The Fuc It List -

"Just spit it out, okay?" Michael heard the tremor in his voice and hated that he could barely control it. Here he was on the verge of tears in front of a goddamn stranger; one more humiliation.

Thanks, cancer.

The man wasn't a complete stranger. Dr. Gregory was the oncologist that Dave, his real doctor, had recommended. Dr. Gregory was highly respected and everyone at Rush Memorial seemed to worship him like a god. They talked about him in hushed tones and used words like "miracle worker". The man's bedside manner was for fuck all though and Michael wasn't sure there was anything supernatural about prescribing drugs in a particular order. After surgery and radiation and two grueling bouts of chemotherapy, Michael wasn't sure that the man knew his name without his accompanying chart. He was cold and stiff, like a fucking corpse. Maybe that came in handy when you spend your days with the dying.

"I'm saying that you should get prepared, Mr. Fleming. You should tell your family and get your affairs in order."

Michael could literally hear a pin drop. Even though, just outside the office, there was all manner of chaos. It was all of the machinery beeping and voices over the intercom. It was all sirens and horns and blood and screaming. It was approaching death and dismemberment. Right outside the door, it was messy. The chaos, the soup of existence. Life.

Inside, Michael could hear his pulse. There was nothing, not even white noise. It was so quiet. Quiet as a tomb, quiet as infinity, space, nothingness. All the shit that Michael was about to find out about first hand apparently.

For the fifty thousand dollar question, he gulped hard and asked in a dry, raspy voice, "How long do I have?" It was arduous just to speak, just to breathe.

Dr. Gregory laid both hands on the desk. Michael had never noticed the wedding band before and wondered for a moment what it must be like to go home to a wife and kids after playing the Grim Reaper all day. Was Dr. Gregory a dad who read bedtime stories and kissed boo-boos? Was he a considerate lover and attentive husband? With all of that dying talk all day, Michael couldn't help but wonder.

"You know that that's just a guess, right? Doctors give out these numbers and it's based on nothing but theory. Hopefulness," he added with a shrug; like hope was the polite word for bullshit. The oncologist made a face and set his teeth with slightly parted lips and Michael thought it was a poor excuse for a smile.

"I get it. You're not a god after all," Michael said sarcastically. "How about an educated guess? Exactly like the rest of this cancer treatment has been."

Dr. Gregory looked annoyed. Michael guessed that the man wasn't used to anyone insisting anything of him, being the Angel of Death and all. "An educated guess? Okay, with your bloodwork, could be three months, could be nine months."

Michael nodded, after all, he was a math whiz. He lived by the law of averages. "So six months, give or take?"

Dr. Gregory was clearly ready to move on to some other patient who wasn't a lost cause. He'd closed Michael's file and that seemed to be definitive of Michael's whole life right now. Closed out, used up, the grains of sand in the hourglass, almost gone.

Tick, tick, tick.

"Sure, give or take."

Michael nodded and suddenly knew why no one should be given those answers. Having a timeline was terrible and exhilarating all at the same time. Man wasn't supposed to have this kind of knowledge. It was supposed to be a surprise. He was supposed to live with the big question mark over his head and hope for the best each day. This was the stuff of god, this secret knowledge, this rush of urgency that went through him.

It was still better than hanging on to the toilet seat with both hands though. Those nights of dripping sweat, soaked through his clothes. Even his sweat smelled of chemicals. He could still taste the bile that seeped from the corners of his parched lips, still hear himself promising god that he'd be a better everything if he could just get well. He had prayed, prayed to something he didn't believe in. Wished. Hoped. It had all been far too mysterious for a man who lived by facts and charts and trends.

This, he could do. This was clarity. Data.

One thing he wasn't going to do was waste one more second of his allotted time that was left on earth sitting here with this ass clown. No more doctors, no more tests, no more embarrassing hospital gowns that left your ass exposed while the cold, vinyl upholstery of the examination table pried you apart.

