Chapter 3 Henry #2
“I know, right?” I eyed my plate, where my last, forlorn bite of pancake sat waiting for me. Choosing to prolong its existence, I sipped my coffee instead. “But he wasn’t weird about me working with my hands, either. He asked about my favorite project. Nobody thinks to do that, usually.”
“See, it’s a match made in heaven.” He shoveled in the last of his hash browns.
At least, I thought it was hash browns. Given the way he doused both the potatoes and his scrambled eggs in ketchup, it could be hard to tell the difference.
“He can teach you how to join the modern world. You can teach him a skill that will be useful when the zombies attack.”
“Hey,” I protested, “I’m in the modern world. I have a phone and a computer.”
Jamal snorted. “And the last time you tried to use QuickBooks, you had to call me for help to find the ‘undo’ button. And I don’t even know how to use QuickBooks!” His snort morphed into an open laugh. “My friend, you’re a luddite.”
“That’s mean.”
“That’s truth.”
Sighing, I ate the last of my pancakes. I would not order another plate of them.
I wouldn’t. But I damn well wanted to. “Fine, maybe a little. But back on topic: what does a luddite say to a social media specialist to even start a conversation? And don’t say ‘what’s the worst thing you’ve seen lately,’ because that’s the first thing I blurted out and it is a no-go for the poor guy. ”
He considered that for a long moment. “Yeah, and no pick-up lines. You’re a bit past that, having already dicked him down.”
“Please never say ‘dicked him down’ again in your life.”
He ignored me. “Ask him questions. About…well, anything. What did you talk about that day?”
“Work,” I remembered. “A little about our families. Where we lived.”
“So he knows you live in a log cabin in the woods?”
“I do not, Jam-”
“You do so.”
“I live,” I argued, “in a perfectly nice, yes, wood house. In the suburbs.”
“Your house backs up to the woods.”
“So do a lot of houses in my area!”
“You have a woodshed.”
“It’s a workshop.”
He slurped up the last of his milkshake insouciantly. “It started life as a woodshed. In the woods. You live like a lumberjack, man.”
I harrumphed. “Fuck you. At least I have a yard and not just a stoop.”
“Stoops are cool, you can sit on them and hang out with your neighbors!” he shot back.
I rolled my eyes. “My neighbors. As if I want to spend time with them.”
“That’s because you live in the land of NIMBY republicans, my friend. Aka the suburbs in the woods. Point, made.”
“Maybe I should ask him about his neighbors, huh?” I teased.
Jamal finished his eggs before answering. “Actually, I feel like that’s not the…worst possible strategy? I mean, it’s a bit out of left field, but on the other hand it’s hardly a standard chat-up line, you know? Feels a little more natural.”
I went to take a sip of coffee but discovered my mug was empty. Why was the coffee gone?? I let out a low whine.
“Oh my god,” Jamal chuckled, having seen this behavior before, “you’re ridiculous. It’s coffee, not oxygen. You’ll live.”
“Will I, though?” I upended my mug into my mouth, hoping for a little bit of dregs if nothing else. Nothing.
My reaction earned me an eyeroll. “Maybe don’t bring up coffee to loverboy,” he teased. “We want him to think you’re not a toddler.”
“Toddlers don’t drink coffee,” I pointed out.
Laughing, he reached out and pulled my empty mug out of my hand. “Then definitely no more for you.”
“I hate you.”
“You looooove me. Drink your water. Hydrate.” He nudged my glass closer to me. “It’s good for you.”
Scowling, I nevertheless took an obedient sip of water. Ugh, it definitely wasn’t coffee. “Hate you,” I repeated.
His reply was another eye roll as he drew hard on his milkshake straw, making an obscene slurping noise.
I was contemplating whether Jamal would let me get away with requesting another coffee refill when my phone buzzed.
As I’d been doing all week, I grabbed for it desperately, hoping this was the all-clear.
But it wasn’t an email or an app notification from the patient portal.
It was a text. My stomach dropped with disappointment until I saw who the text was from.
Jamison Duschene: Got the last of my results! Negative across the board. Re-test for HIV in 4 weeks and 3 months, but for now we’re in the clear.
“It’s him!” I hissed to Jamal as if we were in danger of being overheard.
He perked up immediately. “What’s he say?”
“Negative across the board.”
