Changing Michael (9 page)

“What?”

“Stop the car. Let me out,” he said.

“Michael,” I said calmly, “remember when I said you weren't allowed to take every comment seriously? You've got to stop freaking out every time someone gives you a little shit.”

“So what's next?” Michael said. “Are you going to start throwing me up against lockers too?”

That kind of put a damper on things. I hadn't meant to push so hard, but he was just so irritating sometimes. Time to change course and redirect the conversation—prop him up a bit. Luckily, something came to mind just when I needed it.

“Michael,” I said, brightly, “you're just like Jesus.”

No response.

“Didn't he get beat up all the time? And didn't people think he was weird?”

“Well, that's not quite—”

“They threw rocks at him, right? People throw rocks at you once in a while.”

He scowled.

“Oh, hold on,” I said, remembering something. “Maybe not.”

He waited.

“Jesus probably didn't have that little problem you have.”

Michael stared.

“The faith thing,” I said. “I'm guessing he was pretty sure of himself.”

“Not all the time. Not on the cross,” said Michael.

“There,” I said happily. “See? I'm right.”

No response. I glanced over. He wasn't flushed anymore, and the scowl had dried up at the edges. I decided to give him a break. At this point, we were about fifteen minutes from Baltimore. It dawned on me that, in a little while, I might be shaking hands with Michael's father.

I couldn't really picture him, though. I kept seeing a slightly taller version of Michael with bags under his eyes, so I stopped trying. Instead, I thought about the bookstore Michael was all cramped-up about and wondered if we'd be able to find it.

“So where's your dad?” I asked.

Michael pulled the address out of his backpack.

I nodded. “What exit?”

“Martin Luther King, Jr. Boulevard. It's still pretty far.”

“Okay.”

I decided not to bother him for a bit. I figured both of us needed some time inside our heads.

We cruised along for a while, skimming through suburbia, then started to make our approach. The traffic got a little heavier, and suburbia got taller and thicker, and pretty soon we were curving down the ramp and spilling into the city.

“Take a right at the next light,” Michael said from behind his directions.

I nodded. “How far away are we, anyway?”

“Five, maybe six miles,” Michael said, studying the directions as if he weren't completely sure.

I think I told you we live pretty close to D.C. Driving through Baltimore wasn't all that different than driving in D.C. Of course, I wasn't familiar with any of the streets, but on the whole, no big deal.

I let Michael give me the occasional direction and tried to sightsee when I could.

We drove through a stretch of town that might have been the edge of a business district, then past a few blocks of restored row houses and into a little shopping area.

After the shopping area, though, things weren't as pretty.

I'm sure you've heard the expression “other side of the tracks.” Well, I never did see any actual railroad tracks, but somewhere after the shopping area, it was like we'd crossed an invisible line. The change was like a long, low cloud sliding in front of the sun—the kind of shift you feel on the inside. Outside, it was still bright, but after we crossed “the line,” things were different. The city became much more industrial. Rows of delivery and utility trucks parked along long, flat stretches of hard-packed dirt. Machine shops, marble and granite, paint. And lengths and lengths of tall chain-link fence.

Then, up a slight incline past billboard after billboard—mostly advertisements for gentleman's clubs, booze, and DUI lawyers.

“At least they're in the right order,” I said to myself.

“What?” Michael asked, shaking his head and turning away from the window.

I gave a return head shake, letting him know it was nothing important.

Once we leveled off, the buildings become shorter and shabbier. Local businesses, signs written in languages other than English, and restaurants that looked like someone had thrown them together with a couple hundred bucks.

Street signs were missing and people weren't out walking like they had someplace to be. They were in little groups in front of convenience stores. Or slumped at bus stops like they'd been there for a day or two.

We stopped at a light and a group of kids crossed and gazed at us as they passed by. They were probably the same age as Michael, but seemed larger somehow. Older and more capable. We could hear their voices but not the words. One or two nodded at our car, then put a suggestion in the nearest ear. A few faces looked back at us with renewed interest, the same lazy half-smile in their eyes.

“How close are we now?” I asked.

“Pretty close,” Michael said, uncertainly.

“Seen your bookstore yet?” I joked.

I tried to float down the road as quietly as possible.

Finally, we were close enough that we had to slow down and keep an eye on the numbers. I was a little surprised when I realized we weren't looking for a house. It was going to be one of the four- or five-story brick buildings that now grew along either side of the street.

Had I really been nervous walking around Michael's neighborhood? I couldn't imagine having to move up and down these streets every day.

“There it is,” Michael said, pointing. He didn't sound thrilled.

I drifted over to the side of the road and rolled to a stop.

“Michael,” I said, “I don't know how long I want to leave the car here.”

He stared at the building and nodded.

We hurried across the street and hustled up the sidewalk toward the entryway. His father's building had dull, faded tan bricks. The balconies attached to the front looked like they were ready to come apart. The building itself looked like every other structure in the area, and they all looked like they wanted to be left alone so that they could sink into the ground.

I opened the front door, only to find another one a few feet in front of me. To the left was a list of names, each with a little black button beside it.

“What the hell?” I said.

“I think it's locked,” Michael said, pulling on the second door. “I think we have to push the button and he'll let us in.”

“Which one's his?”

Michael pointed to a last name. I pushed the button and we waited.

Nothing happened.

After a few awkward moments, I said, “Well, I guess—”

Suddenly, I heard an extremely loud buzzer. “What the hell?!” I yelled. The noise finally stopped when Michael reached around me and opened the second door.

“Oh,” I said. Inside, it was dark and, of course, smelly.

