Photo by Ash Gerlach on Unsplash
I felt sorry for a man this morning. The anguish piercing through the wrinkles on his face was so easily recognizable for those of us who have a tortured relationship with modern technology. We are the ones who feel shame and embarrassment at having to call a niece or a grandson when we accidentally switch our computer’s default language to French, and the ones who ask our phone to see if maybe it might know how to turn on the printer so we can have the hard-copy driving directions that make us feel more secure. I wanted to hug him as his bony-knuckled fingers hovered frantically above his phone screen, searching for the way to PLEASE JUST MAKE IT STOP. His white hair became more prominent as the red on his neck deepened, the feeling of what seemed a million eye balls, even ones that in truth were sympathetic, staring directly at the source of the blaring, computerized speech interrupting the previously tranquil cabin of the #10 city bus.
He got on a few stops after me, his destination unclear beyond the fact that we were heading north, away from the busy market district toward an area more densely packed with the early 1900s homes that demarcate the city’s biggest period of expansion. I was on my way to see my sister, my first attempt at resolving a bit of an unfortunate medical development that in my typically irresponsible style of self-treatment I had been sitting on for two months. Dialysis was no longer a viable option. I needed a kidney transplant. Before that appointment I could not have told you my blood type, but now I was desperately, though belatedly, in search of someone who had an organ pumping away in their own guts that had a decent chance of thriving in my own.
A mile into the bus trip I had settled on what seemed like it might be a good opening, appealing to her generous nature and illustrious history as a truly good person. She had even volunteered for a few years at a charity that raised money for kidney disease research after my original diagnosis. That was before I borrowed her car, and before I ran a red light, swerved to avoid a jogger and wrapped the car around a light pole. Fortunately, no one, including the driver, was seriously hurt. The judge was kind enough to let me off with only a license revocation. I’m really good at the bus schedule now. Seriously. I’m the guy interrupting conversations between random people who are trying to figure out how to get from A to B. I draw maps on whatever scrap any of us can produce in the moment and wear a big grin as they do the thing where they’re walking away but also turning back and giving a big wave. I wish I could be that ready to help deal with wayward technology.
“You have a new text message from EIGHT ZERO ZERO, FIVE TWO EIGHT, FOUR EIGHT ZERO ZERO. Dear customer, visit us at H-T-T-P-COLON-SLASH-SLASH-W-W-W-A-M-E-R-I-C-A-N-C-R-E-D-I-T-I-N-T-E-R-N-A-T-I-O-N-A-L-DOT-COM-SLASH-P-R-O-F-I-L-E-SLASH-U-P-D-A-T-E-SLASH-U-S-E-R-N-A-M-E-H-E-L-P to complete your request. If you have any questions, please call us at EIGHT ZERO ZERO, FIVE TWO EIGHT, FOUR EIGHT ZERO ZERO, or email us at C-U-S-T-O-M-E-R-S-E-R-V-I-C-E at A-M-E-R-I-C-A-N-C-R-E-D-I-T-I-N-T-E-R-N-A-T-I-O-N-A-L-DOT-COM.”
I had certainly heard a phone’s digital assistant voice read out a short answer to a question or give the name of the next road to turn on. I can’t remember before that day hearing it spell out an entirely too complex internet address. I’m guessing it was the first time for the man holding the phone, too. He stared briefly in my direction, locking eyes with a fierce call for help. Finding in my look the clear picture of someone who would have been just as lost in his shoes, he looked down again, and in a move all of us in the club have performed many times, he just started stabbing at the screen, figuring anything that happened would be better than this nightmare. Unfortunately for him, his desperate attempt yielded nothing. The disembodied voice would not be deterred and finished every letter and number of its assigned mission.
Another computerized voice, this one belonging to the bus itself, informed us we were approaching the intersection of Goose Street and Oak Avenue. Without hesitation, the same fingers that had sought so desperately to spur action on his phone reached out and grabbed the yellow, plastic coated wire hanging above the window and gave a forceful yank that resulted in yet another artificial announcement: “STOP REQUESTED.” The man slid his phone into the front pocket of his grey and blue patterned flannel shirt, straightened the nearly matching grey flat cap sitting atop his head and prepared for our arrival at his stop. Or rather the next stop. Whether that was his original plan, or whether the very recent incident prompted him to flee at the first available exit will forever remain unknown. What is recorded for history, thanks to the onboard video surveillance system, is that every single passenger kept their eyes fixed straight ahead, none straying to watch as the man shuffled to the exit door at the rear of the bus. Only when the door shut did everyone resume their normal activities, with a slight increase in chatter among those who had a traveling companion.
