Burned Bird

He answered the phone.

I think this may be the first time he has answered the phone in months. He must be feeling better.

I was on my way home from my girlfriend who had just bought a condo in Glendale. He used to live in Glendale.

“Living in Glendale was the worst year of my life.” He said.

I questioned, “Worse than this year with chemo?”

He thought for a minute, “Just as bad. I didn’t have air conditioning. The walk to the car nearly did me in—it was an oven.”

I told him about my week. How the student plagiarized, the girl came to class high…he said, “What, that’s just growing up.”

He told me he starts radiation this week. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…who said that?” He asked.

“Charles Dickens.” But I go over to his computer and look it up just to be sure. He tells me I’m addicted to the computer and that it’s a very white thing to do.

Then he tells me how much he loved Great Expectations. “I couldn’t put it down. I read it freshman year of high school.” He continued to give me an entire plot summary. He never ceases to surprise me. So he doesn’t know Sylvia Plath, but he does know Charles Dickens.

He lit the candle while I was in the bathroom. When I came out, it was almost gone.

“It’s a cheap candle. How much did you spend on it? Did you break more than two dollars on it?”

He’s always talking about how cheap I am.

“What did the bird say when it flew over K-Mart?”

“Cheap, cheap.”