Sitting in the oncologists office. Waiting for her to come back out. Another one walks in. Liver cancer, Roger thinks.

Oncologists. He should have been an oncologist. They drive better cars than his, that's for sure. Cars like his, oncologists wouldn't ever drive. Cars like his are made in countries he'd never been to, would never go to. Not even when she died and he sold that damn chair. If he could. The chair probably has a cancer too. Of course, you can't become an oncologist when you drop out of college. No matter what the reason was.

Door opens, door shuts. This one’s lymphoma, he bets.

That's why you go to college: to get the job. And if you get the job before you finish, then you’re done. And fat old women can just go on sitting on expensive chairs. Not the kind of job that pays for BMWs. But the kind that pays for reliable cars. Cars that might have spongy brakes now and again. But the town only has one hill. Of course, the queen has to live on top of it.

He'd been enjoying life in that happy middle ground between too fat and too thin, between three gym visits a week and two-hour lunches, just cruising along not bothering anyone, when out of nowhere she has to mention, almost too casually, oh, by the way, I've got cancer, and then a BMW whipped around and passed him on the left, cutting him off and making him hit the brakes too hard.

An old man enters, sits down. Melanoma, probably.

With a gentle almost complacent sigh, he had felt the brake pedal go flat into the floorboard. If I am extremely very lucky, he’d thought at the time, the light will turn red not right before we go through the intersection, but a good 10 seconds before we go through, enough time for a few cars to get in there, maybe enough time that a semi hurtling along will have seen it turn green from his side with enough distance to not even need to slow down, blast through the intersection, t-boning my car, killing me instantly but her not instantly so she has to burn through the rest whatever insurance money she’s got bet on me and she can die penniless, suffering from cancer but not actually dying from it.

But the light had turned green right as the BMW got to it, well before they were in the intersection, and she made a clucking sound as if it had done so just for her. Maybe it did. Maybe God had been in a good mood that particular day and he figured, hey, gave ya cancer, might as well throw you a bone, make your seven minute drive across town take only six this time.

That was two weeks ago. Today was about twenty years later. That day, they’d been on the way to the grocery store. For damned popcorn. Today they were at the oncologists office. Probably for more damned popcorn.

A kid walks in. Too bad, so sad. Leukemia.

Today the trip had taken nine minutes, that BMW again, maybe the same one, maybe not, but how many BMWs were there in a town like this? Then again, why did a town like this even have an oncologist? Maybe the oncologist causes the cancer. Causes the BMWs, the one that sat at a green light, who knows why, thumbing a text message to some dumb blonde he’d met in graduate school who had called him out of the blue when her rich husband was caught with someone half her age and twice her bra size and she’d gotten the prenup annulled and some nice cash and thought she’d check up on mister 3.74 GPA and find out if he’d ever gotten that BMW, the one was going to reward himself with when he finished that MBA. He’d honked his horn, his mother putting a cancerous hand on his and admonishing him with a quiet “Roger…” and the BMW had spat forward right as the light changed to red and he’d had to wait anyway.

Two weeks ago she casually mentions cancer and they almost get into a car wreck thanks to his 9-5 no 401k brakes and since then they’ve been to this stupid oncologist’s office five times and not once has she had chemo, not once has she had surgery, not once has she left with so much as a prescription in her hands. She’s “consulting.” And he always forgets to bring a book. And the magazines suck. And the radio sucks. And the receptionist is ugly. Not even fascinating ugly. Boring ugly.

He watches the cancerous and the diseased parade past him while he waits for her. How many kinds of cancer can he think of? There’s the organs: liver, lung. Do kidneys get cancer? There’s ovarian and breast. There’s colon and prostate. He’d heard that your tongue can get cancer. Maybe that’s what she has. She won’t tell him. He asks, what kind? The cancer, she says. Like there’s only one.

And it’s genetic, probably. She got it, so he’ll probably get it. Probably have to come to this same damned oncologist. But when he does, he won’t call the asshole in charge here an oncologist. That word is too fancy, almost pretty. No, he’ll be the cancer doc. I have to go see the cancer doc, he’ll say to the other assholes at work. Not my cancer doc, but the cancer doc. Because there is only the one.

The boss will frown. How much are these visits cutting into the company insurance? How much longer can they keep him on before the insurance people bump the premiums? Is he even that important? Hot shot hired right out of college, didn’t even bother to finish his degree, what’s that they say about prodigies—those are just people who get as good as they’re gonna get early. New blood might be better. Cheaper blood, at that. Healthy blood. Not this damned cancer blood.

Since that day, two weeks ago, everywhere has cancer. Mold on a wall? Cancer. Dandelions on a lawn? Cancer. Too many damn people in the checkout line when all he wants to do is let her buy this damned popcorn and then taker her home? Cancer. Not that he has anything going on. No dates. No ball games to watch. There’s a beer in his fridge, been there for a few years now. There’s three or four half-read books on his night stand. There’s a pile of newspapers. He used to be pretty good at crossword puzzles. Did ‘em in pen. Wrote small in case he made mistakes.

He had a dream, once. A kid’s dream, but a workable dream. He’d save up some money, buy a boat. Sail it down to Mexico. Some beach where only the only tourists are the ones discerning enough to want something different, but not rich enough to afford it. Someplace where the water wouldn’t kill ya, but you drank cerveza all day anyway so it didn’t matter. He’d make money sailing these tourists around a few island, nothing fancy, fish tacos made by his fat Mexican wife, his fat little kids and a scruffy dog keeping him company as he fixed the boat on off-days or tried to decipher the Spanish crossword puzzle. He didn’t know a word of Spanish.

And maybe if he’d stuck it out in school, instead of getting a career, he would’ve just gotten a job. Nothing to do but sock away a few bucks and look at used boat ads in the paper. But then there wasn’t much money left to stay in school much longer. And a miracle happened, they’d offered him a position. And it cursed him to this town with its oncologists and BMWs and the one hill. And microwave popcorn.

Another guy walks in. Looks healthy. Looks too good to have cancer. Looks like he might be the cure for cancer himself. Walks up to the receptionist, confidant. Talks in a loud voice. “Here to see doctor Tibbets. I’m the guy from Eberon.” Jangles his keys. BMW keychain.

Too good to be true. If the position they offered him was God apologizing for letting college slip away, then this was another apology. Sorry about all this. Go have fun.

He stands up, checks the clock. She’ll be in there for at least another ten years. Or ten minutes. He heads for the elevator. To go to the parking lot. To see what he can do to any BMWs parked down there.