Don’t laugh, it’s not funny. Okay, it’s a little funny.
Is that what I’m going to be like in a few years?
Should I have helped him? I know how to turn that off…
Aw, poor guy.
The last time I even talked to my sister was about three months ago. Back then, I assured her I was doing well, that while the treatment wasn’t curing my disease in any way, it was at least allowing me to live a fairly normal life. Sure, I had to go to an ugly office building three times a week and spend four hours hooked up to a machine that sucked out my blood, spun it around and put it back in. But I could still do my job coding websites for local governments, take long walks in those first peaceful minutes after sunrise, and watch all the baseball games I wanted. That was enough of a life for me. She seemed relieved to hear me say that. We always had the kind of friend-like sibling relationship, going to each other’s birthday parties in high school, talking about our relationships in college and meeting up for coffee when we started out working. She told me she was thrilled when I decided to move to the same city the year I turned 25. She was 30, more established in everything and eager to help me skip a few steps and mistakes along the way. Then I screwed it all up, setting off five years of cold, stony silence before my engrained stubbornness and her giant heart combined to start peeling back the barrier to the point of civility.
I felt my heart beating a little faster as the bus announced Fountain Drive as our next cross street. I pulled the cord a few feet behind where the man with the phone had secured his freedom and got ready to make the shockingly short walk to my sister’s front door. It was like when you are reading driving directions and spend 46 miles on the same highway only to take your exit and find your destination 50 feet ahead on the right. In her case, it was exiting at the bus at a stop where you could practically take the next step onto her front stoop. Not a lot of time for second guessing or a final rehearsal. I’m not sure whether it helped or hurt that she didn’t know I was coming.
DING-DONG. More mechanical noise. Twenty seconds of silence. I questioned whether she was home, or if she somehow hadn’t heard the doorbell. Then a series of clicks and that little suction of air that comes when the front door flies open. My sister is not the type to open up without first fully examining the situation through the peep hole. An auspicious sign for my mission. I spied a full pot of coffee on the counter as I walked inside. It looked fresh.
“Hi, sorry I didn’t call first. Are you expecting company?”
“I’m expecting a nightmare,” she said.
My throat caught and a surge of nerves pulsed through my body.
“A nightmare? It’s ten in the morning.”
“My boss is perfectly capable of being an asshole at any moment of the day. In fact, I think he likes to do it in the morning, part of his routine to keep us all on our toes.”
I had long wondered why she didn’t quit this job. Surely there were other law firms that would be thrilled to have someone who was in the top ten of her law school class and had an extensive resume of successful trial cases. Hell, I’d be the first to sign up to give a testimonial: “If not for this woman and her brilliance, I would not be a free man today!”
“Why don’t you just quit already? Start your own firm or get on the Supreme Court?”
“You can’t just apply for the Supreme Court,” she said with rolling eyes.
“Yeah, but doesn’t the other one sound so much more possible? Comparatively, it’s a cinch.”
“You’re crazy. Someday I’ll go out on my own. I mean, that was never a dream of mine, but the more time I spend being assigned cases I don’t want and doing things to make him look good, the more I can envision myself with my name on the door.”
“And you’ll treat people better.”
“That won’t be a hard standard.”
She took out a mug from the cabinet next to the refrigerator, setting it down in front of me with a smile knowing I would be proud to drink from one my niece made in elementary school. She sipped from a University of Texas mug freshly arrived from the school’s book store.
“A tale of two eras we have going on here. How’s she liking it so far?”
“You know her, doesn’t tell me much except about her classes. She’s taking mostly computer science stuff this semester to get a head start on all the prerequisites for her major. I told her to do me just one favor and pick one night a week to go for a walk or something instead of staying in her room and studying all the time.”
“She’ll be okay. I remember being a bit overwhelmed socially at first, but we all find our way, don’t we?”
She took in my words with a slight nod and a slow sip. She set down her mug and gave a smile that felt to me like a hug. True kindness is palpable.
“So, what brings you here? Just in the neighborhood? Off on an adventure?”
“There’s something I wanted to ask you.”
Before I could even launch into my practiced routine, something sparked in her brain and she shot to the living room where she picked up a small cardboard box, one with sliced shards of tape from a trip through the mail system, its top flaps pointed to the ceiling.
“I almost forgot. I have something for you,” she said as she placed the box on the table in front of me. “Go ahead, open it. Or, open it the rest of the way, I guess.”
