Not Cancer, but Precancerous
by Thomas Iannucci
You take your meal, as you always do, in the far corner of Kimo’s Hawaii Kine Diner. There is something comforting about having the booth in the corner of the room, like you are being enveloped into a large, vinyl embrace. And an embrace doesn’t sound too bad to you, right now, the way your day is going, the way your life is going. You need a hug, and a drink, but you settle for the booth. And lau lau. You are on your lunch break, adhering to the strict timetable of “tirty minutes exactly Akiko you hear me ah I ste so serious dis time” that your boss set out for you. The mushy, green leaves and graying meat is, at least to your Covid-stricken palate, bland and slightly bitter, even drowning in shoyu and paired with a big glass of Arizona green tea. Two years ago, the lau lau had been flavorful, if not exactly the ‘ono advertised on the large vinyl banner hanging limply above the door, but for you the taste still isn’t right. On the other hand, it is free, and that, ‘ono or no, is quite right for you, indeed.
You look past the line of customers and watch as Uncle Mo, your manager, wipes his brow, his sweat beading on his face to create a sheen that you are sure would’ve been salty to the taste, had you been able to taste much of anything these days. You glance down at your lau lau plate, noting the way it, too, is sweating, and put your fork down. Back to Uncle Mo. He is helping a large haole man, probably a tourist, or maybe a recent transplant – you can tell by the way he is the only one in the diner wearing an aloha shirt, by the way he reeks of sunscreen-infused sweat (How would that taste? You can’t help but half-wonder, half-fantasize, and decide it would still be salty, but also bitter, if you recall the vague taste of salty sunscreen and sweat on your lips from your days playing on the beach as a child correctly) – with an order, ringing him up and handing him an entire box of spam musubi. The man nods and thanks him, and then, to your mild annoyance, walks over and takes a seat several tables away from you. Waste of a box. Plus, that is a lot of musubi to eat in one sitting, but, then again, he is a big guy.
An absolutely massive guy, in fact, now that you get a better look at him. He is huge, a veritable mountain of a man, with hands like catcher's mitts, hands like slabs of beef, hands that pick with unexpected delicateness at the lid of the box. You nearly choke on your tea when you see how small a musubi looks in his hand. It’s almost comical. You look at your own hand, which had rolled those musubi that very morning, for comparison.
“Damn,” you mutter under your breath. When you look back, you see that the man has already polished off the first musubi and is reaching for another. “Damn.”
You had never been a big eater, but now, post-Covid, you eat next to nothing. If you could eat like that guy, though, your mother would be thrilled. Your doctor, too. And then maybe you could keep on weight, instead of being skin-and-mostly-bones, if you ate like him. You look on in awe as he pulls out a third musubi and eats it in two bites. He is so fluid, almost graceful in his movements – this is a man who has spent a lot of time eating. It is in his nature, in the way he knows just how to unpeel the plastic wrap that always gives you such a hard time, or in the way he doesn’t seem to make a mess at all despite the greasiness of the spam or the brittleness of the nori. This is the efficiency of a man who knows what he is about, and it is hypnotic. You watch him eat, peel and bite and bite and gone and peel and bite and bite and gone, until he has nearly cleaned out the box. You are disappointed when his phone rings, distracting him from what was clearly his calling, his life’s work, his muse.
“Peter, here,” says the man. His voice is higher than you had expected, and rather nasally. “Oh, howzit. I see you got my text, then.” Your interest begins to wane, and you find your eyes drifting towards the local family of four taking the table next to him, between the two of you. Two parents, and two girls. Their daughters, you assume, or maybe one daughter and a friend? Hard to say. None of them look very much alike, but they behave like they are related, more or less. Something in the body language, in the way they seem relaxed around each other that you have never experienced yourself but that you nevertheless see often enough to recognize it in other people.
