Dale

Dale examined my prostate yesterday. He’s a PA (physicians assistant) over at the Drexel University Health System in Philadelphia and a buddy from college. We met in the dorms freshman year where he taught me about bongs, the French Horn and why the Smiths were as good as Led Zeppelin. He played in the marching band and was proud of it. Sometimes, in his dorm room, after a few Cuervo shots, he would play The Smiths on the French Horn. We sure had good times back then.

I bumped into Dale at Tucks wedding in Corpus Christi and we made the typical drunken, empty promises to get together and hang out.

Seriously, I said, lets hang out soon.

I’ve noticed how drunk people say seriously or I’m serious. As in: Seriously dude, you’re one of my best friends, or we should start a band - I’m serious, and I’m seriously in love with you Karen, I mean Kathy.

Two years later Dale e-mailed me saying he was coming to town for a seminar. I told him he must stay with me for the weekend. I sounded like a Martha Stewart clone, we summer in the Vineyard, you must do a weekend.

Dale flew in Friday afternoon on Jet Blue. I hid a key for him under a lawn gnome in my front yard because Friday was my day to clean out the tanks at the bait shop. I have several lawn gnomes and was worried that Dale might have some trouble finding the right key. The front door key was under the gnome operating a jackhammer. I hid my extra key to the backdoor under the gnome dressed as a chef. The key to the basement was under a gnome tossing a javelin. I guess hed figure it out.

I dont like to drink early in the evening. I feel bad about myself if Im buzzing and the sun is shining. Im a traditionalist. You might even say Im from the old school. While the sun is above the horizon a man should be active earning a wage or repairing his home. Leisure has its place only after the sky darkens. On a typical night I head out to the pubs around midnight, pound six or seven Buds, and sack out around three. But with Dale in town I felt the pressure to entertain. Dale suggested beef, so we hopped in my Escort GT and cruised over to the Old Stampede for some steaks. Typically Id stay home and eat a box of cous cous, but what kind of host would offer that? Since Im a vegan I ended up double fisting beer and bourbon while he ate his Kansas City strip. Later we went to a few of the quality titty bars and watched some televised professional lacrosse on ESPN2.

Our last stop was Micks Pub. Dale was buying White Russians four at a time. We reminisced about college and started sharing stories about our families. Sadly, I learned that Dales mother died two years ago from a stroke and his father died only months later of prostate cancer. Raw deal. As a medical professional Dale couldnt say enough about the dangers of prostate cancer. Early detection and frequent checkups were the keys to beating this horrible affliction, but, men wont see a doctor unless theyre on their freakin deathbed, he said shaking his fist in the air.

Dale asked me if I had ever had my prostate examined. No I said, trying to imagine what a prostate even looked like. He was shocked. How could I neglect my health and well-being for so long? A real shame, he said. Chewing the creamy ice from a sixth White Russian, he insisted my prostate be checked. I promised to set an appointment with Doc Patterson first thing next week. He insisted that I be checked immediately. On our way home he asked me to stop at the 24 hour Walgreens. Lean on me was playing over the speakers as I wandered the bright aisles. Lean on me, when you’re not strong and Ill help you, help you to carry on. I bought a Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pie, a pint of Southern Comfort and a Red Bull. Dale bought a tube of KY Jelly.

I was drunk in my own living room trying to find some music on the radio when Dale exited the bathroom and asked me if I was ready for my exam.
Cant this wait until tomorrow, I asked.
Jesus H. Christ. Tomorrow may be too late! Dale said, again shaking his fist in the air to punctuate his statement, but this time his fist held the tube of KY Jelly.

With Dales careful instruction, I slowly dropped my pants and underwear to the floor and lay on my side on the coffee table. Dale was behind me sliding his right hand into a rubber glove. He had covered the coffee table with my Pac Man beach towel. I was looking out the living room windows into the front yard, scanning for something to concentrate on as Dale expertly spread some cold jelly onto my anus.

Take a deep breath and hold it, Dale said.

As his fingers entered me, it was like a small electric shock. My sight fell to a lawn gnome shining in the moonlight the little guy was wearing a pointy red hat, holding a jackhammer and winking at me.