Make a Wish, My Friend
by Barry Judson Lohnes
John Beban honked raucous cries, head in his hands, amidst the disinfectant odor pluming through the medical office. A young oncologist remained seated awkwardly behind his desk, devoid of skills to deal with an emotional breakdown of a dying patient.
“We have no cure for pancreatic cancer,” the youngster said, nervously rubbing the tube of his stethoscope, as if it were a satin edging of a baby blanket. “We will make you more comfortable with palliative radiation, then there is chemotherapy, though the results are not favorable in treating your type of carcinoma.”
The patient lifted his head to wipe his eyes and nose with a red bandanna. Then his eyes riveted to those of the spritely specialist, young enough to be his son. “How much time?”
Six months give or take.” The oncologist stood, eager to break off the appointment. “There is hope,” he added, averting Beban’s eyes. “Research goes on at this moment.”
Beban nodded farewell to the young doctor, rising to wind his way through the waiting room, noticing people with pallid faces and balding heads.
Back in his small flat, Beban discovered all traces of gusto had dissipated from his being. No person lived close by to share his anxiety; his wife had left him two years ago, prompting his move to Portland, seeking the ubiquitous fresh start. He made acquaintances at his job, but friendships proved elusive; aging people fear vulnerabilities of new relationships often present a curve of diminishing returns. He spent the night awake, imagining cancer coursing through his body, boring like sea worms into vital organs. He suffered the paradox realized by all terminal patients—lying awake seeking a solution when there isn’t one. Remedial thoughts bang against iron doors, with the same futility of psychotics pounding abraded heads against asylum cinder blocks. Exhausting emotional outpouring it is, yet nothing changes. Reality upon awakening is worse than nightmares.
He picked up the phone and dialed the number of his former wife. He hung up the phone after the first ring. They had done little for each other when they were together—no reason for his ex-wife to offer sustenance at this juncture; asking would present as abuse, all over again. At three in the morning, he fell asleep, just when he thought about smoking marijuana again, knowing it could do little to damage his cancer-riddled body.
At nine in the morning, Beban heard a soft, persistent rap on his door. Sleepily, he opened the door, having checked the time and noticing pale sunlight sifting through Venetian blinds. A grinning, wizened man in a black gabardine suit stood before him, clutching a briefcase.
“Mister John Perley Beban?”
Beban nodded, keeping the door opened slightly.
“May I come in, sir? I represent American Comfort Enterprise.” He smiled, lips curling toward his ears. My name is Robert Q. Andrews, Q for Quentin.” He smiled again, winking solicitously. “Most think the Q is for Quincy.”
Once inside the foyer, Andrews began to speak in earnest, softly melodic. “Mister Beban, our network informed us of your illness. Needless to say, you must be devastated. We remain dreadfully sorry.”
Standing with his arms folded, Beban flushed. “And where did you get this privileged information?” He spoke in a civil tone, his resentment at the intrusion neutralized with the intriguing prospect of an alternative to extant base misery.
“Tut, tut, Mister Beban . . .We have no insidious motives, as you will see.”
“What are you doing here?” Beban asked, voice hardening.
The old man named removed his glasses and began polishing the lenses with the bottom of his gray silk necktie, making a circular motion with thumb and forefinger.
“Let me be direct, Mister Beban; this is difficult for you, and it is not easy for me.” He nodded toward the divan. “Let’s sit down, my friend . . . I will take but a few minutes, I promise you . . .”
Beban sat; angst tempered by curiosity.
“Our Enterprise, Mister Beban, is a privately funded organization, one allowing dying adults, usually those without a strong support system, to spend final days doing what they wish to do. Several anonymous benefactors have donated generously so that this program might be a reality—”
“Is this the program that is available to kids? If so—”
“—Let’s say for now, Mister Beban, that our directors believe that dying alone as an adult is the cruelest burden, indeed absolutely tragic. When you think about it, most children have loving mothers and fathers. Then again, children do not understand the finality of death. Take for example—”
“—How do you know that I am alone?”
