt builds, the thicker and heavier the mucous becomes. Eventually the spleen sloughs off its new deadly skin and releases it as a transparent tube, a hovering jellyfish in a dark thick sea. It is a new part of you. It is a distinct creature looking to live in you. Your body recognizes it. Even in the insensate mash of glue and fatted lungs, it is awake to this new thing, the birth of this tube. And your body trusts its origin. It is a child of the spleen. It is your tissue. It is splendid and structured and hungry. So the body feeds it. That’s how you die. Your body is so desperate that this tube survive that it takes all the blood and oxygen away from what you really are and feeds this new child. This lovely tube-shaped wonder. It flattens and expands and floats. It is free. It is alone in you. It is wonderful. And then you die. Not of cancer. The cancer is just starlight. The cancer is a maker. You die of a neglected liver. Abandoned to necrotize like an old city. You are ruins.
So I’m cutting it out. I’m waiting for Y. I look around for a place to do this. I can’t walk far. I walk bowlegged to a derelict car by the dumpster. I will sit with my feet on the ground and my belly hanging. That way when we cut the base it’ll drain straight away. The cut will have to be big enough for his hand to get in. He’s going to have to pull this out.
Y rolls across the loading dock and drops, crouched, on the dirt. He has something in his hand. Before I look I put four oxys and a couple Lorazapam under my tongue. Liver spot on his hand.
“Here.”
Y holds out a box cutter. Still in the package. Not sure what I was expecting, but I guess nothing’s gonna be great.
“Okay.”
Y bites it open and removes the knife. He pushes the small triangular blade out.
“Is this clean?” I take the knife and smell it.
“Factory fresh. You ready?”
I take my shirt off and push my stomach down closer to the ground.
“Now? Here?”
I hand him back the cutter. “No time like now.”
He takes the knife.
“Is this going to kill you?’
He wants to know what happens to him.
“Maybe.”
We look at each other for long moment. I’m supposed to say something.
“If I die, you have to leave town.”
Sorry, kid. That’s all I got. There’s not much else, believe me.
“You ready?”
He’s holding the cutter like it might jump outta his hand. Good grip.
“Ok. We’ll go easy here. Nothing fast or too big.”
I point to the base of my stomach, where it’s closest to the ground.
“You wanna cut here. The full depth of that blade. Then let’s see what comes out.”
He looks at me expecting more.
“If I pass out, this is what I want you to do. There should be lotsa fluid. Let it drain. You can squeeze the sides of my belly to help it along. But easy! Go easy. You don’t wanna pop my guts out onto the ground. Right?”
He
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