Whiskey Echo X-Ray

“How much time have I got, do you think?” I asked Finn.

“Are you asking me as your friend?” he replied. “Or as your doctor?”

“Just tell me if I’m gonna die or not.”

Finn thought wistfully for a moment. “Let me answer your question with another question: How many historical figures are still alive today?”

“I don’t know,” I said, frustrated that my friend of thirty-seven years decided to use this time to best me with another riddle. “Robert DeNiro.”

“Robert DeNiro, the still living actor?”

“He’s a historical figure.”

“No, Phil.” Finn’s heterochromic eyes looked sympathetically into mine, and I felt thirty-seven years of friendship consolidate into this one moment. “Robert DeNiro is a guy, just like you and me. Cleopatra is a historical figure.”

“And she died?”

“I’m no historian, but I think so.”

We were messing with each other to avoid the inevitable truth we both knew at this point. I was a dead man. I especially didn’t like the low-key jibe Finn made about how we’re equals. Finn’s a medical doctor. I’m a librarian. My job’s not disgraceful, but his job is prestigious.

“Phil, looking at your x-rays…”

“I know, I know,” I said like a child trying to sidestep a scolding.

So many loved ones have warned me over the years about not treating my alcoholism and drug use. I hear their warnings all the time in my head.

“Do you wanna end up like uncle Clay?” My late mother loved referencing him.

“I’m just saying you could save a lot for more of our golfing trips if you drank a little less,” my late brother would chime in.

“I don’t want my kids to be around a dad who can’t even finish a sentence good,” Bella would say before dumping me, which I found funny because her grammar was garbage. She slapped me for laughing, which made me laugh even harder since she didn’t understand why I was laughing, which means she didn’t know why she was slapping. It’s a sad memory, that hilarious snowball effect.

“I don’t need this.” I stormed out of the doctor’s office.

“Where are you going, Phil? We haven’t discussed treatment options!” Finn, who can go fuck himself, exclaimed.

* * *

It was a liberating feeling, teetering on the ledge of a twelve-story building. You know that little wall they put up on the edges? I never understood why it’s even there. It’s never tall enough to keep someone from doing what I did, balancing on it like I was trying to pass a sobriety test. Except I was completely sober in those moments.

“Hey!” I cupped my hands and yelled to some guy delivering a package to the building straight down. He looked up and stopped wheeling the package from his truck. A brief, live, interactive show during his menial shift.

“...I’m not gonna jump!” I announced.

“...OK!” I don’t think he cared either way. Or maybe he did. Maybe I’ll be reincarnated as him next time around.