“We have informed sources in oncology offices, and more than a few in pipelines of cardio-pulmonary specialists. Resolute staff members in hospices serve as conduits. Caretakers access records, for the good of the order—”
“—Are you invading the privacy of terminally sick people?”
“Mister Beban, it is the second instance where you have mentioned issues of confidentiality—I assure you that we do not gain detailed information from medical records. The only information we care about is the seriousness of your illness, and that you have no close relatives, nor do you have a significant other at the moment. Having said that, rest assured we know little beyond your name. Why, our organization used basic phone books to locate your address.”
Beban looked down at his hands and began to pare a fingernail with the nail of his thumb. “So, what do you provide, Mister— er—Andrews?”
“We provide medical care; for example, we aid those unfortunates who have no insurance. We have strange requests, believe it or not, sir. One woman wished to reside at the Mayo Clinic, so that she could prolong her life in a private room—we did it. Another person—a woman, by the way—wanted an overnight stay with gorgeous Ms. Bo Derek; we could not do it, though we found a person that closely resembled Ms. Derek.” The old man grinned broadly, then he put on his glasses gently, thumbs and fingers to each temple. He gazed around the flat, smiling. “We try not to make moralistic judgments, Mister Beban. Who can define morality when one is living, let alone when one is dying? Is morality even in question if no person is hurt in any way?” He paused to focus on Beban, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.
“However, we failed to grant the wish for one man to taxi out of the bullpen at Yankee Stadium and pitch short relief during the fifth game of the World Series. But we were able to get him a seat in the bullpen, as guest of honor; hours later, he bar-hopped with the players. ‘Best night of my life’— he said. We try to deliver without making judgments. Some people become more spiritual while others become self-centered—but that is not our business, sir.” The man pulled out a gold pocket watch and checked the time. By the way, some make basic simple wishes. We could transfer your fourth-floor walkup flat to one with convenient first floor access; it may be important to you as your disease progresses . . . or regresses, depending on your outlook, sir.”
“Not your business?” Beban asked.
“No sir, our mission is to use our substantial resources to provide comfort the way you want it—our values of comfort should not have a bearing on your decision. If you choose to opt-out, you will not be the first. Say the word and you will not hear from us again, nor will you be able to find us.”
The small man smiled and looked into Beban’s eyes. “There, I’m finished, Mister Beban.”
“I can make a wish?”
“Make a wish, my friend,” the visitor said, eyes sparkling. “But please be quick—we ask for a decision within twenty-four hours; you see, the dying vacillate much more than the living, in spite of what you might think. I suppose they know they have fewer decisions left, so they labor hard to make them good ones. Human nature: alas, who can explain it, Mister Beban?” He swept up his hands, like a minister blessing a coffin at grave side.
“May I offer you a cup of coffee, Mr. Andrews?”
The man smiled and then checked his gold watch. “Ordinarily, I would decline, sir, but those four flights of stairs did me in. If you have tea I would appreciate a cup, very much. “Straight up, if you will,” he chuckled. “No cream or sugar, if you please.”
Beban excused himself and set about putting the water to boil and arranging Vienna Fingers on a plate with paper napkins and doilies. He worked himself into a trance thinking about the finality of his life. Glancing through the portal, Beban noticed the little man perused a copy of Salesman’s Opportunity. Damn, he thought of his confidence problem in approaching attractive women. Now that he had the confidence, he had no time, nor health. He thought about the second-hand Corvette nearly purchased, yet the next morn he rose dejected, stymied by a belief that he couldn’t afford it. From out of the blue, he lamented a passed-up fly-casting trip up the Truckee to catch cutthroats, so big that you needed two hands to remove them from the net. Ah, with little time left, he could go out in style, doing anything he wanted to do, though he could not do anything for long.
Beban brought in a ceramic tray, setting it on the rickety coffee table. He poured tea for Mister Andrews and instant coffee for himself. The man sipped the tea contentedly, sniffing the beverage with expanded nostrils.
“Nothing like a good cup of morning tea, Mister Beban, I think I’m an Englishman at heart.”
