Changing Michael (12 page)

Slowly, reluctantly, Michael tore himself away. “Don't call me!” he called over his shoulder, knocking the storm door open in front of him.

Wanda snatched a glass from the counter and hurled it at Michael's back. It shattered against the storm door as he left, showering the floor with more broken glass.

She stood for a moment, breathing hard, and jumped for the door.

“Don't you go chasing him now . . .” Gut tried, but the door was already shaking itself back into place. He looked over at me.

“Well, that wasn't too bad,” I said.

“Wasn't too good, either,” Gut said.

I shook my head. “Nah, I've seen much worse. I wish they'd figure out they're bad for each other.”

Gut was staring at the door. The plastic window now had a nice crack running through it.

“I mean, I'm friends with both of them, but Michael needs to cut her loose,” I said. “He just likes to know he can always get her back if he feels like it.”

Gut kept staring, like he was waiting for one of them to come back in.

“Anyway, he's seeing somebody else.”

“Why the hell does Michael have two girlfriends?” Gut said angrily.

“Because he can.”

Gut shook his head and produced a broom and dustpan from one side of the refrigerator.

“That's what you get, though,” I said, watching him sweep.

“Yep.”

“Going out with someone like Wanda, you know?”

“Uh-huh.”

He wasn't taking the bait.

“Black girls are like that, you know?” I said. “You don't want to mess with them.”

“That don't matter,” he said, without looking up. “People's people. She's just bad news.”

I felt ridiculous.

I bent down and held the dustpan for Gut while he swept Wanda's glass off the floor.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“You going to tell him not to see her?” I asked.

“Won't matter. He don't listen to me,” said Gut.

“Why not?”

“Lotsa reasons. I'm not his dad. He's a teenager. Can't do much with teenagers. You just got to ride it out.”

“So why do you hate him?” I asked.

“I don't hate him,” he said. “We're just different. I can't say nothin' around him or he gets all huffy and stomps off to his room. Got two boys from my first marriage. We joke around all the time. I give it to them, and they give it right back. I always figured it would help 'im—learnin' how to take a joke and learnin' how to give it back.”

“Michael's different, though,” I said. “He's not . . . he's not that way.”

“Yeah, well, where the hell has that kid been lately?” Gut asked, standing. “Girls I never seen before. Girls he don't belong with. Throwing shit at each other. That ain't Michael. That ain't right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Somethin's happened up there,” he said, tapping his head with a finger. “I ain't surprised, the way he's wound so tight, but I ain't never seen him like that.”

Gut stared at the cracked window. I stood up and dumped the glass into the trashcan.

“Me neither,” I said.

“His mom worries like nobody you've ever seen,” said Gut. “'Bout everything. Just about drives me crazy.”

I didn't quite know what to do with this information. Should I agree? Disagree? Laugh?

“Thinks Michael's going to turn out like his father,” he said, still staring out the door.

“Really?”

“Yep. Been tellin' her for years how ridiculous that is. Just look at him, for Christ's sake! Quiet as hell, readin' all the time, too shy for girls. On that computer every second he don't have a book in his face. You don't have to worry 'bout him hangin' out with his buddies and gettin' drunk.”

Once again, I didn't know what to say, so I took my time putting the dustpan back into place.

“Maybe she was right,” Gut told the door.

“How so?” I asked. A bad little feeling started squirming around in my stomach.

But Gut just shook his head. Turning, he said, “You need a ride home or somethin'?”

“Oh . . . no, thanks. Wanda drove.”

“Yeah, well, she ain't here anymore.”

I joined him at the door. Wanda's car was gone.

“Well, I'm not that far,” I said, suddenly wanting to be outside. I just couldn't imagine sitting in a car with Gut. “Thanks, though.”

“Yep,” he said, tossing the broom back in place. I watched him grab a phone from the kitchen counter.

“You want me to tell Michael anything?” I said. “If I see him, I mean?”

Gut shook his head without looking over. I watched him dial, then wait for someone to pick up. I wanted to know who was at the other end of the line, but he just looked at me, so I had to smile and shove myself out the door.

I stood beside the stairs, up against the side of the house for a few seconds, but could only hear his voice, not the words. Time to start walking.

I had more than enough to keep me occupied.

At first, I thought I might find Wanda's car up ahead, or around the next curve. I thought maybe they'd driven off for effect. But I gave that up as I got farther down the road. Something told me I wasn't going to find them.

