Kyle took another sip of coffee. His stomach growled. He knew the sandwich would be arriving soon, and didn't feel like eating without reading. He picked up the black messenger bag sitting on the chair next to him. He rummaged through the assortment of books, cough drops, kleenex and various other sundry items.
"Popular Science..." he muttered. "No, just read it..." Although literature was Kyle's passion now, he still maintained an avid interest in a little of everything, in the spirit of the intelligent and witty kid he had once been. "The New Yorker...nah, I'll save it for later. Promotional Flyers That I Take From Random People..." he pulled out a handful of colorful brochures. A lavender flyer printed on recycled paper caught his eye. "Earth's Aura Vibrational Medicine Boutique. Selling crystals, herbs, talismans and books." Kyle grimaced. "Oh no, bad memories, baaad memories..."
The bad memories stemmed from the experience that was also, at least partially, the reason Kyle couldn't stand to look at Laura's kidney painting. Kyle wasn't afraid of needles or blood...you couldn't afford that when you were a Type 1 diabetic. But bad associations connected with particular organs were different...
The kidney incident had happened when he was just eight. He would never forget his brush with death; how could he? The terrifying sense of his own end looming above him, growing closer...and closer...he remembered everything quite clearly, more clearly than he would have liked...
Stan's arms had shuddered with the weight of carrying Kyle's prone form as he stood in the godforsaken confines of Cartman's basement. Kyle slipped in and out of attentiveness as his mind meandered deliriously through little eddies of thought, but he tried to focus on the blurred, obese shape of Cartman. He heard Stan put forth his case, and felt his heart contract within his breast and send a chill through him as the answer came....
No. Cartman, the only match for Kyle, would not give him one of his kidneys. To make things, worse, the refusal was sung to the tune of a song from a popular musical.
He shuddered and felt as though he were going to vomit. To regurgitate life and be empty...forever...
Stan, his best friend, blazed with grief-stoked fury. "Cartman, you are so going to hell when you die!"
Cartman had baited them, taunted them, Stan and Kyle both. Held out of Kyle's reach not some trivial thing that someone with no fear of death would care about...but Kyle's own life.
When Cartman had said, "Maybe I will give it to you-- for a price," Kyle had known it was just one of Cartman's cruel ploys, but he had queried further anyway, not daring to hope. "How much?"
"Well, how much do you think your life is worth, Kyle?"
After learning that Cartman was using the desperate situation as just another one of his moneymaking schemes (apparently Kyle's life was worth exactly $10,000,000.00), Stan had staggered out with Kyle in his arms. Kyle didn't have the energy to say anything during Stan's crying spells. He didn't blame him, really...if his best friend was dying, he would be crying, too.
Then Cartman had been tricked into donating his kidney, and Kyle had lived, although not without a faint shudder when he thought of where it had come from...
Almost as bad as Cartman's coldheartedness was Kyle's mother's handling of the situation. Visits with a fraudulent New Age "healer" called Miss Information(it seemed so obvious to Kyle now that she was merely Misinformation in disguise) had duly led to his mother's infatuation with so-called holistic medicine and diets of lemon juice and cayenne pepper—which only aggravated his nausea. Miss Information's near-fatal therapy was off-putting enough to keep him away from chakras and tinctures for a lifetime. The only thing that had saved him from total annihilation was Stan, who never ceased his caustic attacks on Miss Information…he didn't give up until Kyle was in the hospital being prepped for a kidney transplant.
He crumpled the lavender flyer in his fist.
"I'll read the New Yorker," he muttered. Talking to himself was something that made him feel better, and he had a compelling need to get a grip at the moment.
He riffled past the ads to the table of contents. The short story piece looked promising...he ambled through the thin, not-too-glossy pages, eyeing the cartoons. He was just getting carried away by the story when the same redheaded waitress came with his tuna sandwich.
"Thanks," he said quickly, and carefully lifted away half of the sandwich. Damn, they were good. With the other hand, he munched on the large slice of pickle that came on the side. The tuna fish-to-mayo ratio was perfect.
Something red bobbed into his field of vision. He reached up with a small, compact hand and tugged on a fiery, springlike lock of hair. Time for a haircut.
He went back to his magazine and soon finished the sandwich.