Fight Song

by Joshua Mohr

  “Fine, plead his case. Now I need to focus on my shame-cave. I need to sulk. Need to … Wait, what’s my new slang again?”

  “Floff-monger.”

  “Yes, I need some serious floff-mongering.”

  Björn hangs up and Bob ponders magic. At first, it had seemed so clear that Schumann was not the mouse, but the longer this is going on, Coffen actually wants it to be true—wants to believe in Björn’s powers. Why not? Bob writes code, breathes code. He lives like a character in the worst video game of all time: slowly fizzling out, level by level, until there’s nothing left except a pile of fluorescent orange that needs to be swept up. If there’s some magic out there that can help him avoid the dust pan, well, it sure sounds good right about now.

  What’s wrong with a mouse man?

  When last Coffen reviewed the hallowed tenets of babysitting, it was his understanding that the custody of said baby in the said sitter’s stead was a temporary arrangement. As in, thanks, Tilda, for taking wee mousy Schumann off Coffen’s hands for a few hours, but he’s now come to reclaim the great rodent booty that is Bob’s neighbor.

  However, a certain Taco Shed employee doesn’t want to cough him up.

  “His family gets home soon,” Coffen says to Tilda, standing in the doorway of her apartment early the following morning and hoping that this idea contains the cocktail of persuasion. “We’ve got to get him back to his life.”

  It’s approximately 6:30 AM on Monday morning. The mouse runs around Tilda’s cupped hands. “I think he’s happy. We were up all night together; we bonded in a very spiritual way. He has a look in his eyes that tells me he’d like to stay like this forever. Honestly, this might be the kind of change that he truly wanted.”

  “Can I please have him back?”

  “He might be the perfect man for me,” Tilda says.

  “He’s not a man.”

  “Sure he is, but he’s also so small he can’t hurt me, and that’s what I’ve always wanted.”

  Schumann makes some chirpy, mousy noises and is clearly shaking his wee head to the contrary of her statements.

  “He has a wife and kid,” Coffen says.

  “He told me all about them way back when he first started being one of my intercom clients. And he told me a lot after we did it in the SUV. Honestly, I don’t think he’d miss too much sleep over never seeing them again.”

  “He’s a good father.”

  “But maybe he’d make a better mouse, at least for the foreseeable future, and trust me: I’ll take incredible care of him.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “He’s the perfect pet,” she says.

  Coffen wants to say something supportive, something about how extraordinary she is and that she deserves a partner of the same species. Sure, she’s had a stable of bad relationships. Yes, life can be hard. No, she’s not perfect. But she can’t wrap her heart in muscles, like a fragile trinket in bubble wrap and stop trying to find somebody who might make her happy. Those are all the things Coffen hopes to convey, and it comes out like this: “You don’t need a mouse man, Tilda.”

  “What’s wrong with a mouse man?”

  “How will you two ever dance together?”

  “That’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

  “You deserve a full-blown human being.”

  “Not sure I want one of those.”

  Schumann now stands solely on his hind legs and is shaking his wee head.

  “But look at how he’s shaking his head,” Coffen offers up.

  “His head’s not moving.”

  “I can see him shaking it.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Look at him.”

  “That’s an optical illusion,” says Tilda.

  “What is?”

  “His head shaking.”

  “I thought you said he wasn’t even moving his head!”

  “Damn,” she says. “Entrapped again. You got me.” She hands Schumann over to Bob, placing him in his flattened palms. Schumann gives a creepy wee mousy smile and scampers up to perch on Coffen’s shoulder. He smells like something … jasmine? Coffen sniffs Schumann several times.

  “I doused him in lavender body oil,” Tilda says. “Honestly, the natural smell was wretched.”

  “Makes sense, I guess.”

  “The magician turning him back?” she asks.

  “Supposedly. We’re meeting this morning.”

  “Can I come? I’ve never seen real magic before.”

  “I’m not sure he’d appreciate me bringing you along.”

  “Only one way to know for sure.”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “Call him and ask,” she says.

  Coffen caves in and calls.

  “Are you seriously asking me that?” Björn says. “My hangover’s no joke.”

  “I am unfortunately asking you that, yes.”

  “My god, Coffen, you are high-maintenance.”

  “Can she come?”

  “I haven’t even decided that I’m going to turn him back.”

  “I’m sure he’s learned his lesson,” Coffen says.

  “How are you sure of that?”

  “Tell him we can meet at Taco Shed and I’ll throw in a round of breakfast Mexican lasagnas on the house,” says Tilda. “As many as he can eat.”

  Coffen relays the offer, and the magician says, “I agree to the proposed terms. See you in twenty.”

  In twenty, Coffen, Tilda, and Schumann stand face-to-face with Björn. Bob introduces her to the magician, who’s wearing sunglasses; his moustache is smashed and he stinks like booze.

