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THIS IS AN ANNUAL REPROMOTION IN MEMORY OF JIM; HIS BIRTHDAY IS APRIL 21st.
PLEASE READ NOTES
Characters: Liz, Chris, Dave, Jim.
Liz, Chris, and Dave are one another’s long-term “friendlies” of twice-annual acquaintance, all being faithful attendees of Jim’s parties. Jim has recently fallen ill, as becomes dramatically apparent to his guests, despite his desire for secrecy. Liz opens with the recap; Chris, then Dave, take the stage in turn. The penultimate act features the final performance of the moribund Jim, after which Liz recaps in epilogue.
A GENERIC ROOM WITH NEUTRAL WALLS WILL SUFFICE; A BED AND BUREAU WILL BE NEEDED FOR ACT FOUR
ACT ONE
Enter Liz.
Every year, for the past twenty, I’ve attended Jim’s Patriots’ Day party. He started the tradition twenty-one years before I made it onto the guest list. It began as a personal post-race celebration; Jim ran the Boston Marathon nineteen times over the course of his twenties and thirties. By the time I met Jim, on the job, his long-haul days were behind him. He still ran five miles daily on the Esplanade where I leisurely strolled; he’d wave as he passed me.
For years Jim passed me sans acknowledgment—for the simple reason that our paths crossed unbeknownst to us. Our working acquaintance was conducted solely through email and phone calls—annoying in their frequency. I presume to speak for Jim in this; though he was unfailingly patient with me, I lazily relied on his technical support. Why should a rookie do battle with “The System” when a seasoned soldier is at hand?
After about five years of virtual back-and-forth-ing, I finally met the real-world Jim at a company event. A couple of summers later, when I threw a BBQ bash, I invited Jim along with the rest of my colleagues. The following April, I attended the first of twenty Patriots’ Day parties. And so I arrived at Jim’s today eager to celebrate my twentieth anniversary, amidst the company of many boasting my twenty, times two—plus two. (Inaugural year was 1978, of Blizzard infamy.)
When we pulled into Jim’s driveway, three cars had just barely beaten us to the asphalt. Or so I assumed, given that their occupants had yet to emerge. As I slid out, armed with a gnocchi casserole, Diane rolled down her window to tell me that Chris—like Diane, a guest since ground zero—had come out five minutes earlier to tell the rest of us to hang tight for ten minutes. We figured on a flustered Jim running a bit behind schedule.
After twenty more minutes had passed without Jim’s shining the green light, we realized something must be wrong. Eventually, Chris beckoned us inside, where she had assumed hostess duties. Jim was “indisposed” but had insisted that the festivities go on. Awkwardly, we attempted the usual milling and munching, wondering all the while about our absent host.
Ten minutes later, Jim made his hobbled entrance, as if exhausted from the day’s four-hour marathon. In fact, Jim was exhausted from yesterday’s four-hour marathon: a steady-paced chemotherapy infusion. As we learned later from Chris, Jim has metastatic melanoma.
Jim has always been private to the extreme. No apparent romantic relationships, of either persuasion. He is secretive about his age to the point that when entering a race he declines to submit to an age-group assignment, even if it costs him an award. (It has.) Indeed, Jim is loath to admit to even having a birthday; an idle inquiry drew a grudging response “it’s in the spring.”
I hope that in this time of need, Jim will let his friends tend him. I would like to count myself among them, if he’ll let me. I’ve maintained a respectful distance these past twenty years; invitations and thank-you notes have been the extent of our communication. Meantime, Chris has stepped in to take Jim to his chemotherapy sessions; she urged the rest of us to keep in touch with Jim.
I promise to keep “in touch,” Jim. If not up close, please, at least, from not-so-far.
Exit Liz.
ACT TWO
Enter Chris.
Everyone at the hospital assumes I’m Jim’s wife. Or sister. Or close friend.
I’m none of the above; I’m merely one of the dozen who attend Jim’s twice-annual parties: New Year's Day brunch and Patriot's Day in April. In my case, faithfully, for the past thirty years, starting a month after my wedding—my husband and Jim worked together back then.
