“Maryland v Maryland!” TP drew out each word as he took an uncoordinated step off the curb and nearly collapsed into the passenger seat. A plastic Safeway bag swung from his hand, which he plopped onto the floor. “What the fuck’s up with that, bra! I didn’t even know Baltimore Campus had a team.”
“They’re the first 16-seed to ever knock a number one out of the NCAA tournament!” Joe said as he flicked on the headlights, pushed in the clutch and shifted into first. “Remember when they beat Virginia a few years ago?”
“You taking UMBC then?” TP asked. “I’ll bet you twenty bucks Maryland proper will win.”
“Sure,” Joe snorted, “if you spot me like thirty-five points. Besides, I went to College Park—’Maryland proper’ as you call it. I’m not betting against my alma mater.”
The car backfired as Joe made the turn onto the Washington Beltway headed out of Alexandria.
“Your car’s a piece of shit dude,” TP said.
“Had a much nicer one…” Joe cut his sentence short as he reflexively reached for the radio, then stopped. The car didn’t have Bluetooth or any means of connecting a phone. Just an old radio—fully equipped with dials, preset buttons and bad reception. “Had to borrow from my mom to get this one,” he said. He then shot a quick look at TP. “And what do you have that is so much better?”
“Just a few Silver Bullets out of Mom’s fridge!” TP laughed, holding up the plastic bag.
Joe didn’t respond. He was too focused on threading his old Honda between a pair of semis and a crawling minivan.
“What?” TP asked. “Are you one of those hoity-toity motherfuckers who only drinks microbrews?”
“No, no.” Joe laughed. Subconsciously, he lifted his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. A habit he’d gotten into now that he had hair. “I’ll drink whatever.” He didn’t mention the six-pack of Bass Ale in the cooler in the trunk—also from his mom’s fridge, though he had at least paid for his. The comment was true enough—he definitely was not one of those who got worked up over American lager or any other beer choice for that matter. Unless it had a fruity taste. Fruit in beer definitely crossed a line.
“Dude,” TP said suddenly, “you got your dew back. Seeing anyone?”
“I was for a bit.” Joe paused and took a deep breath. “But she stopped calling.”
“Because of the cancer?”
“I think so. She was super sympathetic when I first brought it up. Said she’d visit me, help me out next time I was in the hospital, yadda, yadda… Trouble is, I think she actually did.” Joe nervously drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “A nurse told me ‘A cute girl’ came and saw me during my methotrexate infusion. I was all doped up with anti-nausea meds, so I don’t remember. I think she might have come while I was barfing. Haven’t heard from her since.”
“Bitch!”
“Nah.” Joe responded. “If it’s too much for her, better to find out now.”
As he said it, images flashed back—her black hair, her lips, the expression on her face just before he kissed her.
Stop it! He thought. Stop it! This is not a road you can afford to go down. Pity was like a festering sore that could turn into bitterness—early detection and eradication was key.
“So, what did you do when you were in the circus?” Joe asked, trying to redirect his thoughts.
“Red hots!” TP shouted. “Get your red hot, hot dogs here!” They both laughed. Joe and TP had met in the hospital two months earlier. They were roommates, receiving chemotherapy at the same time. Hospital curtains offer little in the way of privacy—they heard everything those toxic treatments did to each other for three straight nights. They made crass jokes about it.
They looked out for each other, called the nurse when needed and offered each other whatever their moms brought in from home. Neither were eating much, but Jell-O and ice cream were welcome treats even if they “tasted better on the way down.” Joe had Leukemia; TP had sarcoma. They became fast friends.
“Life was getting good too, man,” TP continued. “I was one of those troubled teens. Never did well in school. I sold dogs and helped break down the circus when it rolled on to the next town, which included shoveling a lot of shit. But it was fun. Working was good for me. And the women! I met a lot of women selling dogs. There is something about a handsome, self-confident man peddling wieners.”
“Especially if he’s named TP.” Joe added sarcastically.
“Dude!” TP said, laughing. “You need to lighten up. Have a couple of beers and you’ll see.”
They were his initials, but Joe had to wonder why he’d be OK with essentially being referred to as Toilet Paper. TP gave a convoluted answer, the core of which was: “Chicks dig it!”
“Couple of beers and I might be drunk.” Joe responded.
“We got a whole game to sober up.” TP grinned, then added. “A week off of chemo and I feel high. I have more energy. It sounds corny but even the sun seems to shine brighter.”
