Overhauling this site

There's plenty of old Doorstep Diaries on the Fourth Corner. In the meantime, I'm giving Death a makeover. I'll let you know how it goes.

Sundays

Visitors come on Sundays.

There was nothing the nurse could do. Parents, the girlfriend, even Grandpa showed up. There was barely space in the tiny room to sit. The ringing of the old TV was off. It was a small party, as Sundays always are.

And all parties have food.

Sally brought oatmeal cookies in her purse. There was a nervousness about her. A sneaky sort of defiance. Her cheeks blushed. A bit more perspiration.

Grandpa brought it in a paper sack labeled “Beef’s Deli”.

“I’m so sorry Mr. Tucker but you’re not allowed to bring food into the hospital. Tom’s sick.” The nurse stopped him in the hall. The father, Sally and the girlfriend ushered past him. They hugged and hooted and told Tom how good he looked. Even the father managed to rub his Tom’s head.

Grandpa had a craned neck and back. He was arthritic. They all are at that age. It’s the eyes though. They never get old. With a few cracks he somehow straightened to the height he was meant to be, five foot ten or so, and was level with the woman in white.

“What do you have for lunch today, Nurse?” He knew her name. He knew this was Nurse Hadley. But still, ‘Nurse’. I love old people.

“I pack my lunch.” She said.

“Then you don’t know what sort of hell you’re putting your patients through. If the cancer doesn’t kill my grandson your Jell-o mush will. Boys need food. Real food.”

And with the bag he marched through the door and reclined into his crooked posture. “Hiya TomTom.” He said and swung the bag around. The nurse stood with her arms crossed near the doorway. Her lip upturned for a moment--I don’t know if
it was a smile—and then she was gone.

Inside the girlfriend sat by the window. Grandpa cajoled with the boy, rubbed Tom’s head with vigor (it was where the father must have got it from) and proceeded to tell a half-truth about a wounded man he knew in a hospital in the war south of Seoul who caught a spy posing as a nurse, a cross-dressing spy no less. “They’re effeminate types anyway, hard to tell which is which without a peak up the skirt.” The girlfriend smiled and stared at the family. She didn’t wear make-up. It wasn’t one of those visits.

Sally slapped Grandpa disapprovingly.

“He deserves to know,” Grandpa said, “might find a traitor in the midst here. Al Qaeda. You never know. How’s the sandwhich?” Hot pastrami on rye.

“Good. No, great!” Tom said with as much as he could muster. He took it with a lot of water.

The father sat a little further off. There was enough room near the bed for two. Someone always had to sit a little further back when it was crowded like this. He didn’t look sad at all. He just sort of stared, his eyes fixed on no particular thing, like he was trying to drink it all in, everything. The light falling through the window, Sally with her boy, her boy and his girl, the family and his father.

Sally didn’t wear sweats. She didn’t wear a skirt either, so it was sort of a wash. But nothing could look better than the hot pastrami on rye. Thick layers of meat. Toasted. Mustard.

Why Is It All Terminally Ill Boys Want Is Sex?

The girlfriend came back today. She was excited about something. Wore make-up, too. Not the best colors, but she was trying. A skirt, too. She never wears skirts. She is no Sally.

Smiled a lot, too though. Giddy. That’s the word. She was giddy.

She made him all smiles, too. She leaned in from her seat on the side of the bed and whispered something to him. Then she did something naughty. All the make-up and legs, the whisper, all so she could prep herself to reach down and pinch his crotch.

Pity the nurse saw it.

“Cough, cough,” the nurse said. She entered and took his tray of Jell-o.

The boy and girl blushed. She pulled her hand back like she had been stung by something Down There, but then placed it lightly on his shoulder. No nurse would interfere with all this preparation. Make up is no easy thing.

When the nurse set the tray down and then opened the blinds, then checked the monitor and tapped the I.V. it was clear. She would hover. Not in her hospital. Not on her watch. This was a place of business.

The girl pursed her lips. Not on her watch then. Fine. She leaned in and kissed the boy smack on the lips and topped it off with another pinch. Now the nurse blushed, but it was not pretty. Nurses never are.

The Nurse took the Jell-o and ushered out the girl, who squeezed in a glance back at her boy before being ushered out. He put his hands behind his head. He never looked so happy. Definitely a virgin.

Doritos from the vending machine down the hall. Lord.

Death on Twilight

No visitors today.

He looks relieved. Spent the afternoon watching Twilight, but he fell asleep before it ended. Never fails. Right when Edward was about to give in to his urges over Bella’s scent and bite her the nurse came in and turned off the TV.

Patients never stay awake for entire movies. I still don’t know what the deal is with The Sixth Sense.

Damn nurses.

Some sort of stew today. What I would give for solid foods. A steak. Medium rare.

Kristen Stewart. Not bad.

Father, Son, and Holy Legs

He coughs more when his mother is around. She'll fluff his pillow and he'll give her an irritated look like his mother shouldn't fluff her terminally ill son's pillow, then when she steps back:

Cough, cough.

It's like he wants the attention, wants the pity, but not the mothering. Adolesence. God, what an awkward age.

It's different with the father. No coughing. Barely a pip.

The father wears suits. They don't fit him, not that suits really fit anyone these days. It's been centuries. Hard to find a good tailor. Business casual took them all out. Even then, even with a French cut they wouldn't fit him though. The father doesn't belong in suits. But he wears them.

Finished three crossword puzzles this morning. They wheeled the kid around for chemo. He came back looking paler. Then the fluffs from Sally and the father sitting there trying to look like he's not the one about to lose a son. Some people weren't meant to be stoic.

She came straight from work today, Sally. Short skirt, no stockings. Pumps. Amazing legs. Fluffing a pillow never looked so good. She wore that skirt.

Cornbread and chili today. No butter.

The Boy With Terminal Cancer

Took forever getting here. You wouldn't believe the traffic on 9th. I was told this was a rush job, too. I hurry, nearly get in a car wreck, double park, and here he is, looking fine.

Not fine in the artistic sense. Fine in the technical sense. I mean, he's really pretty unsightly, then again, all fifteen year olds are. The pimples. The oversized heads on the tiny bodies. The odor.

His girlfriend was here when I arrived. She cried. She cozied next to him. He said, "I want to live." It was all very sloppy.

I hate that line. It's a horrible line. Humans all want to live. Americans especially can't say the line without tearing up.

I believe he said it to get some nookie. He had to know she would cry. He could be a virgin. He looks like a virgin.

Wants to live. God.

He knows. She knows. I know.

It's natural, I guess. Just cliché. He must be a virgin. I can't help but root for him.

Split pea soup at the cafeteria today.

Mushy.