I gaze at the messages coming, one after another, as if following a militant command. It seemed like a rally, like they were all of a like mind for once; that they all cared. Then I read each one. Rachel was as she often is: floundering, her stabbing at buttons capturing a fluttering mind, ever torn from a competing distraction, like her kids pawing at her legs, a dog nuzzling into her groin. “I have plans for Saturday…I’m…not sure I can be at your memorial,” she wrote, clearly multi-tasking. Paul was predictably gruff and terse, like he was typing out his thoughts in the moments before passing out: “I’m not available on the 13th” is what he managed before sandwiching himself back in his headset. He won’t have read the whole message, was only half-getting the context that I’d introduced. Memorial? What the hell’s he talking about? Dean was a bit more clued in. “Call me if you wanna talk”, he’d offered, if haplessly. Actually, it was more forced than hapless. He didn’t wanna talk. Dean never wanted to talk. He wasn’t sure he even meant what he said. He just thought it was something you’re supposed to say in these situations—situations where someone is dying, he meant. And that was what was happening, despite all the denial. The rest of Dean’s text betrayed his awkwardness. He might be able to attend the memorial, but only if it was in the afternoon, and not bleeding into the evening. Yeah, bleeding. Also, what was going to be served? He asked. His new partner was vegan, he explained, and he, as ever, had an issue with dairy products.
These are my friends, my inner circle. I know. Who needs enemies, and all that. They mean well. I know because they say so on X, on their Instagram pages, and with all the effort that goes into a periodic “like”. Dean’s emogees are clever at least. So, too, are Paul’s voice messages, though I think the last one was from an AI thing that he was showing off—something to do with his job. I figure he’ll call me again with that new toy of his, ask me for some money, as a prank. I’ve thought about holding off this thing until I’d gotten an AI replacement myself. That would maintain continuity, keep the business and social circles going while things were in transition. Perhaps my substitute could hand residual calls from my customers, explain that I or someone would get back to them, take care of their orders, answer their questions. Gotta keep selling til’ the end. Meanwhile, I’d dispatch someone or thing to handle Rachel’s birthday gift, whatever that might be. I just feed in her info, patch in the profile from her something page and then it all take care of itself. Come to think of it, this reminds of what the doctors said as they slid me into the MRI tube, only to then watch with sighing dismay when the results weren’t quite what they’d expected. What a bummer for them. What a drag it must be, being oncologists. They had to stay late that day, take some time to say that my days were numbered. And the friends: I told ‘em, sort of. I told ‘em the numbers, as in the something something cell count (yeah, you’d only half listen if you were being told this shit, also), and the days left count—that landed with a bit more of a thud.
Lucy was the last to call after my text announcement. She’s always been the last to know things, my darling Lucy: my erstwhile hook-up, my prior-to-that crush. She cared about my feelings once, though she was slow to catch on that they were, in fact, feelings. “Oh my God,” she started, like she always started conversations, as if she were ever catching on late to a dark joke. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad”. That’s another thing I love about her. There’s nothing she can’t or won’t blame another for, especially when it comes to dying. She knows because she’s dealt with a lot of people dying, she says, usually in reference to people who love her. It’s dangerous to love her, I inferred once upon a time. It’s more dangerous now, I think. “Sorry to bother you with this,” I said to her. Shamefully manipulative, I know. “I knew you were struggling,” she replied, speaking past my lame effort. Pity sex. It’s never too late to get some, I figure, still thinking in sales pitches. It always worked for Lucy to not really listen, somehow. “I knew what you were going through with the…ya know…but I didn’t know it was as bad as…ya know”. She didn’t know it was as bad as this because she didn’t really know what it was. Denial is useful that way. Anyway, then came the advice: “You should have taken a mental health day. That’s always worked for me”. This is where our age difference comes in, kinda how it came between us before, which meant I had no chance. Lucy is of that generation that thinks stress entitles a day off from work or school. To have stress and deal with the day to day—that’s unhealthy, she thinks.
Then she made her move, her intervention. “Can’t you delay your plan or whatever until…I don’t know…can’t you just hold out a little longer?”
“What’s the point?” I moaned.
“I don’t know. I read the letter you sent to the group, and I get it—don’t try to talk you out of it. But seriously, just put if off for a while. Take a one day at a time approach. That’s how I stopped drinking, just one day at a time. I got two years clean now, did I tell you?”
“Yeah, congratulations. I’m proud of you”
“Yeah, thanks. Anyway, when I have my next birthday, I want you there to celebrate, plus the others”
“You’ll never get us all together like that”. Now I was sounding bitter. “We’ll forget. We’ll pay lip service to it, all agree on the idea. But no one will step forward, actually make it happen. See, none of us is really here. That’s why I can plan something and send out an invitation to a fake event. It’s like everything else—it’s just something that might happen.”
“You don’t know that. We may surprise you”. She paused and fell silent. For idle seconds, I could just about make out her stutter, trying to think what to say next; whether to really care. “You don’t really mean it, do you? You wouldn’t do it.”
“Nah, of course not. I just wanted to see what you’d all say if I made a threat. I wanted to see if it would change anything, disrupt anyone’s schedule, or force you or anyone to say something you’ve never said before”.
“What do you want us to say?”
“I don’t know. I just know I don’t want to request what I want you to say”.
“I don’t know what to say”
“Don’t worry, you said it already”
Graeme Daniels Psychewriter 