“Fuck, yeah.” He pumped his fist at his side. I was just glad he didn’t hop up and do a full-on cheer. With rhyming, of course. “What did you reply?”
I looked back down at my phone. “I didn’t, yet.”
“Well say something, dumbass!”
I started typing, narrating my words - quietly, because this was not a topic I wanted my diner companions privy to - to Jamal as I went:
Me: Awesome news. I’m still waiting on HIV and syphilis but everything else is negative for me.
“And…?” Jamal prompted when I stopped reciting and hit send.
“Huh?”
“Say something else!” he hissed, swatting at my hand. “We just had a whole conversation about this!”
I gulped. We had, hadn’t we. I started typing again:
Me: How have you been doing? I’m alternating between perfectly fine and a nervous wreck.
Before hitting send, I read it out to Jamal, who wobbled his hand in the air in a so-so gesture. “Could be worse,” he allowed. “Go ahead and send it and do you.”
I did. A few seconds later, a reply came in.
Jamison Duschene: About the same. I keep reminding myself that HIV is completely survivable and even if I do pull positive I can have a full, normal life. Sometimes the reminder even works!
I read that out to Jamal, put my thumbs back on the keyboard, and stopped short, looking back up at my friend. “Now what do I say?” I demanded. “I need to keep the conversation going, right?”
“Yes!” he hissed, flapping a hand at me. “Talk to the guy!”
“What do I say?”
He opened his mouth, paused, and blinked.
“I have no fucking idea, man. I mean, I’d say just chat, but it’s kind of a heavy transition from ‘What if we have HIV?’ to ‘So, whatcha doin’?
’” We sat there in silence for a few seconds, staring at each other, before he opened his mouth again. “Say something about, um…shit.”
Yeah, that sounded about like what I’d come up with. I looked back down at my phone. “How about, um. Okay.” I started typing and narrating. “I’m really sorry, again, that I put you in this position. But…” And there I ran out of words. I looked at Jamal helplessly.
“But…” he picked up, his eyes slewing to the side as they did when he was deep in thought.
“But…ok, I’ve got it. ‘But I’m glad it gave me a reason to stay in touch with you’.
No!” he interrupted himself before I could type that.
“No, don’t say that, it’s cheesy and probably insensitive. Ugh, this is hard.”
“No fucking kidding, man.” I sighed. “There’s got to be little in life more awkward than trying to start a conversation in these circumstances.” My phone vibrated and I jumped, almost fumbling it.
Jamison Duschene: Sorry, that was really heavy. I don’t want to make it sound like I’m angry, because I’m not. Scared, yes, but not angry. We both fucked up.
Jamison Duschene: Shit that wasn’t any less heavy. Fuck. I didn’t mean
Jamison Duschene: ANYWAY. Sorry. I just wanted to let you know my results. Lmk when you get yours.
I read that all out to Jamal and then looked up at him. “He seems pretty stressed and maybe determined to stay on topic. Maybe I should just…not with the conversation.”
My friend sighed and tipped his head to the side thoughtfully. “Yeah I guess probably not. I still say you should at least make friends with the guy if you can, though. You’re sharing an emotional experience and you get along well as far as you can tell. That’s a recipe for bonding. Take the W.”
I shrugged. “Maybe when the rest of my results come in, it’ll seem a little more natural to start a conversation.”
“Maybe.” He turned my mug, which he still had custody of, in his hands. “Or maybe you could just text him randomly at some point after your results. Say hi, ask how he’s doing.”
That struck me as possibly even more awkward than trying to piggyback a conversation on test results, but what the hell did I know, I was a woodworker who lived in a log cabin in the woods and couldn’t work my bookkeeping software without phoning a friend. “Yeah,” I said with a sigh. “I’ll try.”
Jamal pushed the empty mug back at me. “And for agreeing to that, I’ll allow you to have one more cup of coffee. But only if you promise not to go full-on Tigger afterward.”
He’d always accused me of getting too hyped up on coffee and bouncing like the fictional tiger.
I’d always argued that coffee rendered me functional, not hyper.
This was a familiar argument, and I smiled.
“The wonderful thing about Henries is,” I half-sang the character’s tagline, “A Henry’s a wonderful thing. ”
“Yeah, yeah.” He rolled his eyes dramatically. “Drink your coffee and shut up.”