170: IN THE RING

I saw him again, today.

It's been months.

"Hi, he said. I remember you."

"Yes. Hi. You're the chef."

He used to be a chef, worked at restaurants all over Montreal.

"I even cooked for a soup kitchen. Name a soup, I made it from scratch."

But that was then.

Now he slowly takes his cap off, reveals his scalp.

"Look at this. My hair is all gone."

"I can't work any more. Tumors all over my body. My friend takes me to the hospital for chemo."

"Downtown."

"Chemo takes everything out of me. I can hardly walk after my treatments."

"I'm not myself any more."

"It's a fight to get up every day."

Outside, a bunch of school kids cut across the parking lot, shouting and shoving each other around, happy as a spring day.

Inside, the chef and I stand face to face across the Grubhouse counter.

We're probably around the same age.

Played stando against a school wall.

Danced to the same songs.

The chef doesn't deserve the cards he's been dealt.

I wonder.

Is he married?

Does he live alone?

None of my business.

Now he's in the boxing ring, fighting for his life.

I want him to win that fight.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Sounds cheesy and phony. What kind words can I offer the chef? Anything I can come up with will be like a mosquito trying to poke through steel.

"Can I help you carry those bags?"

"Thanks, I'm fine," he says. "My friend is outside."

"Take care."

The chef hoists his sustenance and leaves quietly.

The day is over. We clean up, close shop.

All the way home I can't stop thinking about the chef.

He's in the fight of his life.