NICE TAN
by Janet Flora
Cantaraville-One
When most people get cancer, they quit smoking, but not me. Why stop now? It's those dimwits think, Okay, now I'm going to get healthy. They go to gurus, witch doctors, start praying, stop eating junk food; they do yoga and meditation and visualize themselves healthy. The only thing I'm visualizing is driving that new Porsche I've just leased, imagining how many times I can get laid before I'm laid to rest, and seeing how many credit cards I can max out-betting I'll expire before they do.
That fancy doctor at Sloan Kettering said it probably started in the lung. Before he dumped the bad news on me, he started to make small talk.
"Nice tan you have, where did you get it?" he asked.
I toyed with the gold chain on my right wrist, pulling it around with two fingers from my left hand, counting the rotations I made.
Without looking up I said, "Miami. I have a condo down there, right next to the old Fontainebleau. They really fixed it up nice down there."
There was a silence; I'm not sure how long. Then I heard him say, "Mr. Fano, this isn't good. Tests have confirmed the cancer has spread. It's in your lymph nodes and your liver."
I didn't look up from my gold chain. I don't know if I looked confused or just unshaken.
He made his tone a bit friendlier. "Louis? Do you understand how serious this is?"
I stopped pulling on the chain. For a minute, my eyes felt watery and stung. The last time that happened was at Momma's wake. I was kneeling in front of the casket, staring at the rosary beads the mortician had laced through the fingers of her hands, which were clasped together, resting on her abdomen. Momma started doing wacky things when she got sick. Once I went with her to this woman who called herself a healer. We walked up four flights in a tenement building on West 47th Street, smack in the middle of Hell's Kitchen. It was one of those railroad flats. I thought to myself, When the healing business gets slow, this woman will probably be sitting in the street reading palms. When Momma climbed up on the massage table that the healer had set up in the middle of her kitchen, I watched her wince because the cancer was already in her bones. The healer put her hands where Momma's breasts used to be. Then she ran her hands down the front of her legs where there was a lesion on her shin. Momma looked so frail; I was sure she had shrunken from her already tiny 5'3'' frame. The other thing is, she never wanted to take the pain medicine-she said it made her feel like she was already dead. They kept prescribing it, and I kept filling it, just in case she changed her mind. When she was in the hospice, they hooked her up to morphine; then things went quickly. But before that, she took nothing.
I was thinking about those pills I saved from Momma, still looking at the gold chain, but it was blurry from my eyes filling up. Shit, I'm not crying. That's for those assholes who think they'll live forever.
"Lou?" the doctor said with less patience.
"Yeah, I got how serious it is. Now tell me, how much longer do I have?" I said without looking up, thinking this sounds like a bad movie.
"Well, without treatment it would be fairly quick. Let's see," he said. I could hear the papers turning like someone reading or flipping through a dictionary to find the right word. His voice seemed to get lower; I'm not sure if it dropped or it just sounded that way. "You're only fifty-five, so the tumors will continue to grow at a moderately quick rate. In older people, those in their seventies or eighties, sometimes it grows slowly. But we could slow it down considerably with radiation and chemo; you could get a year, maybe more."
"And without it?" I stopped pulling on the bracelet and held on tightly to the wooden arms of the chair, finally looking at him, only to see him looking at his desk.
He shrugged. "Hard to know, maybe three months, maybe six."
To think this just started with a cough; I didn't run to the doctor like some of those wimps. I waited a good six months. The only reason I went is because people around the office said it wasn't good to call on clients selling life insurance while I sounded as if I was going to cough up a lung. Next thing I know, I'm sitting across from some doctor who looks like he could be in his late 30s, his dark blond hair parted on the side like a Boy Scout, telling me I'm dying. Shit.
"Lou, would you like to talk to someone?" the Boy Scout doctor asked. "We have some good social workers here. They're used to helping people figure out options. I know you're not married; I thought maybe . . ."
"No. I'm a die-hard bachelor. Funny, die-hard?"
He sort of smiled, or twitched, I couldn't be sure.
Just last year I was trying to pick up the new receptionist. She asked me if I'd ever been married, and I told her the same thing: "No, honey, I'm a die-hard bachelor."
She told me that was a word from the '50s, used in Rock Hudson and Doris Day movies, and that I was giving away my age.
Finally, I just said, "Whatever. I wasn't really that interested in you; I was just trying to make you feel welcome."
Later that day, I saw her with a guy in his late 20s, maybe early 30s-I guess about the same age as she was. He was picking her up in a brand-new Saab-nice color, teal blue. Who cares? There are a million more just like her.
Anyway, when I got back from that straight-laced oncologist's office, I marched right into my supervisor's office and told him that I'd take that buyout they offered me last year. He tried to act like he hated to see me go, but they're looking for new blood.
