Last night I made an appearance at Greg’s “porn cliché “party as your classic pizza delivery man. I threw it together earlier that evening. I met Greg at work a few years back and we formed an alliance as the only two twenty-somethings in the office. (You can only be asked to rotate a PDF so many times before it becomes a tactic they teach at Quantico). He moved on to a new firm eight months ago, said that a fresh start made sense for him after they passed on promoting him for an outside hire. In all honesty, his ‘what do blondes like to do in the summer’ joke at last year’s holiday party didn’t land like he hoped it would.

His hair was slicked back across the middle of his scalp. It was a valiant effort to cover his bald spot. Three blonde hairs were out of place near the back, flying in the wind. No matter the topic, his face gave off an intense expression, as if he was perpetually eating something sour. I caught him as he was providing a frame by frame replay on how his suit jacket got splashed by some guacamole from an overloaded chip. I guess that ruined whatever his costume was. The rest of the group’s faces were painted with a sense of strained impatience, almost as if they were collectively staring at a never-ending hourglass. I took the next opportunity to beeline it to the communal alcohol table.

Six rum and Diet’s later and I was finally starting to feel a buzz. I’d been parked on a red plush chair most of the night. My pizza box had been lumped in with the party trash at this point. The chair was worn down at the legs with arm rests too small for a man of my size. It seemed to be the antithesis of the “IKEA Showroom” vibe that the rest of his setup was giving off. I readjusted and noticed a skateboard deck nailed into the wall behind me. Picturing Greg, the man who bungled a slip and slide attempt at the company picnic, anywhere near a wheeled object made me laugh so hard that I spilled all over my shorts.

Just as I was a few paces away from a fresh drink, a woman – in some costume I couldn’t exactly place as a porn cliché – stepped out in front of me and fell over. Wincing on the floor, she shot me a death glare. Somehow, everyone at this party was magically in the room staring at me a la a John Hughes record scratch. A woman dressed as a nurse burst onto the scene to provide medical assistance. (Either she was way too into her costume, or she was a real-life nurse with no creativity).

Out of my blind spot a hand grabbed my shoulder and swung me forty-five degrees.

“TJ - what happened?” whispered Greg. His diction was crisp. “You come to this party, bring nothing, sit around all night, talk to nobody, and knock somebody over?”

“Man, it didn’t go down like that, she came….”

“Whatever, dude. I got you an Uber that’ll be here in three.”

II

The construction crew is in full force this morning, renovating their third property in as many months.

As a veteran of difficult weekend mornings, I understand what it takes to get from my bed to the kitchen. Water from the faucet drips with each passing second, pacing me. The frame of my college graduation photo is sitting on the wall crooked and cracked. I’ll have to get that fixed before my mother visits. Luckily, my honors diploma isn’t damaged, that’d be a lot harder to replace.

I pluck my Gatorade from the fridge with the precision of a New Jersey native grabbing a prize out of a boardwalk crane machine. A tub of yogurt splatters across the floor, ostensibly caught by my hangover cure. It’s commendable that my roommate cooks at home regularly but she leaves me no real estate in the fridge. I maybe occupy a quarter of the shelf space; I shouldn’t have to play Operation to grab my food. Especially not today.

As I search half-heartedly for a mop and paper-towels, the construction stops. Maybe the crew realized that the game was starting soon. My phone vibrates from the reminder I set to start studying for the GRE. I instinctively shuffle over to the table to silence it. This yogurt catastrophe must be mitigated before kickoff. I do need to set a reminder to buy more yogurt before Sheila notices.

Sheila entered my life seven years ago. We met at Killarney’s Irish Pub during a Tuesday Trivia night. She had just transferred in from Georgetown; the D.C. scene had poisoned politics for her. Desperate for friends, she floated over to the lone table that wasn’t capped out on players. We took her in immediately; rarely did women want to hang around us back then, especially once Bart got buffalo dip all over his shirt.

She works at a PR firm and, if you believe her social media posts, she’s practically re-defining the sector. I went to a few of her promo events when she first moved in. Open-bar, unlimited appetizers - you could really have a great time if you strategized correctly. People think that the trick is to stand near the kitchen, where the food comes out, but the real pros know to hang out near the stage or wherever the sponsored products are. After the first round or two, the service staff will simply swerve the vultures trying to snag first dibs to make sure that the food gets to the center of the action.

