A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

His mouth drops open, his teeth come flying out, and he gasps for breath. “Fucking dentures almost killed me,” he says.

“You said you didn’t want to be resuscitated,” the nurse says, indignantly.

“I didn’t say I wanted to choke on my own goddamned teeth.”

“I thought it was an embolism. Did you think it was an embolism?” one nurse says to another.

“Do me a favor, send me home, where at least I can shoot myself when I’m ready.”

“Would you like me to call someone?” the nurse asks.

“Like who?”

“A representative of the hospital? Case-management personnel, the patient advocates? A doctor? You tell me.”

“Start at the top and work your way down,” he says. “And change my forms immediately. Clearly you don’t know the meaning of DNR.”

Half an hour later, a woman comes with the forms rescinding the DNR order. “It can take a while before the change makes its way into the system, so how about I put a sign on your door.”

“Do what’s necessary,” the man says.

“PLEASE SAVE THIS MAN,” the woman writes on the dry-erase board mounted on the door that already lists our names and that we’re IN DANGER OF FALLING/USE PRECAUTIONS.

In the middle of the afternoon, the pet person comes back, with photos of Tessie and the cat sitting on George and Jane’s sofa next to some nice-looking young fellow. “You’re squared away,” she says happily.

The cop from the park comes — he’s in uniform and carrying an FTD Big Hug bouquet — flowers with a stuffed bear clinging to the side of the vase. “Listen, I want to apologize — I treated you badly, you deserved better.”

“Okay,” I say.

The cop sits on the edge of my bed, and we make small talk, and then, when there’s really nothing more to say, he tells me that he’ll come back again another day.

“That was painful to watch. He must be in the program,” the roommate says when the cop is gone.

“What program?”

“One of the twelve steps — This-Anon, That-Anon, Everything-Anon-Anon. Step number nine is making amends for the harm you caused.”

“Interesting,” I say. I’m tempted to tell him my story of crashing the AA meeting, but, given how much he knows about these steps, some things are better left unsaid.

When dinner arrives, there’s nothing for him.

“Nothing?”

“I don’t have you down for any meals, but I might be able to get you a liquid tray,” the delivery woman says.

I lift the insulated cover off my plate and find the main dish unrecognizable.

“What is it?” I ask.

The delivery woman peers over. “That would be our chicken Marsala.”

“I’m dying,” my roommate says. “I have got no intention of drinking my last meal unless it’s very good Scotch.”

“How about some carry-out menus from the nurses’ station? They’re always ordering in.”

“That would be great.” He’s suddenly pleased; more than pleased — inspired.

I put the cover back on my plate to keep the fumes from escaping and wait to see what happens next.

“What do you want for dinner?” he asks as he’s going through the menus.

“Anything but Chinese.”

Excited, he pulls his cell phone out from where it’s been hidden under the covers and starts dialing. His ability to move is limited, but he’s on a mission. First he calls the burger place and orders two cheeseburger deluxes with fries and extra pickles, then the pizza place for a medium pepperoni pie, the deli for some rice pudding and cream soda. I ask him to have them throw in a couple of Hershey bars with almonds. And when the deli guy says it’s a minimum of twenty dollars to deliver, he tells the guy that he’ll give him a fifty-dollar tip if he also stops at the liquor store for a very specific bottle of Scotch. The man says he’ll do the job himself.

“So what if I order more than I can eat? I’m dying, I don’t have to worry about leftovers. Is there anything special I can get you, something you’ve been dying for, no pun intended?” the roommate asks me.

I used to like caviar, fresh-made cheese blintzes, chocolate éclairs, and there was that doughnut I ate maybe forty years ago that I can’t ever forget, an orange cruller on a cold morning outside a polling place during the 1972 presidential election that was as close to perfection as any food can be. But the fact is, I’m lying in a hospital bed and am not exactly feeling any kind of culinary craving. “Thanks,” I say, “but I’m good with whatever you choose.”

We wait. Will they remember to bring ketchup and mustard? Should we call back for mayo? We share a reverie about our love of mayonnaise, and he asks, Have I ever had Belgian French fries and dipping sauce, well done, salted and piping hot? Yes, I have, and his description of them is enough.

It takes longer than you’d think. There’s a hospital to be navigated, security procedures downstairs — do they make them open the cheeseburgers? — elevators, corridors.

“Can you get my pants out of the closet?” the roommate asks. I get up slowly and make my way to his closet, dragging my IV pole and wires and my left foot, which doesn’t seem to be fully functional. “Look in my pocket.”

His pockets are loaded with cash, wads of twenties and a wallet filled with travelers’ checks, euros, and English pounds.

“Looks like you’re going for broke,” I say, trying to make a joke.

“The last few times I left the house, I made sure I went to the cash machine. You never know what’s going to happen and the worst thing would be to have no cash. We live in an economy and we die in an economy — wherever you go, you have to tip. No point being on a downward spiral and getting lousy service as you’re sinking. I prepaid my funeral years ago. You want the euros, take them.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say, putting the foreign currency back in his pants.

We bet on how long it will take each of the delivery boys to find us. I am the winner at thirty-eight minutes, and the roommate gives me a hundred bucks in “bonus points” when the cheeseburgers arrive. The pizza is a close second. “I’ve never delivered to a patient before, it’s cool,” the guy says. “I mean, as long as you’re not contagious.” The deli guy is the last to arrive. “Sorry it took me so long, I had to find someone to cover the register.” He hands over the bag of goodies along with the Scotch. My roommate peels off another hundred to cover the debt and offers him a drink.

“I’m gonna pass,” the guy says. “I have to get back to work. But I’m curious what’s wrong with you, that you’re lying in bed ordering rice pudding and Scotch.”

“I’m dying,” the man says, “and you know what’s amazing? Today I really did almost die once, they were about to let me go, and now that I lived, I feel great, not like I’ll live forever, but I’m okay with dying.” He pauses. “I’m dying,” he says. “I’ve said it more today than ever before, and suddenly it’s a fact, something that’s out there, like a coming attraction at the movies.”

“I guess we’re all dying,” the deli guy says. “I mean, sooner or later we gotta go.”

The woman who delivered the hospital meals comes to collect my tray. She stays for a slice of pizza and a few fries.

I’m enjoying the cheeseburger; it’s a perfectly gummy, gristly combination, cut by the salty fries and the sour snap of the pickles. I am well past my fill line when I take a tumbler of rice pudding and fill both of our hospital-issue blue plastic cups with Scotch.

“You want me to get some ice?” I ask.

“A straw,” he says, “a straw would be good.”

We’ve propped up the head of his bed, and now he’s happily sucking down the Scotch.