“Okay, but I’m not hanging out all night,” I say. “Appetizers and a drink and that’s it.”
Two Long Island iced teas later I find myself listening silently as Tatsu ingratiates himself with his much younger colleagues, all strapping twentysomethings who don’t seem to believe his early-plague EMT war stories, or the number of exotic women he’s dated. One of the men glances over at me.
“You cool with all this?” he asks.
I wave away the comment. “It’s fine,” I say. “He’s full of shit.”
The table erupts in laughter.
Tatsu pulls me close and I participate in the charade, kiss him like we have some fairy-tale relationship.
The boys order another pitcher. I take this as my cue to leave.
In my car, I activate the self-driving mode and recline my seat. I can see Tatsu still laughing it up with his coworkers inside. I wonder if it’s all an act or if he’s really happy in this moment.
“Please indicate destination,” the car says in an Englishwoman’s voice.
“Anywhere,” I say. “Just drive.”
“That is not a valid destination.”
“Shit, piss off to Half Moon Bay, then,” I say, trying to think of a place far enough for me to get through an album without being too inconvenient a trip. “Play Ghost Days by Syd Matters.” I pass hospital vans lined up outside elegy hotels before my car veers onto the freeway. I see a homeless man with a cardboard sign warning us that the end times are here, think maybe somebody should have listened to him a long time ago. I text Laird: Are you up? We’re on the S bands. I figure he’s probably sleeping or in a morphine-induced haze. An hour later, as I’m listening to the waves crash against the shore, he texts me back: Santana, obviously. What else?
“We have arrived at your destination,” my car says.
“Okay, cool. Now let’s go back. San Jose General Hospital.”
I thought Orli would be there when I arrived, but it’s only Laird, watching a late-night talk show. He picks up his harmonica from the table next to his bed and blows a weak tune. His food tray remains untouched and he’s situated on a bedpan, legs arched under the sheet as if he’s in labor.
“Do you need me to call someone to help?” I ask, standing near the doorway.
“I pushed the button. Sometimes it takes a while.”
“Do you want me to help?”
“I don’t want you seeing me like that,” he says.
“My hands are literally going to be inside of you when you die,” I say.
“Well, when you put it that way,” he says, laughing.
A moment later a nurse blows past me. I turn around while she takes care of Laird. I hear him groan as he’s lifted off the pan. She asks about his pain level and Laird says three. The nurse leaves with barely another word.
“Okay,” Laird says. “I’m decent-ish.”
I sit on the edge of his bed, take a napkin from his tray, and dab at his forehead beading with sweat. On the news, an iridescent cigar-shaped object is shown crashing into the ocean, the footage taken on a phone by a bystander in Venice Beach.
“Huh,” Laird says, turning up the volume. “Ain’t that some shit.”
“Let’s get out of this room,” I say. “It’s not scorching outside for once. Maybe you’ll have more of an appetite with some real food instead of this slop.”
We stop by the cafeteria after-hours self-serve kiosk for snacks—rubberized fried calamari, Goldfish crackers, day-old cherry pie—and find a picnic table in the courtyard. Laird plays the Smashing Pumpkins. I ask for a round of Siouxsie and the Banshees. We’re both staring at the stars.
“You sort of just mashed up your pie on the plate,” I say.
“It’s a bit hard to swallow,” he says. “But I still like the taste of food.”
“Are you afraid?” I ask.
“I don’t think so,” he says. “A lot of people are afraid it’ll hurt, that they’ll be hurting family and friends, but I’ve been hurting for so long now. And Orli will be okay, eventually.”
“What about the things you wanted to do with your life?”
“Sure, that sucks,” he says. “I’m not going to lie and say making something of myself or falling in love or honoring my mom by helping you find a treatment weren’t on my list of things to do. But it’s not like it’s just me now, you know? I guess it makes it easier knowing that I’m not the only one. And I’ve had thirty-two years. More than a lot of other people.”