Changing Michael

by Jeff Schilling

  He ignored me.

  “You could mousse it into a point and carry a pitchfork. Girls like that kind of thing—guys, too.”

  Still stroking his beard, Flap set the remaining books on the floor and wandered toward the back of the store. I followed, ready to repeat my last thought in case he hadn’t heard. We took a couple of sharp turns and ended up by a half-door a little higher than my waist. Behind it was a small, crowded room about the size of an extra-wide closet.

  There was a desk pushed against one wall. The surface was nearly covered with scraps of paper, disorderly files and of course, more books. In the center of the mess was a little adding machine as well as a phone.

  On the floor and braced against the walls were stacks of books. Their heights varied. It reminded me of one of those aerial shots of the high-rises crowded around Central Park.

  Facing the desk was a battered and faded leather office chair that Flap had obviously rescued from the dump. The seat had seen a lot of oversized asses in its time and looked ready to give out.

  Flap opened the half-door and closed himself inside.

  “Don’t I get to come in?” I asked.

  Flap didn’t answer. He took out his wallet and sat down.

  “You don’t have to pay me for my time,” I said.

  Flap found what he wanted: a little white business card.

  “Who’re you calling?”

  “Hi, Suzi? It’s Jim Murphy,” Flap began. “Is Dr. Evans available? Can you have him call me as soon as he’s free? Well, it’s not an emergency, but I need to speak with him today . . . No, I’m okay. It’s about a friend of mine. Something we’ve discussed before. Can you tell him it’s about Michael? He’ll understand.”

  What is he doing?

  “Yep, I’ll be around then. Great. Great. Thanks, Suzi. Oh, sure. It’s 9-7-5 . . .”

  Flap finished giving out his phone number, but I don’t really hate Flap, so I’m not going to repeat it.

  “Thanks again. Okay. You too. Bye.”

  “Who did you call?” I said.

  Flap leaned forward in his chair and shoved his wallet into his back pocket. It looked like a tight squeeze.

  “Are you going to buy anything?” Flap asked.

  “No.”

  “Are you going to look for anything?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I like your company.”

  “Now I know you’re lying,” he said with a laugh.

  “Yeah, that’s a good one, all right,” I said, imitating his laugh.

  The “someone’s here” bells suddenly came to life.

  “I’ll get it,” I said.

  “Get back here,” Flap said.

  Too bad he was behind his special little half-door. I wove my way through the aisles and almost slammed into Michael.

  “Careful,” I said. “Your friend’s calling people about you.”

  “Huh?” As usual, Michael looked completely baffled.

  “Some doctor. Sounds like he’s going to have you committed.”

  “That’s enough,” said Flap, pulling up beside us.

  What with the excitement of escaping from the room behind the half-door and having to hurry to the front of his store, he was a little out of breath, so his “firm tone of voice” wasn’t very effective.

  “Oh, so you didn’t call?” I said.

  “You need to mind your own business,” he snapped.

  “What’s going on?” Michael said.

  “Michael, I need to talk to you . . . privately,” Flap said.

  “Careful, Michael,” I said.

  “Ignore him.”

  “I’ll help you, Michael,” I said.

  “Michael, he’s just—hey, hold on a second.”

  Michael headed for the door.

  “Michael, wait up!” I called.

  Flap tried to grab my shoulder, but I slipped by him, caught the closing door, and squeezed out.

  “Michael!” Flap called from the door.

  Michael didn’t look back.

  “Call me later, okay?” Flap tried.

  I trotted up behind Michael and put a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off.

  “Come on, man,” I said. “Slow down.”

  “Why?” he asked, turning to face me. “So it doesn’t look like you’re chasing me?”

  “No.”

  Actually, that was exactly it.

  “Then why?”

  “I have a bad ankle,” I said. “Football injury.”

  Michael stared at me a moment. I bent forward and rubbed my left shin. He stared, then started walking again.

  “Ow . . . ow!” I said, hobbling after him.

  He stopped and watched me hobble forward.

  “Why are you limping on the other one?” he asked.

  Oops.

  “I told you: bad ankles.”

  “You said ‘ankle.’”

  “Whatever,” I said. “We need to talk.”

  “That’s your shin, by the way.”

  “Quiet. We need to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “What do you think?”

  We’d reached the congestion of the main road. I followed Michael as he headed down the sidewalk and away from his neighborhood.

  “Tell me about your dreams,” I said.

  “I don’t know what—”

  “La la la!” I put my fingers in my ears. “Tell me or I’m going to make a scene.”

  He stopped and stared. The noise from several packed lanes of speeding traffic washed over us. I felt like a water rat standing at the edge of a flooded river. I wondered what the other rat was thinking. Then I wondered whether he was going to try and push me in.

  “Why are you doing this?” Michael demanded.

  “So you’ll talk.”

  “No, why are you trying to—”

  “Because I’m tired of seeing you get pushed around,” I said. “And I want to do something about it.”

