by Ka Hancock
He quickly recovered. “Don’t you love college girls? Guys, am I right? Young, gorgeous women? But you gotta catch ’em at just the right moment. You know, in full bloom but just dumb enough still to give us a chance. After they get serious about their lives, forget it. It’s over for guys like us. Right, Lucy?”
“Are you talking about me personally?”
Mickey looked around theatrically. “I don’t see anyone else up here.” Then he lifted another handful of my hair. “I better check again for blond. Yes, I’m talking about you,” he said, standing close to me.
“Well, I’m pretty sure you’d stand a chance with me.”
Again, he was flummoxed, and my friends were now egging him on. I grinned.
“It’s pity, right?” he said. “You’re an honors student who feels sorry for a guy who graduated magna-cum-nothing and wound up working stand-up in a comedy club?”
“You kidding me?” I sang out. “A comedian with a degree? I’m sold!”
His laughing eyes held mine as he decided what to do next. Finally he said, “Well, all right then! Let’s go!” Mickey Chandler pulled me close and made a big production of giving the little college girl a birthday kiss. I think it was meant to be a harmless little peck, but I went for it—it was my birthday, after all—and to be fair, he went for it, too. Something in the way our tongues danced and our teeth clanked together was almost familiar. It was delicious, and I wasn’t the one to break it off.
When we finally pulled ourselves apart, I was breathless and a little embarrassed. Mickey’s mask had slipped again, and he looked as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. I laughed and tripped off the stage to a bawdy rendition of “Happy Birthday,” and to the crowd the whole thing had just been good fun. Well, Priss looked a little annoyed. But I wasn’t sorry. It was my night, and Mickey’s act. He kept looking over at me, trying to be nonchalant about it, and that made me happy. As I headed back to the bar, Priss intercepted me. “What was that?”
“Nothing. It was nothing, just some fun.”
“It looked like more than that,” she said, miffed.
I laughed as I glanced back at the stage where Mickey Chandler was still looking my way as he told a funny story about a couple of dogs and an ATM. I tried to picture what he was seeing. Tall, stunning, blond Priscilla, man-made voluptuousness spilling out of her top, getting mouthy with her smaller, considerably less voluptuous—but nicely put together in a skirt and boots—younger sister, who was having none of it.
When Mickey was leaving the stage, I said, “Now’s your chance, Priss.”
My sister took a beat to weigh this, but then glanced over my shoulder. “I have some catching up to do. So consider the funny man my birthday present.”
I turned to find Trent Rosenberg staring at my sister like she was a meal and he hadn’t eaten in about a year. Trent was an old boyfriend from high school, and he and Priss were the oldest running rumor in Brinley. I wanted to believe my sister was better than the likes of him. Especially since he was married with children. “Don’t be stupid, Priss.”
“What? It’s nothing.”
I would have said more, but just then Lily wedged between us and asked Ron to take a picture. She pulled me in front of her and Priss and we all smiled; the Houston girls in our traditional pose; me flanked by my big sisters, each of us holding tight to one another.
After that, Chad grabbed my hand. “C’mon, Lu, they’re playing our song.” And indeed, Wang Chung poured from the jukebox, transporting me right back to the senior prom.
When nearly everyone else had called it a night, I decided to look for Mickey Chandler. The bartender pointed down the hall, where I found an office with the door slightly ajar. I cleared my throat and knocked. Mickey Chandler looked up from his computer. “Hey.”
“Hey, I just wanted to thank you for the fun.”
“My pleasure.” He grinned.
I’d scribbled my phone number on the back of a napkin and I handed it to him with my best smile. “I had a great time.”
He took the napkin and looked surprised that I’d offered it. “You were a natural up there,” he said with a self-conscious smile. But then he didn’t say another word. Nothing. So, before it got too awkward, I just said, “Well, thanks again,” and walked away. I was confused and a little disappointed, but I refused to believe that I’d misread him.