“Well, no, it’s not cancer,” says the man, says Peter, to be exact. Your eyes shoot back to him. “But it is precancerous, whatever that means. Best not to take chances with this sort of thing. So I’m having them removed tomorrow.” He nods several times, then, perhaps remembering that the person on the other end of the line cannot see him, he speaks up. “Yes, of course. Yes, thank you, I appreciate that. I’m taking care of myself. Hell, I’m having a salad right now!” He grins as he pats the box, and you find yourself smiling with him. “But honestly, don’t worry. A couple of lesions can’t slow me down. I’m the picture of health.” You look him over skeptically: he is large, no doubt, and the largest part about him is his belly, which sits on, and overflows from, his lap, hanging slightly over the floor. “And anyway, this isn’t the worst thing to ever happen to ol’ Peter Patterson. Remember Brooklyn? It could never get worse than Brooklyn.” He laughs, his strange voice reaching a shrill pitch. “What do you mean? Have I never told you the Brooklyn story?”
You lean closer. You’ve always wanted to visit New York City. It was on your bucket list, pre-Covid, though you never worked up the courage to go. And now, well… “See, it all started back when I was in college –”
“Eh, you know what? I pau!” One of the girls of the family seated between you and Peter stands, her cheap metal chair scraping against the already well-scuffed floor. Her pidgin contrasts sharply with Peter’s American English, and it draws your unwilling attention. “I pau, forreal dis time! I done! Hacum we neva do wat I like? Is always Casey, Casey, Casey. I was da one wanted fo go Honolulu in da first place!” The family’s posture has changed, far less relaxed than a few moments before. Hunched over, tense, irritated, resentful. These postures you know all about, know them intimately. What you don’t know about, what you want to know about, is the Brooklyn story.
“Yeah babe, but Casey like visit da museum, and you like one shopping spree.” The older woman at the table says. “We no mo dat kine money. She way mo easy fo please.”
“You guys always like compare, ah.” The girl glares at her parents, whilst the Casey in question looks on in uncomfortable silence. “Hacum I no can be my own person, ha?” You crane your head, trying to look past the bubbling domestic dispute in front of you, searching for Peter. “Of course, by that point, I’d lost a lot of blood.” Peter is saying, though you can barely make him out. He seems unfazed by the family’s outburst. “But I was a lot sturdier back then, so it was fine.” He thumps his chest, then winces and coughs. “After that, it was mostly smooth sailing, though we never did find her finger.”
Whatever he says next is drowned out by another outburst by the girl. You stand up.
“If we no go right now, I –” The girl jumps as you slap your hand on the table; her family is equally shocked.
“Two hundred dollas,” you say.
“What?” The girl looks at you like you are crazy, which, you think, maybe you are.
“Two hundred dollas,” you say again. “If you guys just shaddup and leave.” You move your hand to reveal the two hundred dollar bills you slammed onto the table. The man scowls.
“Eh, first of all, who you tink you –” he begins, but you cut him off.
“Jus take da money, braddah. Take it, and go take her shopping, bumbai I change my mind.”
“Shoots,” says the girl, snatching the money. “Deal.”
Saying so, she grabs her purse and books it to the door.
“Kylie, wait!” Her mother stands up and hurries after her, the other girl in tow. The father looks back between you and his family, then throws up his hands and chases after them – without paying, of course. Uncle Mo won’t be happy. And they left a mess, too.
“In the end, it all worked out. And that’s how I met Brianne! So I’d say it was worth it. Definitely. Definitely.” Peter sighs and scratches his scraggly beard. “I miss her, though. Times like this, even if it’s not cancer, well, she would’ve helped me stay calm. That damned air balloon. I never should’ve let her go up there.” You stay at the table, shifting a little closer to Peter, stacking the plates and cleaning up the napkins the family left behind. You grab a half-empty can of coke that had spilled in their rush to leave. “You know how she – yes, exactly. That’s right. And thank you,” says Peter. “It was bound to happen eventually, I suppose. God knows she was reckless. I remember once, she pulled a gun on a man in a saizeriya. But she – ah, sorry.” Peter laughs, but it turns into a sigh. “I must’ve told you a thousand times by now.”
Your hand tightens, and the coke can crumples in your grip, the remnants of the sticky soda spilling out onto your hand and then the table. You look at Peter, then back at the table, where the spilled coke is spreading. You hurry over to the counter where Uncle Mo is working, past the line of customers, and snatch up a tray.
“Bout time!” Uncle Mo motions you over. “I catchin cracks right now! We gettin busy.”
“I jus cleaning dis table cuz I like sit dea.”
