I woke up unusually early on Sunday morning feeling ecstatic and anxious. I was excited we had won last night but I also felt deep down inside that the victory celebration wasn’t complete until I got to see Bob that morning at the hospital and hand him his winning fifty bucks, his ante, and his raggedy winning shoe trophy. The shoes were nothing to write home about but at least I wasn’t going to stick him with the smelly flip flops; but a trophy was a trophy, no matter what it was – is what I say. I’m not complaining, I’m just saying.
I got dropped off at the hospital at 10am that morning with my shoe trophies in hand. I walked as slowly as I could because I knew that Bob usually did his morning treadmill run around 10am. I tried calling him a few times over the past few weeks at that time, his phone would ring off the hook, and I’d always get nervous. But like clockwork, around 1030am, I’d finally get a hold of him and he’d tell me over the phone that he had just finished working out on, “that damn treadmill’, and then he would say, “we wouldn’t want Mary crying her eyes out over an empty treadmill.” He would always say that, every time I had called, right after his treadmill run. He really hated how she cried over empty treadmills. He thought she was nuts to cry over such weird things. He really did.
You would think that I would have learned to not keep calling him at 10am. But I never did. I always forgot and I kept calling him at 10am every day. It was right after morning cartoons, so that was just when I sort of felt like calling him, that’s all. And there I was, at the hospital at 10am but that was more or less because that was the only time I could get a ride that morning.
Anyway, I started putting on all of the cancer unit “scrubs” garb in record time, I couldn’t wait to see the look on Bob’s face when I handed him his dough. I had walked to the cancer unit slowly to give him time on the treadmill but now that I was on his floor, I couldn’t wait to tell him the good news, even if that meant I would have to watch Bob run his bald and boney legs up and down on that, “Damn treadmill.”
I got buzzed in after getting dressed and I entered the cancer unit. I walked past the treadmill room, once I saw Bob wasn’t in there. There was only one person using the treadmill, so I figured that Bob must have finished early. I knew that he had been sharing his treadmill time with “Purple Bandana Girl” over the last week or so – who was on the treadmill that morning.
Purple bandana girl, which is what Bob had always called her, was running on the treadmill as fast as she could – she was sprinting like a swarm of bees were chasing her –and that’s pretty damn fast in my book. It was impressive; she was sprinting so fast she looked mad – that’s how serious her face had looked. And honestly, cancer or not, I don’t think I had ever seen someone run so fast on a treadmill before.
I think I may have told you about her before; she’s the girl that Bob referred to as “The hottest bald chick you’ve ever seen in your life.” He even went as far as to say, “When she gets done with her chemo, she should consider just rockin’ the bald look from now on – even if her hair grows back, she should just shave it all off; just shave it bald, she looks hot that way, cue ball scalp and all,” he said. That’s how fond of bald purple bandana girl he was. He really did like her – purple bandana, bald head, and all. And he meant it, he really did. I saw it in his eyes.
I kept on walking towards Bob’s room and thinking about how I must have timed everything perfectly because he had probably just gotten done with his work out, and since he knew I was coming first thing in the morning, he’d have the hook up. He always had a Popsicle right after his treadmill run and I knew he would have a Popsicle sitting there waiting for me in his bucket of ice. He used one of those “puke” plastic buckets that hospitals give their chemo patients, (in case you needed to puke from the chemo.) But of course he never puked in it before, he only used it for ice to keep his popsicles cold or to make his non foo foo water cold. Popsicles were the highlight of his day at the hospital. I smiled as I walked to his room. I couldn’t wait to clang popsicles with Bob and say, “Cheers” in victory about our break battle domination. I kept picturing his brow-less brows raised as he laughed with joy through his nose about our victory.
I felt like the nurses at the front desk of the cancer unit were looking at me strange but that was because they were probably wondering why the heck I was carrying two pairs of shoes in see-through bags and all. They smelled so bad I had to bag ‘em. Of course I was going to give Bob his shoes but I also wanted to show Bob the flip flops, so he could see them as I told him the sewer sock story. Kind of crazy, I know but I like to have props when I’m telling a story or maybe it’s that I looked at them as a trophy and I wanted to show him my trophy.
I rounded the corner of the nurse’s station and entered Bob unusually dark room. He usually had the blinds open, the lights on, and the heat cranking since it was winter. However, it was cold. Colder than I even knew. I saw Nurse Mary taking the bed sheets off Bob’s bed. Mary seemed Maudlin. “You’re cleaning Bob’s sheets?” I asked.
The dark, cold, and quiet room seemed very empty. Bobs bed was empty, Maudlin Mary’s expression was empty, and my stomach suddenly felt empty as I read Mary’s sullen emotions like a book. I had seen that look on her face before and I didn’t like it. I was hoping that Bob was going to walk out of his rooms’ private bathroom, even though I had this feeling that he was not in there. A blip ran through my mind that Bob and I would have a good laugh about Mary’s sniffling and crying over empty beds and empty treadmills and such, just as soon as he got back in the room.
