Bello’s Final Days

You’ve come for something, no? Something rare and dear and of no use to me? My carpets? My coin collection? Come to see me with hat in hand. Very good, you’ve heard. From your mother? Your dutiful sister out on the coast? Who? It doesn’t matter. The important thing is that you’ve heard and that you’ve come. You are a good son. You’ve always been a good son. Well, take a good look at me while you can. It could be the last time. I’m not much different. A little shrunken.

A little more gray. Well, that’s cancer for you.

Take off your coat. I’ll get you a cup of coffee and maybe you’ll do me a favor and change the light in the bathroom. I’m afraid of stepladders now. Afraid of everything. I’ve only asked the Super 50 times. I guess $100 at Christmas isn’t enough. It’s no bother. At worst, I nick myself when shaving. Enough to eat? Fine, all good. I’ve gotten used to the microwave. A wonderful thing.

It’s OK to loosen your tie. Relax. So, you’ve come all this way, tell me, what do you want to know? I’m fine. I’m old, so I’m sick. It’s natural. The indignities, just as God intended. He made old people sick so their busy children would remember to visit them. Now, it’s more than sick. It’s terminal. I’m finished.

Are you hungry? No. You’re sure? You’re sure you’re not hungry? Stay. Stay. I’ve ordered some sushi. I knew you were coming. I knew you’d be hungry. I knew you’d be running. In a hurry. Stealing a look as if you walked in on your mother when she was in the tub. Yes, she told me that—and not just once she said. I don’t blame you. I did the same—like father like son.

The sushi, it’s very good. No, from that other place — the fancy one. It’s worth the money. It’s better, fresher, brighter, I don’t want to be poisoned. Tuna. Yellowtail. Mackerel. Salmon eggs. Even Salmon Skin. If 10 years ago you told me I’d be sitting here with you eating raw fish from trays on our laps, I’d say you were crazy. Crazy. Go figure.

This is new to me. As I get sicker, I’m trying new things. You know what no one tells you? Cancer is freedom. Sushi is relatively innocent. I’ll tell you something else, but you must promise not to tell anyone. Ahh, tell who you want. What do I care? One night, I called an escort service. Yes, an escort service. Don’t laugh. I’m being serious. Three hundred dollars an hour they get. Three hundred dollars. These girls will retire millionaires.

I had them send me a black girl. Yes, a black girl. Seventy-five years old and I’ve always wondered what they’d be like. How? How did you turn out to be such an imbecile? First of all, I’m dead already. Second, getting it up was a miracle. I was not going to fool with a rubber.

Yes, it was very nice. She was very lovely. Different from your mother, but in ways I won’t go into. No, not once. I had her come back. No, she doesn’t steal, she makes me happy. Do something foolish? No, I’m not going to marry her. An hour or two at three hundred dollars, a little more a throw. Be happy for me and learn something too, smart guy.

It’s good, no? Have some more. There’s a lot more. It’s the Shogun’s platter. If I want more, I’ll pick up the phone and order more. That’s the beauty of life today. Everything is possible by phone: sushi, black girls, even my own son, who I only had to call three times before he took my call.

No, no more chess. Not even TV. To be honest, I’ve lost interest in everything but my symptoms. I’ll tell you more if you like and you better listen, because you — whatever you might think you are — are not Mr. Immortal.

Doctors? No, I no longer care. I simply don’t care. When I’m in pain I go outside and sit. When I’m not in pain I call colored hookers. Don’t look so hurt. I’m teasing you. Let me have a little fun before it’s gone. You don’t have to worry. You’ll get everything you’re entitled to. I’ll tell you something: One day, the light burned out, and I thought, this is it, I’m dead. I’m gone. But it was only the bulb. But that’s how quickly it happens. That’s why I want you to call me every day. Because I don’t want to be found after a week. I want to be cared for — buried within one day of my death — all according to tradition. Yes, if possible. That goes without saying. It’s doesn’t matter what I’ve done or how I lived. And, no, Mr. Ethics, I’m not being a hypocrite. It’s simply what I want. I don’t know why. Suddenly it seems important. I’m only asking you because your mother is no longer my wife, and I think your sister would prefer it if you took care of the details. For a walk? If you want. A little fresh air is always good for you. After we eat. Then, let’s see how we feel.