Uncle Mo throws his hands in the air. “But –”
“I still get tirteen minutes!” You don’t bother looking back as you reply. You speed walk over to the table and quickly wipe up the coke, then begin piling dirty dishes onto your tray.
“But you see, in those days, nobody knew who this Putin guy was, so we didn’t take him seriously. I laughed right in his face,” says Peter, as you walk past him towards the kitchen, dirty dishes in hand. “Big mistake. I’m still not allowed to set foot in Russia.” You breeze past a helpless Uncle Mo and hurry back towards Peter.
“Not bad for a second honeymoon, eh?” you hear Peter saying. Stopping only to catch your breath – you haven’t moved like that in quite some time – you grab your lau lau plate and tea and walk back over to the now-empty table. You drink deeply from the tea, which tastes sweeter than you remember. Excitement flutters in your chest. That’s new – the taste, and the excitement.
“Hell, I miss her. I miss all of you.” Peter’s meaty finger traces a circle on the musubi box. “How’s Kent doing? We haven’t spoken much since Brianne passed. But really, what is there to say that hasn’t already been said?” Peter falls silent, listening, and you take the time to observe him. His hair is thinning and wispy, and his brow shines with sweat. Somehow, he’s squeezed himself into a very bright red aloha shirt, and, though it is tight on him, he does not, in your opinion, look bad in it. Indeed, you admire him for dressing up. You often fantasized, during the lockdowns, about going out in a nice dress, just because. Funny. You’d forgotten about that till just now. You take a bite of your lau lau, and then some rice, washing it all down with more tea.
“Well, I’m glad he’s doing okay,” says Peter. “Believe it or not, I never blamed him. You can’t blame people for the way life goes. She taught me that.” Peter looks down, and you have to fight the sudden urge to run over and give him a hug. “Even with these...whatever they are. Cancer, not cancer, I don't know how it’s all going to work out. I’m hopeful, of course, but the doctor said there’s a chance they come back, and then...” He sighs. “But that’s just how the cookie crumbles. I’m not mad at God, or the universe, or life. Whatever. I don’t blame any of ‘em. Sometimes, you just gotta roll with the punches. She and I, we both learned that the hard way, back at the monastery.” Peter glances at you and your eyes meet; he frowns, and you look down at your food. “What do you mean, what monastery? I’m sure I’ve told you about our stint in Tibet. That’s where I proposed. Remember?”
“Tibet? Proposed?” You savor the words on your lips; they taste better than the shoyu-drenched lau lau you are starting to gobble down. Half the plate is gone already, and you are working your way through the rest. You have already eaten more in the last fifteen minutes than you eat most days. Peter looks back at you, and shifts away.
“Anyway,” he goes on. “I won’t bore you with the details, but the long and short of – oh, well, if I must!” His smile, you think, could light up a room, and when he laughs you find yourself giggling along with him. You take another bite of your lau lau. “This was back when, ah, hold on.” He looks at his watch and gasps. “Oh! I’ve just been sitting here, talking your ear off. I’m gonna miss my appointment!” He stands up and starts collecting his things. He considers the box before him, hesitates, then grabs the last musubi, unwraps it, and crams the whole thing into his mouth. You are too disappointed to be impressed this time, though. You feel your chest tighten.
“No.” You stand up, dropping your fork onto your plate. “Not yet. You didn’t finish yet!” Peter dusts some rice off of his shirt and starts to head for the door; like a piece of rusted iron being drawn to a magnet, you are drawn towards him. “Wait!”
You grab Peter’s arm, and he turns back in surprise. “Sorry, hi, I’m sorry.” What are you doing? Even you don’t know. But he can’t leave just yet. “Not to be niele, sorry, I mean, nosy, not to be nosy, but I just, I gotta know: how did it end?”
“Hold on, gimme a sec.” Peter turns back and looks at you, one hand covering his phone’s receiver. “What?”
“Da story!” you say, your desperate words bubbling forth like pus from a festering wound. “How’d da proposal go? And how was Tibet? It sounds amaz...” You trail off when you see his face. Peter pulls his large arm out of your hand, then shakes his head and turns away. “Sorry about that,” he says as he leaves you standing in the middle of the diner. “Some nutjob was eavesdropping on our conversation. Can you believe it?”
