Maury's Return

Maury was back at the coffee shop after a brief absence. Without much of an introduction, he asked, “Can you get me a bagel? Plain? Cream cheese?”
This had never happened before. Maury is not a moocher. He can make a small cup of coffee last an entire morning, and I’ve never seen him ask for a handout. I got the bagel and brought it to where he was sprawled in his favorite chair in front of the gas fireplace. He thanked me, then added, “I’m an old man, you know. I may not be here tomorrow. Or the day after.”
This is one of Maury’s favorite topics of conversation. He’s possibly a decade younger than I am, a big balding guy with broad shoulders and a slight stoop, and as far as I can tell, he’s in adequately good health.
“An old man,” he said it again with a smile and not a trace of sadness. “I could die any minute.” He repeated this with an emphasis on on the word any. Then he added, “And you could too.”
I agreed. “We’re all on the same road.”
Lately, I’ve been feeling mortal; the chemo treatments have got me down. There are two more coming up, at which point the doctor will decide if more are called for. This most recent course is particularly nasty, far worse than what I’ve dealt with before. I’m listless and sore; I can’t keep food down, and my sleep is troubled by unappetizing dreams and visions I avoid during the day. I am tempted to skip the whole chemo thing but deep down know I won’t. Some years ago, after the first diagnosis, surgery, and chemical infusions, I asked the doctor what would happen if I refused treatment. Without looking up from my medical chart said, “You’ll suffer a lot and then die.” My doctor did not mince words (I once sent him a Valentine card that read:
“I’m glad you’re my doctor,
I would be much sadder
If you were not here to
Take care of my bladder.”
He never mentioned receiving it but the nurses said he did, chuckled out loud, and pinned it on his office wall.)
Anyway.
Last week Maurie told me he was getting married to a woman in California. The problem was she didn’t want to come here and he didn’t want to go there.
“I’m not much in favor of those long-distance relationships,” he said. “But I do want to get married.”
The week before, Maurie sidled up to me, used two fingers to check the quality of the leather jacket I was wearing, and said, “I like that jacket.”
“You can’t give it to him,” said Arielle. “I like that jacket too.”
I didn’t and instead found a roughly similar jacket in my closet, a twenty-year-old extra-large that I’d worn to faded glory. I thought it might fit him, so for a while I kept it in the car every time I went to the coffee shop. Finally, a couple of days ago, i brought it back indoors. That was the same day Maurie reappeared.
“I have a jacket for you,” I told him as he eyed mine enviously. “I brought it in a couple of times but you weren’t here.”
He eyed me as if I were a dolt. “I can’t be here all the time, you know. I have things to do,” he said. That’s when he asked or the bagel.
Then he segued into other issues. He focused a few minutes on the romantic status of a woman whose partner had passed away recently. Maury had told me I should date her since she was now used to having boyfriends who died. I remember this exchange as one of the odder conversations I’ve add in recent years.
I suspect he’s been reading my blog; he appears relatively well caught up on the state of my health. About five months ago he said, “Cancer is really nasty. It kills people.”
I answered that I knew this. There was a time when I did a lot research on the Internet. I’ve pretty much ceased that.
“Lots of people.” Maury often speaks in italics, occasionally in underlines, rarely in bold.
I’ve given Maury oracular powers. Maybe that wasn’t wise,.