“He's on the third floor,” Michael said, heading up the stairs.

“How do you know?”

“His number starts with a three. That means he's on the third floor.”

Michael seemed to be in charge now. I wasn't quite sure how I felt about that, although it did free me up to imagine what might be happening to the car.

We followed the staircase up. Each landing had a window that looked out over the street. I could just see the back of the car from each. So far, so good. The tires were still there, and the windows weren't broken.

There wasn't much light on the third floor, and the hallway was narrow. I imagined people coming out of their doors to get a good look at us, but no one did. Then, to make myself feel better, I imagined the same people walking their cats up and down the hallway, because that's what it smelled like: cat pee.

Music pumped through the walls from a couple apartments, and someone's loud voice from another. And then there were doors that were absolutely quiet. These doors were even more unsettling. I don't know how, but for some reason I knew there were people on the other side. People with one eye pressed to the peephole—following us, weighing possibilities.

Finally, we came to his father's door. There was music, but it wasn't loud.

We looked at each other.

“You want me to knock?” I said.

He looked as if he wanted to say yes but shook his head instead. I made some room, and Michael tapped on the door. His knuckles barely touched the wood.

“Michael,” I said.

“Fine,” he said, frowning, and raised his hand to knock again. But before he could, the door popped open and swung back a few inches to the end of its short chain.

A girl peered out at us.

I looked at Michael.

“Who are you?” the girl said.

At first, I thought she might be “the girlfriend” or something, but she looked pretty young. She might have been our age, but it was hard to tell. She could have been a year or two older, but just as easily could have been a little younger. Her eyes were dark and scooped-out underneath. She might have been pretty if she hadn't looked so tired. “I'm his—he's my father,” Michael managed, flushing nicely. I made a mental note. We definitely needed to work on talking to girls. Michael looked like he was going to have a stroke.

She stared at him. “What?” she finally asked.

“Do you think we could come in?” I asked. “There's a lot of cat pee out here.”

She just stared. I started to say something else, but before I could, she decided to unchain the door. She seemed to be operating on a kind of five-second delay, which made me wonder what she was on and why she was letting two strangers in.

There wasn't much in the living room—not much furniture, that is. To the left was a couch that was even worse than the one in Michael's house. Past the couch was an armchair that looked like someone had beaten it with a chain. On the floor in front of the couch, there was a TV and next to the TV, the stereo we'd heard from the hallway.

It reminded me of Michael's computer. It was new, very expensive, and completely out of place. Records grew in clumps around the stereo—not CDs, but vinyl records. There were long rows of records pushed up against the living room walls, stacks on the floor, and boxes of them scattered here and there. Somebody
really
liked music.

“You don't have any records, do you?” I asked the girl.

“What?” she asked, about five seconds later.

I pointed to the records and tried to smile.

“Oh,” she said, sounding relieved.

“What do you listen to?” I asked.

“He listens to a lot of different stuff.”

“So what do
you
listen to?” I asked again.

“I don't know. I like anything,” she said, smiling.

I almost started a game with her—almost started to mess with her—but it was the smile that stopped me. It was a sad smile, as if she were apologizing. It's not much fun to mess with such an easy target, and I had a feeling that a lot of people had messed with her. It was probably why she wanted to be five seconds behind the world.

“So is he here?” I asked.

“He just got out of the shower.”

We stood in the middle of the living room a while. She and I stared at each other while Michael looked at the records.

“So,” I said, “do you think he'll . . .?” But she suddenly turned and left the room. Without following her, it was hard to tell where she'd gone. I looked at Michael.

“Maybe she went to get him,” Michael said.

“Who the hell is that?” I said, pointing to the album he was holding. There was a goofy-looking guy with a beard on the cover holding a bright blue violin.

Michael stared at it, smiling.

Wow
, I thought,
she and Michael have the same smile . . .
If I didn't know any better . . .

Something went off in my head, and I felt like I was waking up for the second time that day.

“Michael,” I said, just as his father rounded the corner.

“Yeah?” his dad demanded. His belt wasn't buckled, and his hair was still wet. Michael definitely looked like Mom. Remember my theory? That everyone looks like one of six animals? Michael and Mom favored the rodent, but Michael's father fell into the horse category. The eyes, though—the eyes were the same.

Michael just stared.

“What'd you want?” his father said. Then, pointing to the girl, he said, “Did Chrissy let you in?”

I didn't know which question to answer, so I didn't say anything.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I'm Matthew, and this is Michael.”

“Okay,” he said, obviously trying to calm himself. “One more time: What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

I tossed him a grenade.

“Michael's your son.”

Michael's father's face did some pretty bizarre things. At first, it looked as if the five-second delay was catching. Then his mouth tried to smile. However, his face wasn't in the mood, and he ended up looking constipated. Then his color ran away, and he looked as if he might fall to one side.

The girl was watching every change—her eyes were wide and her mouth hung open like a dead fish. She looked so ridiculous, I started to laugh. That got everyone's attention.

“Sorry,” I said, “I'm not really laughing. Just nervous.”

Michael's father turned back to Michael, but now the girl was staring at me and sporting a
really
goofy smile. She reminded me of some farm kid with overalls and big buck teeth.

This got me laughing harder, which, in turn, got her started.

“Sorry,” I gasped.

Michael was frowning at me, and his father was frowning at the girl. I tried my hardest to pull it together, but just couldn't manage. She and I were feeding off each other.

“All right, that's enough, Chrissy,” Michael's father said sternly.

She looked at him, then over at me, and we both ended up laughing even harder.