“But...” You let your hand drop to your side as he leaves.
“Akiko!” Uncle Mo’s voice yanks you back to reality. “Finish ya damn food, and getcho ass ova hea!” You look back one final time towards Peter’s massive figure, towering over the people outside, but shrinking every second as he gets further and further away. Then you nod, grab your plate, and take the last bite of your lau lau. Your teeth tear and gnash at it as your tongue presses against the flesh and leaves, trying to parse out the fleeting flavor.
It is bland, and slightly bitter.
You look past the line of customers and watch as Uncle Mo, your manager, wipes his brow, his sweat beading on his face to create a sheen that you are sure would’ve been salty to the taste, had you been able to taste much of anything these days. You glance down at your lau lau plate, noting the way it, too, is sweating, and put your fork down. Back to Uncle Mo. He is helping a large haole man, probably a tourist, or maybe a recent transplant – you can tell by the way he is the only one in the diner wearing an aloha shirt, by the way he reeks of sunscreen-infused sweat (How would that taste? You can’t help but half-wonder, half-fantasize, and decide it would still be salty, but also bitter, if you recall the vague taste of salty sunscreen and sweat on your lips from your days playing on the beach as a child correctly) – with an order, ringing him up and handing him an entire box of spam musubi. The man nods and thanks him, and then, to your mild annoyance, walks over and takes a seat several tables away from you. Waste of a box. Plus, that is a lot of musubi to eat in one sitting, but, then again, he is a big guy.
An absolutely massive guy, in fact, now that you get a better look at him. He is huge, a veritable mountain of a man, with hands like catcher's mitts, hands like slabs of beef, hands that pick with unexpected delicateness at the lid of the box. You nearly choke on your tea when you see how small a musubi looks in his hand. It’s almost comical. You look at your own hand, which had rolled those musubi that very morning, for comparison.
“Damn,” you mutter under your breath. When you look back, you see that the man has already polished off the first musubi and is reaching for another. “Damn.”
You had never been a big eater, but now, post-Covid, you eat next to nothing. If you could eat like that guy, though, your mother would be thrilled. Your doctor, too. And then maybe you could keep on weight, instead of being skin-and-mostly-bones, if you ate like him. You look on in awe as he pulls out a third musubi and eats it in two bites. He is so fluid, almost graceful in his movements – this is a man who has spent a lot of time eating. It is in his nature, in the way he knows just how to unpeel the plastic wrap that always gives you such a hard time, or in the way he doesn’t seem to make a mess at all despite the greasiness of the spam or the brittleness of the nori. This is the efficiency of a man who knows what he is about, and it is hypnotic. You watch him eat, peel and bite and bite and gone and peel and bite and bite and gone, until he has nearly cleaned out the box. You are disappointed when his phone rings, distracting him from what was clearly his calling, his life’s work, his muse.
“Peter, here,” says the man. His voice is higher than you had expected, and rather nasally. “Oh, howzit. I see you got my text, then.” Your interest begins to wane, and you find your eyes drifting towards the local family of four taking the table next to him, between the two of you. Two parents, and two girls. Their daughters, you assume, or maybe one daughter and a friend? Hard to say. None of them look very much alike, but they behave like they are related, more or less. Something in the body language, in the way they seem relaxed around each other that you have never experienced yourself but that you nevertheless see often enough to recognize it in other people.
“Well, no, it’s not cancer,” says the man, says Peter, to be exact. Your eyes shoot back to him. “But it is precancerous, whatever that means. Best not to take chances with this sort of thing. So I’m having them removed tomorrow.” He nods several times, then, perhaps remembering that the person on the other end of the line cannot see him, he speaks up. “Yes, of course. Yes, thank you, I appreciate that. I’m taking care of myself. Hell, I’m having a salad right now!” He grins as he pats the box, and you find yourself smiling with him. “But honestly, don’t worry. A couple of lesions can’t slow me down. I’m the picture of health.” You look him over skeptically: he is large, no doubt, and the largest part about him is his belly, which sits on, and overflows from, his lap, hanging slightly over the floor. “And anyway, this isn’t the worst thing to ever happen to ol’ Peter Patterson. Remember Brooklyn? It could never get worse than Brooklyn.” He laughs, his strange voice reaching a shrill pitch. “What do you mean? Have I never told you the Brooklyn story?”