Nothing had gone the way I thought it would. Not one thing. Wanda's character was weird and annoying, Gut hadn't reacted the way he should have, and Michael—where did
that
come from?

And that's what worried me the most: Where
did
it come from? It could have been something he borrowed from TV, but how come it was so easy for him to slip into character? It had looked as natural as a reflex, and almost nothing Michael did looked natural. His body language, his voice, his conversation—usually Michael was either abrupt and overly loud, or nervous and unintelligible. So how come it was so easy for him to slip into character and lose everything that made him Michael? Did he want out of himself that badly?

And Gut? Our performance was supposed to knock him spinning, but here he was, actually
concerned
about Michael. And calling someone!

On the other hand, I'd accomplished what I'd set out to do.

Gut didn't think Michael was such a geek anymore. Now he thought Michael was crazy.

I wondered what would happen. Would there be some kind of intervention? Would Michael come home to find a team of doctors sitting politely on the couch, sharing a cigarette with Gut?

I'd known a few kids who'd “gone away” for a while when they started to enjoy their drugs a little too much. Actually, Jack had taken a little “vacation” last year. He likes to “travel”—the “mental” kind, not the physical.

About a year ago, he started taking a few too many trips. I remember a party right before he left. It was warm, and everyone was outside, either in the backyard or crowded onto the deck. Jack got there before I did. It didn't take long to find him. He was on the deck in the middle of the crowd. Not standing and socializing, mind you. Jack wouldn't do that even on a good day. On this particular evening, he was lying flat on his back. In fact, he had arranged himself like Jesus on the cross and was just staring up at the sky, watching the clouds turn into rainbow sherbet.

It was an interesting situation, considering how many people were actually there. Most took a quick glance, realized it was Jack, and went about their business.

For some reason, I kept thinking about Jack as I made my way back to school. It's odd—Jack is almost subdued during an “adventure.” Subdued for Jack, I mean. So even though the content is the same, the volume's a little lower. Can't remember if I mentioned Jack's affinity for the shock value method of interacting with both strangers and friends, but the “Jack Way” is sometimes more pronounced on a trip. Jack's filter is patchy at the best of times, and during his excursions, he kicks a gaping hole through it.

For example: Sometime after Jack's lie-down on the deck, we were in the backyard, wandering a bit, talking with different people.

Then, just as we were passing this huge guy we'd never seen before, Jack walks over to the guy, points up at his face, and yells, “Fudgepork!”

Everything within a ten-yard radius came to screeching halt.

“What?” the Big Guy demanded.

“Fudgepork,” Jack clarified, then continued: “Hey, got a joke for you. What do you call a four-haired dick with shit growing on its knees?”

“What?”

“Jack,” I tried, tugging on his arm.

“Come on, man,” Jack said, clapping his hands. “What do you call a four-haired dick with shit growing on its knees?”

“What?” B.G. asked, cautiously.

“I have no idea,” Jack said, laughing uncontrollably.

There was a pause as the words sunk in.

Fortunately, Big Guy started laughing too, and he and Jack became party friends.

Jack is what I would call naturally lucky. In situations like that one, the potential for things to get very ugly is always quite real and dangerously close. As it turned out, however, Jack's unconventional introduction to his newest friend helped me immensely. I'd seen his show a few too many times and was getting bored, so I pawned Jack off on B.G. for the remainder of the party.

Michael, though . . . Michael was nothing like Jack. Michael seemed naturally unlucky, and not the kind to skip seamlessly in and out of dangerous situations without a scratch.

And even though Jack was crazy lucky for a very long time, his luck eventually ran out, and he was sent on his very real vacation to sober up. If I remember correctly, it lasted about three weeks.

But how long is your vacation when the adults making the decisions think you're crazy?

The whole thing really started to bother me, so I tried to think of other, non-Michael things, like: Wasn't it about time Mom bought me my own car so I didn't end up in situations like this?

But of course, this just brought me back to the reason I was walking down the street in the first place. I sighed and shook my head.

I made it back to school and pulled out my phone. Then I realized Mom probably wasn't home yet and Dad was never back until just before dinner (on those evenings when he actually did show up).

I decided to walk around the building to the parking lot, hoping I'd run into someone I knew. At this point, even an acquaintance would do.

And just as I was turning the corner, a car came to a sudden stop right next to me.

“Matthew!”

“Hey, Nathan,” I said.

Wonderful.

“Where you going?” he asked.

“Straight to hell.”

He liked that one. “Need a ride?” he asked.