They sat for ten minutes, sipping from cups and nibbling Vienna Fingers, talking about Maine winters, then switching to Boston Red Sox baseball. Once more, the man looked at his gold pocket watch. He readied himself to stand, rubbing out wrinkles in his gabardine trousers. “Time waits for none of us. Thank you, Mister Beban, I haven’t eaten Vienna Fingers in years.”
“Indeed, you are welcomed, Mister Andrews.”
“Now I feel that I can tackle those stairs, always easier going down,” he said, beaming at Beban. “Yup, like life itself, isn’t it? It’s human nature to wish for an easier way, sir—each day, inventers make our lives easier, for example.”
“And quicker,” Beban added, helping the man to stand.
“Twenty-three hours, Mr. Beban, if you decide before that, call me,” the man said, holding out a yellow business card. “After that, you will get no response—this number is time-sensitive.” He shuffled along slowly, escorted by Beban. “I must tell you, sir, that I love my job; it gives me great pleasure to be an emissary of happiness.”
As they reached the rail around the stairwell, Beban stopped and patted the older man’s shoulder. “I have made my wish, sir.”
The man gushed, clicking false teeth. “I am so delighted for you, Mister Beban. Why put off until tomorrow what one can accomplish today, as the saying goes?”
“My wish, Mister Andrews is that you survive a precipitous fall and become a terminal invalid, so you will finally discern how your clients really feel.”
Ignoring the thin man’s shocked expression, Beban lifted him, including the briefcase clutched in Andrew’s gelatinous white hands, over the rail and dropped him, headfirst. He waited for the thud of impact four floors below and then turned to grasp the knob on his door, scowling and shaking his head.
“Emissary of happiness, my aching ass,” Beban rasped, red-faced from both rage and his exertion. He thought about anger management issues that had plagued him all of his life. “Too late to do anything about it now,” he uttered, slamming the varnished Christian door. Alas, he could not control his own longevity, but he could control someone else’s.
“We have no cure for pancreatic cancer,” the youngster said, nervously rubbing the tube of his stethoscope, as if it were a satin edging of a baby blanket. “We will make you more comfortable with palliative radiation, then there is chemotherapy, though the results are not favorable in treating your type of carcinoma.”
The patient lifted his head to wipe his eyes and nose with a red bandanna. Then his eyes riveted to those of the spritely specialist, young enough to be his son. “How much time?”
Six months give or take.” The oncologist stood, eager to break off the appointment. “There is hope,” he added, averting Beban’s eyes. “Research goes on at this moment.”
Beban nodded farewell to the young doctor, rising to wind his way through the waiting room, noticing people with pallid faces and balding heads.
Back in his small flat, Beban discovered all traces of gusto had dissipated from his being. No person lived close by to share his anxiety; his wife had left him two years ago, prompting his move to Portland, seeking the ubiquitous fresh start. He made acquaintances at his job, but friendships proved elusive; aging people fear vulnerabilities of new relationships often present a curve of diminishing returns. He spent the night awake, imagining cancer coursing through his body, boring like sea worms into vital organs. He suffered the paradox realized by all terminal patients—lying awake seeking a solution when there isn’t one. Remedial thoughts bang against iron doors, with the same futility of psychotics pounding abraded heads against asylum cinder blocks. Exhausting emotional outpouring it is, yet nothing changes. Reality upon awakening is worse than nightmares.
He picked up the phone and dialed the number of his former wife. He hung up the phone after the first ring. They had done little for each other when they were together—no reason for his ex-wife to offer sustenance at this juncture; asking would present as abuse, all over again. At three in the morning, he fell asleep, just when he thought about smoking marijuana again, knowing it could do little to damage his cancer-riddled body.
At nine in the morning, Beban heard a soft, persistent rap on his door. Sleepily, he opened the door, having checked the time and noticing pale sunlight sifting through Venetian blinds. A grinning, wizened man in a black gabardine suit stood before him, clutching a briefcase.
“Mister John Perley Beban?”
Beban nodded, keeping the door opened slightly.