  He stared.

  I stared back.

  He started walking again, and I sighed, thinking of the energy it would take to make a scene on the side of the road.

  “Okay, Michael—”

  “I can’t really explain,” he said.

  “Explain what?” I asked.

  Michael frowned at me. “The dreams.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said.

  He shook his head. “They wouldn’t make any sense to you. I mean, there are parts that make sense, but most of them . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Most are so arbitrary and surreal.”

  “I see.”

  Michael shot me a look.

  “So what’s the big deal?” I asked. “If they don’t make sense and they’re so arbital and surreal, why’s your little friend back there so worked up?”

  “Arbital?” Michael said, smiling just a little.

  “You know what I mean,” I said.

  He nodded but didn’t answer right away.

  “Parts of them are pretty . . .”

  I waited, but not for long. “Parts of them are pretty . . .” I prompted.

  “Violent,” he said.

  “I get it. Keep going.”

  “I don’t usually have dreams like that,” he said. “And now I’m having them all the time.”

  “So who are you killing?” I asked.

  He looked a little startled, but eventually said, “Jimmy thinks—”

  “I don’t care what Flap thinks,” I said. “What do you think?”

  “Flap?”

  “Your buddy back in the bookstore,” I explained. “What do you think?”

  Michael sighed. “It’s hard to explain,” he said.

&n
bsp; “You mentioned that.”

  “Because the characters in the dreams . . . they’re supposed to be people—people I know—but they don’t look anything like them.”

  “Michael, who?”

  “Leonard.”

  “Shocking,” I muttered.

  “My stepfather.”

  “Your . . . Wait. Your who?”

  “Stepfather,” he said.

  “Big gut?” I asked, holding my hand a few feet from my stomach.

  “Yeah.”

  I congratulated myself for knowing something was up when he’d appeared on the other side of the door. I’d probably have nightmares about him too if I had to live with him. The thought of Gut wandering around the house in his boxers made me shudder.

  “Oh my God,” I said.

  “What?”

  “He doesn’t wear briefs, does he?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Anybody else taking a beating in your head?” I asked.

  Michael gave me a sour look but shook his head.

  So, basically, Michael didn’t like his stepfather, or the kids who pushed him around at school. Really abnormal, huh?

  “Is that it?” I asked.

  “Is what it?”

  “That’s what you’re worried about?”

  Michael hesitated. “Jimmy’s worried,” he said.

  “Jimmy seems a little fussy.”

  “So dreams like that aren’t important?” he asked.

  “In my professional opinion? No.”

  “So I should just laugh about them in the morning?” he asked, starting to heat up.

  “Easy now. I’m trying to help you, remember? I don’t want to show up in your dreams tonight.”

  I thought it was a pretty funny line. Judging from Michael’s face, he didn’t share my opinion.

  “Okay, relax. It was just a joke. Guess we need to work on your sense of humor, too.”

  “Why?”

  “Never mind. Look, what if you weren’t having the dreams anymore?” I said. “Would you still be all cramped-up?”

  “All cramped-up?”

  “That’s my new thing—‘all cramped-up.’ Like it?”

  Michael shrugged.

  “Give it two weeks,” I said. “It means all worked-up and hysterical.”

  “I’m not hysterical,” he said.

  “Whatever. I’m not going to argue about seamatics.”

  “Huh?”

  “Seamatics.”

  “I think you mean semantics,” Michael said.

  “Stop talking,” I said. “Anyway, I think I can help you.” I thought for a minute. Convincing the entire school to leave him alone was a bit daunting. I needed to start smaller.

  “We’ll begin with Gut.” Before he could say anything, I raised my hand. “‘Gut’ is your stepfather. You need to start thinking of him as ‘Gut,’ not as your stepfather.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s like a pet. He needs a name.”

  Michael stopped walking.

  “Where are we going, anyway?” I asked. “We’re never going to get there if you keep stopping.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  This again. I sighed. “Because you need my help, Michael . . . and I’m a wonderful, giving person.”

  Michael stared. Actually, he didn’t just stare at me. He stared into me. I wasn’t sure what he was looking for, or what he would find.

  Maybe he’d just walk off again. And maybe this time I wouldn’t follow him.

  But then again, I’d already sacrificed a great deal of time, endured several difficult conversations with Michael, and narrowly avoided a pass from Flap. So losing Michael would be somewhat annoying.

  And I still hadn’t gotten a “thank you” for rescuing him from Leonard.

  But eventually, he gave in. I didn’t see it—I felt it. It was like the air coming out of an inner tube, leaving Michael flat.

  “Should I call him ‘Gut’ to his face?” Michael asked.

  “Of course not,” I said.

  I turned, hoping Michael would follow. He did.

  “And don’t let it slip out, either,” I said. “People like Gut aren’t very observant, but they’ll surprise you once in a while. Now let’s go back to the bookstore. Jimmy’s probably soiled his flap by now.”

