Justin’s homeless friend was sleeping in the doorway when William wandered back to his apartment. William looked with interest at the man’s slender arms. If the man were dead like in Anatomy, then William could touch the man’s arm. The man woke and looked at him, “Justin home?” he said. William wiped at his bleeding knees.
“Justin has left his home forever.”
“Shame.” The man put his fingers to his eyes, “He leave his anti-anxieties?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t check. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“He’d been giving me his anti-anxieties. Made him too dizzy.” William considered the man. If he were the man, he would get more tattoos. Sometimes, one looked lonely alone on an arm. William looked at a scratch on the man’s knuckle. “Hey, that looks kind of infected.”
“That so? You tell me, Medicine Man.” William smirked and went inside.
* * *
In the bathroom, he brushed his teeth with his new natural toothpaste. As he sat on the toilet, he stared at the stupid inspirational poster Justin had left behind. Learn to watch snails. Plant impossible gardens. Make little signs that say Yes! and post them all over your walls. Yeah Right. William stayed up late looking at his diseases textbook, skimming for the strange and unusual. Black hairy tongue was a harmless condition sometimes caused by Pepto-Bismol.
William found himself on the website where he met Justin. Justin’s profile still read the same. “I used to be religious. Turns out I just like mythology.” William reread the whole thing, idly highlighting with the cursor. “My hair often has its own ideas about how it wants to be styled.” Some sentences in the profile rang false, “I often have dark circles under my eyes because I love to sleep.” Also, “I am a cross between Angelina Jolie and young Robert De Niro.” Yeah Right. Then he highlighted what he hated, “You could spend a lifetime with me and never get to know every facet of my personality, though you'd have a great time trying.” That was not true. William highlighted the whole thing blue, then unhighlighted. He considered starting up a fake profile and using it to flirt with Justin. Only if things got boring. Or stressful. If things got so boring or stressful that William felt suicidal, then he would instead start up this fake profile. As a gift to himself. And maybe also if he got slightly suicidal, he might let Justin’s cute homeless friend live with him, because the apartment was so big and lonely, plus it would be a good deed!
* * *
It was the semester when William and his classmates were paired with different doctors. So far he’d had the dermatologist and the pediatrician. Tomorrow was the oncologist. William searched the medicine cabinet looking for Justin’s medicine and found bottles and bottles of it. He gave some to Justin’s homeless friend and took some himself when he missed Justin. Which was most times. He stared at his desktop background. He checked his knee and saw no infection. In some ways, it was a shame. Once he had a staph infection and it was not an entirely bad experience. He scrolled down his iTunes library, giving random ratings to each song. When he came to his cousin’s album, he gave each song only one star, just to be mean.
On the day of the oncologist, William felt light-headed, but it was just the anti-anxieties. The oncologist poured coffee for him and William, “It’s good to make your patients wait a little, makes them respect your time.” The oncologist talked as they walked to the first patient of the day. “Ms. Kespetrova’s situation is complicated by a breast implant procedure 10 years prior to the cancer.” They strolled down the hall side-by-side. “She has an accent.” William kept up the pace. “She’s a real trip.” The oncologist sighed, fingering the cool metal part of his stethoscope. “This is just for show,” he joked to William as they walked inside the room. Ms. Kespetrova sat in a fur coat on the examination table. “I go half crazy in these rooms waiting. Sometimes I go all the way crazy!” She smiled at William. “That is what a doctor should look like!” She nodded approvingly at William. The doctor spoke to William about the left side tumor, showing the most recent ultrasounds.
“I’m just a student,” William explained and introduced himself. “I’m sorry to hear of your condition,” he continued politely. The Russian woman laughed. “Do not be sorry!” The doctor looked uncomfortable. Ms. Kespetrova screamed, “I get to have it all!” She tugged her fur coat emphatically, “First no breasts, flat chest like a boy, then little tiny ones, then bigger and bigger, healthy full breasts, then bigger breasts for breastfeeding,” she sighed, “then tired breasts, swollen nipples, sagging, then surgery and implants and bouncing breasts, and now lump, machines, x-rays. So much attention on my perfect breast and its imperfection, this one,” she took off her fur coat and was topless. She shook her large left breast at William, “Soon this breast will be cut away. It will be trash in the bottom of a can. My chest will be lopsided, one-sided, original. My body is always changing.” The doctor checked something in his cell phone. Ms. Kespetrova continued, “Aging does not necessarily have to be a disappointment. I had beautiful grey hair young. It made all the girls want to go and dye it like that. A girlfriend of mine, she had a humongous wedding ring. Diamond the size of a dinner mint. She was walking in Miami Beach late at night, a man on the street cut off her finger. At first, pain and despair, but now everyone admires her for it. She gave something up.” William nodded encouragingly. The doctor shook his head. His eyes narrowed on a clump of dust on the floor. “We must be going now, Ms. Kespetrova. Dr. Muller will be in shortly.” The doctor motioned to William and they went back into the hall.
“My wife wants me to pick up the kids, but there is no way I’ll be out of here in time. The kids are at day care,” the doctor said to William. “I need her to pick up the kids, or at least call the other parents to see if they will drive theirs and ours. I, in no way, have time to call the other parents.”
* * *
Staring at the poster, William tried to think of a cool way to ask the homeless man to move in. He didn’t want it to seem like a come on, but why would it seem like a come on? He smiled when he remembered the Russian woman. He knew just what she meant. Sometimes being sick is interesting. Cry during movies. Cultivate moods. He was going to have to destroy the poster. What had he been thinking before? The homeless man. Justin? Something about the woman. Like when he had his staph infection, it was so gross and painful and horrifying at first. But then he got used to it and on medication, the pain lessened. He was no longer afraid of the infection. He was intrigued. His body had made something that needed him. He had to change its band-aid each night and check its progress. He had to care for it. Gently, he’d press the infection to ooze out pus. He liked thinking the pus was cum. Also, blood would come out, not dripping out, but in little balls. Balls of blood. Balls of cum. His body had made him something.
* * *
The class had to write essays about the week with the different doctors. William’s was titled “The Illness as Interesting Life Experience” and was returned to him with a failing grade. “Wha-at?” William asked the paper. His classmates were packing up their books. He ducked out of the classroom. He looked to see his thesis circled and question marked. ‘In addition to sympathizing with the patient, the doctor can also treat the illness as an experience, as a creative capability of the body.’ William rolled his eyes to himself. God, the medical world is so closed-minded. He started running instead of walking, crossing over to Center City in a hurry, sneaking onto 24th street while the hand sign was blinking red. They’re taking the body, a strange, unpredictable, wonderful mess, and they’re boiling it down to a syllabus! William breathed in some car exhaust. He stared at the mutant woman on Market Street, her wig plastered to her head, her make-up like a voodoo mask stuck on from last year. Luckily, life can’t be contained in a stupid fucking syllabus.