hand lock and grovelled, bowed and curtsied before losing his footing and falling backward into poorly assembled and overly laden shelves. This wasn’t unusual. A long, wooden stick was propped against the counter for this exact purpose. I shoved the stick into the collapse and fished Arthur out. After struggling to his feet, he simply asked, ‘So what’ll it be today, Bruce?”
This month’s prescription called for Sulfasalazine, which was most commonly used in the treatment of Crohns and Colitis. I handed the prescription to Arthur.
“Oh boy! This is a good’n. I used to live on the stuff in 'Nam,” said Arthur.
Knowing full well that Arthur had never fought in Vietnam, I simply smiled politely and took a seat while he prepared my mother’s chemical feast. Listening to Arthur forage around behind the counter had always amused me. He never failed to break or knock something over. He was possibly the clumsiest person I’d ever met. Despite his chronically accident prone tendencies, he always maintained such a positive mood. I was the kind of person who flew into a brief fury at the mildest hiccup. Arthur’s positive attitude was bound to grant him an extended, albeit dangerous, life.
Despite being the only customer in the store, Arthur still found it necessary to announce my name in an officious tone when the prescription was ready. I took the drugs, and against my better judgment, participated in another painfully extended handshake before leaving.
Other than pulling over briefly to masturbate while indulging in ‘wool-mouthed sluts’, I headed straight to my mother's. I spent most of the drive mentally rehearsing the best way to break the cancer news to her. I wondered if perhaps a comical approach would work but ousted that idea when I remembered that laughter made her nose bleed. I had to be upfront. It would be like tearing off a Band-Aid. Just get the critical dialogue out and spend the rest of the time dealing with the aftermath. Whenever my inner coward reared its head, I reminded myself that this was better than her finding out about my death one day without context. It was with this resolve that I lurched up her driveway.
With the assistance of nerves, the pain in my stomach kicked up a few million notches. Vomit climbed my throat like mercury in a thermometer. A flush of diarrhea swam through my bowel, begging for release. I clenched every muscle, shut my eyes and focused on breathing. I don’t know how long I was involved in this for, but when my eyes eventually opened I was feeling somewhat better. Before my body had a chance to turn against me again, I escaped the car and made a beeline for the front door.
My mother’s house was a time capsule. Without the benefit of easy mobility, her home was virtually untouched. A cleaner came by once a week to tackle dust accumulation and remove garbage but that was it. For this reason, her home had a distinct early 80s luster. This environmental stasis filled me with comfort. I always knew what to expect and being reluctant to embrace change, this was superficially a good thing. I could always watch the residual echo of a childhood version of me running through the house. These nostalgic echoes have the strange ability to project abject happiness… no matter how little it rings true.
“Bruce, baby… is that you?” my mother called from the bedroom.
“Yes, mum. I’ll be right there. I have the new meds.”
I took one more deep breath, reaffirmed my resolve and entered her bedroom. Seeing her lying on the bed helplessly threatened my resolve in one quick burst of despair. Tears began to scratch my eyeballs and the careful breathing that helped me reach this point became a lost talent. She flashed a smile warm enough to bake muffins and her eyes beamed as if snatched from a cartoon. I choked at the sight. The reality of my death hadn’t hit as clear as it did in this moment. Mum’s arm/body sprawled over the bed, bruised and twitching
This month’s prescription called for Sulfasalazine, which was most commonly used in the treatment of Crohns and Colitis. I handed the prescription to Arthur.
“Oh boy! This is a good’n. I used to live on the stuff in 'Nam,” said Arthur.
Knowing full well that Arthur had never fought in Vietnam, I simply smiled politely and took a seat while he prepared my mother’s chemical feast. Listening to Arthur forage around behind the counter had always amused me. He never failed to break or knock something over. He was possibly the clumsiest person I’d ever met. Despite his chronically accident prone tendencies, he always maintained such a positive mood. I was the kind of person who flew into a brief fury at the mildest hiccup. Arthur’s positive attitude was bound to grant him an extended, albeit dangerous, life.
Despite being the only customer in the store, Arthur still found it necessary to announce my name in an officious tone when the prescription was ready. I took the drugs, and against my better judgment, participated in another painfully extended handshake before leaving.
Other than pulling over briefly to masturbate while indulging in ‘wool-mouthed sluts’, I headed straight to my mother's. I spent most of the drive mentally rehearsing the best way to break the cancer news to her. I wondered if perhaps a comical approach would work but ousted that idea when I remembered that laughter made her nose bleed. I had to be upfront. It would be like tearing off a Band-Aid. Just get the critical dialogue out and spend the rest of the time dealing with the aftermath. Whenever my inner coward reared its head, I reminded myself that this was better than her finding out about my death one day without context. It was with this resolve that I lurched up her driveway.
With the assistance of nerves, the pain in my stomach kicked up a few million notches. Vomit climbed my throat like mercury in a thermometer. A flush of diarrhea swam through my bowel, begging for release. I clenched every muscle, shut my eyes and focused on breathing. I don’t know how long I was involved in this for, but when my eyes eventually opened I was feeling somewhat better. Before my body had a chance to turn against me again, I escaped the car and made a beeline for the front door.
My mother’s house was a time capsule. Without the benefit of easy mobility, her home was virtually untouched. A cleaner came by once a week to tackle dust accumulation and remove garbage but that was it. For this reason, her home had a distinct early 80s luster. This environmental stasis filled me with comfort. I always knew what to expect and being reluctant to embrace change, this was superficially a good thing. I could always watch the residual echo of a childhood version of me running through the house. These nostalgic echoes have the strange ability to project abject happiness… no matter how little it rings true.
“Bruce, baby… is that you?” my mother called from the bedroom.
“Yes, mum. I’ll be right there. I have the new meds.”
I took one more deep breath, reaffirmed my resolve and entered her bedroom. Seeing her lying on the bed helplessly threatened my resolve in one quick burst of despair. Tears began to scratch my eyeballs and the careful breathing that helped me reach this point became a lost talent. She flashed a smile warm enough to bake muffins and her eyes beamed as if snatched from a cartoon. I choked at the sight. The reality of my death hadn’t hit as clear as it did in this moment. Mum’s arm/body sprawled over the bed, bruised and twitching
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