I hesitated, glancing at the half-full parking lot. Still a good number of cars, but not one that looked immediately familiar (at least from this distance).

“Yeah, sure,” I said, getting in.

“What's going on with you?” Nathan asked, once we were moving.

“Not much.”

“Coming to my party this weekend?” he asked.

“Probably,” I said. It was the first I'd heard of it and the last place I'd think about going.

“Right on,” he said. Then: “Hey! You hear about Michael?”

“Michael who?” I asked, sourly.

Nathan proceeded to recount Michael's epic visit to the Crossbow.

“Some dudes were giving Michael shit at the bar, but this one chick was hitting on me
hard
, and I didn't want to bail, even though I knew something was about to go down. So I moved her down to the other end. Ended up getting the best seat in the house
and
looking like a gentleman. You know what I'm saying?”

And even though I wanted the story to be over, I couldn't help myself. “Wait. I thought the fight happened
outside
the Crossbow?”

That only tripped him up for a second.

“Well, shit yeah—it
ended up
outside, but it started at the bar. And I was
right
there
. Know what I'm saying?”

I did.

“So I just figured Michael would walk off or something, but . . .”

Nathan continued with the story, but I wasn't done yet.

“He come with you?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“Michael—he come with you? You guys hanging out now?”

“Michael?! Come on now.”

He started to protest. It wasn't a pleasant choice, but I opted for the story instead of the denial.

“So it started off inside?” I asked.

“Yeah, it did. I figured he'd just walk off or something, but out of nowhere, Michael
slammed
this guy upside the face with a beer bottle!”

“No way,” I mumbled, looking out the window.

“Hell yeah! I was right there, man! Anyway, the bouncers came over and tried to break it up, but Michael . . .”

It wasn't a long ride home, but it
was
a long ride home. Know what I'm saying?

My phone buzzed around seven that evening. I was in my room.

“The Michael and Wanda Show” at Gut's Laugh Factory had made it a tough day, and I just wanted to get into bed, but I wasn't comfortable giving myself a second-grader's bedtime, so I was glad for the distraction—even coming from the person on the other end of the line.

“Matthew?”

“Maybe.”

“It's Michael.”

I was quiet for a second. I was almost happy to hear from him. The whole performance with Wanda had thrown me, and it was a relief to hear old, awkward Michael again.

“What do you want?” I said.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“I mean,” he stumbled, “are you going to do something tonight? Are you doing anything right now?

“Yes. I'm fondling myself, Michael.”

“Oh . . . sorry. I didn't mean . . .”

“Something I can do for you?” I asked.

“Well, kind of . . . I mean, when you're done with . . . you know . . .”

“Michael?”

“Yes?”

“I'm not really fondling myself. And even if I was, why would I share that with you?”

“I don't know,” he said. “I just need a ride.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, becoming a bit more interested.

“Do you think—if you're not doing anything—do you think you could give me a ride?”

“Where?”

“To my father's.”

I paused. Definitely not what I was expecting.

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

His turn to pause.

“It's kind of hard to explain,” he said nervously. “I just want to get out of the house for a while.”

“Why?”

“Can you just pick me up?”

“Sure,” I said. “Then maybe I'll leave you somewhere. Kind of like me this afternoon? Remember?”

“I'm really sorry about that. I can explain. Can you just give me a ride?”

“Let me think about it.”

“Okay,” he said, nervously.

I thought about it. I'd been tired before the call, but I was awake now. Mom was home and in for the night. And he sounded desperate.

“Umm . . .?” he said.

“Yes?”

“Should I call you back or something?”

“Huh?”

“So you can decide.”

“You at home?” I asked.

“Jimmy's store.”

“Of course. Do I have to talk to him?” I asked.

“No. He's not here.”

“Where is he?” I said.

Michael hesitated, then said, “He's at my house.”

I was suddenly
very
interested.

“What's he doing there?”

“Matthew.”

“Is Gut there, too?”

“Yes.”

“You're kidding.”

“Matthew
, please
,” he said, like a little kid about to have an accident. “Just come get me.”

“Fine. I'll be there in a bit,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Actually, I don't know how long it'll take me. I've got to get the car from my—”

But Michael had hung up. I stared at the phone a moment, then tossed it gently on my bed.

Flap and Gut together at last?

Had they ever met? Flap was the kind of guy who'd have an “I Brake for Hobbits and Unicorns” bumper sticker on his car. Gut was the kind of guy who'd have that stupid little kid urinating on hobbits and unicorns in the back window of his truck.