You lean closer. You’ve always wanted to visit New York City. It was on your bucket list, pre-Covid, though you never worked up the courage to go. And now, well… “See, it all started back when I was in college –”
“Eh, you know what? I pau!” One of the girls of the family seated between you and Peter stands, her cheap metal chair scraping against the already well-scuffed floor. Her pidgin contrasts sharply with Peter’s American English, and it draws your unwilling attention. “I pau, forreal dis time! I done! Hacum we neva do wat I like? Is always Casey, Casey, Casey. I was da one wanted fo go Honolulu in da first place!” The family’s posture has changed, far less relaxed than a few moments before. Hunched over, tense, irritated, resentful. These postures you know all about, know them intimately. What you don’t know about, what you want to know about, is the Brooklyn story.
“Yeah babe, but Casey like visit da museum, and you like one shopping spree.” The older woman at the table says. “We no mo dat kine money. She way mo easy fo please.”
“You guys always like compare, ah.” The girl glares at her parents, whilst the Casey in question looks on in uncomfortable silence. “Hacum I no can be my own person, ha?” You crane your head, trying to look past the bubbling domestic dispute in front of you, searching for Peter. “Of course, by that point, I’d lost a lot of blood.” Peter is saying, though you can barely make him out. He seems unfazed by the family’s outburst. “But I was a lot sturdier back then, so it was fine.” He thumps his chest, then winces and coughs. “After that, it was mostly smooth sailing, though we never did find her finger.”
Whatever he says next is drowned out by another outburst by the girl. You stand up.
“If we no go right now, I –” The girl jumps as you slap your hand on the table; her family is equally shocked.
“Two hundred dollas,” you say.
“What?” The girl looks at you like you are crazy, which, you think, maybe you are.
“Two hundred dollas,” you say again. “If you guys just shaddup and leave.” You move your hand to reveal the two hundred dollar bills you slammed onto the table. The man scowls.
“Eh, first of all, who you tink you –” he begins, but you cut him off.
“Jus take da money, braddah. Take it, and go take her shopping, bumbai I change my mind.”
“Shoots,” says the girl, snatching the money. “Deal.”
Saying so, she grabs her purse and books it to the door.
“Kylie, wait!” Her mother stands up and hurries after her, the other girl in tow. The father looks back between you and his family, then throws up his hands and chases after them – without paying, of course. Uncle Mo won’t be happy. And they left a mess, too.
“In the end, it all worked out. And that’s how I met Brianne! So I’d say it was worth it. Definitely. Definitely.” Peter sighs and scratches his scraggly beard. “I miss her, though. Times like this, even if it’s not cancer, well, she would’ve helped me stay calm. That damned air balloon. I never should’ve let her go up there.” You stay at the table, shifting a little closer to Peter, stacking the plates and cleaning up the napkins the family left behind. You grab a half-empty can of coke that had spilled in their rush to leave. “You know how she – yes, exactly. That’s right. And thank you,” says Peter. “It was bound to happen eventually, I suppose. God knows she was reckless. I remember once, she pulled a gun on a man in a saizeriya. But she – ah, sorry.” Peter laughs, but it turns into a sigh. “I must’ve told you a thousand times by now.”
Your hand tightens, and the coke can crumples in your grip, the remnants of the sticky soda spilling out onto your hand and then the table. You look at Peter, then back at the table, where the spilled coke is spreading. You hurry over to the counter where Uncle Mo is working, past the line of customers, and snatch up a tray.
“Bout time!” Uncle Mo motions you over. “I catchin cracks right now! We gettin busy.”
“I jus cleaning dis table cuz I like sit dea.”
Uncle Mo throws his hands in the air. “But –”
“I still get tirteen minutes!” You don’t bother looking back as you reply. You speed walk over to the table and quickly wipe up the coke, then begin piling dirty dishes onto your tray.
“But you see, in those days, nobody knew who this Putin guy was, so we didn’t take him seriously. I laughed right in his face,” says Peter, as you walk past him towards the kitchen, dirty dishes in hand. “Big mistake. I’m still not allowed to set foot in Russia.” You breeze past a helpless Uncle Mo and hurry back towards Peter.