I set down my coffee and peered inside. All I could see at first was the opaque pattern of bubble wrap covering a square box about the size of one you’d use for an engagement ring. I slowly unwrapped it, glancing up once to see an expression of giddy anticipation on my sister’s face. I went back to work, eventually reaching the box itself, made of a fancy type of dark-stained wood with what looked like a brass hinge on the back. I flipped it open to find a bed of red velvet, and on top, a shiny 1924 penny.
“Please tell me I got the right one. I know you’ve been looking for one forever.”
In addition to being a lovely person, my sister also possesses a great memory, meaning the slightest hint of something you might drop in discussion can turn up in a lovely gift at any time. Staring down at the gleaming rendition of Abe Lincoln I remembered how the last time we spoke I told her about how I was getting into coin collecting after reading an article about this one particular printing of penny that had just sold at an auction for an exorbitant price. This one didn’t have the defect that made that one so valuable, but it was rare nonetheless.
“It’s perfect. Beautiful,” I said, truly meaning it. “Why are you so nice to me after everything I’ve done to you?”
“You’re going to have to try a lot harder than a little car thing to make me not be your big sister.”
“You seemed pretty mad there for a while.”
“I mean, yeah I was, but every day we get older I realize more and more what kind of crap does and does not matter in this life, and dude I’ll take you over a car or a bad joke or whatever you throw my way.”
She offered me another cup while refilling hers to the brim. A sigh came out as she sat down and looked out at the dogwood tree outside the window. A pair of cardinals sat peacefully on a branch, staring at each other and probably having the same talk.
“So, you asked me why I was here earlier—”
“Oh right. Sorry, I got distracted.”
“Yeah, so how’s your health these days?”
“My health?”
“Yeah. Any pre-existing conditions I need to know about?”
She furrowed her brow, letting the confusion show while she tried to work out internally what I was getting at.
“I’m…fine?”
“Great. Excellent. I mean, that’s always good, right?”
Her face didn’t soften. I needed to get to the point.
“I need a kidney. Mine just aren’t going to last much longer.”
“Even with the dialysis? I thought that was doing the trick.”
“Not anymore, unfortunately. My doctor said it’s only a matter of time, and with the whole wait list thing, my best chance is to find a donor myself.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, you understand?”
“No, I mean yes, obviously you may have one of my kidneys,” she said.
I stared in disbelief, not that she would offer, because of course she would, but because she the careful, pensive one in the family would commit to such a major life choice at the drop of a hat. I wanted to pull out the brochures I brought and tell her about the risks to her own future health and talk about the recovery from the procedure and the scarring. But she stopped me cold.
“It wouldn’t even be a selfish act on my part. Just imagine how much I’ll be able to guilt you into doing stuff for me. ‘Hey can you paint my bathroom? I would do it, but you took my painting organ!’ ‘Hey, can you pick up some pastries on your way over? My only remaining kidney is really craving something sweet!’”
We sat in silence for a minute. I had been ready to grovel and appeal to her good nature and make my case like a car salesman trying to get her into a new Ford today.
“You’ll really do it?”
“Absolutely. If I’m a match, right?”
We set the appointment for the following week. My doctor was a little surprised to hear from me and equally perturbed that it had been so long. But he also understood. A lot of people in my position either don’t have anyone willing to help or are at the point where they decide to just ride out the rest of the life they have left. The process was simple, no different really than a standard blood test during a physical exam. A little blood from me, a little from her, into some tubes, into a box and off to a lab.
I was back at my sister’s house two weeks later when the results came in. A simulated ding of a bell and an accompanying buzz on my phone let me know there was a new message. I waited for a break in our conversation out on her patio, the same coffee mugs sitting on the small table between our chairs, to reach into the pocket of my jeans and retrieve the phone.
“A message from the doctor,” I said as I typed in my password. I needed three tries.
My sister sat up with a look that I can only describe as a combination of excitement and worry. Her right hand curled around the part of her mug opposite the handle, the part where you can feel the comforting warmth of what’s inside.
I found my way to the email app and the message. It took seven paragraphs for him to get to the point, sprinkling in different test values and thresholds that I didn’t understand along the way. Finally, I made it to a part I could wrap my head around. Three simple words.
“Not a match,” I read out loud.
Her warm hand reached across the table and held mine. It said we would find a way.
Chris Hannas is the author of the novel The Perfect Hours. His short fiction won the 2020 INARA 1000 Words Contest and has been featured in LEON Literary Review, From Whispers to Roars, Flumes, and the podcast Ripples in Space.