Use Your Imagination Read online

  And, of course, everyone listening—at that moment, mostly truck- and taxi drivers, people who made a living in their cars—they were all laughing too.

  The episode of the show is famous. There’s a video of it on YouTube with over eight hundred and fifty thousand hits, a static picture of Luke’s healthy young face, contorted in joyous laughter.

  The video has over five hundred comments. They say:

  This was back when Frank was actually funny. He was just starting to fatten up at this point. Nice little B cups.

  Luke is a true master at the top of his game here. I love his line about Bobby’s scream sounding like a female chimp.

  That laugh! My husband plays this for me whenever I’m down and it ALWAYS works!

  And, at the top, the newest comments are things like:

  He didn’t look like this when he was on Conan last. Oof.

  Get better soon, Luke B! We love you!

  Luke the funniest living comic but I guess not for long RIP Luke B God Bless U funny Fuccr.

  5

  Frank fills up two glasses with water, and he’s struck again by how easy it is for him, how quick everything is, how little pain is inside his body. One moment they have nothing, and then they both have cool drinks, just like that. Watching Luke move, Frank feels light, like a cloud or something even less tangible. Something that might not even be there at all—a ghost. He is aware of how much, and how closely, he is watching his friend.

  At night, Frank thinks about Luke, and cries. He’s been crying daily since he heard the news. His wife holds him and kisses him until he stops sobbing. Sometimes she cries too. When he isn’t crying, Frank tries to imagine what he could think and feel if this were happening to him. What could he do? How would he want to be treated?

  Everyone, all the other comics, they’ve all been talking about visiting him. About seeing Luke before it’s too late. About paying their respects. A great number of those who have already come to see him aren’t even his friends. How awful must it be to be visited, day and night, by people who want something from you? People who want to touch you, like a lucky shrine, to say they did it. Chip away a little piece of you to take back with them. A grim little memory to hold up. To be able to say:

  I saw him when he was really bad.

  Luke pokes Frank in the ribs.

  If you aren’t gonna eat, will you—excuse me—will you throw a pie at me?

  Throw a pie at you.

  I’d throw one at you but I’d really fuck it up. There’s something wrong with—my coordination’s fucked.

  If I throw a pie at you, there’s literally—actually—a chance you could die.

  Pie throwing has always been that way.

  A higher than normal chance, then.

  That makes it funnier.

  I’m not doing that. Drink your water.

  All right, what if you throw them at the neighbours.

  I don’t think so.

  Luke takes a deep drink. Frank watches the water go down his throat and into his distended stomach. There are more windows out here than in the living room, and in the daylight, he sees that Luke really is a pale green, like a cadaver. When he gets moved to palliative care, he’ll be fed mush the same colour, Frank thinks.

  Eat a big piece of that cake right there.

  Luke points at a little ring-shaped cake with red frosting and sprinkles, completely intact. It says WE LOVE YOU LUKE in white frosting.

  You want me to eat that?

  Luke nods, still drinking. He reaches over and grabs a clump of cake with his other hand, holds it up to Frank’s face. Glances at him over his water glass, raises his eyebrows, daring him to take it.

  It occurs to Frank that this kind of behaviour is normally reserved for the radio, when they would become rude, violent caricatures of themselves. In their private moments, like these, this was rare. On their own, they would have long, quiet conversations, working through coffee and cigarettes at their houses or in public parks. Playing chess with Luke’s magnetic travel set, sitting side by side on a bench, passing the tiny thing between them. Never making physical contact except for the handshake to say hello, and the one to say goodbye. This feels unusual.

  But Frank obliges him, takes the red mess from his friend’s hand and forces it all into his own mouth with one shove. Tilts his head back and pours water over it, swallows a couple times until the thick mess slides down his throat.

  Luke is smiling, his face taut again. He doesn’t wash off his hand, and instead puts it in his robe pocket. There’s red frosting on his wrist and globs collecting at the pocket’s lip.

  Good?

  Mm.

  I actually can’t eat any of this.

  What are you eating?

  Liquid food. Like a baby—I’m the baby. Not you. You can shit on your own.

  Yeah, but not well.

  Will you throw cakes at the neighbours?

  No, I don’t think so.

  Like Make-A-Wish. It’s my wish, Frank.

  They won’t understand, Luke.

  Throw them at their garage. They won’t notice.

  They might.

  Luke points out the window with his cake hand. There’s a yellow garage with its back to his lawn.

  By the time they notice, I’ll be dead.

  Look, you think about what you want me to do, and if you haven’t come up with something else by the time I have to go, I’ll do that, okay?

  I already know what I want.

  We’ll save it for the end, then. Big finale.

  6

  There’s some silence and it lasts until Frank finds bricks of money on the counter. They’re stacked between the coffee machine and the toaster. Unsorted wads with different elastics of varying sizes and denominations, American and Canadian.

