Hodgkin’s lymphoma.
Page by page, Denny fills up his pad with figure studies, beautiful women smiling, thin women blowing him kisses, women with their faces tilted down, but their eyes looking up at him through falls of hair.
“Losing your sense of taste,” I tell Denny, “means oral cancers.”
And without looking at me, looking back and forth betweenhis sketch and the new dancer, Denny says, “Then, dude, you got that cancer a long time ago.”
Even if my mom died, I’m not sure if I’d want to go back and get readmitted before my credits start to expire. As it is, I already know way more than I’m comfortable with.
After you find out all the things that can go wrong, your life becomes less about living and more about waiting. For cancer. For dementia. Every look in a mirror, you scan for the red rash that means shingles. See also: Ringworm.
See also: Scabies
See also: Lyme disease, meningitis, rheumatic fever, syphilis.
The next patient who presents herself is another blonde, thin, maybe a little too thin. A spinal tumor probably. If she has a headache, a low fever, a sore throat, she has polio.
“Go like this,” Denny yells up to her, and he covers his eyeglasses with his open hands.
The patient does this.
“Beautiful,” Denny says, sketching a study fast. “How about if you open your mouth a little.”
And she does.
“Dude,” he says. “Workshop models are
never
this hot.”
All I can see is she’s not a very good dancer and, for sure, this lack of coordination means amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.
See also: Lou Gehrig’s disease.
See also: Total paralysis. See also: Difficulty breathing. See also: Cramps, tiredness, crying.
See also: Death.
With the edge of his hand, Denny smears the cork lines to add shadow and depth. It’s the woman onstage with her hands over her eyes, her mouth slightly open, and Denny picks at it fast, his eyes going back to the woman for details, her belly button,the curve of her hipbones. My only gripe is the way Denny draws women is not the way they look for real. In Denny’s version, the cheesy thighs on some woman will look rock-solid. The bagged-out eyes on some other woman will become clear and toned underneath.
“You got any cash left over, dude?” Denny says. “I don’t want her to move on just yet.”
But I’m broke, and the girl moves on to the next guy down along the stage.
“Let’s see, Picasso,” I tell him.
And Denny scratches under his eye and leaves a big smudge of soot. Then he tips the legal pad enough for me to see a naked woman with her hands over her eyes, sleek and tensing every muscle tight, none of her looks trashed by gravity or ultraviolet light or poor nutrition. She’s smooth but soft. Flexed but relaxed. She’s a total physical impossibility.
“Dude,” I say, “you made her look too young.”
The next patient is Cherry Daiquiri again, coming back around, not smiling this time, sucking hard on the inside of one cheek and asking me, “This mole I have? You sure it’s cancer? I mean, I don’t know, but how scared should I be … ?”
Without looking at her, I hold up one finger. This is international sign language for
Please wait. The doctor will see you shortly.
“No way are her ankles that thin,” I tell Denny. “And her ass is way bigger than you have there.”
I lean over to see what Denny’s doing, then look down the stage to the last patient. “You need to make her knees lumpier,” I say.
The downstage dancer gives me a filthy look.
Denny just keeps sketching. He makes her eyes huge. He fixes her split ends. He gets everything all wrong.
“Dude,” I say. “You know, you’re not a very good artist.”
I say, “For serious, dude, I don’t see that at all.”
Denny says, “Before you go trash the whole world, you need to be calling your sponsor, bad.” He says, “And in case you still give a shit, your mom said you need to read what’s in her dictionary.”
To Cherry crouching there in
Page by page, Denny fills up his pad with figure studies, beautiful women smiling, thin women blowing him kisses, women with their faces tilted down, but their eyes looking up at him through falls of hair.
“Losing your sense of taste,” I tell Denny, “means oral cancers.”
And without looking at me, looking back and forth betweenhis sketch and the new dancer, Denny says, “Then, dude, you got that cancer a long time ago.”
Even if my mom died, I’m not sure if I’d want to go back and get readmitted before my credits start to expire. As it is, I already know way more than I’m comfortable with.
After you find out all the things that can go wrong, your life becomes less about living and more about waiting. For cancer. For dementia. Every look in a mirror, you scan for the red rash that means shingles. See also: Ringworm.
See also: Scabies
See also: Lyme disease, meningitis, rheumatic fever, syphilis.
The next patient who presents herself is another blonde, thin, maybe a little too thin. A spinal tumor probably. If she has a headache, a low fever, a sore throat, she has polio.
“Go like this,” Denny yells up to her, and he covers his eyeglasses with his open hands.
The patient does this.
“Beautiful,” Denny says, sketching a study fast. “How about if you open your mouth a little.”
And she does.
“Dude,” he says. “Workshop models are
never
this hot.”
All I can see is she’s not a very good dancer and, for sure, this lack of coordination means amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.
See also: Lou Gehrig’s disease.
See also: Total paralysis. See also: Difficulty breathing. See also: Cramps, tiredness, crying.
See also: Death.
With the edge of his hand, Denny smears the cork lines to add shadow and depth. It’s the woman onstage with her hands over her eyes, her mouth slightly open, and Denny picks at it fast, his eyes going back to the woman for details, her belly button,the curve of her hipbones. My only gripe is the way Denny draws women is not the way they look for real. In Denny’s version, the cheesy thighs on some woman will look rock-solid. The bagged-out eyes on some other woman will become clear and toned underneath.
“You got any cash left over, dude?” Denny says. “I don’t want her to move on just yet.”
But I’m broke, and the girl moves on to the next guy down along the stage.
“Let’s see, Picasso,” I tell him.
And Denny scratches under his eye and leaves a big smudge of soot. Then he tips the legal pad enough for me to see a naked woman with her hands over her eyes, sleek and tensing every muscle tight, none of her looks trashed by gravity or ultraviolet light or poor nutrition. She’s smooth but soft. Flexed but relaxed. She’s a total physical impossibility.
“Dude,” I say, “you made her look too young.”
The next patient is Cherry Daiquiri again, coming back around, not smiling this time, sucking hard on the inside of one cheek and asking me, “This mole I have? You sure it’s cancer? I mean, I don’t know, but how scared should I be … ?”
Without looking at her, I hold up one finger. This is international sign language for
Please wait. The doctor will see you shortly.
“No way are her ankles that thin,” I tell Denny. “And her ass is way bigger than you have there.”
I lean over to see what Denny’s doing, then look down the stage to the last patient. “You need to make her knees lumpier,” I say.
The downstage dancer gives me a filthy look.
Denny just keeps sketching. He makes her eyes huge. He fixes her split ends. He gets everything all wrong.
“Dude,” I say. “You know, you’re not a very good artist.”
I say, “For serious, dude, I don’t see that at all.”
Denny says, “Before you go trash the whole world, you need to be calling your sponsor, bad.” He says, “And in case you still give a shit, your mom said you need to read what’s in her dictionary.”
To Cherry crouching there in
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