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I hear my boss saying, "Matt? Matt, are you there?" Then he resumes his knocking on the door. This has been going on for five minutes. The same question, over and over. The same bursts of fists on the cheap wood of the door making a hollow sound that reminds me of a woodpecker.
I'm reclining in my chair, playing snake on my cell phone.
Snake? It's a game where you start with a 2x6 pixel virtual snake. The point is to move the snake around the board and eat the bits of food that pop up. Each piece of food adds to the snake's length. The game is over when the snake runs into itself.
Only, for me, this stopped being a game. Spike, that's what I've named this snake, is like a child. And just like any child, you fall in love with it.’
"Matt?" My boss' voice trails off. I can clearly see his scrunched-up face, tilted slightly to the side, in my mind’s eye. I imagine a gay guy losing his virginity would have the same expression. The thought of my boss, Mr. Tight Ass himself, getting his butt filled makes me laugh.
But my attention never wavers. My eyes are locked on the tiny screen of my cell phone. I laugh, but my fingers are steady, safely guiding Spike to the next bit of food. Every time he eats, he grows. And every time he grows, I get a little bit happier.
"Guess he's not in," my boss says to the closed door.
It would only take one second. One second, and it could be game over. For Spike, game over is no different than death. It's like looking away from your baby, for one slim second, and turning back to see their throat slit.
At first, I was totally against cell phones. My wife came home and handed me mine. All I could think was, no matter where I put this thing, I'll have an electronic leash around my neck. Clipped on my belt, stuffed deep in my pocket, in the end I'm no different than a dog.
But then I found snake.
Spike is the closest thing I'll ever have to a real child.
It starts with a heavy feeling in your balls. It doesn't hurt really, more uncomfortable than anything else. You start getting worried when they swell. You put it off until you can't ignore them any longer. At this point, there is pain but you examine them anyway, poking and prodding at yourself. Each one should be a smooth ball of tubes and fluid. So, when you feel a large, irregular lump your heart stutters.
I tell my wife about the lump. She yells at me, you have to go to the doctor. Go. Now. She screams, this is important. And really, she isn't helping the situation.
The diagnosis is quick like a dropped guillotine blade. After the doctor feels me up, he stops looking me in the eye. He says he wants to send me to a specialist.
A specialist. Shit. That's always bad news.
What happens when you have testicular cancer is they cut your balls off. Imagine a vasectomy. Now, instead of closing the vas deferens, the tube connoting your manhood to your body, imagine them taking a scalpel and severing the slim piece of flesh. One swipe and you're a eunuch. They tell me that I should be happy. The cancer hadn't metastasized; it didn't spread. They have the balls to tell me how lucky I am. Of course they actually have balls, so they can be generous.
I sure am happy. I'm so lucky. Just look at my face. Me muttering, "Fuck off." Yep, that's me being happy all right.
So, in the spirit of trying to be happy, I tell the doctors that I want my balls.
"You'll get over that," my doctor says. He says, "That phantom feeling will go away in time."
No, I say, I really want my balls. You know, the two bits of flesh you cut out of me? They're mine. I want them.
An hour later, the doctor hands me a jar filled with formaldehyde and pieces of flesh. The bits inside, and I'm not trying to be macho or anything, but I'm sure my balls were bigger than that.
"That's all that was left after the biopsy," the doctor says.
Oh well. Beside me, my wife makes a gagging noise. I've been ignoring her up until then and it's better that way because she can't bear to look at me since the operation. Feeling mean, I hand her the jar. Her mouth opens. It closes. I say, hey, now you literally have me by the balls.
She drops the jar and runs from the room. The glass shatters and the stink of formaldehyde stings the hairs in my nose.
In the car, on the way home, my wife tells me she's sorry.
Not as much as I am.
"I'm...I always wanted kids," she says, "and you can't have them anymore."
There are adoptions, or sperm banks and artificial insemination, or--
"I'm leaving you," she says.
I sit and try to ingest those three words. Or is it four? What does a contraction count as? It's easier to play a stupid word-counting game than acknowledge the deep hurt in my chest. Maybe, if I'm lucky, it's a heat attack. Because being dead must be better than this.
"Did you hear me? I'm leaving you."
At least I have snake.
The same woodpecker rapping at my office door commences. "Matt? Matt, are you there?" My boss is back. For a brief moment, I want to open the door and shout in his face. I want to scream at him that I can't have kids, that my wife left me and is pregnant with someone else's child.
The rage is gone with a single beep. It only takes a single moment of inattention. Hot tears leak from my eyes. Through wavering vision, I look at the 'Game Over' screen on my cell phone. Spike is dead.
Maybe it's better that I will never be a father. It's what I tell myself, even as I start another game of snake.
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