Previously, in Cycling Through a Storm One: Cycling Through a Storm Two: A House, a Boy, a Girl, a Car, a Dock, a Boat, a Hug Three: Starting Sequence Four: Yacht Race Five: Save the Hat!
You’ll find a bar like Squid’s in any river town with a favorable ratio of sailboats to powerboats. Look on the steepish block between the main drag and the river, a little off whatever main touristy drag there might be. It’s easy to happen on, there for the locals, particularly the local bikers and sailors. The booze is selected more for efficiency than quality, but both kinds are there. The food may be fresh and local, or frozen then deep-fried—the locals know what to ask for. Regardless, you get what you pay for in bars preferred by sailors. There are picnic tables inside, food specials on weeknights, and tattooed waitresses wearing tank tops and yoga shorts.
“Yoga shorts?”
“What would you call ‘em?” Roger asked.
Vic looked again at the waitress hovering over the picnic table for drink orders, working her way around the two tables they’d dragged together. Her sky-blue shorts were clingy like yoga pants, but short like briefs.
“Women’s bicycle short pantie underwear, I guess? But yeah, yoga shorts works—catchier.”
“Caught my eye.”
“I see that.”
“They’re yoga shorts,” Lark said. She was sitting across the table beside her husband, John. “They have ‘em at Target.”
“So, not panties?” Roger asked.
“No.”
“Do they wear panties underneath?”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because they aren’t panties?”
“Huh?”
John cut Roger’s teasing short with a reminder for Lark about an appliance repair they had scheduled for the next day.
“Hey Victor, how’s things?” It was Sue. Sue crewed on Windswept, a sloop in the cruising class.
“Mostly well. How did Windswept do?”
“Won in our division, but not many out tonight.”
“Damn cruisers, don’t take racing seriously.”
“Hey, I resemble that remark!” Sue lived on her boat, Señor Moment, which she rarely took from its slip. Señor Moment was a project boat, but at least it floated, she was quick to remind people. Mostly Sue was waiting for proceeds from her divorce so she could buy better sails and replace some worn-out and missing equipment.
Sue sat, squeezing onto the edge of the bench, and Vic slid over to make room, bumping close against Roger. “Skooch over a little there!” Sue reached over, gave Roger a push on his shoulder.
Roger, engaged in conversation with another sailor, nodded over his shoulder, and skooched.
“Crazy with the fishing league out there tonight,” Sue said.
Vic nodded.
“Yeah, welcome to my world, buddy. I get it,” Sue said, straining the last of her cocktail through her teeth. Sue habitually sprinkled conversations with trendy phrases, often without demonstrating any grasp of their intended function. “So, tell me what else is the bomb?”
“Hmm.” Vic sipped his beer, looked vacantly into space. “Oh, I know! Have I told you the latest about my cancer? I found out it’s come back a little.”
Sue put her hand to her mouth and her eyes went wide.
“Yeah, sorry—there’s no easy way to bring that up.” Vic leaned a little closer with Sue and told her that his last cancer screening had not come back clear. He hadn’t told anyone except Gust—and now Sue—that his cancer was no longer in remission. He caught himself wondering why he’d blurted it out to Sue before telling any of his family—besides Gust—or any of his friends. Not even Stewie or Wally, and he hadn’t told Lark yet, and she was sitting right there across from him at the picnic table, though she clearly wasn’t paying any attention. “I haven’t told many people yet.” Vic realized telling Sue meant now he had, and he realized he’d better tell Lark right away or she’d be hurt when she discovered Sue had found out first, and that meant now he needed to hustle, tell everyone he could tonight, so there wouldn’t be hard feelings.
“I am so sorry, Vic! I’m just, just … in shock! How long were you in remission?”
“Three years. I had my three-year check last week and the scan showed new cells on the colon and some lymph nodes.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Me too!” Vic sipped his beer again.
“So now what?”
“Chemo is the recommendation, to make sure it’s all gone again.”
“Again.”
Vic nodded. “Either it wasn’t actually all gone last time, or this is brand-new, but yeah, again. This time for real. Or, again. Whatever. Fuck.”
“Don’t worry—I get it. I’m so sorry, Vic. I had no idea.” Sue leaned her head onto Vic’s shoulder.
“Thanks.”
“When do they want to get started?”
“Doc said the sooner the better. Said if we’re going to have a shot at getting by with just chemotherapy, if I want to have a …” Vic got stuck—stuck for the next word. “Um, a, you know …” Vic pointed to his left collar bone, his clavicle.
Sue looked at Vic’s shoulder, back at Vic’s face, like, Yeah … ?
“The extra nipple thing that I had here before to make infusions easier. Shit.” Vic waved two fingers in circles at his temple. “I’m sorry, I lost the word I needed. Chemo-brain.”
“Already?”
“No,” Vic laughed a little. “From the last time. It hasn’t gone away entirely. It still happens sometimes. Like just now. Port-O-Cath!”
