We weren’t best pals, but we spent an awful lot of time at the campus pub—The Slick Rooster—cutting classes and drinking, and I suppose we formed a bond, a bond that has surprisingly remained intact over the years. Recently, I got an email from Rob after he heard about my heart surgery:
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Little Buddy:
Holy shit storm!!
I had no idea your ticker was F’ed! You were always so skinny, you’d think it would have hit a bigger, heavier, more powerful guy like me, but hell, it just goes to show that you never know what’s going to happen in this crazy world. Who knows, eh? I might still end up with Jennifer Aniston!
If I did, I tell you, we would become a political force that could never be stopped.
Robiffer: A fucking juggernaut.
Who was it you were nuts for? Oh yeah, Demi Moore! You wanted her so bad!! You saw that movie Ghost 8 times!
Remember that pottery scene? That was boner city, man! Demi Moore reminds me of a lady soccer player. It’s the short hair, like she’s a boy only with really hot boobs and a fine, fine ass.
Have you been watching the lady soccer? No, me neither! LOL!!
Hey, gotta change the tone here for a sec, get heavy.
As you know, I spent some time incarcerated in the hospital, too. Unbelievable that a guy as vital and straight-shooting as myself would get the Big C, but I did. Not stopping me, though. Gotta have a positive attitude, little buddy. Just charge through it like you were a big lineman ploughing through a bunch of nerds, or in your case, a nerd beating on smaller, weaker nerds. What’s beneath a nerd on the totem pole of cool anyway? I mean, who do nerds bully? Do you just throw rocks at animals, or are there actually people you can push around? Interested to know as I always try to relate to my constituents. Wanna speak their language, even if it is Nerdlish.
How were your nurses?
Hot or Not?
That was a game I played to pass the time. I would look at each nurse and ask myself, “Would you do her?” I’m not sure what the percentage was, but it was pretty high. There was one little sex bomb name Sylvie.
( .Y .)
Jesus. They couldn’t let her work on the cardiac floor because she’d send all her patient’s blood pressure through the roof! LOL!! Shit brick house, that one, and an accent that was better than any porn film I’ve ever seen. Always asked her for a sponge bath– once, I even offered her three hundred bucks for one, but I don’t think her english was too good because she never responded. The city of Toronto has to legislate that everybody fucking speaks and understands ENGLISH and that it is their ONLY language. Those that don’t comply? Fucking deported.
Loved the drugs in hospital. Hydromorphone.
They’ll tell you to only take one, but screw that, take two, maybe three, for a good high. You will float right to the fucking ceiling and then have the best sex of your life with that goddamn ceiling. It is that good.
It will bung you up eventually, but it’s still worth it.
Get well soon, Little Buddy!
Big Rob
]]>Still unencumbered by whatever obstacles or sorrows the day might later present, everybody walking down the street had a crisp, optimistic look to them. Animated by the sunlight, they looked happy and ready for it all.
I stood outside waiting for a cab, watching an older man I’d become familiar with pulling weeds from a garden. Always wearing a baseball cap and a plaid, farmer’s shirt, the man has a slow, gentle and slightly uncomprehending manner, as if perhaps stricken wordless by trauma at some point in his life. From the grand house behind the property he was working on, a man walked confidently out the front door.
“Don’t pull so hard!” he said. The man in the baseball hat looked up, blinking, confused. “We talked about this,” the confident man continued, “use your head!!” He thumped his forefinger against his temple, underscoring this point. He then continued up the street, satisfied and looking like he felt he was at the top of his game, while the kneeling worker, demoralized now, appeared as if he was feeling the exact opposite. It was 8:30 in the morning and this was the start to both of their days.
There were about 10 people waiting for the elevators in the lobby at the Mt. Sinai hospital. An older woman with smooth, freshly polished skin smiled at everyone. She was pretty, wearing the sort of hat you’d see at a fancy horse race and she carried her cane with style. “Look at us, all watching the numbers to see which one comes first, it’s like we’re gambling at a casino!” Given the hospital setting, I thought about this probably more than I should have.
On the sixth floor I got off for my appointment and as I was checking in with the receptionist, the woman in the hat showed up. She was lost and when she was told that she was on the wrong floor– that CT scans were done on the 5th floor– a look of frustration and anger clouded her pleasant face. She turned to me, “It’s the elevators! They’re not working! The button said this was the 5th floor, the 5th, not 6th!” and then she began to cry.
The receptionist was blessed with a Caribbean accent and liked to keep herself busy.
“I have my church clothes, I have my supermarket clothes, I have my pharmacy clothes and I have my go-out-and-have-a-good-time-clothes. It’s just the way that I am,” she told nobody in particular.
In constant movement, she was singing at her desk. She simply could not stop.
“We will praise you for the rest of our days. Hallelujah!” she sang.
Snapping her fingers and even sometimes dancing, she had all the sober looking technicians giggling as they peeked over at her through paperwork. A heavier woman, also with a Caribbean accent, walked by shaking her head, “Listen Anne Murray, I will talk to you later,” and pointing her finger, gave her a look that suggested a genial, running battle.
“I got my praise on,” the receptionist shot back, “ain’t nothing going to go wrong this morning. You bring it.”
