The Two of Us CHAPTER 2 "GET r. . . get rid that pi. . . pnapple." El can't always access the words he needs; and when he can, he can't always get them out of his mouth. It's much more than a stammer. The effort shows on his face as he attempts to force a word out against the kind of resistance you might encounter trying to blow syrup through a straw. Even so, manners cost nothing. "Magic word?" I say. "P. . . p. . . fuckig pronto." "That's better," I tell him, plucking the chunks of pineapple from his slice of pizza. El opens wide and I feed the tip of the folded slice into his mouth. His head wobbles but he succeeds in taking a bite without getting any more tomato sauce on his already smeared face. Beneath the sauce he has a deep tan, but it's not enough to create even an illusion of health. El and his partner, Phil, returned from a holiday in San Francisco two days ago. It's unlikely El has deteriorated significantly while he's been away, but his twitches and wobbles and speech do seem worse. "Wh. . . wh. . . wh. . ." "Who?" I try, and El shakes his head. "What?" El shakes his head again. "Lass one," he says. "Why?" El nods. "Why? Why would you p. . . put pnapple on a p. . ." He points a trembling finger at the pizza sitting between us. "It's a Hawaiian," I tell him. "You ordered it." El shrugs. "Like the name." Like all best friends living within ten miles of each other in London, El and I used to see each other about three times a year. But there's nothing quite like terminal illness to cure apathy. So around two years ago, when the Huntington's disease began to sink its teeth into him, we got into a routine of meeting every Tuesday. Initially we'd go to the pub, but as El's condition progressed he lost his tolerance for drink along with his inhibitions and grasp of social niceties. We changed venue to the local curry house, arriving early in the evening when the place was empty and El could swear, twitch, stammer, and drop his glass without an audience. But in the last few months, even that has become too difficult. So now it's pizza and alcohol-free beer in El's own living room. I suppose that somewhere in my mind he exists as the ten-year-old boy I rode my bike with, the teenager who I bought stolen pornography from, and the man who used to make me cry with laughter; and it's as if all the decline El has endured in the last few years--the constant twitching and jerking; lack of coordination, balance, and empathy; the weight loss, the loss, in fact, of all the subtleties and nuances that make El El--it feels today as if all the damage has been compacted into the three weeks he's been away. And whilst I know it hasn't, his speech is undeniably worse. Before he left for the pub, Phil told me he's finding it increasingly necessary to help El find his words, form his thoughts, and understand what other people are saying to him. I help myself to a slice of Quattro Formaggi, fold it in half, take a bite. "Still f. . . fuckig that g. . . woman," El says, looking at me, amused, waiting for a reaction. "I don't remember saying anything about fucking." "P. . . P. . . Pippa, wasn' it? Bounthy bounthy!" "Ivy," I say, wincing inwardly. "Her name is Ivy." "G. . . g. . . grows on you," he says, and although, like so many others, he said it the first time he heard Ivy's name, it makes me laugh because it's evidence that the old El is still--at least partially--with us. "Wh. . . wh. . . wh. . ." "Who? What? When? W--" "When! When d'I get to meet her?" Good question. After my last girlfriend, Kate, walked out on me, I did what any recently humiliated idiot would do. I slept with the receptionist at work. Pippa had an endearing but amusing habit of lisping "Bounthy bounthy" whenever she went on top. Which was quite often. Which . . . I told El. I know, I know--but he's my oldest friend and I couldn't resist. Well, the indiscretion has come back to punish me, because her name has lodged where so little else will--firmly in El's head. Unless my next girlfriend is a trampolinist called Pippa, it would probably be a mistake to introduce her to him. El looks at me: Well? "Soon," I say. El narrows his eyes. "Sh. . . she d. . . d. . . d. . ." "Can you spell it?" I ask, remembering what Phil told me about how to tease the words from El with various "cueing" techniques. "Or spell how it sounds?" The tendons on El's skinny neck stand taut with effort as he galvanizes himself for another attempt. "Duh. . . d. . . u. . ." "D-U?" El nods. "Mmm . . ." He twists his neck far to the left, his lips working mutely as if trying to snatch the next letter from the air, "P. . . D. . ." "D-U-M-P-D?" El swings his hands together, connecting just enough to consider it a clap. "She d. . . dumped you . . . f. . . figured y'out. Ha-ha-ha." "How's that funny?" "S'pose it's not really," he says, suddenly straight-faced. "Sad, tragic, pred. . . pred. . ." "Predictable?" El jabs a finger at me like a game-show host pointing out a winning contestant. "I hate to burst your miserable