Subject Steve - Sam Lipsyte

Items #1 Bastards said they had some good news and some bad news. "Stop," I said. "I've heard this joke before." "What joke," said one of them, the Mechanic. "He means that joke," said the other, the Philosopher. "That bit about the doctors. He thinks we're doctors." "Aren't you?" I said. They had white coats, their own wing. "This ain't no joke, Jack," said the Mechanic. My name's not Jack. My name's not Steve, either, but we'll get to that. "We have some good news and some bad news." I can't remember what the good news was. The bad news was bad. I was dying of something nobody had ever died of before. I was dying of something absolutely, fantastically new. Strangely enough, I was in fine fettle. My heart was strong and my lungs were clean. My vitals were vital. Nothing was enveloping me or eating away at me or brandishing itself towards some violence in my brain. There weren't any blocks or clots or seeps or leaks. My levels were good. My counts were good. All my numbers said my number wasn't up. Fine fettle for a dead man, they said. Days, they said, months, maybe a year, maybe more than a year. It was difficult to calculate. Nobody had ever died of this before. By their calculations there could be no calculations. "You'll have to live like the rest of us," the Philosopher told me. "Just less so." "You mean more so," I said. "No time for semantics," said the Mechanic. "You'd best get ready." I readied myself for the period in which I'd have to get ready. I waited for the time during which I'd have to wait. I tied up loose ends, tidied up accounts, put my papers in order, called old friends. I didn't really have any papers. I did have friends. I had Cudahy. I called Cudahy. "I'm coming to see you," said Cudahy. "Come soon," I said. I called my ex-wife, nothing if not a loose end, or at least a bit of untidiness, what with all we had left unaccounted for. "I knew you'd call," said Maryse. "I had a dream about you last week. You were walking through the pet food aisle at the supermarket and a kind of viscid bile was streaming down your chin." "It wasn't a dream," I said. "I'm dying." "I know, baby. I'm dying, too. But we've tried so many times already. We just have to learn to live with things the way things are. Things are not so bad. Truth be told, I'm not unfulfilled by William." "William's a very good fellow," I said. "He's not you," said my ex-wife, "but then again, you're not him." William had once been my hero. Then he whisked away my wife. Now he was a very good fellow, a fucker, a thief. He deserved to die of whatever everybody had ever died of before, but with more agony, a heavier soiling of sheets. "You may not hear from me again," I said. "That's probably a wise choice," said Maryse. "I don't think it's a choice," I said. "I'm really dying." "Don't threaten me," said Maryse. I quit my job, jammed a letter under my supervisor's door. He waved me in anyway. It appeared I had to interview for the right to quit. "What kind of contribution do you feel you've made to the agency?" said my supervisor. "I was quiet in my cube," I said. "I never fastened personal items with tape to the wall. I leered at female coworkers in the most unobtrusive manner possible. My work, albeit inane, jibed with the greater inanities required of us to maintain the fictions of our industry. I never stinted on pastries for my team." "What makes you think you're qualified to relinquLipsyte, Sam is the author of 'Subject Steve - Sam Lipsyte' with ISBN 9780767908856 and ISBN 0767908856.