“I’m at the end of a two-week vacation from chemotherapy myself.” Joe answered. “Unfortunately, most of that good feeling your describing was wasted in the hospital. My white count was super low after that last chemo, then I spiked a hundred-and-two fever. No immune system meant I had nothing to fight the infection, and I had to be admitted for antibiotics and observation. They wouldn’t let me out until my white count recovered. I was going stir-crazy, doing laps around the building, chatting with all of the nurses…”
“Did they at least give you a massage?” TP interrupted.
“Massage?” Joe blinked.
“Yeah, I got Sheila to give me a massage.”
“No!”
“Dude all I had to do was ask.” TP said.
Joe shook his head, astonished. “If I ever finish treatments and go full board on the business again, I’m hiring you as a sales guy.”
“What do you mean?” TP asked.
“I mean, you got a nurse to give you a massage. And not just any nurse—but Sheila. She’s like the most attractive nurse on that wing. I think you could sell yellow snow to an Eskimo…Dude.” He tried to mimic TP’s inflection on dude, but TP missed the subtle condescension.
“So, is that what you were doing? Running a business. Before chemo, I mean?” TP asked.
“Yeah. I was working on making software easier for people to use.” Joe’s voice was terse. It was another road he did not want to go down. Unlike with the girl, this road still existed, but was now like an overgrown stretch of cobblestone, fading into a forgotten time.
It was such a great idea though—a simple idea. From his experience, if it took more than three button clicks, users were lost. His business mission was to design software interfaces that let average users get what they need without getting lost in an endless myriad of menus. He landed a few clients, spent time learning their platforms, then built intuitive, easy-to-use designs. The clients were ecstatic. The business grew.
And that was just the beginning! Streamlining user experience was a complex, often overlooked challenge across industries. The vision for the next steps was mostly in his head, but the details were beginning to take form. Soon he would act on them. The possibilities were infinite.
Or at least they were…until…Stop! The word shot through his head like a shout. Stop going down this damn dead end!
“You suddenly seem kind of PO’d.” TP said, snapping him back to the present.
“What?” Joe said. Then added “Sorry, my mind wondered…”
“To what, man? You looked like you wanted to punch someone.”
Joe glanced down and realized how tightly he was squeezing the steering wheel. He loosened his grip. Then let out a nervous laugh and said, “Let’s just say cancer sucks.”
“Did cancer cost you the business?” TP asked.
“Mostly. But not entirely.” Joe sighed, realizing he was now sliding down the path he didn’t want to go down. “Like you, I had to move back in with my mom. I stopped working for about six months. A few of my clients were willing to wait, and once the treatments got a little less rigorous, I started working with them again. Nothing big—just the simpler jobs…The not so challenging ones.”
He paused as he spotted the sign for College Park. “The dream is still alive, but barely.”
Joe weaved around cars to move right, towards the exit. “I’m barely keeping the dream alive.” He muttered absently.
TP shot a look at him. Crap! He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
“Sorry!” Joe said. “Cancer sucks for all of us. I, at least, am able to work.” He eased the car into the exit lane. “And the little I do helps me pitch in with my mom’s bills. Although I have to sneak it in. I buy groceries and lie and tell her I used her card.”
“Your mom sounds nice bra.” TP said. “Mine cooks better food than I ever got at the circus. But she forgets I’m an adult. She practically calls the hospital for every action I take. I’m surprised she hasn’t called to see if I can use the bathroom. Doctor,” TP said in a mocked British accent. “Doctor, can my little Thomas take a wee-wee? His cancer isn’t going to spread to his pee-pee if he takes a wee-wee, will it?”
Joe laughed hysterically. He had similar issues with his own mother.
When they pulled into the parking lot at Xfinity Center—home of the Maryland Terrapins ‘proper’—it was practically empty. The officious attendants were not about to let them park willy-nilly though. They were waved towards a cluster of cars in the middle of the lot. Joe pulled the Honda two spaces down and across from a lively tail gate party.
“Oh man.” TP said. “College girls! After we get some ambition from one of these beers, we got to go talk to them.”
“Sounds good.” Joe said, feigning enthusiasm. He’d go along, if only to play wingman, but he was not feeling it. Probably the age gap, he figured. He had just turned twenty-six, but the past year and a half had aged him. He found it hard to relate to people in their twenties. Outside of other cancer patients, he mostly hung out with people who were older, people who’d experienced some difficulties. He related better to those who had battle scars.
TP popped off the tops of two beers and handed one to Joe.
Joe took a sip. “It’s been a while since I had one of these,” he said. TP didn’t answer. Instead, the sound of gurgling and loud swallows filled the car. Joe turned, startled. “What the hell are you doing?”