  He grabs one and holds it up:

  What the hell is this?

  Money.

  Where’d it come from?

  Big B and Nick and all those guys, they collected it. On the road. Excuse me. From their shows and from other comics and everyone. Fans. Promoters. Club owners.

  How much is it?

  Jill says fifty thousand, but I’m sure—excuse me—she’s rounding up.

  Frank thumbs through the money. Every now and then he finds a bill with a name on it, either Luke’s or the person who gave it, or something half-funny. He sees one with what looks like a paragraph of writing on it, stops, and goes back to it. He reads:

  You always were a fucking loser looking for a handout. A hack and an unforgiveable piece of shit, Luke. You’re a no-talent, unoriginal, unfunny nobody who every one of us loves for no fucking reason at all. Get better or else die and leave us alone.

  That’s a good one.

  That’s Jim, right?

  Of course.

  This is some touching shit, Luke.

  Frank sweeps up the money and holds it in his arms. There’s enough that he can’t hold it all. Some of it falls.

  I should run out the door like this, Luke. You’d never catch me.

  No. But my wife sure would. Not my money. It’s hers.

  Frank lets the cash tumble into a wrecked pile on the counter. He picks up a brick of it from the floor, holds it up for Luke.

  This means something.

  It was very nice of everyone.

  Well shit, here.

  Frank reaches for his wallet, but pats a pocket empty except for keys. He remembers he gave his entire wallet to Crystal, who’d gone—red-faced and blubbering with snot running down her lip—to the grocery store.

  Fuck. I don’t have anything on me.

  Oh sure. That old gag.

  No, I really don’t have it.

  Mail me a cheque, then.

  Luke finishes his water, smiling. He motions to the money with his f
rosting hand.

  They had one night in the city. Where they got the bulk of it.

  Where was I?

  You were away doing that thing in Germany.

  Fuck, I’m sorry.

  No, you’re lucky.

  It wasn’t good?

  Luke twists his head to the left and swallows with a dry click before speaking.

  When you started out, what was your act like?

  Terrible.

  Of course. But what did you do? Your best bit.

  It was mostly just me yelling about my father. A public airing of grievances. I think my best joke was me leaving a live answering-machine message for him for the audience. I don’t know. I’m not really cut out for any of that stuff. That’s not the kind of funny I am.

  It’s good that you know that. A lot of people wouldn’t admit that.

  That’s probably true. I’m just funnier with other people.

  I ate things.

  You ate things?

  When I was sixteen years old, all of my jokes were about eating things.

  Wait a minute, you always said you started when you were twenty.

  Luke Baumgaertner did. Before that I was Luke Laffs.

  Luke Laughs?

  Luke Laffs. With two Fs.

  Are you serious?

  Luke Laffs, and my big joke was that I would pretend to eat stuff. Pretend to eat my wristwatch but really I’d pocket it and make chewing sounds into the mic.

  That’s how you started?

  That’s how I got my start. I didn’t know what I was doing. Sometimes I’d draw pictures on an overhead projector.

  Are you fucking serious? Of what?

  Celebrities or, like, a car crash or something.

  And would people laugh?

  Sometimes.

  Jesus Christ, that’s insane, Luke.

  So—at the thing—the fundraiser. It was basically a roast—but maybe a little nicer—but they showed a video from back then and I did the whole thing. At a college somewhere. I ate the mic stand and then took off my hat and ate that. I did an impression of—excuse me—sorry, that’s the other thing. I did impressions inside of impressions. I did Nixon doing Schwarzenegger doing Clint Eastwood. And my big finale was I pretended to throw it all up.

  Big laughs erupt from Frank, and he claps his hands.

  Holy shit.

  I’d just stay standing in profile and bring it up my leg with my other arm.

  That was your closer.

  That was my closer.

  Throwing up a mic stand.

  Yes.

  So the premise is that you’ve eaten what one is not supposed to have eaten, and then you expel it from your body?

  When they showed it, Jill didn’t get it. She wanted to know why they didn’t show any new stuff. The HBO thing or the Comedy Central special. Made a scene, got upset. Because she was drinking, was emotional, whatever.

  Because you’re sick.

  Because I’m dying.

  Luke turns his head, and swallows.

  It got pretty bad.

  Luke turns his head, and swallows again. Some life leaves his face.

  She’s not dying. So. She doesn’t get it. Not a comedian either. Your whole life—every set you do—it’s all. It’s you. Even if you change. Get better or worse or whatever. It’s all you. Every time. Or. Once you do it, it’s out there. I’m not embarrassed.

  But she was.

  She was. And I didn’t get to close the thing out. I was gonna go up and do something. I had written some stuff in my head. But I didn’t get to. She went up and started giving everyone hell and the whole thing went to shit.

  When Luke grimaces, it’s worse than anything Frank has seen his new face do.