But then again, Gut had a name now, and a life away from his couch. He wasn't a bigot, and he didn't hate his stepson. Making fun of him now wasn't much fun.

I still had Flap, though.

I went down the stairs, hit the landing, and turned into the kitchen. I found Mom in her usual spot.

“Do you live in the kitchen now?” I asked.

“Hilarious,” she said, without looking up.

“Going out,” I announced.

“Okay.”

This was so startling I stopped in my tracks, hand dangling in mid-air on its way to the keys. Mom continued to frown over her papers until something told her I was still in the kitchen.

“So you're going out? Where are—where do you think you're going?” she tried, apparently realizing her mistake.

“Out,” I said, quietly.

“Where?”

I didn't answer. Instead, I raised my eyebrows and nodded at the glass of wine next to her. “Something wrong?” I asked.

“No,” she snapped. “It's just been a hard week, Matthew. That's all.”

“Has it?” I asked.

“Yes, Matthew, it has.”

She reached for the glass and took a sip.

Mom is absolutely not a drinker. More than one or two glasses and chances are good she'll barrel into a wall on her way to bed.

“I can have a glass of wine once in a while,” she said, trying to sound casual.

“I'm concerned about your drinking, Mom. I'm a concerned family member.”

She took another, larger sip.

In Mom's world, there were only a few occasions that called for a drink (two glass maximum)—weddings, funerals, and, sometimes, my father. Dad's not what you'd call an ideal husband.

“Dad?” I asked, nodded sympathetically.

“Be quiet, Matthew,” she said. “Weren't you going somewhere?”

“Grandma finally die?” I said.

“Matthew!”

“These erratic mood swings are stunting my emotional development,” I said.

“What development?” She smirked.

Now I was torn.

Michael had probably wet himself twice wondering when I'd get there. But on the other hand, Mother was feeling a bit scrappy this evening. It was such a rarity, I had to linger.

“I think it's time the three of us had a family meeting about your boozing,” I said.

“Just go, Matthew,” she said, waving me out of the kitchen.

“No,” I replied, holding up a palm. “No, I will not turn my back on you. Not when you need me the most.”

Mom groaned. I took out my phone and began pushing buttons. She looked up.

“Matthew? What are you—?”

“I'm sure I have his number in here somewhere,” I said, scrolling through my contacts.

“
Don't
call your father! That's about the last thing I need right now.”

“Ah, there he is,” I said. “Do you want to talk to him or would you like me to explain?”

“Tell him to pick up some milk on his way home—if there's a store open at that hour.”

Mom pulled a set of papers closer and began to read. I kept the phone close to my ear, but let it drop, deciding against holding a pretend conversation with Dad.

“What are those?” I asked, taking a step forward.

Something about the set of papers directly in front of her had caught my eye. I'm not sure if it was a name, the look, or what. But something about them was unusual.

Her reaction confirmed it. Before I could take a second step, she grabbed the papers and stuffed them under a nearby pile.

I wanted a look at those papers, but knew I wasn't going to get one if I pressed. And although it was quite unusual for me to do so, I reversed my original position and opted for that fake phone call with Dad after all. Pretending to hear something, I looked at the phone, then brought it quickly to my ear.

“Hello? Dad? Oh, thank goodness.”

“Matthew,” Mom warned.

“No, no . . . I'm okay. It's Mom . . . Yes, she's at it again.”

“Give me that phone,” she said.

I shook my head.

“Angry,” I told the phone, “and abusive.”

Mom narrowed her eyes. Then she smiled.

“Tell him about the milk,” she said.

One more sip of wine and she was back to work.

Damn. Wonder what blew it? Oh well.

Making sure I remembered which pile those papers were in, I backed away from the table. After two glasses, maybe she'd forget this whole conversation.

“Okay then, I guess you're safe to leave alone. I'll be back at the usual time. Midnight?”

“I don't think so,” she said.

I lifted the keys off the hook.

“What's that?” I asked.

“I want you back by—”

Unfortunately, the door to the garage swung closed before I could catch the rest of her sentence.

“Someone should really fix those doors,” I said, heading for the car.

Although I expected to see an angry lady at any moment, the door remained in place as I started the car and pulled out of the driveway. Still hopeful, I didn't close the garage door until I was on my way up our street.

Oh, well—another day.

All things considered, the evening was picking up nicely. Something was going down at Michael's house and I had scored another win at home.

And the papers,
I reminded myself.
Don't forget the papers.