Humana

I read him a poem now, when he wakes up.
He wakes up for ten minutes a day.
–Pomes, he says.
–Pomes in the closet rotting, I say.
–Are they now?
–They are.
–So send them out.
–They don’t want to travel any longer.
–They’d rather rot?
–They would. It’s their wish.
–And yours also?
–I don’t matter in this. It’s what they want.
Then he uses an English accent:
–Pomes, everyone…a pome, no less. The lad fancies himself a poet!
And he laughs. Before he goes into a coughing fit.
–You know where that’s from?
I say yes. From The Wall. Floyd.
–Sharp one.
I tell him I went to film school.
–Schyool, he says. And you don’t have to go to film schyool to know Floyd.
–Schyool. I used to be a stoner, so yea. You’re right.
He likes them, my poems. My pomes.
–It’s how Kerouac used to say it, or write it, he says.
I know that. I hate Kerouac. But I don’t tell him. People know (he knows). They always ask why I have “On the Road” on my shelves. I have Shakespeare, and I hate him too. And Mann. And Gide. I don’t like either of those fellows. I have them because I’ve read them. I’ve had to, in order to make up my mind. And then I couldn’t give away the books. Couldn’t sell them used, either. They’re still books. Good books.
–What I crave now is a nice, cold pint, he says.
–Black and tan?
–Then room tempy.
–What?
–Room temperature, then. For a black and tan. It’s only proper.
I ask him if I should sneak in some bottles next time I visit.
–Yea, sure.
And glasses? I could stuff them into my messenger bag.
–No, too civilised. Too highbrow. I miss drinking out of a bottle. I miss ice cold watermelon in the summers. Fried rice. Sitting on dark green grass.
The next time I come, he’s up and about slowly, dragging an I.V. hooked to a bag hooked to a pole on four wheels.
And the time after that, the room door is closed and there’s a wreath on it.

The S-Word

It’s what the story said. In the newspaper. On the counter of the Chinese take-away. It’s what it said. I waited there for my order. I watched the little Chinese girl clean up her plates. Then her mum’s. And her da’s. She must’ve been no older than six. And on the large platter: deep fried chicken wings of some sort. Well. Mostly bones. And egg rolls. Half-eaten ones. And shrimp. All tails. Her mum and da owned this place. It was a hole in the wall with a 92 health rating. I wanted a Tsing-Tao but could not afford it. It’s what the story said. And I watched the Chinese girl diligently carry the heavy, porcelain plates up to the counter. The girl in the story in the paper on the counter of the Chinese take-away was also six. Her adopted mother had died of ovarian cancer. Her mother’s sister was now caring for her. She chuckled at how hard it was to be a parent. The mother’s sister. The girl’s aunt. Chuckled and said how she never wanted to be a mother, but. But. The little Chinese girl walked by and looked and I smiled and waved with my index finger and the middle. She didn’t do either. She was leery of the white man sitting cross legged reading the News-Observer in her parents’ take-away on a sunny, late, weekday afternoon. It’s what the story said. The little orphan girl asked for permission to use the S-word and her aunt gave it. Her aunt said:
–In our house we never used it, the S-word, we never used it and she was never raised with it, but she asked just this one time, and so I said okay.
The Chinese girl disappeared somewhere when I looked up from the story. Her mum was cooking my order. Her da was smoking over the hot plate, stirring vegetables in a pan wok.
The S-word.
Was.
–Stupid. Stupid, lousy, stupid cancer, the girl in the story said.
And then she wrote it in washable marker on the side of her tub, at bath.
–It’s only for this one time, the woman’s sister said. The aunt. We only let her use it this one time.
Dinner came. It was stuffed in a brown paper bag. The Chinese girl’s mum was on the phone, taking an order. She pushed the bag toward me and pointed to another small counter on which packets of sauce were stuffed into styrofoam cups. I took a handful. Two pairs of chopsticks.  Three fortune cookies.  Just in case. I got into the car. It started.