bubble," I say, "but Ivy has not dumped me." "Ye. . . ye. . . y. . ." I know what the bastard's driving at, but I'm damned if I'm going to make it any easier for him. "Fuck it," says El. "D'you think you cn carry me?" I doubt El ever achieved his teenage goal of reaching five feet six, and he was skinny before the Huntington's began eroding him. He can't weigh much more than one of my ten-year-old nieces. "I'm pretty sure I could throw you clean out of the window," I tell him. El contemplates this. "B. . . be quicker," he says. The house El shares with Phil ranges over five floors. The front door sits atop a short flight of tiled steps leading to the drive and the busy road that runs past the house. El wants "f. . . fresh air," so I pick him up, carry him down three dozen steps, and set him gently on the threshold. It turns out he's lighter than he looks, but the effort has my arms tingling. After some initial difficulty, El removes a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. "L. . . light one f'me," he says. I do as I'm asked and pass the burning Marlboro to El. "You don't smoke," I tell him. El holds up evidence to the contrary and blows smoke in my direction. The traffic here is relentless, so the face full of smoke amounts to little more than an insult in the cloud of pollution that surrounds us on this balmy August evening. "Well, you didn't three weeks ago." El inhales deeply, holds the full-tar smoke in his lungs, widens, and then crosses his eyes. I wait for him to turn green, cough, splutter--like they do in the movies--but El merely opens his mouth and lets the smoke slowly escape his lungs. "W. . . wan' one?" "No, thank you, filthy habit." "Thass what Phil says." He grins. "But they do make y'look c. . . f. . . cool as f. . . fuck." "That they do," I tell him. Pollution aside, it's pleasant sitting on the steps and watching the folk and traffic move by at approximately the same pace. El is on his third fag when we see Phil shuffling back to the flat. He shakes his head when he sees us, then flicks me a small wave. "Boys," he says, mounting the steps. "Having a party?" And he tuts as he collects El's butts and folds them into a paper tissue. "Thank you, d. . . darling," says El. "You're most unwelcome," says Phil, sitting between us and plucking the cigarette from El's fingers. He takes a drag and passes the cigarette back to El. "Filthy fucking habit." "All the b. . . b. . . bess ones are," says El, winking at me. "True enough," says Phil. "What's brought all this"--I waft cigarette smoke away from my face--"on, anyway?" Phil looks at the ground and shakes his head again. "Member that S. . . Smiths song?" says El. " 'Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want'?" offers Phil with a sly smile. " 'Bigmouth Strikes Again'?" I try. "Pair of f. . . fuckig jokers. N. . . no. 'What D. . . Di. . . Diff. . . fuckit!" "I know," says Phil, gently. He takes the Marlboro from El and takes a deep pull before passing it back. " 'What Difference Does It Make?' " And, God, do I wish I smoked. "So," I say. "How was the pub?" "Crowded, noisy, and yet somehow still bereft of atmosphere," says Phil. "Sh. . . sh. . . shoulda gone t. . . to the p. . . b. . . p. . . puff pub." "I did," says Phil. "S. . . s. . . s. . ." "Good God," says Phil. "It's bad enough having the pip-squeak take the piss with every other breath. But waiting for him to spit it out like this . . . I swear to God, it's like waiting for a bloody firing squad to pull the trigger." "S. . . s. . ." and the mischievous look in El's eye would appear to confirm that whatever he is struggling (although you really never know with El) to say, it's got a barb on it. "Suck any cock?" "I hate to disappoint you, dear heart, but the only thing to pass my lips was a rather thin Merlot." El shrugs petulantly. Earlier this year he invested a considerable amount of breath and effort in trying to convince Phil to find a new boyfriend. As well as the physical symptoms, Huntington's disease subtracts character and personality, it wears down logic and reason and social inhibition in its victims. Add to this that El has always reveled in the inappropriate, and the result can be sad, funny, and deeply confusing. But there was more to El's dispassionate matchmaking than his disease or his devilment. He understands that he is dying, and that before the end comes he will be diminished beyond recognition. The problem, as El sees it, is that he could last another ten years, by which time Phil will be well into his fifties--hence various nonsense like El "dumping" Phil and enrolling him on dating Web sites "w. . . w. . . while he's still y. . . young 'nough to find somne else." As romantic gestures go, it's about the best I have ever witnessed. "F. . . Fisher got dumped," says El. Phil cocks an eyebrow. "No Fisher did not," I say. "Yet," says El, without even a hint of difficulty. Excerpted from The Two of Us by Andy Jones All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