The reason Jim called me when he got sick is that I am a nurse; even so, it was only out of sheer desperation. He had grown way too weak to care for himself at all, much less to drive to his weekly chemotherapy appointments. Besides, surely frightened by his dire diagnosis—metastatic melanoma—Jim wanted a medical insider to help him navigate the system. His terror thus trumped his tendency toward secrecy.
And so, every Wednesday, for four months so far, I take Jim to Mass General for his four(seems-like-forty)-hour-infusions. That the sessions seem as exhausting as a full work-week is paradoxical; far from feeling frenetically energized, I am enervated by the silence we sit in. Indeed, I find it excruciating; I cannot speak for Jim.
Nor can I speak to Jim. Rather—recasting the sentence with a preferable preposition—I cannot speak with Jim. For the first four minutes of the four hours I small-talk to myself, then I give it up and flip through fluffy maga-loids. When I tire of Hollywood hi-jinks, I take a People break and try to coax Jim to eat something. But he remains resolutely tight-lipped on that score as well.
With four months down, Jim’s got another 20 months of Wednesdays to go. That’s 20 times 4 weeks…equals 80…times 4 hours…equals 320 more hours of the silent treatment.
I should be ashamed feeling sorry for myself. After all, Jim’s the one deserving of sympathy: depleted by the treatments, depressed at the prospect of death notwithstanding. For Jim’s sake, I hope he can unburden himself on somebody he’s close to.
Anybody? I would think the best bet is Dave, one of the party-pack. I know they worked closely for nearly 40 years prior to their near-simultaneous retirements; surely Jim confided in Dave before calling me?
Though, now that I think back to Jim’s last party—when, after his collapse, I had to take over at the last minute—Dave was as shocked as the rest of the guests by Jim’s appearance. Of course, Dave lives three hours north so hadn’t seen Jim since the party prior. Still, when I discreetly let everybody in on Jim’s condition—there was no way to pretend all was well—Dave seemed as surprised as the rest of them.
Regardless, Dave now knows; surely he’ll be reaching out to Jim. All of us dozen will, we promised one another, in parting. Most sincerely we promised, indeed, solemn at the specter of this, perhaps our final, parting.
Exit Chris.
ACT THREE
Enter Dave.
Nothing. Jim won’t return my calls or respond to my emails. Or anybody else’s, so Chris tells me. I finally figured out how to contact her. After Jim’s last party, when we all found out about his illness, it occurred to me I really don’t know any of Jim’s friends. I see these people twice a year; we have no interaction in the interim.
Jim sends his invitations by email, so I thought it would be simple enough to pick Chris out from the dozen. Only problem is, Jim’s e-ddress list is more like three dozen, two dozen of which are long defunct. Jim used to include everybody in our department, most of whom never attended; in any event, they’ve long since been down-and-out-sized. By tedious process of trial-and-error—emphasis on the latter; lots of non-deliverables—I finally homed in on Chris by default. Rather, on her husband, Ken, whose cryptic e-ddress has zero correspondence to his name.
As I learned at the party, Chris has been co-bearing Jim’s burden for four months now. From what she describes, seems the burden would be more bearable for both if they passed the time in conversation, but Jim won’t engage. A terse thank you upon pick-up, echoed upon return; not a word comes between.
At work, Jim mostly kept to himself—certainly, never revealed anything about himself—-still, he’s always perfectly friendly upon approach. Everyone likes Jim—even management—which is why Jim is one of a select few that for forty years managed to dodge the dreaded euphemizer that cut his colleagues down to size. Jim’s career died of natural causes at retirement age.
Jim has been a good friend to me these forty years; he was there for me when my parents died and when my wife was touch-and-go for six weeks in the ICU. Jim saw me through my own bout of chemo treatments ten years ago; week after week, Jim unfailingly asked how I was doing, how could he help. His inquiries went way beyond rote professional politeness. Jim walked the walk—literally—to the bakery a mile away—where he bought daily treats to cheer me. Jim even took me—at his insistence—to several appointments when Marie was sick or called away.
So, shout out, Jim: Just trying to return the favor of your friendship.