I am driving myself down to Miami in my shiny, new Porsche. It's amazing what you can lease these days. I almost got the fire-engine red, and then I decided on the teal blue Boxter. Before the diagnosis, I was smoking Marlboro Lights, now I've switched to Lucky Strikes. It's the day after Thanksgiving, and just two days ago, we had one of the earliest snowfalls on record. As soon as I get out of southern Jersey, the snow that has lined the sides of I-95 disappears, and I can see grass again. Every now and then, I get a twinge of doubt and think, Wow, I'm actively choosing death here. And maybe I should have gotten the treatment; maybe in a year they'll come up with something new. Then I glance at myself in the rearview mirror, and I like what I see. No, I chose life instead of actively trying to stay alive. I chuckle to myself and I think of that lame "Stayin' Alive" song from the Travolta movie Saturday Night Fever.
By the time I get to South Carolina, I put the top down on the car, thinking I can keep the tan up until I get to lie out on the beach in Miami. Feeling the sun on my skin and the wind blow through my hair, I think how great it is to have hair. I never remember my father having hair; it seemed he was bald as long as I could remember. But my grandfather on my mother's side-I have his hair, thick, just a slight wave. Now that it's silvery gray, it really keeps the ladies looking at me.
The weather in Miami is perfect-sunny 79 degrees, clear, blue skies. From my balcony on the eighth floor, I can see the ocean and boardwalk and the pool at the Fontainebleau Hotel, and even from here, I can see it's lined with some good-looking babes. It's just past noon, and I decide to have lunch poolside at the hotel. I put on my favorite cabana set. The inside of the jacket is lined with mint green terry cloth, and the outside is crisp, white, heavy cotton. The boxer shorts are the same white, but they're trimmed down the sides with a tuxedo stripe of matching terry cloth. Before heading out, I take a final look in my bathroom mirror, the one I use to shave in. It has a 3x magnification. I check my teeth and see that those whitening strips really work. I pop one of the steroids the doctor gave me; it keeps the inflammation down in my lungs.
I'm sitting back, sipping coffee, when I see her. She's probably in her early 40s, but who knows? Nobody looks their age anymore. But she looks good, tan like me. Blonde. She is sitting at the edge of the pool, dangling her feet in the water. I walk over to the edge of the pool and sit right next to her. She has one of those French pedicures and a gold ankle bracelet that accentuates her tan. Something about a woman who takes care of her feet-I don't know; it's a turn on. The rest of her is nice, too. Long legs. Her facial skin isn't so hot-she probably had acne as a kid-but with the tan, it's okay. Nice lips. I like the way the edges of her lips seem darker than the shiny stuff she has in the middle. I dangle my feet right next to hers. She looks over at me, and those shiny lips start to curl into a smile. I can see my reflection for a second in her sunglasses. If this is dying, it's not so bad.
"Hi, I'm Lou."
She drops her sunglasses to the tip of her nose and looks over at me. She has nice, blue eyes. She says, "Ann Marie."
"You know," I say pointing to my building, "I saw you from my terrace, and I was hoping you'd still be here when I got down."
She smiles and looks away for a second. I can see how flattered she is. Shit, it's amazing how many women will take what you say at face value. I've been using this line since I got the condo three years ago. It's like magic-works all the time, especially when they're into their 40s, not so smug like that little receptionist at work. Maybe it's just that they see what they want to see, hear what they want to hear.
"Oh, do you live there?"
"Yeah, some of the time. I mean I got a place in New York-Manhattan. But I'm spending a lot of time here now; I took a real early retirement and plan to open my own business."
She nods and smiles, as if approving.
"What about you, Ann Marie, are you just visiting?"
"Yeah, I live in Ohio-Cleveland; I came down with my friend." She points at a lounge chair on the other side of the pool in the shade, and I see another blonde, reading People magazine. She's no Ann Marie-got to be at least 20 pounds overweight and probably closer to 50.
"Ann Marie," I say, "feel like going for a little walk on the beach?"
She hesitates. Then says, "Sure. Let me tell my friend."
I watch her walk over to the friend. Even from the back, she looks good in her blue bikini-hardly any cellulite. The friend puts down the magazine and looks over at me. I wave. She waves back. Ann Marie ties one of those sarong things around her waist, grabs her flip-flops, and starts walking toward me. I walk back to my table, throw down 20 bucks for my coffee and sandwich, and head toward where she waits at the entrance to the beach.
On the walk, Ann Marie does most of the talking-about her divorce and what a creep he was and how he left her for the younger neighbor who moved into the next apartment. Every now and then, I tell her something like the guy must be a nut to give you up, or something else I know she wants to hear. After walking for about 10 minutes in one direction, I suggest turning back.
All of a sudden, I start to cough. Shit, it's one of those hacking jobs. She looks concerned. I wave a hand at her as if to say it's nothing. Finally after a minute or two, it subsides. "Asthma," I say, surprising even myself. "You know the humidity isn't good for it; I should probably be in Arizona." I'm not sure if this sounds right, but she looks convinced. "Hey, would you mind if we stopped by my place, so I could get my inhaler?"
"No, no, of course not," she says.
