Dancers Guild International: Second to Last

It had been over three months since I had talked to him or seen him. I already knew if I didn't make the effort to show up at the club, or to call him at home, I would simply never see him again.

And that bothered me--wasn't I his "son"? His favorite child? The only one he had ever chosen? The one he had consciously selected? I was. I knew I was.

But I also knew the nature of his days, the type of life he now led: up before the sun to get his two young boys out of their beds and into the shower, then dressed and groomed, before making hot cereal or eggs and bacon for their breakfast. While they bathed or ate, he had a scant few minutes to smoke a quick cigarette and gulp down a cup of coffee while writing out his work notes and finalizing his schedule for the day. Then he had just enough time to drive them to the Catholic school some twenty blocks away before making his way to the office, being sure to arrive before Jim showed up promptly at seven each day.

Once he got to the office it was an endless barrage of requests, complaints, scheduling gripes, gossip and paranoid supposition from an endless stream of naked strippers and clothed staff, until finally around eight in the evening he could sneak down the block to his former office for a quick couple of belts and maybe a spindly little toothpick of a joint, before his long drive back across the city in his old black Caddy in darkness and silence.

The phone rang and rang. I anticipated his crappy old answering machine picking up at any moment. I could almost hear the warbly old taped voice of his soon-to-be ex-wife on the machine as I waited for someone to answer. Finally, on the sixth or seventh ring, someone picked up. A weak falsetto voice said, "Yeees? Heellloo?"

He was playing with me. He must have been able to see my number on his caller I.D. Always the wise guy, that Vince. Always the joker.

I chuckled to myself, then responded in my own overdone falsetto: "Yes, it's Scott! Are we doing voices today? Playing little baby games? Cummon, Vince, I know it's you!"

There was a long pause, a gap. Just dead air on the other end of the phone, where I anticipated his breathy, rasping laughter.

"Helloooo?" I said again in my mocking falsetto.

He sighed heavily before speaking again in a high, unnatural voice. His speech was slurred and he was obviously making a great effort to get the words out.

"You fucking asshole. This is. How I talk now. I can't do. Any better than this. I have brain cancer. They had to cut out. A big chunk. Of my brain. This is my. Voice now. What the fuck do you want?!"

The blood rushed so quickly to my face that my mouth went instantly dry, my ears began ringing loudly, my skin throbbed and my whole body felt heavy and weightless at the same time.

"Hello?" he asked.

"I'm so sorry, Vince" I mumbled.

"Not as sorry. As I am, kid" he replied.

"I love you, Vince" I managed to get out as I began to cry quietly.

"I gotta go now," he said and hung up.