Mikey alternately tries on his wig and his vintage Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap. Chemotherapy has wasted what handsomeness he possessed: his scalp is a bristly scrub; his eyes are set in caverns; his tongue cannot relieve his lips' raw chap. From time to time his hands, like an old man's, tremble. At twenty-three, he imagines death as an unrelenting scavenger, perched upon his clavicle, much like a crow. He has even developed a flinch to shrug the bird off—to no avail. Tonight, however, is Saturday night. Tonight is all that matters. Tonight The Golden Spur (his haunt) awaits.

Who will it be, he asks himself.
Michelle? Best boobs in Tucson. Bambi? Perfect body. Liz? Could test a salmon's stamina.

Mikey plants a practice kiss on his wrist, eyes shut politely... then views himself, post-smooch, in the closet's full-length mirror.

Definitely not the rug.
It makes him look like Dagwood Bumstead.

Snatching it off, he replaces it with the cap.

Behold, the reincarnation of Peewee Reese.

He cocks the bill at a rakish angle.

Yoiks, one flap of those Dumbo ears, I'm airborne.

He makes a readjustment, tucking them in.

Wonder if mustachios might be an option?

Twisting make-believe ends, he hazards a smile—which makes his ears pop back out.

Sense of humor souring, death curls its talons.

Bambi, then. So tom-tom tight, her buns permit no pinching.

Mikey checks his wallet.

Damn; no singles. Have to break this ten spot, multiply the fun.

He wiggles his spindly fingers.

I deputize you all—a posse of penises.

His outstretched hands, in rebellion, start to shake. Stuffing  them into his pockets, he waits out the tremor... suffers its severity... weathers its pain... then rallies what remains of his lust for life.




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