  The bookstore wasn’t far, but far enough for us to go over some of the basics.

  “First of all, what’s he do?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “Gut, Michael. Pay attention.”

  “Watch TV.”

  “I mean for work. What’s he do?”

  “Construction.”

  “Shocking,” I said. “Okay, works construction. Does he watch sports? Wait a minute. What am I saying? Of course he does.”

  “Football,” said Michael. “And NASCAR.”

  “Fabulous. Favorite driver?”

  “I don’t know. I try not to watch when it’s on.”

  “You might have to start,” I said. “But for now, just find out who his favorite guy is.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re going to tell Gut he’s gay.”

  Blank look.

  “Gut?” Michael asked.

  “His driver, Michael. We’re going to plant a little something in his head,” I said. “He’ll say it isn’t true, so you need to know what you’re talking about. You’ll need to know a couple of names. It’s going to be something like . . . I don’t know Vaughn Thomas was seen leaving a gay club at two in the morning . . . or maybe he made a pass at someone in the garage. But you have to be specific, and you have to use the language. It has to sound plausible.”

  “Why?”

  “Why does it have to sound plausible?”

  “No, why am I doing it?”

  “Because,” I said, turning down the side street toward Flap’s bookstore, “the first thing we need to do is throw him off balance. Do you think he’s going to like hearing that his favorite driver is gay?”

  “No,” said Michael, smiling just a little.

  “Of course not. And he’ll say it’s a lie and he’ll say you’re an idiot, but inside his little walnut brain, he’ll wonder if it could be true,” I said. “And then he’s going to wonder if something’s ‘wrong’ with him since he likes a gay driver.”

  We stopped by Flap’s sign.

  “And since he’s not used to thinking,” I said, “he’s going to be just a little off balance. And when he is, we’re going to push him a little more. And after that, we’re going to push a little more. And once he’s good and wobbly, you know what we’re going to do?”

  Michael shook his head.

  “We’re going to knock him over,” I said with a wink.

  I left Michael standing by the sign.

  “Don’t try anything tonight!” I said, getting into my car. “Just find out who his favorite driver is. Go online and learn something, okay?”

  “Okay,” Michael said.

  I started the car and pulled away. I glanced in the rear view mirror and was pleased to see Michael still standing there, watching me coast down the street.

  At a stop sign, I leaned over and opened the glove compartment, looking for a CD. I couldn’t find it, but I did run across a black Sharpie.

  I took it out and turned it over, considering.

  I flirted briefly with the urge to modify Flap’s sign, but tossed it back in the glove compartment.

  Like I said, I don’t really hate Flap, or his Flower Lady for that matter.

  Sometimes, though, I think I’m too nice for my own good. I remember thinking that someday it was going to get me in trouble.

  Saturday.

  I spent the morning doing a lot of nothing. Between the
rigors of school and my newfound interest in Michael, I needed some downtime. I woke up late and watched a few episodes of Pawn Stars until hunger forced me out of my room.

  I tromped down the stairs, but no one was in the kitchen.

  I grabbed a bagel, managed to slice it in two without injuring myself, and topped it with as much cream cheese as possible. Opening the refrigerator to return the cream cheese, I decided to abscond with the entire orange juice carton—there wasn’t much left anyway.

  I retreated to my room, locking the door behind me.

  I resumed my former position in bed, devoured my kill, and dozed in front of the TV for a while.

  When I came to, I realized the plate had slipped from my lap and was now lying in three ragged pieces on the hardwood floor. I stared at it a while, but opted to clean it up later.

  I took a shower and decided to visit Wanda.

  Wanda is probably the only person in my life who’s actually achieved “friend” status. Wanda’s like a statue. She’s tall and chiseled and looks like an Olympic sprinter. She’s dark and fearless but reserved—her silence is like barbed wire. It’s almost impossible to get through it and into her head.

  No one can tell what is going on below the surface, and I only know what she wants me to know. Wanda thought she might end up playing poker for a living.

  She didn’t live that far from me, but in Northern Virginia, unless someone actually lives a couple doors down, you may be talking hours, not minutes, in the car. Going to Wanda’s involved pulling out of our neighborhood onto a road that usually had about as much traffic as your average highway. After about fifty yards, you pushed your way down the ramp and onto the Beltway. And though it was only two or three exits, surviving the Beltway was always dicey.

  After that, another clogged artery, then a couple of capillaries, and you were in her neighborhood.

  I hadn’t heard anyone downstairs and wondered if there was still a car in the garage. I shuffled down the stairs and peered into the kitchen.

  No Mom, but it could mean she had the car. My eyes went to the hooks just above the writing desk.

  Excellent. Her keys were still there.

  Time to find her—or, actually, time to determine whether she was in the immediate vicinity.

  “Mom?”

  No response.

  Helpful Hint: When calling for a parent in a situation where they might say “no,” never raise your voice above normal conversation level. The intention is not actually to find them. (In other words, use your “inside voice,” please.)