"Thanks. Good to know," Michael said as he rose to his feet. He paused, he knew that there was some kind of something that should be said. He should thank the man for his assistance, all that he'd tried to do. Michael couldn't make the words come out though. Dr. Gregory didn't care, he'd just been the manager of the standard events that society made you go through. Got cancer? Here's the flowchart, follow the arrows to the end. Feel better, yes or no. Actually, he hadn't even been nice to Michael, coolly polite at best.

So he summed it all up quickly because Michael suddenly felt that all things from here on out should be straight to the point. "You're a real prick."

With that, Michael opened the office door and left the tomb of silence and re-emerged into the chaos of life.

***

Michael decided it over an excellent lunch.

He had an epiphany while at Gene and Georgetti's. It began with the first breath of a bottle of Prunotto Barolo. A very cute waitress had brought it to him for examination and after Michael had nodded, she'd released the cork with flair. The full nose of the wine's rich bouquet seemed to explode in the air around him. The sunlight seemed to dance in a splatter of diamonds on the cute waitress' face and at that moment, she almost had a halo. From the cold, crisp wedge salad to the hiss and crackle of the tomahawk ribeye, seared to a perfect medium rare, every moment had become a symphony of the senses. As he watched butter drip down the meat's sizzling crust, something that seemed extraordinarily sinful, that was when he'd realized it.

He was going to go out with a bang.

If his life up till now had been more of a sparkler, a pop and a whimper; then the next six months, give or take, were going to be a stick of dynamite. After all, what did he really have to show for his fifty-two years, especially since there wasn't going to be a fifty third?

A lot of goddamn work, that's what. He'd started working two jobs in high school and kept it up all through college. In addition, he'd had an internship before he had graduated at the top of his class from Northwestern. Then he worked eighty hours a week at Wells Fargo until he got the VP job at Merrill. That was more like a hundred hours a week until he was offered the partnership at BDF. The higher he had risen, the more hours he devoted. Now he had two ex-wives who sent each other Christmas cards and he spent the holidays in the office.

He'd been the fellow voted most likely to stay late.

Michael barely had to chew the steak, it practically melted in his mouth. It was fatty and tender, crispy and thick and he savored every bite. The wine carried notes of licorice and coffee and the scent had mellowed and sweetened as the wine continued to breathe. Michael wiped a bread crust along his plate and sucked up the meaty juices and the herbed butter. He let the flavors marry inside and hummed with pleasure. Cholesterol be damned, he could taste again and he wasn't ever going to waste it on something less than scrumptious.

Was it just because he'd been threatened to eat healthy all his life that it tasted so good? Michael had lost his paunch during chemo and since then, he'd been relegated to dry turkey and shriveled bits of vegetables for sustenance. Whatever was labeled healthy, whatever the fuck that meant.

Or was it because this could be the last steak, ever? He gorged until his pants felt a little tight. He decided that his stomach must have shrunk and the thirty-two-ounce steak was going to have to be wrapped in one of those fancy foil swans and taken home.

Michael already knew that he'd never go back to the office again. The partners had known for a while that he was ill. They had graciously kept the cancer hush hush so that Michael's clients didn't get nervous. They'd just whispered things like sabbatical and scouting new overseas opportunities. His secretary had kept his door shut and his calendar clear and told visitors that she expected him any minute now.

Michael realized as he twirled the last of the wine that even as he'd sat in the chair and listened to the whir of the machine that pumped the chemo into his veins, even then, he hadn't missed going to work.

The only question now was; what to do?

Michael knew that people made lists of things like seeing the Eiffel Tower or the Great Wall of China. They wanted to get to all the things that they had seen in a magazine and someone told them were noteworthy. They wanted to cram in the whole world before they checked out.

He shrugged as he thought about those things. He'd traveled his fair share, almost always for work and it was almost always just a little disappointing. Sure, he'd like to watch the sunset in Florence one more time. He felt the need to walk down Bourbon Street once more. There were places to go and things to do, but it didn't thrill him. He thought if he'd been waiting for something to take his breath away, now was about fucking time.

He knew that people would make amends or reach out to get in touch with someone that they'd stopped speaking too. Forgiveness was probably big, something to ease the transition, make it easier to say goodbye. Spiritual morphine. Michael didn't have anyone that he'd slighted, if you didn't count the fact that he'd worked too much to be a good husband.