Dying has made me more creative. As we enter the gates of my condo, I deliberately pass through the parking lot. I open the door to the Porsche. "Wait," I say, "I may have one in the glove compartment." I shuffle around inside. "Nope, I guess not."
"Nice car," she says.
"Thanks. Maybe tonight we can go for a spin."
"I don't know," she says. "I don't want to leave my friend Lisa by herself."
"Well, maybe when Lisa goes to sleep. Nothing like a midnight ride."
She smiles and shrugs.
"Come on up. Let me look for that thing in the apartment."
She follows, and in the elevator, I put my hand on the small of her back and run my fingertips in the groove of her spine. She doesn't seem to mind. I give her the tour. Sometimes the place even impresses me. I bought one of the model apartments, so it was all decorated in overstuffed, white furniture and lots of those straw rugs called sisal. She is oohing and aahing, as she goes out onto the terrace.
"I'll be right back," I say, as I go into the master bath. I look in the magnifying mirror again; I check my teeth for any signs of lunch. I open the medicine chest and take out the Viagra. I take one, then think, Fuck it, take two. What can I lose now? She's still on the terrace when I come out and join her. "Ann Marie, how about a piña colada?"
"Oh, no, I shouldn't," she says. "It's early," shaking her head back and forth in a series of little no's. Blonde wisps of hair land on her face.
"You're on vacation," I say, as I push the hair off her face. I lean in and kiss her. Nice. She lets out the tiniest little sound and kisses me back. "You relax out here. I'll use very little rum."
As I'm blending the drink, with a little more than a little rum, I can tell the Viagra has really kicked in. It always makes my nose run, and I feel slightly flushed. I'm walking out of the kitchen, holding the two drinks, as Ann Marie is walking in from the terrace toward me.
"Let's sit in here," she says, kicking off her flip-flops. "The sun is really hot now." She sits down and curls her legs under her on the white couch.
"Great," I say, getting excited, as I hand her the drink. "To making new friends." I hold out the martini glass that's filled with frothy white cream.
Our glasses clang in a toast, and she takes such a big swig the glass is half empty. I take a bigger swig, then lean over and put my glass on the cocktail table. She does the same. Our shoulders are touching. I turn to face her. She unbuttons my cabana jacket as I lean in and kiss her. The skin on her arms and chest is soft and feels nice as she presses herself into my chest. I reach down and untie the sarong, and as my hand is at the top of her bikini, I feel very short of breath. I stop.
She says, "Lou, are you okay?"
"Yeah. Yeah, baby, just probably didn't take enough of that inhaler."
"What?"
I think my words are slurring, but I manage to say, "It's cool. I'm just going to rest my head here." I lean back on the couch.
She is saying something, but I'm not sure what it is exactly. I know she is saying my name, but it sounds more like, Lour, Lour, and something about an ambulance.
"Nah, I'm cool, just resting," I think I say, but I'm not sure if it's to myself or out loud.
Ann Marie is shaking me and talking, maybe even yelling. But it just all seems like background noise from a TV far off. I feel myself drift off to sleep.
I wake up with an oxygen mask on my face. What I notice first are the embroidered black letters on a white shirt that says Dade County EMS. The shirt is worn by a young man with hair so blonde it looks yellow. Standing above the kid with the yellow hair is Ann Marie. She must see that I recognize her because she raises her eyebrows, smiles at me nodding, and gives me a thumbs-up as if I'm a dog that just did a trick. The kid with the yellow hair and another Hispanic kid are giving me the old heave-ho onto the gurney. The Hispanic kid says, "Mr. Fano, can you tell us what medications you're taking, any high blood pressure medicine, Viagra . . .?" The list goes on. This kid must be a dimwit. Does he think I'm going to blurt anything out, and hasn't he noticed that there's a mask covering my mouth?
Ann Marie is scurrying alongside the gurney as they roll me out of the apartment and onto the elevator. "Lou, listen, I'm so sorry you're not feeling well. I would come to the hospital with you, but I can't leave Lisa, you know? But if you're home tomorrow, I'll come visit. I'm going back to Cleveland the day after, so if I don't see you, I'm going to slip my number in your mailbox." As they load me into the ambulance, she waves at me like a kid going off on the school bus, and says, "Okay, sweetie, bye for now."
They want to do a bunch of tests at the hospital. I refuse. A day and a half later, I sign myself out.
Back at my apartment, I check myself in the magnifying mirror. My tan isn't looking good. I go into the bedroom and look in my sock drawer where I stashed the three vials of pills from Momma. Never know who looked through my things when I was out of it. Back in the living room, I see Ann Marie forgot her sarong, and right next to it is the jacket of my cabana set. She didn't slip any telephone numbers in my mailbox or under my door. I walk out onto the terrace; it's three in the afternoon-check-in time at the Fontainebleau. I think about going down for a cocktail and surveying the new arrivals. But instead I flop down on my chaise lounge-better to work on my tan and get a fresh start tomorrow. The afternoon sun feels like a warm blanket on my skin. I feel myself drifting off to sleep.
THE END