“May I come in, sir? I represent American Comfort Enterprise.” He smiled, lips curling toward his ears. My name is Robert Q. Andrews, Q for Quentin.” He smiled again, winking solicitously. “Most think the Q is for Quincy.”
Once inside the foyer, Andrews began to speak in earnest, softly melodic. “Mister Beban, our network informed us of your illness. Needless to say, you must be devastated. We remain dreadfully sorry.”
Standing with his arms folded, Beban flushed. “And where did you get this privileged information?” He spoke in a civil tone, his resentment at the intrusion neutralized with the intriguing prospect of an alternative to extant base misery.
“Tut, tut, Mister Beban . . .We have no insidious motives, as you will see.”
“What are you doing here?” Beban asked, voice hardening.
The old man named removed his glasses and began polishing the lenses with the bottom of his gray silk necktie, making a circular motion with thumb and forefinger.
“Let me be direct, Mister Beban; this is difficult for you, and it is not easy for me.” He nodded toward the divan. “Let’s sit down, my friend . . . I will take but a few minutes, I promise you . . .”
Beban sat; angst tempered by curiosity.
“Our Enterprise, Mister Beban, is a privately funded organization, one allowing dying adults, usually those without a strong support system, to spend final days doing what they wish to do. Several anonymous benefactors have donated generously so that this program might be a reality—”
“Is this the program that is available to kids? If so—”
“—Let’s say for now, Mister Beban, that our directors believe that dying alone as an adult is the cruelest burden, indeed absolutely tragic. When you think about it, most children have loving mothers and fathers. Then again, children do not understand the finality of death. Take for example—”
“—How do you know that I am alone?”
“We have informed sources in oncology offices, and more than a few in pipelines of cardio-pulmonary specialists. Resolute staff members in hospices serve as conduits. Caretakers access records, for the good of the order—”
“—Are you invading the privacy of terminally sick people?”
“Mister Beban, it is the second instance where you have mentioned issues of confidentiality—I assure you that we do not gain detailed information from medical records. The only information we care about is the seriousness of your illness, and that you have no close relatives, nor do you have a significant other at the moment. Having said that, rest assured we know little beyond your name. Why, our organization used basic phone books to locate your address.”
Beban looked down at his hands and began to pare a fingernail with the nail of his thumb. “So, what do you provide, Mister— er—Andrews?”
“We provide medical care; for example, we aid those unfortunates who have no insurance. We have strange requests, believe it or not, sir. One woman wished to reside at the Mayo Clinic, so that she could prolong her life in a private room—we did it. Another person—a woman, by the way—wanted an overnight stay with gorgeous Ms. Bo Derek; we could not do it, though we found a person that closely resembled Ms. Derek.” The old man grinned broadly, then he put on his glasses gently, thumbs and fingers to each temple. He gazed around the flat, smiling. “We try not to make moralistic judgments, Mister Beban. Who can define morality when one is living, let alone when one is dying? Is morality even in question if no person is hurt in any way?” He paused to focus on Beban, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.
“However, we failed to grant the wish for one man to taxi out of the bullpen at Yankee Stadium and pitch short relief during the fifth game of the World Series. But we were able to get him a seat in the bullpen, as guest of honor; hours later, he bar-hopped with the players. ‘Best night of my life’— he said. We try to deliver without making judgments. Some people become more spiritual while others become self-centered—but that is not our business, sir.” The man pulled out a gold pocket watch and checked the time. By the way, some make basic simple wishes. We could transfer your fourth-floor walkup flat to one with convenient first floor access; it may be important to you as your disease progresses . . . or regresses, depending on your outlook, sir.”
“Not your business?” Beban asked.
“No sir, our mission is to use our substantial resources to provide comfort the way you want it—our values of comfort should not have a bearing on your decision. If you choose to opt-out, you will not be the first. Say the word and you will not hear from us again, nor will you be able to find us.”
The small man smiled and looked into Beban’s eyes. “There, I’m finished, Mister Beban.”
“I can make a wish?”