Mickey Chandler intrigued me. While I was teasing with him onstage, I knew I’d caught a glimpse of something very real behind his clown’s mask. He knew I’d seen it, and I could tell he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. But it was this glimpse of the man I saw hiding in the buffoon that so affected me. I tried not to dwell on it, but I have to admit he crossed my mind a few times over the next eight months.
It was late May of 1999 when Priscilla showed up at my apartment near campus at four in the morning. I answered the door bleary-eyed, but the sight of her standing there trembling woke me fully. Her hair was wet. “Priss? What are you doing?”
“I need you to drive me home,” she said, hurrying past me. She wasn’t wearing any shoes. “Where are your keys?”
“Priscilla, what are you doing?”
“Can you take me?” She lifted pillows and moved quickly around the room. “Where the hell is your purse!”
I grabbed her hand and she tried to tug it away, but I yanked. “Priscilla, stop! What is going on?”
“I found a lump!” she shouted. Then softer, terrified: “I found a lump.”
I looked at her and didn’t breathe.
“Please, Lucy. Can we just go?”
We drove home to Brinley in our pajamas, Priss in quiet panic and me wondering if I’d missed something. I’d seen my sister fairly often while I was in Boston, but I’d never seen Death looming anywhere near her. Now I was afraid to look. We’d driven more than halfway in silence when I reached for her hand. “Priss, talk to me.”
She squeezed and let go. “Just drive, Lu.”
Charlotte ordered a biopsy later that morning. Then we waited. We were all in her office when the results came back, Lily and I each holding one of Priss’s hands. Thank goodness the news wasn’t terrible. The lump was malignant, but it was completely encapsulated and would be removed in its entirety—practically cause for celebration. But not quite. The area near the growth would need to be thoroughly examined for abnormal cells. If any were found, that would be reason for concern. So Priss went into surgery and we waited again. It was a long day of hand-holding for Lily and me. “I don’t think I can watch her go through this,” Lily said more than once.
“She’s too ornery for this thing to bring her down,” I replied.
Late that night we finally got the report that the surrounding cells were clean. We nearly melted with relief, especially Lily. Ron took her home around eleven, but I stayed because Priscilla was so restless.
It was close to midnight when she finally got to sleep—thanks to a hefty dose of Demerol. I needed a break, so I walked down to the cafeteria for a drink. It was dimly lit, and quiet. Most of the chairs had been placed up on the tables so the floor could be mopped. Just one little man was working the counter. I asked for an order of fries and a Coke, and he told me he’d bring them to me. I looked around the big, empty room for a seat and discovered I was alone except for a couple of doctors in the corner, and one guy sitting by himself.
I recognized the silver streak in his hair immediately and locked eyes with Mickey Chandler. When he didn’t look away, I walked over and said, “Hey, Funny Man. Remember me?”
He looked at me as if he were seeing a ghost. “The birthday girl.”
“Yeah.”
“How ya doing?”
“It’s been a long day, but I’m good. You?”
“I’m swell.”
“Swell?” I said. “I’ve never actually heard anyone use the word swell before. You really are old, aren’t you?”
Tonight, Mickey had no witty comeback for me. His grin was gone and his eyes looke
d a bit haunted.
I cleared my throat. “Well, it was nice to see you.”
The cafeteria worker was on his way over with my fries. Mickey pushed a chair out from the table with his foot. “Do you want to sit?”
“You sure? I don’t want to disturb your brooding.”
This time he chuckled. “I do remember you. Sass all the way.”
I sat down and the little waiter placed a humongous plate of fries between us. “Hungry?” Mickey teased.
“I ordered these for you.”
We tap-danced a little, talking about Northeastern, the weather in Boston, my studies.
Then he asked, “What brings you here in the middle of the night?”
“My sister is upstairs recovering from surgery. You remember my sister Priscilla. She wanted to eat you for dinner.”