To combat Maudlin Mary’s teary sniffled mood I ramped up the chipperness and I asked Mary, “I didn’t see Bob on the treadmill? Is he in the bathroom? Or is he walking the halls like he sometimes does? … Trying to find some non foo foo water, I bet you he’s harassing the Popsicle delivery person … isn’t he?” I laughed like a madman with nervous fluctuations in my voice as Mary remained Maudlin.
Mary quietly whispered, “He passed …” Then she sniffed and laughed, so I thought that I had missed a joke or something but really my nervous fake laughter was just contagious. Then she spoke again but it was so quiet that I could barely hear her, “He always made fun of me for crying over empty treadmills … and … and … now his treadmill and bed are empty this morning,” she said sort of laughing and sort of crying at the same time.
“I’m sorry Mary, I didn’t hear you,” I said, even though I knew I had. My mind and soul were in denial but my corporeal existence had heard her, my body felt like it had plunged to the floor even though I was still standing. My hands started to feel like needles, my head felt light, and I fought back tears. I didn’t want to be what Bob disdained, someone who cried over a damn empty bed or a darned empty treadmill.
Mary cleared her throat, feigned a smile, and said, “Boogie Bob went to enter a break dance battle in the sky last night.”
I said, “Yeah, I know he battled last night, well vicariously of course, but you’re right, he battled last night and we won! We won the battle! I can’t wait to tell him,” I said while still not fully accepting her metaphor about that sky business.
Mary responded, “You just did tell him, I’m sure he heard you.” Even though I already knew the answer I guess I couldn’t grab on to it until I had heard it in clear terms.
“Where is Bob?” I asked point blank.
Maudlin Mary said, “He went to be with Jesus last night at 11:45pm.”
I started thinking out loud, “The battle started at 11pm and I probably was head spinning around 1145pm … thanks Bob,” I said in a cheerful cry.
Mary’s eyes became wet.
And my eyes became wet. I couldn’t stop staring at his empty bed. It made me realize that there were two kinds of empty beds.
I told Mary about the battle as we both stared at his empty bed. I could tell that it made her very happy to know that Bob’s shoes had won the battle for us that night.
Just before I left the hospital room, I told her, “I’m going to take Bob’s shoes home with me, if that’s okay? However, you can tell his parents that they can have them if they want them. I am going to give you these shoes from our opponent,” I told her as I handed her the bag of tattered shoes. “You can tell his parents that Bob won these shoes in the battle last night and they should regard these shoes as Bob’s last trophy he won here on planet earth,” I said, which felt really weird to say it like that. It’s like, if someone ever comes up to you and says, “Hey, where are you from?” and if you respond, “Earth” they are going to look at you like your nuts. So I felt nuts.
But she knew what I meant because she said, “Yep, he is in a better place right now, no more earthly problems; he’s break dancing on streets paved with gold. … Bobs parents knew all about the break dance battle last night and they will be very happy to hear that you guys had won …
Bob had said to me a few times over the past few weeks: I’m not a cancer patient, I’m a Neighborhood Street Rocker,” Nurse Mary said reminiscently.
I handed her Bobs hundred bucks and my winnings and said, “Can you donate fifty bucks in the name of Robert Charles aka Boogie Bob to a charity for: A,L,L; Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia and give the other hundred to his P.s.”
“Peace?” Mary asked.
“P.s …. Parents,” I said.
Then, to cover my tracks, since I was the king of denial, I said, “Is someone chopping an onion around here?” But that only got Mary’s eyes going like the Niagara Falls again.
Mary nodded and said, “We will donate Bob’s winnings to a charity for Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia.”
“We lost a really cool dude, way too early,” I somberly said as I walked out of Bob’s room.
I exited Bob’s room and I phlegmatically walked past the exercise room and peered in there with this feeling of contempt and hate at the vision of empty bikes and treadmills. But I snapped out of it quickly because I could picture Bob saying to me, “Listen kid, they’re just treadmills – just empty treadmills. But don’t worry; someone will be here to fill them up before you know it. There is no use in crying over an empty treadmill.” I could remember his voice so well in my mind’s eye it was surreal.
I divested of my cancer unit garb and headed towards the hospital exit. I had purposely used the same exit where I had first seen those two nurses smoking cigarettes on that day that I had walked to McCollum Park in my scrubs with the mask on and all. I was hoping and begging with anger that the smokers would be out there smoking again. I wanted someone to yell at. I wanted to call them morons for smoking cigarettes.
I was so mad that I even muttered out loud to myself, “It says it right there on the damn box that it causes cancer you friggin’ idiots!”
But they weren’t there. Nobody was out there. It was empty outside. The most empty outside I had ever seen.
Then I screamed in anger, “Smoking sucks, Leukemia sucks, Cancer Sucks, Empty beds and empty treadmills SUCK! …. EFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF!”