relay 4l

My dad survived testicle cancer right around the time I was born. The way the timeline worked, he and my mom conceived me (a very grown up way of skirting around wedlock taboo), they married, he was diagnosed, and by the time I was born he'd been through most of chemo. Cancer is suicide at the biological level, because what my dad's body was trying to do was evade his future so much that he was making sure he wouldn't be around for it. What's unclear is the cause: His marriage to my mom and her hoosier family, or having to rear a miniature version of himself.

As a survivor, since before I can remember we'd make a big ordeal about going to the Relay for Life. People set up camping tents inside a high school track and spend the better part of 24 hours puttering around in a circle to stop bad cell growth. I don't know if many of them understood the science of tumor remission, or group sacrifices for that matter, but those fuckers sure could raise some money. What I remember most is how much people would empty their wallets to those who'd emptied their hair follicles.

One year, a token for walking so much was getting one of those unmistakable beanie babies, those little cloth animals stuffed with choke hazard beads affixed to red paper heart earrings, showing off their authenticity like a suburban rapper wearing a snap-back. People flocked to those little security blankets, and I knew I had to take the torch and carry on the tradition.

See, I wasn't much into stuffed animals other than the occasional Snuggle I could add to my collection whenever my mom bought some new laundry detergent. What I dealt in was another type of animal affiliate: Pokemon cards. I couldn't keep my hands off them, and much like the genius branding behind bundling laundry soap with teddie bears, Nintendo kept pumping out new characters and starter card packs that a daily allowance could only take so far.

I think you know where this is going. Shortly after one year's Relay, I donned my roller blades, emptied our red wagon of my sister’s dolls, and hit the streets with a load full of stuffed merch just waiting to be converted into sweet card-acquiring currency. Knocking on doors had never been easier. People would open their home and find a nice affluent boy poised, slightly rolling, on their porch in an over-sized Cure Cancer shirt and asking for donations. Some saw through it, but most didn't. A salesman was born.

Needless to say, the scheme worked only until ultimately I was found out. I remember my mom learning what I'd been up to, but for some reason don't have a memory of the punishment. They were so frequent back then that they became as meaningless as the lessons I was meant to learn from them. Looking back, what I know for sure is it wasn't my dad's marriage that had activated his body's escape plans. If he'd ever figured it out, I'm sure he would've made a second break for it. It's easy to imagine if he had: A candle-lit portrait of my dad, still bald. Flood lights bathing a sea of campers and allies running laps. And me standing amid it all, a donation bucket in each hand, raking it in.