Author: Frank Sikora
My friend Stanislav bends forward and coughs, not once, not twice, but five times. Even in the mill’s dim light, I see the bloody bile on his hands.
“I’m dying, friend Wojtek,” he says. “A most unpleasant experience.”
I cannot disagree. I take a bite of my apple, chew a bit, then swallow. Given my limitations, I try to keep the mood light. “And so close to Anna’s wedding. What will your wife think?”
Stanislav wipes his hands. Like mine, they are calloused and bruised from decades of turning scrap and pig iron into molten steel. “I should have become a criminal,” he says. “In America, crime pays. Anna’s husband’s family expects a dowry. A pretty girl like her could have picked a richer man. Should have.”
“A shame,” I reply. “Wasting one’s life in poverty.”
“Are we any better? Working 12 hours a day in this inferno. For what? $12 a day? Look at me. I’m a wreck. A burden to you. To all. Better for all if I toss myself into the fire.”
“Nonsense. We’re men. We endure,” I tell him. Secretly, I believe suicide is a viable choice. Why suffer?
“Easy for you. You’re still strong. A marvel.”
“A roll of the dice, nothing more.”
He eyes me suspiciously.
I deflect. “Tell me again. What does this boy do for a living?”
“Baker,” Stanislav says. “I should have chosen her husband. Agnieszka disagrees, says it’s Anna’s choice. So, American, my wife and daughter.”
“And that’s bad?”
My friend shrugs, leans back. Studies me. Dying gives him insight, a desperate awareness. “Tell me…”
The lunch whistle blows. Break is over. I pat my friend’s back. “Please, see a doctor.”
He forces a laugh. “I have a choice: A doctor or a dowry. No, I will walk my daughter down the aisle. Drink a toast, and then die. Hopefully, not on the dance floor.”
“Savor your days, my friend.” After three million of my own, I’m not sure I believe this. Too many days bathed in boredom. Too many nights pretending I understand love. Pretending I understand sadness. Too many years pretending that I am human.
“And the blood in my mouth?” Stanislav asks. “The fire in my chest? Are these worth savoring?”
“Please, see a physician. This is America: New medicines. New wonders.”
He rises. As I stand, he grabs my arm. “Tell me, friend, Wojtek. How is it that you have not lost a single day of strength all these years? What magic do you possess?”
“I’ve never married. That is my magic.” An American joke. A half-lie.
He squeezes my arm. Once, he was stronger than I. We met 21 years ago on a German steamship sailing from Poland to America. I had grown tired of Europe. Before then, the Mediterranean, and long before then, my home in Egypt, 3000 years before the Pyramids were built. Changing identities and appearances was easy. Living alone, harder, even for my kind.
“Just a sprinkle of that magic dust,” he pleads.
“I’m sorry. I have nothing.” A truth: I’m a relic from a forgotten age. A culture first culled by disease. Then hubris. Finally fear.
He draws me close. His vile breath does not lie. He is rotting inside. “Be the friend you claim.”
I don’t have an answer for my companion, but unlike countless times before, I won’t abandon my friend as he dies. I will witness, and maybe I will finally develop the empathy my programming lacks. It’s time I become a man.
Not a construct, not just a companion, but a human. A true friend.