We grouse about self-focused “friends” who are utterly incapable of dialing a phone—except, miraculously, when there’s something you can do for them. Jim’s that way in reverse: he’ll do anything for you, but don’t try to do a damn thing for him. I’ve tried, Lord I’ve tried; alas, I keep getting dead-ended on his lonely, one-way street.
Exit Dave.
ACT FOUR
Enter Jim (slowly, slightly hunched and off balanced)
Why do I bother? These treatments may buy me a few months but it’s only a matter of time before time doesn’t matter.
The more time passes, the less it matters. Increasingly less so these four months of four weeks of four-hour infusions. That’s four to the power of three. More appropriately recast as four cubed—the word power is utterly out-of-place in such a place as Chemo Central. All ye who enter, leave your power at the door. And don’t bother to retrieve it on the way out—you’ll be back here soon enough; may as well park your power in the designated spot for the duration.
I am but a shell of my pre-sickness self. And my pre-sickness self was but a shell of a self. Which makes me now a shell of a shell. I’ve always kept in my shell, my shell of a self. My shadow emerges just often enough to deflect attention from the me I want no one to see. My simple trick: Distract them with themselves; whoever can resist an indulgent ear?
This shell game of mine works to my advantage; moreover, it benefits those I so solicitously attend so as to forestall their turning their focus to me. It’s a win-win. Double or nothing—I give double; I get nothing. Just the way I like it. I’ve thus oft been hailed as “giving”—ironic indeed given my motive is entirely selfish.
Or to be punny, “shell-fish.” (Make ‘em laugh—it’s the ultimate diversion. Fifty-fifty odds I get a chuckle; hence my moniker “Half-wit”.) To crib an irresistible oxymoron: Deep down, I’m really shallow. (Shell-ow. OW!) I am, therefore, undeserving of the friendship that’s been extended to me by all twelve of my bi-annual guests.
All these years I assumed I remained safely distant amidst the superficial party-patter. Yet—wonder of wonders—I have for the taking a dozen foul-weather friends who’ve called, sent cards, dropped off gifts. I expected nothing more than the usual post-party thanks; I got besides a deluge of compassion. Offers of help daily inundate my mail-box—literal and virtual—and overrun my voice-mail queue. Given my abrupt collapse just as the party was to begin, Chris had to give up my secret to the guests.
When this all started, four months ago, it was physical weakness that made me call for nursing help. It was emotional weakness that led me to one familiar; namely, Chris. I tried to rationalize my calling Chris instead of an agency; surely she and Ken could use the money now that they’ve retired. This was purely a job offer, I told myself, hoping my business proposition would persuade Chris to sign on, so that I wouldn’t have to seek out a stranger…Busted!
That last clause: dead-giveaway of the needy! A shell-dweller worth his saltwater eschews relationships; strangers are thus to be preferred when solitary confinement is not tenable. I cursed myself for my dependency—even as I phoned Chris I was regretting inviting invasion of my privacy. And yet, I let Chris in; thus, after a life time of hermitage, here I am, week-by-week, one-on-one.
When I handed Chris her first paycheck, to my dismay, she declined it. She didn’t need the money; she was glad to help a friend. I was floored. The prospect of Chris’s refusing compensation hadn’t occurred to me; had it, I’d not have imposed upon her. As it is, it is only at my continual weekly insistence that Chris lets me top off her tank en route to the infusion center. Meantime, I’ve opened an account in her name, into which each Wednesday I deposit $300, which covers four hours of commuting in addition to the going daily rate for a private nurse.
My nurse is private; my cancer, alas, is indiscreet. As it spread itself, it spread the word. As it took its toll, it told a tale. On me.
Now they all know. All 12 of them. In a perverse way, it’s a relief to have been, finally, found out. After 36 (not necessarily in that order) years of hiding, I’ve been exposed at my most vulnerable. I am at their mercy—and they’ve been merciful indeed.
Sham that I am, dare I embrace that I am embraced?