Regrets, he had a few.

When the waitress came back and cocked her head, Michael noticed. He noticed her tuck the curly, dark hair behind her ear. He noticed her blue eyes that looked deep and cool, like a swimming pool on a hot, summer afternoon. There was the crinkle of laugh lines around the corners of her eyes and the slightly crooked eye tooth that gave her a mischievous grin. "Are your eyes bigger than your stomach?" she asked in a husky voice that made it seem like a secret they shared, something suggestive.

She smelled like vanilla pudding and for the first time in a long time, Michael felt the stir from deep down inside. He'd thought he'd lost it along with his hair during chemo but no. There it was. He felt a gush of gratitude and his face and neck were suddenly much warmer.

That was something worth spending the last six months of life on.

"Yes, they were. Can I have a doggie bag? Or whatever?" He got all flustered as she looked him in the eye. He'd never been smooth, god help him, not even close. He'd never even been efficient at talking to women. The better looking they were, the more enticing, the more flirtatious, the more stupidly tongue-tied he became.

Why had it been so easy to spend every waking moment at work? Because there was no good reason to do anything else. Even when he'd been married, it had never come naturally. He'd always been so hesitant, he'd always second-guessed himself and then rolled over to regret the lost opportunities one more time.

He'd been labeled cold but Michael ached to prove them wrong. He was fairly certain that there was an absolute fountain of passion somewhere down, deep inside. Like a hidden, underground spring that's been trickling away since the beginning of time; an unnoticed dam, swollen and ready to burst.

"Sure, anything else I can get for you?" She asked in that voice that delved down under his collar. Michael could almost imagine her breath on his neck as she unbuttoned him. She'd do it slowly, it would be almost unbearably slow. She'd ask him what else he wanted as her hands reached his belt. Then she'd look up, she was only what, five-six? She'd look up as she let her hands meander down and caress his pulsing dick through the front of his pants.

Anything I can get you?

"No," he whispered and wrote in a thirty-five percent tip when she left him alone with the receipt and his thoughts. He watched her plump bottom move in the back of her black pants as she walked to the other side of the restaurant. She'd done enough, more than enough. Actually, the blue-eyed waitress had done more for him in the last hour or two than Dr. Gregory and the whole oncology team had managed to do for him in fourteen months.

She'd given him a reason to live.

***

Michael stayed up well past midnight. He scribbled a stream of consciousness into a notebook. It was odd to handwrite something anymore and his chicken scratch was downright illegible but it felt more personal that way. At least then, if the cleaning lady found his corpse, naked and pale in the morning sunlight, she'd know. He imagined himself lying there, all stiff and cold, with the notebook open and check marks made down the list. Then at least one person on earth would know what he'd been up to.

It was his bucket list, his version of it anyway. In Michael's mind, it was the only quest worthy of pursuing in these, his final days. On the top of the first page, he'd written in black, bold handwriting, "Fuck It List". At first, he'd blushed when he'd written it and almost scratched it out, embarrassed by his own brashness. He kept it though and the more items he'd scrawled down the page, the more the title made him smirk. Then he chuckled. Finally, he let out a deep belly laugh like he hadn't done since cancer had become a topic of conversation. It felt better than he could ever remember feeling.

When was the last time anything had been funny?

Christ, he'd decided after he scanned the list, he'd been such a square, such a eunuch really. There had been so many fantasies that he'd tucked away and beat off to. He recalled pumping his hand up and down furiously as the shame burned on his face. These were simple things really. He was sure that to some, his list was almost chaste.

Nerdy.

In the age of internet porn, nothing on the list was going to rock anyone's boat. But still, last night, Michael had decided as he'd closed the notebook and laid it on the nightstand along with his cheaters, it was a beautiful ending to a somewhat mediocre beginning and a mundane middle.

In the morning, rather than regret his decision, Michael grabbed the notebook first thing. He had read through the list, item by item, as he drank his coffee.

His usual routine was coffee, then shower. Rather than his usual brush with the mirror, this morning he took his time and assessed the situation. After all, basically every single item on the list involved him being naked with someone. He might as well have a good idea of what he was working with. It wasn't anything that he looked forward to but he was a realist if nothing else.

