Hardest Part
Before he died of cancer, my best friend, Jeff, asked me to write our story, to write the silly, stupid and serious things we did as friends. I nodded and told him I would.
I’ve mentioned this before on this site. It’s no secret to my friends and family. I’m beholden to Jeff. I must honor him and myself.
It took me several years to understand that his request did not limit my scope; in fact, it merely broadened it. I don’t have to write about the time we got drunk in San Francisco and pretended to have seizures on busy streets, or the time we went grocery shopping in full wet suits and flippers, or the time he tackled me at the top of a staircase and we both tumbled down and crashed through the sheetrock.
What I have to do is take what I learned and apply it. What I now know about recklessness, music, friendship, cancer, loss–these things will inform all that I do. I won’t just write our story, I’ll channel a story written by us, by me and Jeff and all of the people we have known.
Today, I’m working on a part of my book in which the main character must face the loss of his friend.
It is the first time, in my writing life, I’ve ever felt writer’s block. Yesterday, I sat down and watched the cursor blink for an hour before throwing my hands up and shutting down the computer. Perhaps the weight of the scenario stopped me cold.
Today, I entered the guest house at 6:15 AM determined to overcome whatever held me back.
I did.
And it was the hardest part.
Here’s an excerpt. The main character, Charlie, is very good at fixing things, but he is not very good at dealing with feelings and people.
“The doctors wanted to be sure I didn’t have any internal damage from the accident, so they ran me through a variety of machines. To my delight, I did not receive any serious internal injuries. However, one scan did detect a rather large mass in my right lung. Everyone is fairly upset. The young man, he survives a hideous wreck only to discover the real looming threat in his chest. It’s like a fucking soap opera, only without commercials and music.”
“What kind of mass?”
“Not the religious kind. Well, not really religious, although I have begun praying to it.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Probably cancer. Slow growing if I’m lucky.”
“Cancer? How can you have cancer?”
“I asked the same thing. I’m still waiting for the answer. If you leave your address and self-addressed stamped envelope, I’ll send you a copy of it.”
I sat in a nearby chair. From that first call to finding Jeff alive to now, I had entertained so many possibilities, I couldn’t tell if what Jeff was saying to me made any real difference to me.
“Hey.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Quit fucking around.”
“What?”
“Fix me.”
I looked up and saw the vibration in his eyes, a tremble curling his lip; sincerity moved to his surface as I’d never seen before.
“I can’t.” I muttered.
He rolled his eyes and sighed, his momentary vulnerability boiling off and drifting away.