  “Looks like you had a long night of floff-mongering,” says Bob.

  “It was pure madness.”

  “Can I make you boys breakfast?” Tilda asks, and all parties seem extremely interested in that prospect. She unlocks the place, tells them no other employees will be there for an hour, when they begin to prep for the 8:00 AM rush. Everyone lingers around the register while she prepares the breakfast Mexican lasagnas. Schumann still sits on Coffen’s shoulder.

  “Why should I do him any favors?” Björn says, not taking off his sunglasses. “He kidnapped me.”

  “You’d be doing me a favor,” Coffen says. “And his family. Please?”

  “Chow time,” suggests Tilda, holding a whole tray of breakfast Mexican lasagnas that are actually completely identical in structure to regular non-breakfast Mexican lasagnas. Soon, they’re all gorging on grease.

  Tilda speaks up first: “Maybe Björn is right. I mean, Schumann did kidnap him, which if memory serves correctly is a felony. This seems like it might be an appropriate punishment given the severity of the crime.”

  Schumann shakes his wee head very much to the contrary again.

  “I’m sure,” Coffen says to Tilda, “if he stays a mouse you’d be happy to watch over him as a kind of gentle guardian, is that right? Is that how you’d like to see this end—you get your pet and his son grows up without a father?”

  “I’d be open to that suggestion,” she says.

  “We’re talking about a husband and a father and he needs to be human once more,” Coffen says.

  “I grew up without a father,” Tilda says, “and I’m fine.”

  “Me, too,” the magician chimes in.

  Bob sighs. “Me, too.”

  Björn unwraps another Mexican lasagna, enjoys a bite, and says, “You know what? After last night’s awful show, I want to get out of this godforsaken town and forget all about it. I don’t want to have this guy on my conscience for the rest of my life. I don’t need that. Believe me, there’s enough on my conscience. You don’t think I retaliated dark-arts-style once the ink dried on our divorce papers? You bet I did. I’m not proud of it, but I got the last laugh. Was what I did to her childish and vindictive? No doubt. I am regretful. Yes, there is shame in my shame-cave. So I don’t need to add to it for no real reason.” Then he puts his finger right in Schumann’s wee face. “But snap out of
this quarterback-hero crap. Act like a regular guy or god help me, I’ll turn you right back to a mouse. You got me?”

  Adamant rodent nodding ensues.

  “What did you do to your wife?” Coffen asks Björn.

  “I can’t talk about it. I thought I was punishing her but all I did was make me hate myself.”

  Björn picks mousy Schumann up and puts the rodent in his jacket pocket. Then he lightly taps on the rodent-lump from outside the jacket a few times. The magician takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes, and there’s a clap of thunder outside. Bob and Tilda look at each other. Björn takes another deep breath, and there’s another clap of thunder. Finally he says, “Let evolution take its course.” He taps the lump one last time.

  And it’s gone.

  “Where is he?” Tilda asks.

  That’s when Schumann lopes in the front door of Taco Shed in his football uniform, standing full-sized, dressed as though Purdue might lock pigskinned-horns with Notre Dame any minute now.

  “What happened?” he says, looking perplexed and disheveled.

  “Where were you?” Tilda says.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I was suddenly standing out in the parking lot, and everything before it is hazy. I kind of remember feeling inconsequential, a sort of afterthought.”

  “Where are you coming from right now? Think hard,” Coffen says. “Did you hear thunder just now?”

  “I can’t remember anything besides wearing a really warm fur coat,” Schumann says.

  “Holy shit,” says Tilda.

  “Boo-ya,” Björn says.

  “Are you being serious?” Coffen asks Schumann.

  He nods and says, “Yeah, the fur coat is really all I can remember.”

  “What the almighty pigeon-toed fuck is going on?” Tilda screams.

  Björn cracks up. “I keep telling you people I’m a sorcerer. But nobody wants to hear that. You all only want to rain hate down on my happy little shindig. Let me do my thing. Leave me and my well enough alone.”

  Bob wants to ask a flood of practical questions, feels the tug to disprove the possibility that Schumann had indeed been a mouse. The urge comes on strong, almost like a craving, a habit, but Coffen strangles it. The explanation isn’t the point. Schumann’s back. His wife has her husband. Little Schu, his dad. That’s the point. That’s all that matters, and Bob tries to embrace the mystery of it.

  Schumann tells all that he’s completely famished and asks if he can have a Mexican lasagna. Nobody objects, so he takes Coffen’s straight out of his hands and digs in, signals that he’s going to wait for everyone outside so he can try and think straight about this. Tilda altruistically volunteers to keep him company in the morning light—no doubt to test his memory of all she said to him while babysitting. He chomps away and Coffen watches her give him quite a speech. It makes Bob kind of sad, actually, thinking about Tilda pleading to her former mouse man, trying to make him want what she so badly wants.