  I was too weak and fucked up and upset. The guys had to try to calm her down, but they were the ones she was mad at. No one could explain to her that it was funny, that I was all right with it.

  I’m sorry, Luke. That’s terrible.

  I didn’t get to have a last show.

  Is that why Jill’s not here?

  No. She’s at her sister’s. I was mad at the time. But what can I do?

  Yeah.

  The next day I still needed my diaper changed. Need my pills sorted.

  I guess so.

  I used to get so angry.

  Frank looks at him. He’s remembering something.

  Anyway. She’d be a widow before the divorce papers went through.

  I’m sure—I mean, I can’t imagine what she’s going through. Even if she lost it, it wasn’t intentional, right? She just loves you, and wants you to be remembered. None of that would be on purpose.

  She makes a scene, cries, screams, wrecks her makeup. Suddenly everyone’s gone and the money pile’s doubled? Come on.

  That’s funny, Frank says.

  He laughs and smiles, but Luke isn’t smiling anymore. It’s easy to tell that this is hard for him. It’s hard for him to keep his breath when speaking more than a few sentences in a row. It’s hard for him to stay sharp and funny and on topic like he always is. It’s hard to be himself. Already he is drained.

  Luke looks at all the money and asks if they can go back to the other spot.

  7

  The living room has become even hotter than before, and for a minute it becomes brighter. The sun blasts through all the windows, and the house seems like it used to when Frank would visit. Then there’s a rush of wind and all that light leaves again.

  There’s more silence, and both men sit inside of it for a few long moments. Luke speaks first:

  You ever think about what you are?

  What do you mean?

  What makes you, you. What is it?

  I don’t like thinking about things like that.

  I think. That—

  Luke burps forcefully, and frowns.

  We think it’s the stuff we do. That that’s what we are. But is it?

  Are you saying you’re not defined by your work?

  If you don’t have that. Are you yourself? If you take it away.

  Well, no. I don’t know.

  I haven’t been up on a stage. In a while. But I’m me. I’m still me.

  Okay.

  Frank frowns. He doesn’t know what Luke wants from him, or how to proceed. He scratches his neck and looks out the window.

  I keep thinking about my bit that I used to do. About how—

  He burps.

  Medicine—sorry—medicine depresses me. You know that one?

  Luke burps again and Frank nods. He feels sick thinking about it:

  About how every time they cure something you get mad.

  Can you imagine replacing your organs with fake ones from the—excuse me—the uh, grocery store?

  I remember. You did it on the show.

  There’s that one part about—excuse me—having to replace your eyes, like it’s no big deal? Like it’s a flat tire?

  Yeah.

  Luke taps his eyeball with his finger, hard enough that there’s a sound.

  Mine shut off yesterday. For six hours. For the afternoon and after supper.

  Ugh. Jesus.

  It’s even spotty now. That’s pretty fucked up isn’t it?

  Is that supposed to happen?

  Basically, anything can happen. But no. Not supposed to.

  Did you talk to someone?

  They keep telling me I can’t get better until I gain weight. I can’t do chemo or radiation until I gain weight. Then I gain some weight and I call and try to make an appointment. You know what they tell me?

  What?

  They tell me the oncologist is away for the weekend. And then one of my eyes blows out, and there’s no one I can call.

  Luke breathes in deep and exhal
es with a burp.

  I waited too long to go to the doctor in the first place.

  That’s not true, is it? You couldn’t have known.

  I had a pain and I did yoga instead. Ate pineapple because I read it somewhere.

  His whole middle twitches, like an expecting mother. On his face is the most pained expression yet. He looks impossibly old for his age.

  My point is. The joke. Excuse me. In the future, you’re gonna live forever. And it’ll be horrible. All that stuff?

  Yeah.

  I was wrong. I get here and I’m facing it. And I was wrong.

  Luke burps again, painfully, and turns his head to the window.

  It was just a joke, Luke.

  Where’s my fucking replacement? Excuse me. Eyeballs. Where’s my pancreas?

  Frank laughs, but it’s too hearty, too fake. Luke is building towards something, but is losing his breath. He takes long breaks between sentences.

  Everything you read about. All the miracles and stem cells—excuse me—they. Aren’t doing that stuff?

  That stuff’s not in hospitals.

  All they have is pills.

  Make you high or diarrhea everywhere. That’s it. Best you can hope for.

  Yeah.

  It’s so easy to be funny by being contrary.

  I think about that a lot.

  A lot of my stuff was just contrary.

  Then Luke turns his head and those tendons in his neck bulge.

  It’s easy to be brave when you’re healthy. But—fuck.

  Who you are isn’t. It isn’t what you do. Or what you say.

  Still facing the other direction, he grimaces, and his stomach groans.

  Who you are is your body and your brain. Without that—you aren’t you.

  He adds, quietly:

  I don’t want to die at all.

  And then there is nothing to say.

  8

  There have only been two other silences like this between them.