I drop the empty yogurt tub into the trash, which is filled to the brim with plastic water bottles. I used to get annoyed that these weren’t recycled but, with three months left on the lease, it just isn’t worth the energy to care. Now entering my late twenties, I shouldn’t be living in a stuffy basement with a roommate anyway.

No new texts from Greg. I half-expect a “sorry for throwing you out last night” but he may still be cleaning up from last night.

I pull out the underframe in the couch so that I can sprawl comfortably. It’s Sheila’s, along with just about everything else in the living room. I thought living with a woman would be awesome; cleaner countertops, fresh-smelling common areas, and opportunities to meet her friends were all appealing. But the only major difference between Sheila and the last guy was that the yogurt I just spilled all over the floor was non-dairy. Taking a swig of Gatorade, I finish cleaning up the mess. The wad of paper-towels brick off the side of the trashcan but, shockingly, no water bottles fall out. The purple plush blanket is missing from the living room, so the afghan will have to work.

III.

This isn’t the type of headache you get after forgetting to put on your hangover patch before the pregame. My head hasn’t stopped pounding, particularly on the right side. The piercing sensation is nestled deep in my skull. I haven’t slept this poorly since the week after the Quizbowl championship. Not knowing the 23rd President of the United States still haunts me from time to time.

This past Monday, I downed a few tacos - a kickoff to the week tradition - and was tethered to the toilet soon after. Sheila was furious that I couldn’t get the vomit smell out of the bathroom. Normally I’m able to defend myself in these situations but this time I just couldn’t find the words. Luckily, none of my colleagues seemed to be noticing my struggles at work.

Four nights later, I’m lowering the brightness on my laptop hoping that the internet can provide me answers. Sheila isn’t home; she’s been staying at this guy Owen’s place for the past two nights. He seems alright, even gave me his extra fries last week.

Once I closed out a series of pop-up ads, most of them for men much older than myself, I’m finally able to type in my symptoms.

Headaches (check)

Headaches on one side of the head (check)

Difficulty Finding Words (check)

Vomiting (check)

The screen began to load. An agonizing feeling creeps all over me, as if I was slowly entering a pool that was colder than expected.

IV.

“The Irishman is just too long. I shouldn’t need an Adderall to appreciate a film.” Steve said.

The six of us were all bunched together at a circular table way too small for our party at Rock Boulevard Food Hall. It would have been better suited for a few middle schoolers dealing with drama at lunch. Jessica was only in town for one day, so we didn’t have a lot of options that worked around everyone’s schedules. We were sifting through those early awkward moments of a group lunch, which were particularly painful since two of the table’s Impossible burgers were taking significantly longer than everyone else’s meals.  

Steve repeated his statement with more gusto. With the Impossible burgers now acquired, everyone was locked in on the forthcoming conversation.

BRAIN CANCER. These two words left me stung just 36 hours earlier. The searches continued into the wee hours of the night. “Mid-20’s with brain cancer”, “Is your headache brain cancer”, “Next steps for brain cancer”. It may seem improbable, but that’s probably what Lauren Sanderson, the 24-year-old physician’s assistant from Tampa thought too. Lauren Sanderson probably couldn’t concentrate on work. Or track amateurish discourse about a brilliant film.

“TJ, you there,” Steve quipped. “I figured the man with two film classes under his belt would have some thoughts.” Ten eyes were turned on me, each one with a twinkle of fascination. These pseudo-intellectual discussions were what held this group together. Through people moving out of town, fights, and hookups gone right and wrong, it was discourse like this that kept us all coming back. Supposedly this has what made us all best friends, even though Antonio picked his cousins to be the bulk of his wedding party.

Just that morning I was sitting squarely across from Dr. Marcus. Having practiced medicine for over twenty years, he had the gray hair and collection of nineties records to prove it. Who he’s trying to impress by having them prominently featured, I’ll never know. The office was curiously small for someone who has over a hundred positive online reviews, but maybe that’s why he was able to see me on such short notice. After some pre-appointment chit-chat, we dove right into the heart of the appointment. I answered all of the intake questions, once I tracked down my insurance card, at five this morning.

“So what brings you in today?” He asked in a monotone manner, as if he was ordering a bagel at the coffee shop across the street. “I see you’ve been having some trouble with headaches; tell me about that.”

