“First up,” Maddy says into the microphone, silencing the din of the cafe. “We have Mark S.”
As Mark S makes his way to the microphone, where a stool sits in true open mic fashion, I pull Eitan to me by the collar to growl in his ear. “I don’t have anything prepared to read.”
“I bet you have something.” His confidence in me, while endearing, is misplaced. I’ve barely made it through the first act of my manuscript all summer.
“My book is in shambles.”
“It doesn’t have to be from a book. You can read anything. Even if it’s a half-formed thought from your Notes app.” His eyes sparkle. “Or a shitty Instagram poem.”
The joke only softens my gnawing panic for a moment. I have to remember I’m mad at him. Unconsensual open mic participation is a new low. The cafe laughs at whatever Mark Sis saying, and I turn away from Eitan, pretending to tune in, but actually cataloguing every wisp of a thought I’ve written down in the last four months. Sure, I’m always filling my Notes app, expelling the dark thoughts as some form of catharsis so they don’t add to my already pathological level of bitterness. But they’re not fit for public consumption. The few I’ve tried posting on Instagram are proof of that. No one wants to hear a cancer survivor complaining about the gift of life.
“Thank you Mark!”Maddy returns to the mic. “I’d like to remind everyone that the Carson Cancer Center offers a once-yearly stand-up comedy class, with a showcase at the end, in case anyone is feeling inspired.”Maddy checks her clipboard. “Next up, Lucy D.” Lucy stands up. “Let’s give Lucy a hand!” Lucy thanks her and steps up to the mic, preparing to read something off her phone.
“Thank you.”Lucy smiles. She’s at ease, standing at a mic in the center of a room full of people. Uncaring that she looks sick. “I’m going to read a poem called ‘The Same.’”
The cafe waits, silent other than a few coughs.
“My friend died a few weeks ago.
We are—were—will be?—the same.
Same diagnosis. Same prognosis.
What do I do with that?
It’s meaningless.
Some live, some die.
And no one can tell me why.
I thought we were getting smarter?”
Lucy takes a breath and looks out, toward our table. To Daniel, I realize. Her anchor in the swell of a storm.
“Is this living? This in-between space?
Alive but brimming with loss.
Missed birthday parties.
Organ function.
Life expectancy.
It’s a state of falling
But is it a well, or a rabbit hole?
Maybe there’s something waiting at the bottom
Something fantastical and mad and unknown.
My friend died a few weeks ago.
We all will one day.
Where the meaning leads me, I go.”