“Make a wish, my friend,” the visitor said, eyes sparkling. “But please be quick—we ask for a decision within twenty-four hours; you see, the dying vacillate much more than the living, in spite of what you might think. I suppose they know they have fewer decisions left, so they labor hard to make them good ones. Human nature: alas, who can explain it, Mister Beban?” He swept up his hands, like a minister blessing a coffin at grave side.
“May I offer you a cup of coffee, Mr. Andrews?”
The man smiled and then checked his gold watch. “Ordinarily, I would decline, sir, but those four flights of stairs did me in. If you have tea I would appreciate a cup, very much. “Straight up, if you will,” he chuckled. “No cream or sugar, if you please.”
Beban excused himself and set about putting the water to boil and arranging Vienna Fingers on a plate with paper napkins and doilies. He worked himself into a trance thinking about the finality of his life. Glancing through the portal, Beban noticed the little man perused a copy of Salesman’s Opportunity. Damn, he thought of his confidence problem in approaching attractive women. Now that he had the confidence, he had no time, nor health. He thought about the second-hand Corvette nearly purchased, yet the next morn he rose dejected, stymied by a belief that he couldn’t afford it. From out of the blue, he lamented a passed-up fly-casting trip up the Truckee to catch cutthroats, so big that you needed two hands to remove them from the net. Ah, with little time left, he could go out in style, doing anything he wanted to do, though he could not do anything for long.
Beban brought in a ceramic tray, setting it on the rickety coffee table. He poured tea for Mister Andrews and instant coffee for himself. The man sipped the tea contentedly, sniffing the beverage with expanded nostrils.
“Nothing like a good cup of morning tea, Mister Beban, I think I’m an Englishman at heart.”
They sat for ten minutes, sipping from cups and nibbling Vienna Fingers, talking about Maine winters, then switching to Boston Red Sox baseball. Once more, the man looked at his gold pocket watch. He readied himself to stand, rubbing out wrinkles in his gabardine trousers. “Time waits for none of us. Thank you, Mister Beban, I haven’t eaten Vienna Fingers in years.”
“Indeed, you are welcomed, Mister Andrews.”
“Now I feel that I can tackle those stairs, always easier going down,” he said, beaming at Beban. “Yup, like life itself, isn’t it? It’s human nature to wish for an easier way, sir—each day, inventers make our lives easier, for example.”
“And quicker,” Beban added, helping the man to stand.
“Twenty-three hours, Mr. Beban, if you decide before that, call me,” the man said, holding out a yellow business card. “After that, you will get no response—this number is time-sensitive.” He shuffled along slowly, escorted by Beban. “I must tell you, sir, that I love my job; it gives me great pleasure to be an emissary of happiness.”
As they reached the rail around the stairwell, Beban stopped and patted the older man’s shoulder. “I have made my wish, sir.”
The man gushed, clicking false teeth. “I am so delighted for you, Mister Beban. Why put off until tomorrow what one can accomplish today, as the saying goes?”
“My wish, Mister Andrews is that you survive a precipitous fall and become a terminal invalid, so you will finally discern how your clients really feel.”
Ignoring the thin man’s shocked expression, Beban lifted him, including the briefcase clutched in Andrew’s gelatinous white hands, over the rail and dropped him, headfirst. He waited for the thud of impact four floors below and then turned to grasp the knob on his door, scowling and shaking his head.
“Emissary of happiness, my aching ass,” Beban rasped, red-faced from both rage and his exertion. He thought about anger management issues that had plagued him all of his life. “Too late to do anything about it now,” he uttered, slamming the varnished Christian door. Alas, he could not control his own longevity, but he could control someone else’s.
Barry Judson Lohnes was born beside the grimy Androscoggin River in Lewiston, Maine—the fourth of six children, birthed by a French Canadian/Algonquin mother. A Marine Corps veteran, he was awarded a graduate teaching fellowship at the University of Maine. He has published historical articles, short fiction, and a novel, River of Screaming Souls (2014). Lohnes resides in Topsham, Maine with wife, Susan Mulholland.