Rumley pulled his mini van up to the front door of the Red Garter Tavern where he and his wife had visited each of their last twenty wedding anniversaries. He shifted his vehicle into park, turned on his hazard lights, caught his breath for a moment, and opened his door. He stepped out and lifted his oxygen tank and dolly out of the van and onto the ground. He shut the door and walked slowly around the front of the van to the passenger side where his wife Goethe was sitting calmly and blissfully. He opened the sliding cargo door, lifted Goethe's wheelchair out, and unfolded it. He slid the cargo door shut and positioned the wheelchair just behind the passenger door so Goethe could move into it with ease. He opened the passenger door, took her hand, and helped her move her legs out of the van and onto the ground. She carefully stepped down onto the pavement and sat down in the wheelchair. Rumley lifted her oxygen tank out of the van and fastened it to a brace on the back of the wheelchair. Rumley cleared his throat.

"What a beautiful night," he said. Goethe nodded her head and smiled. Warm August evenings are most beautiful, she thought. Rumley wheeled her a few feet onto the sidewalk. "I'll be back in a jiffy," he said. He walked back around to the driver's side, opened the door, lifted his oxygen tank back into the van, and climbed inside. He shifted the van into drive and rolled it thirty feet into a parking spot. He turned the van off, turned off the headlights, opened the door, and stepped out again. He lifted his oxygen tank out, shut the door, locked it, and began walking back toward Goethe. Goethe and her wheelchair had rolled ten yards down the uneven sidewalk. A No Parking sign had stopped her from rolling off the curb and into the street.

"Are you all right?" Rumley asked. Goethe's left hand was trembling and a dozen sweat beads clung to her brow. She smiled at him as he pulled her away from the sign pole. Rumley lifted his oxygen tank and set it across the
armrests of Goethe's wheelchair.

"Not many folks out on a Monday night," he said, pushing Goethe toward the front door of the bar. When he got Goethe to the door, he spun the wheelchair around, pulled the wooden door open, and began pulling Goethe and her wheelchair into the tavern. The door hit on the wheelchair. Rumley reached around, pushed the door open, and hurriedly pulled the chair inside before the door swung shut again.

"Do you need a hand there?" the bartender asked, adjusting the tuning knob on an old radio.

"Things are looking good, thanks," Rumley answered. He turned Goethe around and pushed her toward a semi-circular booth in the back corner of the dimly lit tavern. Rumley helped Goethe out of her chair and into the booth. He took her oxygen tank off the back of the wheelchair and set it down beside her. He then folded the wheelchair, set it up against the end of the booth, and took a seat across from Goethe. Rumley was out of breath. He picked a Chesterfield cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lit it with a Zippo emblazoned with the words 'I can go from zero to bitch in three seconds.' He took a long puff from the softly crackling cigarette and exhaled. "Whew," he said, watching his wife remove her hot-pink, plastic purse from around her neck, and set it on the table. She opened it and pulled out a small vibrating apparatus that she had used to communicate with since her tracheotomy. She switched the device on. It made a faint buzzing noise, which was amplified as she pressed it against her throat.

"Can you get me a beer -" she paused to take a breath, "please?"

"Sure thing, honey," Rumley said, ashing his cigarette. "What kind would you like?"

"Anything will do," Goethe said. She set the device down on the table next to her bag. Rumley stood up and walked toward the bar rolling his oxygen tank behind him. Goethe looked around the empty tavern. Still such a charming place, she thought. Everything was red. The vinyl upholstery, the tabletops, the light fixtures, the strands of tinsel hanging from the ceiling and doorjambs, the carpet; this was the reddest place she'd ever been. Rumley walked back from the bar holding two bottles of Red Stripe beer in one hand, rolling his oxygen tank with the other.

"They're having a special on these tonight," he said, setting the bottles down on the table. He lifted one of them up under the light fixture. "What do they call this beer--Red Stripe beer, yes." He sat down and picked up the cigarette he had left burning in the ashtray. Goethe smiled and lifted her beer bottle toward Rumley. Rumley lifted his and they clinked together.

"A toast to good health and happiness," Rumley said. Goethe nodded and smiled. She reached into her pink bag and pulled out a can of Kodiak chewing tobacco. She twisted open the lid and set the can down on the table. She reached into the can with her thumb, pointer, middle, and ring fingers and pulled out a tablespoon's worth of shredded tobacco leaves. When she pulled her hand out from inside the front of her stretchy green slacks a moment later, the pinch of tobacco was gone. She quivered. Her long crystal earrings clinked together like wind chimes.

