Chapter 1

I sat in my Doctor's reception area, waiting patiently for the final lab test results to be looked over by him. From the looks that the young receptionist and one of the nurses were giving me, I had a feeling that it wasn't going to be good news that the doctor would be discussing with me. My body had already given me a lot of warnings over the past few years. Most of my health problems were probably caused by a combination of the effects from all the years that I'd spent smoking two packs of cigarettes a day, drinking half a quart of booze or more, and eating mostly greasy fast foods when I even bothered to take the time to eat. I had reached the point where I had to drink two ounces of vodka in the morning before I could make my hands stop shaking enough for me to shave. I knew that I'd find out soon enough.

"Dr. Barry will see you now Mr. Gordon." She was a pretty little receptionist, but my mind had only enough room for me and my problems right then. Not that a twenty something cutie would give even a first thought to someone who looked like me. I lifted myself up from the chair and walked back to an examining office. Even that little bit of physical exertion had left me spent and gasping for air. I didn't really need a Doctor to tell me that I was in trouble. The nurse took my blood pressure, pulse and temperature. She wrote her readings on my chart and left, telling me that the Doctor would be right in to see me.

"Jimmy, let's go over to my office, we'll be able to relax and talk better over there." Frank Barry was a long time friend, as well as my personal physician for the past thirty five years. He had been telling me for all of that time that my life style choices were going to kill me. From the way he looked at me, and the expression of his face, I knew that he was taking no pleasure in the fact that his warnings were approaching reality. It was another fifty foot walk to his office, but I managed it all right. I sat down in one of the two chairs in front of his desk and he quickly moved around and sat down behind the desk. He touched my medical chart, a thick sheath of papers that he had just sat down in front of him, and then he looked up at my face. There were the beginnings of tears in both of his eyes, and I was touched by his obvious concern. "How about we both have a little drink, Jimmy? It will make it easier for me to tell you what I need to say, and it might make it easier for you to hear."

"Sure Frank, it can't hurt." He pulled a bottle of scotch out of his desk drawer and a couple of plastic cups. Slowly, precisely, he poured a couple of inches of the hooch into the two cups, placed the cap on the bottle, and put it back inside his drawer. He handed me my drink. I raised it up to make a toast. "Long life, Frank." I drank the drink down with a single, welcoming, swallow. I didn't want to taste it, it was medicine for what was surely coming. Frank didn't touch his drink at all.

"Jimmy, there's no easy way for me to say this, so I'm just going to say it. You've got a malignant tumor in your brain, more cancer in your bones, and it has spread to your liver and pancreas. It is somewhat surprising to me that you even managed to drive over here today, given the results we've gotten from all of our testing. I've consulted with two other good men, and all three of us concur that you have from two weeks to a month longer to live. No more than a month. I'm sorry." He then picked up his drink and drained the cup.

"No possibility of a treatment Frank?" I asked just because I didn't want to let the question fester in my mind, spoiling any of the precious time that I had left.

"There's nothing Jimmy. I'd have mentioned it to you if there was. I can help you to manage the pain, but you should really be in a hospice where they have expertise in taking care of terminal patients. In a hospice setting, we'd be able to make you comfortable at least." I stood up, waving his suggestion of a hospice away. I waved at him as I left, half expecting him to get up and make a further attempt to convince me to check myself in somewhere for an antiseptic death. I hadn't lived an antiseptic life, and I'd be damned if I'd let myself die that way, all doped up and unaware of my surroundings. I made it to my Cadillac and got behind the wheel. It was a fifteen minute drive to my house, but I don't remember making it. When I was parked in my own driveway, I let myself go and allowed my feelings of self pity to fully emerge. I still wanted more. A lot more. But, right now, I needed to get inside and pour myself a drink, and light up another cigarette. Two weeks! Two fucking weeks! Jesus Christ, I couldn't get all my shit ready in two weeks.

Once I had a drink and a smoke, I calmed down and started being able to think again. I needed to make a thorough inventory, and I needed to do it fast. Who would I leave everything to? I had a lot to leave too. In the last forty years I'd managed to build myself a nice list of assets, in spite of all of the drinking, and the unhealthy lifestyle. I had invested in California real estate since the early sixties, accumulating properties and renting them out, then buying even more. I speculated in small land parcels, but I mainly invested in rental property. Over the years, the returns had been exceptional. And, I thought, for what? What had I built it all up for? I had no wife, no kids, no family at all. I was sixty five years old, and had never even been in love.

That didn't mean that I'd been lonely, no, far from it. Financial success brought some social acceptance. I got myself laid fairly regularly. Some of it was with pros, but most of it was with people wanting access to some part of my money, or hoping to persuade me to invest in one project or another. Sex was a commodity. The girl that I'd bought my Cadillac from had given me a nice blow job as a bonus, to seal the deal. My insurance agent stopped by the house two or three times a year, and took me into my bedroom and thanked me for giving her all of my insurance business. That part of my life had been fine, better than most, I was sure, but there was no family, few friends, not many people who would even notice my dying. Before I knew I was dying, I hadn't cared about any of that. Now, suddenly, I did. I didn't want to die all alone. I tried praying, but even I knew that it was too little too late. Until I heard the voice in my head.