Welcome to the first “Friction” article, Read Now’s short story feature. Aside from reviewing books and highlighting the lives of significant authors, I will be dabbling in the world of fiction once in a while. The name “Friction” comes from my literary influences that are absurd and improbable but never impossible. These are tales that, although certainly fictional, rub close to the surface of reality such as the stories of Roald Dahl. It is because the power of fiction lies in making readers believe that the world of possibilities is waiting for them outside their door. Ultimately, bringing the m face to face with their dreams and saying “Why not?”
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“If these medical results took this long to complete, it had better be good. I better catch something rare and contagious,” George said to himself as he stared back at the white walls of the waiting room as though painting them in his thoughts. Then he checked his silver Rolex watch again for the fifth time in 15 minutes because he knew that “rare and contagious” wasn’t possible because he had been living on the same block for 20 years. He didn’t even like stepping out to the beaches an hour away from his home. He assumed that his body and the germs in his neighborhood had already kept a pact to keep each other alive. So, he settled on cancer and decided that it should not be some wimpy stage one or two; it better be stage four or terminal, so it would be just enough to get on Channel 2’s seven o’clock news; the explosive headlines would read “George Samson’s sublime demise, man undergoes sublimation and turns into thin gas.” He pondered as he rubbed his chin: “It would be better if I got a heart attack as they just told me the news that I got cancer and that would make things quicker.”
“Now, that’s a story!” George said under his breath, chuckling at how amusing his mind had turned at age 65 as the pale walls mapped out the possibilities. Then, he considered to whom he would give his house. Who would inherit his finely crafted chess set, placed at his breakfast table? Who to take care of his Terrier Jack with as much love and attention as he did? Who would have the time to write letters to the editors with the exact crabby craft that only he could pen? No one. If that were the case, then, he would rather live. Yet death was inevitable and his ruminations were put on pause as he asked the male nurse if eternity was over already. The nurse pretended he didn’t see the grumpy old fart and went on with his business.
Then George remembered that he could give his treasures to his son that he had had to give up for adoption when he was selling fishballs 45 years ago. “Well, my boy will be like that kid waiting for old cadavers like me.” Then he glanced at the nurse’s name tag and said, “He wouldn’t be called Roger either; he would be named Peter because he is a rock.” The wall soon filled with what his imagination could muster about his sturdy rock. “Yeah, Peter wouldn’t be a doctor. He’d be too delicate for messy things like innards, medication, and such. He would be clean and crisp in every way. He must be a corporate lawyer, sipping lattes in Europe during weekends. He must have kids now and I bet that he would be the type to read to them. His wife would love that and they would sing in the car on the way to meet me... Wow, I could be a grandfather!” His mind rambled on and on about the bigger and better life that “Peter” would have. His aspirations soon turned to brooding as he realized all these dreams would be fulfilled without him.
“Mister, mister, here are your results.” George was awakened out of these daydreams by the male nurse Roger. He looked up and was a bit embarrassed for being caught in a stupor. He quickly grabbed the envelope containing his results, gave an acidly toned “Thank you,” and rushed out the door as soon as he signed his forms.
Roger shook his head at the sight of such rudeness and reflected, “I am sure that my grandfather would never act that way in a hospital and he certainly would not be named George, if me and my dad knew him.”
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