"I enjoy a quiet night," Rumley said. Goethe nodded while brushing the few remaining tobacco specs from her fingers. Rumley looked over at the bartender who was reading a paper and eating pickles from a large glass jar. The bartender looked up.

"Doing OK over there?" the bartender asked, chewing on a pickle and wiping juice from his thin, shaggy beard.

"Great!" Rumley said. "This is good Red Stripe beer."

"Glad you like it," the bartender said.

Goethe pulled her oxygen tube away from one of its fasteners and handed the slack to Rumley. Rumley chuckled, coughing out blue smoke like an old, two-stroke lawnmower motor. Goethe liked when he would kink the hose for her until she was almost out of breath. Rumley was happy to do it for her since it made her happy. He kinked the hose for ten seconds. Goethe's face started to turn pink and her eyes opened very wide. Rumley straightened out the hose and Goethe took a deep breath, wiping sweat from her forehead and ruddy cheeks. Rumley chuckled again and kinked the hose a few seconds longer this time.

"Jeepers Kraus, Gert. I have to stop laughing," Rumley said later, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes and holding his stomach. "Whew."

Goethe's face was swollen and red. She stared wide-eyed at the ash-tray, catching her breath. Rumley continued to laugh. "You do that thing with your eyes after awhile-," he began. Goethe continued to stare at the ashtray. Her left eyeball slowly crept up and looked at Rumley while her right eye remained focused on the ashtray.

"Oh, cut it out, Gert! You're gonna kill me off right here!" Goethe grinned. She grabbed the oxygen hose from Rumley's hand and snapped it back onto its tank. Rumley took a drink of beer. "I tell you, we're older than the hills, Gert, but we still know how to make happy at the bar."

Goethe squeezed his hands tightly and her eyes opened very wide again. She stomped her high-heel on the floor, arched her back and coughed both of her lungs out of her tracheotomy hole. Rumley lifted his arms in front of his face and turned away to protect himself. The splotchy pink, white, gray, and black-colored lungs looked like two balloons being filled with helium. The organs slapped and bounced off each other playfully, and for a moment, the miniature air sacs on the outside of the lungs pierced through the smoky air like multiplying fractals. Lung fluid build-up sprayed this way and that like droplets of water being shaken off by a wet dog. Goethe grabbed the edge of the table and thrust her back and shoulders into the vinyl cushion behind her, bracing herself for the re-ingestion of her lungs. Her left lung slipped back in with ease. Her right lung made it most of the way back in on its own. It was caught up by a pale brown golf ball-sized tumor. The tumor throbbed, trying to squeeze back into the hole like a frightened ground squirrel running too swiftly into its burrow from too great an angle. Goethe poked at it until it slipped back inside.

"That was a big one!" Rumley said, lifting her beer. "But you've let your beer get warm, honey. You're letting the roses get in the way of your drinking. Would you like another one?" Goethe smiled and shook her head. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small clamshell compact and some lipstick. She removed the cap from the lipstick, snapped open the compact, held it under the light fixture, and began to apply the ruby red lipstick around her tracheotomy hole. The light at their booth was too dim. She put her compact mirror away and finished the job without it.

"Looking good, hon," Rumley said. He looked over at the bartender who was staring at them tim-idly, chewing on a cut of beef jerky.

"Could I get another one of these Red Stripe beers, young man?" Rumley asked. The bartender slowly nodded his head.

"He's a fine bartender," Rumley said.

Goethe brushed her hair for a minute. Rumley started on another Chesterfield while he waited for his beer. When Goethe was finished, she picked a small bush of gray hair out of the brush and set the hair in the ashtray. The bartender approached and set the Red Stripe beer in front of Rumley.

"A dollar seventy-five, sir," the bartender said.

"Got it right here," Rumley said. He set his cigarette in the ashtray and reached into his back pocket to get his billfold. The small bush of hair in the ashtray began to smolder.

"You know what," said the bartender, backing away from the rancid smell of the burning hair, "This one's on me. You drink that one up and then I'm gonna close this place up for the night."

"Nope!" Rumley said jovially, "Gert and I came here for our anniversary and we plan to stay 'til two in the morning!" The bartender looked at Goethe. She scowled at him and scraped the teeth of the hairbrush along the surface of the table.