“Not bad for a second honeymoon, eh?” you hear Peter saying. Stopping only to catch your breath – you haven’t moved like that in quite some time – you grab your lau lau plate and tea and walk back over to the now-empty table. You drink deeply from the tea, which tastes sweeter than you remember. Excitement flutters in your chest. That’s new – the taste, and the excitement.
“Hell, I miss her. I miss all of you.” Peter’s meaty finger traces a circle on the musubi box. “How’s Kent doing? We haven’t spoken much since Brianne passed. But really, what is there to say that hasn’t already been said?” Peter falls silent, listening, and you take the time to observe him. His hair is thinning and wispy, and his brow shines with sweat. Somehow, he’s squeezed himself into a very bright red aloha shirt, and, though it is tight on him, he does not, in your opinion, look bad in it. Indeed, you admire him for dressing up. You often fantasized, during the lockdowns, about going out in a nice dress, just because. Funny. You’d forgotten about that till just now. You take a bite of your lau lau, and then some rice, washing it all down with more tea.
“Well, I’m glad he’s doing okay,” says Peter. “Believe it or not, I never blamed him. You can’t blame people for the way life goes. She taught me that.” Peter looks down, and you have to fight the sudden urge to run over and give him a hug. “Even with these...whatever they are. Cancer, not cancer, I don't know how it’s all going to work out. I’m hopeful, of course, but the doctor said there’s a chance they come back, and then...” He sighs. “But that’s just how the cookie crumbles. I’m not mad at God, or the universe, or life. Whatever. I don’t blame any of ‘em. Sometimes, you just gotta roll with the punches. She and I, we both learned that the hard way, back at the monastery.” Peter glances at you and your eyes meet; he frowns, and you look down at your food. “What do you mean, what monastery? I’m sure I’ve told you about our stint in Tibet. That’s where I proposed. Remember?”
“Tibet? Proposed?” You savor the words on your lips; they taste better than the shoyu-drenched lau lau you are starting to gobble down. Half the plate is gone already, and you are working your way through the rest. You have already eaten more in the last fifteen minutes than you eat most days. Peter looks back at you, and shifts away.
“Anyway,” he goes on. “I won’t bore you with the details, but the long and short of – oh, well, if I must!” His smile, you think, could light up a room, and when he laughs you find yourself giggling along with him. You take another bite of your lau lau. “This was back when, ah, hold on.” He looks at his watch and gasps. “Oh! I’ve just been sitting here, talking your ear off. I’m gonna miss my appointment!” He stands up and starts collecting his things. He considers the box before him, hesitates, then grabs the last musubi, unwraps it, and crams the whole thing into his mouth. You are too disappointed to be impressed this time, though. You feel your chest tighten.
“No.” You stand up, dropping your fork onto your plate. “Not yet. You didn’t finish yet!” Peter dusts some rice off of his shirt and starts to head for the door; like a piece of rusted iron being drawn to a magnet, you are drawn towards him. “Wait!”
You grab Peter’s arm, and he turns back in surprise. “Sorry, hi, I’m sorry.” What are you doing? Even you don’t know. But he can’t leave just yet. “Not to be niele, sorry, I mean, nosy, not to be nosy, but I just, I gotta know: how did it end?”
“Hold on, gimme a sec.” Peter turns back and looks at you, one hand covering his phone’s receiver. “What?”
“Da story!” you say, your desperate words bubbling forth like pus from a festering wound. “How’d da proposal go? And how was Tibet? It sounds amaz...” You trail off when you see his face. Peter pulls his large arm out of your hand, then shakes his head and turns away. “Sorry about that,” he says as he leaves you standing in the middle of the diner. “Some nutjob was eavesdropping on our conversation. Can you believe it?”
“But...” You let your hand drop to your side as he leaves.
“Akiko!” Uncle Mo’s voice yanks you back to reality. “Finish ya damn food, and getcho ass ova hea!” You look back one final time towards Peter’s massive figure, towering over the people outside, but shrinking every second as he gets further and further away. Then you nod, grab your plate, and take the last bite of your lau lau. Your teeth tear and gnash at it as your tongue presses against the flesh and leaves, trying to parse out the fleeting flavor.
It is bland, and slightly bitter.