“Porto-what?”
“Port-O-Cath.” Vic pointed again at his clavicle. “The port I had implanted here for chemotherapy infusions last time.”
“Oh, I get it,” Sue said. “Do you still have it?”
“No. I need to figure out whether I want them to put one back in.”
“I see. So, when’s that happening?”
“I dunno. My doc said I could think about it for a few days.”
“Don’t you just have to talk with their scheduler or something?”
“Yeah, as soon as I finish working through all the steps of grieving, I think. Not sure how I’m gonna work that into my schedule right now.”
“Welcome to my world, I get it.”
Vic felt his lip start to curl. He found Sue’s habit of selecting unusual times for inserting cliche phrases both entertaining and off-putting. He lifted his beer to halt a sneer from forming or cover it with the pint glass before Sue noticed.
“What’s wrong?” Sue asked.
“Sorry, I just didn’t realize you had cancer, too,” Vic said, immediately regretting his sarcasm.
“Wait, I’m sorry—did I say something? Are you mad?”
“No, no,” Vic shook his head, wanted to apologize for being snarky, but Sue kept talking.
“Denial! Good! You’re making progress! At this rate you’ll be all the way to acceptance by tomorrow and ready to get that porto-rooter thingy installation scheduled!”
“Whoa! I get at least two days—”
“Anger! That’s good—more progress. What are the other steps?”
Vic laughed. “Let’s change the subject. How have you been lately?”
“I know, right?!”
Lark, who must have been to the restroom because she was returning to the table without a drink in her hand, sat down again next to John, across from Vic and Sue. “Hi Sue,” she said. “How was your race tonight?”
“Pretty good,” Sue repeated, “but there weren’t many cruisers out, and by the end I really needed to pee.”
“Don’t you hate that? I mean, if things are busy, I barely even notice when I have to pee, but if the race is slow or there’s no wind and it isn’t even close, it’s all I can even think of!”
“Fire! And it’s so easy for guys—they just go to the stern and whip it out behind the boat!”
“They do?”
“Yeah!” Sue said. “Are you new? There are guys on your boat, right? They just pee off the back!”
“No, not that,” Lark said, grabbing Sue’s wrist for emphasis. “I mean, on your boat they actually go to the back of the boat first? You must sail with classier guys than I do!”
“Hey, I’m on your boat,” Vic said, though he wasn’t feeling like he was part of the conversation and was about to go fetch another beer. Miss Yoga Shorts didn’t appear ready to take another round of drink orders.
“So anyhow,” Lark went on, ignoring Vic, “I just use a ShePee.”
“ShamWow?”
“No, ShePee! It’s just this little flexible plastic funnel and tube that you put down there and use to—”
“Oh, I get it—one of those prosthetic penis things that’s for camping instead of lesbo sex, right?”
“No, no, not that,” Lark waved her hands to stop Sue from talking. “Not a sex toy.” She reached under the table and retrieved her backpack. “Here, I’ll show you,” she said, rummaging in the pack.
“Oh, no, that’s fine, honey,” Sue said.
“Here, try this!” Lark plucked a Barbie-pink box from her tote bag. “I’ve got a spare one, brand-new, still in the box. Take it!”
“Oh god.” Sue leaned into Vic, ran one hand through her bangs and rested her face on her forearm. “I know, right?” she mumbled loudly into her elbow, apparently responding to herself.
Lark left the box on the table in front of Sue—and Vic, since Sue was still leaning onto him. Vic, curious, had to slide the box around with one finger and study its packaging. The ShePee, encased in clamshell plastic inside a fluorescent paperboard cutaway box, was cleverly displayed to convey as intuitively as possible, and with some tasteful illustration in feathery gray strokes surrounding the funnel part, approximately where it was intended to be fitted and for what purpose.
“I’ve wondered how you were doing that,” Vic said to Lark.
Sue stiffened, her spine suddenly straight. She twisted sideways from her hips to stare fully at Vic, her head cocked back, eyebrows arched.
“What?” Vic shrugged.
“She uses that ShePenis thing in front of you?”
Lark laughed. “Hey, if they can, we can!”
“Yeah!” Vic said. “And besides, we’re all gentlemen on our boat. Lark always steps to the stern and whips it out to pee off the back.”
Sue strained the very last of her cocktail around ice cubes with her teeth, then let the ice fall. “Time for another?” Sue said into the bottom of her glass. She leaned once more against Vic and put her arm around his waist to pull him into a side hug. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”
“Of course. Thanks.”
“What got into her tonight?” Lark said after Sue shuffled away toward the bar.
“Lark,” Vic said, “I need to tell you something.”
Next: CTAS 7 - Sailors & Fishermen
Steve, I am impressed at how well you present dialogue, jokes and humor included. Sail ient stuff.
Writing about cancer and how it effects relationships and all else isn't easy. Nice job making the story interesting.