TP’s beer was nearly vertical. He just held out a finger as if to say hold on. A few moments later he slammed the empty beer bottle down and hollered, “Yahoo! Look out ladies here I come.” He hit his belly as if to draw out a burp. “Oh fuck!” he muttered and jumped out of the car.
Joe watched TP double-over, then heard that familiar nauseated cough, followed by a splash.
“Ewww!” one of the girls shrieked.
Definitely managed to make an impression, Joe thought. Then, he opened the door and hurried around the car to check on TP. No sooner had he got to the passenger side than he spotted a cop walking towards them. Not the Campus Police either, but a Maryland State Trooper.
“Crap!” Joe muttered.
The trooper moved with purpose, his hands cocked next to his bully club, flashlight and other assorted instruments of peace keeping. The cop had muscles everywhere, even his fingers seemed to bulge. He looked like he could snap your neck with his pinky.
Joe instinctively placed himself between the officer and TP.
“You boys had too much to drink?” Not waiting for an answer, he shined a light directly into Joes eyes.
“No sir. I only had a couple of sips.” (No sense in lying about the fact that they had beer—the smell of alcohol vomit was unmistakable.) “We both have cancer. My friend just got his first break from chemo and radiation treatments in two months and got a little overexcited and drank his beer too quickly. That’s all.”
The cop made an expression, like “yeah right”, then methodically shifted his position and shined his flashlight onto TP. Officer Jackson, as his name tag displayed, had been upright, arrogant, shoulders back seemingly ready to pounce until his torch caught TP. Joe continued to look straight ahead, but could guess what the cop had seen—the sunken cheeks, the emaciated body and the baggy clothes from the sudden weight loss. In less than a second Officer Jackson’s shoulders sagged, his hands flopped to his side, and the flashlight went off. He whispered, almost nervously. “Will he be alright?”
“I think so.” Joe answered. “He just drank too fast.”
The officer slipped his flashlight back in his belt. “Alright. You two go ahead and get inside…”
Joe opened his mouth to thank him, but before he could speak, the trooper added, “And give me the beer. I have a strong suspicion that if I asked your friend for his ID, I would find he is not old enough to consume alcoholic beverages.”
After Joe handed the bag of the remaining beer to the cop, he and TP moved toward the arena. The wind sliced through their clothes and Joe zipped his coat up a notch higher. TP didn’t budge. He walked with his baggy coat draped around him, his head down, shoulders slumped as if he had ceased to notice or care about his surroundings. Joe knew that feeling.
Would he be alright? The officer’s question echoed through his head. Would either of them be alright?
Joe was technically in remission, but if he stopped treatments, the leukemia would return. Monday he’d start chemo again. First, they’d do a bone marrow biopsy to make sure the remission still held.
He wasn’t especially worried; bone marrows were part of his routine. That said, if they found cancer cells he’d have to start over from the beginning, and his 50-50 survival odds would plummet.
Joe had a year, and a half left in his three-year treatment protocol. TP’s entire treatment plan only lasted about a year. If everything went smoothly, TP would finish sooner, but Joe’s odds were better. He felt guilty thinking about these things, but he did. Everyone did. Like the radiating pain of a bone marrow, such comparisons had become routine.
Neither of them had any idea what the future held. There was only today—and maybe the very near future.
As they approached the arena, they passed the same tailgate group from earlier. Joe ducked his head. But to his surprise, TP straightened. He then tipped his cap exposing his bald head and boldly called “Ladies!”
None of them responded. One even turned her back towards him. Undeterred, TP shouted, “Go Maryland!” One of the girls shouted back, then a few others followed suit, albeit half-heartedly. A guy who had just passed through the metal detectors turned and shouted “UMBC Retrievers!”
“Retrievers?” TP shouted back, “that sounds like the name of a little league team!”
Joe laughed. Louder than it was funny, louder than the moment called for. He laughed in relief, as if throwing off the weight of the past eighteen months.
Suddenly, the vision snapped into focus—he’d use AI to streamline the application review and redesign process. It would allow him to take on more clients, even while struggling through leukemia. There were a ton of details to work out, plenty of failed attempts to plow through, but he had three full days before chemo began again. He’d start working on it tomorrow.
Would they be alright? Physically, it was impossible to say. But whatever cancer might do to them physically, it would not defeat their spirit. In their own way they would both go down fighting.
As if to drive home the point, not long after tip-off, TP pulled out some medicinal brownies he’d stashed in his pocket. Neither of them would remember the final score. They’d just report to their respective moms: Maryland won.