To quote from Stairway to Heaven: There are two paths you can go by, but in the long run, there’s still time to change the road you’re on. On my own stairway to heaven—or elsewhere—I’m travelling express; there’s no such luxury of a long run.
The default is to stay on the familiar road. I’ve secreted myself impeccably up until now—why not scurry away and scoop up the shards of my shell and hoard the remains? My other option is to heed the beckoning of my would-be friends and divert onto untrodden territory. Which shall I choose?
(Jim fumbles his pocket change and extracts a few coins, then selects a dime.)
With nothing to lose but my life, why indulge the agony of indecision? Let the dime decide. Its images are apropos: The visage of FDR, who persisted despite Polio’s paralysis, epitomizes courage; the burning torch of the flip side says run fast, run far.
(Jim hoists the dime, between thumb and forefinger, arm outstretched)
To head toward humanity or to hightail it outta dodge? Place your bets. Up we go…
(Jim tosses the coin, then abruptly, as if stunned, drops to his knees. Clearly dazed, he frantically thrashes about as he speaks, during which he clutches his head, digging his fingers below his brow. With his final words he opens wide his eyes.)
With the dime, I drop; the die now cast, I cast my glance to descry its decree while behind my eyes twinkling diamonds flash heads-tails-heads-tails in frenzied alternation as the pounding in my head jolts my eyes ajar I can almost but not quite see whi
(Jim collapses, prone, and remains motionless as the curtain closes.)
ACT FIVE
Open Curtain.
Enter Liz
On Sunday morning I mailed a postcard to Jim. It was the fourth in the six weeks since I—along with the others at the party—learned of his cancer. I’d intended to send a card each week, but had lapsed; I was six days behind schedule.
On Sunday afternoon I called Chris for an update on Jim’s condition. Nothing new since we last spoke; Jim’s still taking the infusions, still declining to eat, though he appreciates my lunch invitations.
On Sunday night Chris called to tell me Jim was dead.
She’d gone to check on him that evening after being unable to reach him by phone all weekend. She arrived to find Jim prone on his bedroom floor, locked in a two-day-dead-eyed gaze with… nothing.
Chris figured Jim must have fallen and struck his head, though there was nothing to have tripped him up; the floor was clear save for a single coin by his cheek. Chris thought it likely that Jim had collapsed from a seizure. He’d refused the anti-convulsive drugs prescribed him; with the cancer spread throughout his brain, he suffered frequent seizures.
The funeral—a week after Jim's death—was last night. The party 12-pack was in attendance; as were a dozen from his hometown, Cleveland, Ohio. These included his sister, Jane, along with Rob and Linda, a pair of Jim’s childhood friends; tied for dearest through their tears. Rob regaled us with tales of ‘tween-age mischief. He and Jim shared a birthday—and everything else. Linda told me privately that she’d been in love with Jim for years.
There was plenty more where that came from. Jim was adored by so many throughout his life; he was described as fun and funny, quirky and clever. Above all, he was hailed as the epitome of kindness. Jim was my best friend, so sang the chorus of worshipers.
But did Jim have a best friend? One to whom he dared reveal himself? Other than his sister and his childhood “twin,” Rob, nobody even knew Jim’s birthday. Lots of chuckles amongst us about that being top secret information. I was unsurprised that the obituary did not reference his age; why ever would Jane disclose it against Jim’s wishes?
This, Jim’s big secret, was buried with him. Until today, when it leapt from its grave. When I went online to review his obituary, a link to the town census flashed above it like a garish marquee. There it was, forced in my face: Jim’s DOB, with his age superfluously stated as if to rub it in.
Out of respect for Jim, I will not disclose this to you; all I will share is what Jim admits to: his birthday is “in the spring”.
Exit Liz
Close curtain.
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Author Notes
Thanks to MoonWillow for artwork: The Party's Over
This script was inspired by the saga of a man I knew as well--rather, as little--as anyone. Jim was an extremely private person: friend to all, but close to none by his choice. He was greatly loved nonetheless--and not only for his famous biannual parties referred to within (Patriot's Day is a special Massachussetts holiday). Chris and Dave are their real names; their words are entirely mine (as, of course, are the words of Liz!)
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