Spoiler Alert: The Hero Dies: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and Other Four-Letter Words

by Michael Ausiello

“Scooch” was borrowed from the made-up word Kit endearingly assigned to my residual pouch of childhood belly fat, while “Mister” was just thrown in so folks knew that he was a not-to-be-fucked-with breed of pussy. Kit and I were legally allowed to bend and twist the name as we saw fit, which led to such colorful variations as Scoocher, the Scoochinator, Scoochopolis, but everyone else had to refer to him by his full, formal moniker, Mister Scooch. Also, if you were writing him a note, it was “Mister,” not “Mr.” Kit was very particular about that.

“If you mouth the words ‘olive juice’ it looks like you’re saying ‘I love you,’ ” he explained to me as I rested my head on his chest. He then offered to do a demonstration. “Holy shit,” I exclaimed, marveling at how right he was. It totally looked like Kit had just said he loved me—without actually, you know, saying he loved me. “OK, your turn.” Kit smiled. I followed his lead and mimed the words “olive juice” right back at him. And then he mouthed them back at me. And then we repeated this silly exercise a dozen more times, giggling like two sixteen-year-olds who had just cheated their way to a perfect score on the SATs.

During the impromptu photo shoot, the rings lightly grazed each other, letting off the most magical “clinking” sound. Kit and I instantly looked at each other in wonderment, like we’d just accidentally mixed chocolate and peanut butter and invented Reese’s. Our marriage had an official soundtrack.

Tony laughed when I told him how the rarity of Kit’s rectal cancer had prompted him to declare to every nurse or doctor he encountered, “I have a famous anus!”

I did not, however, divulge the part about it being the site of my mom’s final vacation. While it was unlikely such a disclosure would have led Kit to veto the Port-O-Call, I had zero doubt he would’ve spent the entire weekend proposing alternate names for the hotel, à la the Cancer Inn or the Pink Crypt or the Last Resort.

“Nice work,” I raved. “You ate pretty much the whole thing.” I gave him a kiss on the lips to formally reward him for a job well done. His eyes perked up, he opened his mouth, and much to my shock and awe, he eked out a very quiet, barely audible, but nonetheless heartfelt “Thank you.” Those would be the last two words Kit ever spoke.

“You listen to me, Fuck Stick. I am going to be OK. It’s going to be unbelievably hard, but I will be OK. You go get heaven ready for us, because, thanks to you, I have high standards. Thank you for the past thirteen years. Thank you for giving me a family. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for being my Bodge.”

I hadn’t realized how deeply tethered my soul had been to his breathing. Until, at 10:30 p.m., it stopped.