Truth Is

7. Shoulda Been A Stroke

"Cancer? Fuckin' cancer? Of what? The prostate? Skin? Liver? What the Fuck?"

In 30 seconds the location-in-question, and his frantic spews of profanity would have cleared itself up. All the doctor would have to do is just let him come to his senses (what other cancer do you violently cough up blood?).

"Your right lung, Mr. Pullman."

It never crossed the doctor's mind. He was good at his trade, but not so much at the people. The absence of thank you letters and pictures from grateful kids made the chrome office seem sterile and alien. Of course the lack of gratitude was far from a failure of practice, it was simply the fact that even though he saved their lives, no one was very fond of Dr. Aurelius Conrad.

His answers to the mad, and mostly rhetorical questions received a prompt No shit Sherlock! And an even longer string of obscenities. The good doctor sat peering down through his bifocals (though his face looked twenty years too young to be wearing them) and only thought: Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer.

Mr. Pullman, or Frank Pullman, or Frankie, or Frank the Lank (because he was tall and gangly instead of short and stocky, get it? His childhood bully at Charleston East was particularly clever.) was now driving home, still asking questions that he already knew the answer to.

"Really? Cancer. Really. Fuckin' cancer."

He reached into the empty pocket on the right side of his work shirt, never craving for a cigarette more in his life, (Truth is he said that after every shift.) and remembered that upon leaving the hospital he ripped them from his pocket and chucked them as hard as he could.

You wouldn't have been able to tell how hard he chucked them (with all the vindication of a dying man) by the trajectory of the cigarettes. Plastic flapped against the wind, as they made a fft sound; hovering in the air for a second before they spilled their contents (a God damn half a pack) at his feet. The cigs, not content with the humiliation, rolled in lazy semi-circles down the slight incline of the hospital walkway.

Back from his memory Frank began searching for a used butt that, by the grace of God, would have one last hit. He pushed a button under the radio, and an empty compartment revealed itself. It was never closed, unless he had just cleaned the car, and in a way, he had.

Not content with the anticlimactic (and openly defiant) flight of his cigarettes, he had went to his truck in a silent frenzy. Frank then proceeded to swing open the door, hit that button underneath the radio, and exact his revenge upon the ashtray that would no longer call that cozy nook it's home.

The pitiful clang as the tiny aluminum container bounced off the parking structure floor, had echoed, as a trail of orange filters fluttered like whirlybirds towards the ground.

Frank screamed and screamed, drowning out the pitiful clang among his own echoes. Then he huffed and puffed, until he whimpered, and then he whimpered until he sobbed.

Frankie quickly rubbed the episode out of his memory, slamming the compartment shut, and chucking the lighter out his half open window. He may have been Frank the Lank (Who, if the old school songs rang true, was also a Skank and liked to Wank.) but he was a man dammit, and he was about take this like a man.

"Cancer."

"Fuck."

While essentially the same two words he'd been saying all day, these were no longer the cries of a madman, but a sigh of realization. He never thought it would be cancer, never in a million fuckin' years. Not Frankie Pullman, no, he dies of a stroke like everyone else in his God damn family: Grandmother, Aunt, his other Grandmother, his Great Aunt, Cousin Tom, Dick (he didn't know if he was actually related to Dick, but he was at all the family parties. Was.) Frankie Pullman was going to die, face all lopsided, staring stupidly at the ceiling, and muttering nonsense about Baseball in February. That's what he told all his friends, on several occasions, feeling particularly morbid after a few too many. It's what he planned for, embraced, actually. But, no, not cancer.

Fuck.

And it had to be lung cancer too! For Christ's sake. If there was anything Frank hated more than dying, it was being wrong. Now every asshole that had ever told him he should quit was right: Those things will kill ya, Frank. How 'bout you take it easy, Frank. You know they say your lungs start healing mere hours after quitting. I bet you'll feel better after just one day, Frank.

Cancer.

Fuck.