First things first, he was grateful. Michael looked at the man in the mirror and felt a wave of relief wash over him that he'd grown his hair back. Nothing screamed "about to take the dirt nap" like a bald, shriveled head, Michael had decided. So check, he had hair on his head once more. It was mostly gray, but it was thick and it curled in the back. It was a different texture altogether than it had been before they had pumped him full of poison but it wasn't bad.

Then there were his eyes. Michael had always thought they were his best feature. They were large, gray eyes, somber but expressive. He had long, black lashes and thick, dark brows that made him look thoughtful and intelligent. So far, so good.

Oddly, his body hair hadn't fared as well as the lush regrowth on his head. His chest and arm hair were pretty sparse. Pubes too, just a few sprouts. Maybe that was a good thing though. According to the porn that Michael had seen recently, it seemed that most humans had been waxed and stripped, and spray-tanned to an oddly plastic-coated sheen.

Michael grabbed his stomach and moved the loose skin. He'd lost thirty pounds between radiation and chemotherapy and he actually wore it well. He could see the line that ran down the center of his abs and he traced it with his fingers. It was a line that had disappeared during his thirties and forties and he welcomed it back now in spite of the way it had come. Gone was the waddle under his chin too and that was an improvement.

The phrase was "skinny fat". Michael had picked it up from the kids in the mailroom and that seemed about perfect. Skinny fat, he didn't work out and cancer had left him too weak to even go for a stroll most days. Now that he had gotten some energy back though, he'd be goddamned if he stepped foot inside a gym.

So this was as good as it got.

Lastly, there was his dick. He grabbed it, half hard and familiar in his hand as he performed a full inspection. His first ex-wife had told him, twenty-five years ago, when she had been mostly tipsy on half a pitcher of margaritas, that he had a good looking dick. Michael had never put much stock in that, given how inebriated she had been, but still, it wasn't bad. Not huge by any means but not small either. It was rather pink, it definitely wasn't his worst feature. Anyone who saw his face wasn't going to be disappointed by what he had in his boxers.

After he shaved and showered, Michael stood in the walk-in closet wearing only a towel as he scanned his wardrobe. It was all suits. Jesus, they were beautiful suits and he'd spent a fortune on them over the years; Hugo Boss and Balani and Brooks Brothers. They were all double breasted and tailored to fit his fuller frame. The clothes would hang on him now. To the right were what he would have deemed his casual clothes. There were khaki pants and polo shirts, a few pairs of long, plaid shorts. These were the things that he had worn to play golf or attend weekend meetings. Finally there were two pairs of sweatpants and a couple of Cubs tee shirts. That rounded out the clothes of his past life. Michael realized that it was really a guidebook to his life so far. There was work and not much else.

Nordstrom was a quick fifteen minute walk from the apartment and it was a perfect day for it. Michael looked out the bedroom window for a moment and took it in. One of the many perks of living at Chestnut Towers, especially this high up, was the panoramic views. Lake Michigan glittered in all of her sapphire glory to the left. To his right was the almost Caribbean green of the Chicago river. It was the middle of September and summer seemed to have just eased into crisp, dry air and cooler, starry nights. Even the breeze seemed to carry some sense of longing. It felt like a collective sigh, if they could just make the summer last.

Yeah, exactly.

***

Michael had just learned that he was a thirty-inch waist for the first time since his first marriage. It made him want to stand up straight as he looked at his reflection.

He kept saying yes to clothes. Mark, the young man who had been helping him, kept bringing them. The salesman probably saw him as an easy mark. He was a middle-aged man with a hopeless sense of fashion and a fat wallet full of credit cards. Like a midlife crisis on steroids. Whatever the reason, Mark had been attentive and toted and carried a stunning, new assortment of all the clothes that Michael had never had time for. There were jeans, softly worn looking although the price tag disagreed. There were button-down shirts made to be worn with the tail out that would have been frowned upon at the office. There were cashmere sweaters that were impossibly soft and light and fleecy at the same time. There was a leather jacket that smelled rich and full of tannins and carried with it long ago discarded dreams of a motorcycle.