"I'm sorry, sir, but that's how it's gonna be," the bartender said, walking away with Rumley's empty bottle. He set the bottle on the bar, locked the front door, and turned the neon signs off. Goethe kept her eyes on the bartender and continued to scrape the table with her brush faster and harder, while the hair in the ashtray finished burning.

"I don't know about him," Rumley said. Goethe shook her head and slapped her hand on the table. Rumley took a sip of his beer and watched the bartender pick up the telephone. Rumley stood up and walked toward the bar where the bartender was sitting with his back turned, talking into the telephone softly. Rumley grunted as he lifted his oxygen tank up over his head and crept up behind the bartender. The bartender looked up at the mirror behind the bar. Rumley attempted to hit the back of the bartender's head with the tank but the exertion was too much for Rumley and he fell backwards onto the floor, hitting a wooden armchair on the way down. His oxygen tank landed on his right leg, rolled off, and settled next to him.

"Damn shit!" Rumley shouted.

The bartender stood up. "What in hell is going on here?" he asked, rubbing the back of his head.

"Hush up now, son. Can't you see we've got a hurt old man here?" Rumley said. He sat up and grabbed his leg for a moment, then fell back again. "Gert, think you can give me a hand here?"

Goethe swung her legs out from under the table, grabbed the wheel-chair, unfolded it, lifted the oxygen tank into its brace, lifted herself into the wheelchair, slung her purse around her neck, placed Rumley's beer between her knees, spun the wheelchair around, and wheeled herself as fast as she could to where Rumley was lying on the floor.

"Think I did some hurt to my back, hon," Rumley said. "Could you try and help me up?"

Goethe locked the wheels of her chair and reached her right hand out to Rumley.

The bartender interrupted. "Here, let me help," he said, reaching his hand out to Rumley. Goethe grabbed Rumley's beer bottle and began shaking it, attempting to spray the bartender with the beer. The bar-tender jumped.

"Damn, Gert, you're getting beer all over me," Rumley said. "Quit lolly-gagging and give me a hand here." Goethe tossed the bottle at the bartender and it landed at his feet. She reached her hand out to Rumley again. He grabbed it with his left hand and began to pull himself upright. He sat up, shifted his weight to his left side, and swung his right leg around and under his buttocks. Goethe grabbed the edge of a table to her left for support while Rumley pulled on her wrist. He felt a sharp pain in his right knee. Goethe's grip on the table slipped as Rumley's body tightened in reaction to the pain and his pull on her wrist increased. The wheelchair began to tip over slowly. Goethe tried to shake Rumley's grip from her wrist but it was too late. Goethe toppled over and landed on Rumley, knocking the wind out of him.

"Damn shit," Rumley shouted again, trying to push Goethe off his chest. She rolled over onto her back.

"Damn, if that isn't my knee you just rolled onto," he said, cringing.

She could not roll any other direction without meeting barstool posts, so she rolled back onto his chest. The bartender sat back on a barstool, folded his arms and laughed.

"Looks like we're stuck here for a while," Rumley said. The bartender picked up the phone and began dialing.

"Don't think I broke nothin' though." Rumley continued. Rumley reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out another cigarette and his lighter. He lit it and took a long drag.

The bartender spoke into the phone: "Yeah, I'm at work. You've got to come down here and see this."

Rumley slapped his hand on the wooden floor. "What're you doing, son!" Rumley shouted, looking at the ceiling,

"Get me and my wife some beers! It's our anniversary for crying out loud!"

"Ah," he continued, exhaling up toward the ceiling, "Remember this song, Gert? You used to sing this to me while we were driving the old Hudson around, remember that?"

Goethe smiled and nodded.

"Why don't you sing me one, Gert? I love when you sing."
Goethe opened her purse, pulled out her small vibro-articulator, pressed it against her throat, and began to sing along with the radio in her wheezy, robotic voice:

I've got a tiger by the tail, it's plain to see,
I won't be much when you get through with me,
I'm a' losin' weight and a' turnin' mighty pale,
And it looks like I've got a tiger by the tail.

Rumley ashed his cigarette. "Oh, and it's beautiful, Gert. It's too bad we didn't have kids."

Goethe rolled onto Rumley's knee. You're the one who made me stay on the pill so I'd keep my weight on, she said to herself.