“Oh, that sister. Is she okay?”
“Yes, thank goodness. We’re very relieved. It was cancer but they got it.”
“Well, that is good news then.”
I nodded. “It’s great news. And you, Mr. Chandler, what are you doing here in the middle of the night?”
He looked around and came back to me. “Looks like I’m just sitting here with a pretty little college girl.”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s cheating. What’s the real story?”
“It’s funny, actually. I was just walking by and thought, ‘I bet I could get a good table in the hospital cafeteria without a reservation.’” It was weak humor and he knew it. I waited for the real answer to my question, but it was not forthcoming.
I cleared my throat. “Do you live around here?”
“Just over in East Haddam. I have a house on the lake. You?”
“I live over in Brinley. Well, not at the moment, actually. I’m still in Boston for another year, but I’ll be moving back as soon as I graduate. Do you have a wife that lives with you in that house on the lake?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
I smiled and it felt good after this day. “Tell me about your house.”
“It’s ancient. Actually it’s a freaking money pit that’s been in my family for years. It has a lot of original wood and glass and I’m restoring it, then I’m going to sell it. I like doing it. It’s good for me. Very physical, and I can work at it all night if I want.”
I nodded.
He smiled. Not a full smile, but something more vulnerable, more stripped and without pretense. It invited my boldness. “How come you never called me?”
He looked sideways at me. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
He shook his head. “I had fun with you that night, Lucy. I remember that.” Then his gaze drifted somewhere over my shoulder. “But it wasn’t real. That guy’s not who I am.”
“What do you mean?”
His eyes came back to me. “I mean you wouldn’t have liked the guy I really am.”
“Oh? Are you sure it’s not something easy, like you’re already involved? Or gay? Are you gay?”
“No. That’s not why.”
“Well, that’s good. Did you think you were too old for me? Was that it?”
“Hadn’t thought of it, but now that you mention it, I am too old for you.”
“What are you, forty?”
“Hey, don’t let the hair fool you. I’m not even thirty until next month.”
“Thirty’s not bad. Are you an ax murderer?”
“Not yet.” He grinned.
I watched this incredibly handsome man sitting there in his white T-shirt and a hospital gown he was wearing like a jacket. Hospital gown? I watched his face and listened to his voice and was struck by how sad he seemed. “You’re serious? You thought I wouldn’t like you?”
“Dead serious.”
“Why? What is there about you I wouldn’t like?” When he didn’t answer, I got bold again. “I only ask because I’m still interested.”
He tried to look embarrassed but didn’t seem to have the energy for it. He laced his fingers together and looked at me with steady eyes. I didn’t look away, and it took a long time for him to say anything. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I have a lot of problems, Lucy.”
“Don’t we all?” I said, taking a sip of my Coke. When he didn’t respond, I put down my drink. “What are we talking about here? Ex-wife? Debt? Criminal record? What?”
“That’s nothing you couldn’t live with.”
“You’re right. So what is it?”
“A long history of mental illness, for starters.”
I swallowed. Hard. Mental illness? “That’s it?” I said shakily. “That’s all you got?”
“Believe me, that’s enough. You should get up and run away right now.”
I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms.
“You’ll be sorry.” He laughed. “I’m a sick man.”
When I didn’t react, his smile faded and he looked down at his hands.
“What?” I coaxed softly.
He shook his head and didn’t look up. “I’m a patient here, upstairs on psych.”
I paused, more than a little taken aback, and trying to cover it, I blurted, “Did you try to kill yourself?”
He looked at me and shook his head. “Not this time. I wasn’t rational enough.”
I took a moment to digest this and at the same time do a little inventory of the room: shadowy lighting, industrial furniture, doctors discussing something serious in the corner. But nothing else. No familiar apparition looming. I looked into his sad eyes. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
He shook his head. “Nothing to tell, really. My chemistry gets out of whack and I go nuts. End of story.”
