Reflections On A Can Of Coors

The warm afternoon sun shone down on Tims fragile shoulders. In his liver spotted hand he held a can of Coors. The hand was in constant motion with old age tremors, the result of recently acquired Parkinsons Disease. Tim was staring intently at the can. He remembered reading a weird short story in the New Yorker. The story was about a guyor was it a gal?who stared at a letter on a can of beer and somehow or another there was a sex change. At least that is the way Tim recalled the tale. He stared at his can of beer but all he could see was the Big C. It was a bit ironic since most of his waking hours were spent thinking about the Big C.

Tim thought hed like to wake up and find himself a she and not a he. If he were a she hed not have this three month sentence hanging over him. The damn prostate cancer was going to finish him off. Women were lucky. They couldnt die from prostate cancer. Cancer seemed to nibble away their breasts. That MacDaddy Dude Cancer really knows how to hurt a guy. The actuaries all favour the women. Just take a look at the cruise liners or the convalescent homes. Lots of widows and very few widowers. Funny thing, though, women seem to age worse than men. Maybe it was because they try so hard to keep the bloom of youth on cheeks that have faded. Blue rinses, face lifts, eye shadowall seem to accentuate what is present and what was lost. A four-time decorated enlisted man, Tim had spent many years in the Far East and had seen many beautiful, old Oriental women. Skin clear, figures trim and a joyful acceptance of their years.

Tim watched the sunbeams dancing off the can. Looking at the big C he took a gulp of the luke warm beer. He knew that he

would go through the Pains of the Damned when he tried to piss out this can. But what the Hell! The Big C may think it is in control of his pain but he still had his human dignity and he could choose to suffer more if he wanted. God knows he had gotten a lot of pleasure from that prick and, if he wanted to give it a little more painwell, so be it. A man had to be in control of himself. Maybe the Buddhist had the right idea on this reincarnation stuff. Tim had already made the decision to ask to come back as a woman. Then if he lost a breast to the MacDaddy Dude Cancer hed still have another. But Hell, how many prostrates can a guy have cut out?

The can was empty. His hands clawed around it. The thought was to squeeze in its sides as he had done to literally thousands of cans in his 75 years of life. He gave a little chuckle. Jesus Tim, he thought to himself, you couldnt squeeze a marshmallow now. He agreed with Zsa Zsa Gabors observation that Macho does no prove mucho. He set the undentd Coors can on the seat of his chair. Painfully, stiffly he rose and walked into the house. Frances, he called out. Im going to the toilet and try and take a leak. Outside the sunbeams no longer danced on the upright empty Coors can. Tim tried his best to be a man, but Oh, Christ Frances...oh God... reverberated off of the pale green bathroom tiles.

Sean James McGinty July 2012