The Cancer Ward: Mr. Weeks
He rolls in every morning around 8:30, Mr. Weeks. I mean, he literally rolls in....
Deep brown skin, one leg missing, maneuvering himself at full speed in his wheelchair, he holds a cup of coffee in one hand, his face chubby, his eyes bold.
"Yo, mon, I inly gat tree mo dez," he tells me, "bout I'm feelin' lousy. Caint git me no aptite, mon. De dawkta tell me t'eat mo, bout I caint."
"I'm sorry about that, Mr. Weeks," I reply, "but at least you're getting sprung on Thursday. I've got 22 more of these, only halfway through."
It's my turn and I go lay on the table.
"Mr. Weeks finishes on Thursday, lucky guy..."
"Yeah, poor Mr. Weeks..... he's not doing too well...."
"Well, he's got a two week break and then he stats chemotherapy again...."
"Oh, man, poor Mr. Weeks...."
I see Mr. Weeks on the way out, ready for his turn. "What flavors do you like?" I ask....
"Me? I laik me dat spicy fud, mon...."
"I thought so. Me too." I give him a good morning, and head off to work.
On the way home I shop for some hot sauces and a card. "Get well, Mr. Weeks...." I'll say on Thursday and hand him a package.