I sipped an iced latte with skim milk and took a slow breath. I had printed some papers out, the first time I’d used that thing since my mom got it for me last Christmas, and handed them over to Dr. Marcus. “Well, the thing is Dr. Mar-“

“Let me stop you right there,” Dr. Marcus looked up from the papers and hurriedly interjected. “Brain cancer is incredibly rare, especially in people your age.”

I wrote him off immediately. Now I know how I could get an appointment day-of and it wasn’t his small office or the framed picture of when he was quoted in the local paper about what seems to be a county fair. For some reason, he failed to understand how I’m feeling. I tried to stay present while feeling invisible, like laughing at an inside joke that I wasn’t around for. Dr. Marcus begrudgingly agreed to an MRI, even though he thought it was a waste of my time and money.

“TJ, you good man?” Antonio, a newly- promoted senior consultant, asked. He has always been the considerate guy in the group, once chastising me for never reading the acknowledgements section at the end of a novel. “You seem a little zoned out, still burnt out from work? At this point, you should just look for another job.”

I ran my hand through my hair and leaned back in my chair. Ten more degrees and it would have flipped backwards. Time felt still and precious. Even the hustle and bustle of the lunch rush picking up around us couldn’t dampen the calmness and focus of the moment. What if this was the last time we were all together?

“Yeah man, it’s all good, just been tired from work.” I faked a yawn and stretched my arms just slightly above my head, hoping it would validate my cover to the entire table. In an instant I snapped back into it. “As I’ve said before Steve, you had to see it in theatres. Great art needs to be appreciated in the right medium. You wouldn’t put the Mona Lisa in your bathroom would you? And honestly your streaming setup ain’t much different.”

Antonio let out a thunderous clap and the rest of the group laughed.

V.

When people quip that ‘their week has flown by’ they sure weren’t waiting on anything important. My ringtone had only chimed once: my mom logging in her weekly call. Going through the motions, she failed to sniff out that anything was wrong. Why bother her before I know anything for certain? If the news doesn’t go my way, she may be a little annoyed that I didn’t mention it earlier but there will be other, more crucial, storylines dominating the narrative. My Dad has left my text unread from a few days ago.

Sheila thought I was having some sort of breakdown yesterday when I decided to dump my booze down the sink. She didn’t say much, but I could see it in her eyes. The smell in the kitchen reminded me of the saloon that my dad took me to when he’d visit his friends at the Oakmont Wild West Town. Typically, kids weren’t allowed in there, but when you’re a regular, you get to bend the rules a little.

On my second call this morning, a dutiful nurse named Jackie promised me that Dr. Esparza would contact me with results today.

Scrolling through pictures of Greg at some apple farm, I wondered how he convinced people to go with him, especially with it raining. He shot me an invite for the same event last year, but I didn’t own flannel. With everything going on in my life, I wouldn’t even be able to muster up the necessary level of excitement anyway.

It seems odd to eat cereal at this hour of the day, but I’m too strung out to go grocery shopping. The phone finally rings. Going into the third ring, I take one final breath and answer it with what I hope is a nonchalant “Hello”.

“This is Dr. Esparza, I just want to let you know that your MRI came back normal.”

I blacked out for the rest of the conversation. There was some mention of sleeping better and a healthier diet, but in that moment, I would have paid a king’s ransom if it meant that I was not seriously sick.

As I’m hanging up the phone and reaching for my GRE book, Sheila and a new friend hurriedly burst into the apartment.

“Hey TJ, you seem excited, gotta run, we’re late for an event.” Sheila says without taking a breath. She starts to rummage through the kitchen, looking for something. Her bracelet continuously clanging on the countertops in the process.

Her friend is beginning to stare at me, up and down. I wipe my mouth, wondering if there is leftover milk on my face.

“You should come.” she says to me. “We have one more ticket.”

“I am totally in.” I exclaim, much more jovially than required. She must be over six feet tall in her heels and seems to like my enthusiasm.  

Sheila pops up and puts her hands on her hips. “Fine, you can come, but you have to change and help me find my clutch. I know I left it in here.”

“Cool, let’s do some shots first, I have some tequila in my room.” I state calmly, trying to play it cool.

“I like where your head’s at,” her friend says, smoothly pointing at me.

By the time I came back with the bottle and some glasses from the back of my closet, Sheila had found her clutch. It was going to be a fun time; I could feel it.

A first-generation college graduate originally from New Jersey, Kyle Breckenridge has been based in the District of Columbia for the past decade. After finishing his coursework at American University, he began working in the non-profit development space. This is his first short story.