“Why?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I’m pretty bright. I’m sure I can follow.”
He chuckled. “Sass.”
“I’m sorry. I’m awfully nosy, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you are.” There was an awkward silence and I thought it might have been a good time for me to leave, but then Mickey Chandler locked me in his gaze. “You really want to know?”
I nodded.
“Okay. My deal is I never know who I’m going to be when I wake up in the morning, and I hate that. I hate not being able to count on the guy in the mirror.”
“I don’t blame you. Why are you like that?”
“There’s a problem with the chemicals in my blood, or the lack thereof, so I have to take a lot of pills to balance me out. If I don’t, I’m pretty much all over the place. I’m only considered stable when I’m chemically altered, and sometimes even the pills don’t keep me in check.” He looked at his hands. “So, I get frustrated and just stop taking them, and then everything blows up and I end up back in the hospital.”
“That stinks. Is there a name for this condition?”
“Bipolar disorder.”
“Have you had it a long time?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
I looked at him. “For what it’s worth, you look normal. How do they treat it?”
“Therapy and medication. Depends on what symptoms I’m presenting. Lithium. Sometimes antipsychotics, but mostly mood stabilizers and sometimes antidepressants, but that can be tricky because they can push me into mania. Sometimes all of the above. More pills for the side effects. They experiment with me a little because I’m a rapid cycler—I move pretty quick between the highs and lows and they want to keep me in the middle.”
“Is that your safety zone?”
“Yeah. Safe but boring.” He shrugged. “It’s hard to explain, but when you know you can feel invincible, flooded with so much energy you could take over the world, then safe and stable just don’t cut it. I self-medicate some to keep myself a little on the edge.”
I nodded. “I can understand that.”
“Really? You get that?”
“What’s not to get? Who doesn’t want to feel good?”
“Yeah well, my ‘good’ gets out of control really fast. Then I
stop thinking right, and I don’t take my medication, and I climb higher and higher. I don’t eat. I don’t go to bed. I work out like a maniac. I get hyper and irrational and I do bizarre things because I’m thinking bizarre things. And then I crash.” He tapped his knuckles on the table a few times. “Eventually I realize what I’ve done. And I get depressed about it. Then I get more hyper and irrational, and sometimes, if it’s real bad, I just want to . . . I just want it to be over.” Mickey Chandler took a deep breath and shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m sitting here telling you all this.”
I wanted to cry for him. He was so exposed, so unprotected. “Who takes care of you? Who helps you stay on your pills, and tells you if you’re . . . I don’t know, off? Who picks you up when you crash?”
“Well”—he shrugged—“my doctor, Gleason, is always there after the crash. And he’s usually there while I’m not doing what I should be doing. But it’s pretty much just me.”
“No family? No girlfriend? Nobody to help you?”
“No. I mean there have been plenty. But they don’t usually stick around for this part.” He sighed. “Before I got smart and bought Colby’s—when I was just doing stand-up—I would get very valuable feedback from my employers because when I was crashing, I wasn’t very funny, which is sort of important in my line of work. I tended to get fired.” He ran his hands through his hair. “But when I’m manic, I’m a pretty funny guy—and it’s intoxicating. I want to be more productive, funnier, better, and I can do all that while I’m climbing. But I can’t sustain it. I have to crash. And I know the crash is coming, I can taste it, but I can’t stop it. Well, actually I can, but I always think I have more time to stop it, until I don’t. And then I fall—fast and hard—and disappoint just about everybody.” He shook his head. “It’s why most of my relationships are short-term. It’s a very unstable, sick, stupid way to live.”
I nodded. “I don’t know what to say to you.”
“I’ve freaked you out, haven’t I?”
“No. Well, a little maybe. I just can’t believe you have to live like that. You do have a family, right?”
“I have a brother in Denver, but we’re not close. I talk to my dad once in a while, but he’s been in New Orleans for years and I don’t get down there much.” Mickey shrugged.