  “Good-bye,” Björn says to Bob once the others are outside, finally removing his shades. His cheeks are dry. Moustache flattened on one half. “It’s been interesting.”

  “You’re not crying … ”

  “Not after the show last night. I’m done bending over backward for people. The world is full of ingrates.”

  “Magic is hard for us.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m trying to turn over a new leaf and believe, but it’s hard.”

  “Turn it over,” says Björn. “Being a know-it-all is a terrible way to go through your life.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “What’s the holdup?”

  It’s all so much for Coffen to take, to accept, to change years of his thinking. He never before has believed in magic, so why all of a sudden does he want to? And where’s the valve on the parts of himself that don’t want to believe? How can he turn them off, leaving only the open-minded parts of Bob? The ones that believe in Jane’s chances to break the world record. Believe in Björn’s dark arts prowess.

  “Hello?” Björn says. “I asked what the holdup is.”

  “I’m probably the holdup.”

  “Do you want one more trick to prove I’m the real deal?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, this one will knock your socks off. This one will prove beyond any reasonable doubt that I am who I say I am.”

  “When’s it going to happen?”

  Björn laughs. “Stay tuned and keep your eyes open. I’m leaving this skid mark of sprawl one last spectacle. Do you like rainbows?”

  “Rainbows?”

  “Keep your eyes peeled,” he says, then limps toward Taco Shed’s door, putting on his sunglasses. He looks back at Bob and says, “I hope you turn over that leaf.”

  “Me, too.”

  Björn doesn’t say anything to either Tilda or Schumann as he makes his way to his rental car. He speeds off.

  Coffen makes his way outside, too.

  “Can you drop me off at home?” Schumann says to Coffen.

  “I’ll drive you home, sweetie,” Tilda offers.

  “Thanks, but no. Bob and I need to talk about some stuff,” he says.

  “Don’t we need to talk about some stuff as well?” Tilda asks. “We left a lot on the table last night.”

  “Yeah, but let me gather my thoughts, okay? I’ve been through quite an ordeal,” says Schumann. His football uniform, which had always seemed symbolic and poetic and larger than life, now looks like any other costume—something a person puts on when he wants to see how the other half lives, when he wants to escape himself.

  “Call me later?” she says, to which he nods, something timid in it, something defeated, victim of a fourth-quarter comeback that’s come up short.

  Tilda waves wildly as Coffen and Schumann start driving away from Taco Shed. The last thing Bob sees is Tilda bringing her hulky arms up, flexing like she’s onstage in a bodybuilding competition. Bob’s not the only person who’s gotten out of his box this weekend; Tilda is taking a chance and opening up to her mouse man. Coffen smiles, looking back at Tilda’s massive physique.

  The plight of the people of now

  Bob’s nice enough to drive Schumann home when in actuality what he needs to do is hightail it to work for his team’s Monday-morning status meeting, which will be getting underway in roughly half an hour. Coffen’s boss is not a fan of late arrivals and often attempts to scold those of his underlings who traipse in after the clock has struck late, like a snobby professor sarcastically welcoming a tardy undergrad to class.

  “Well, that was quite a weekend you had, Reasons with His Fists,” Coffen says.

  “Please don’t call me that.”

  “What are you going to tell your wife?”

  “As far as they’re concerned, I’ve been on the couch watching the boob tube the whole time they were gone. And that’s exactly what I will be doing from now on. My competitive streak has been cauterized. I thought I wanted to relive my glory days, but I don’t. I’m not that person anymore.”

  Bob is appalled: “Jesus, you really are a mouse.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t think she deserves to know the truth?”

  “I know the truth. That’s what matters.”

  “I bet she’d disagree with that.”

  “The important thing is that I’m going to be a better man now.”

  “I bet she’d think the important thing is that you had sex with Tilda.”

  It disappoints Coffen that Schumann isn’t going to level with his missus, but then Bob figures he has so much to worry about in his own life that he can’t try to control how Schumann’s going to handle things. At the very least, it sounds like Coffen will never endure another cameo from Reasons with His Fists. Thank Christ for pigskinned miracles.

  Plus, and maybe this is the heart of the matter, Coffen sees Schumann for what he is: confused, sad, and broken, like so many others their age. Like Bob. Confused about their role in the world. A football game
. A video game. It all adds up to the same thing. A way to escape how grueling reality can be, all the responsibilities, all the worries. There’s good stuff, too, as Tilda says, between the cops, monsters, prudes, and mice, but you have to hunt for it, or the routine can pull you under.

  “You’re not going to tattle on me, are you?” Schumann asks.

  “On one condition.”

  “What?”

  “For one week, starting now, I want you to take a steady dose of Scout’sHonor!®”

  “Why?”

  “So you know when you lie,” Coffen says. “I want you to be aware when you lie to your wife.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “She won’t know, but you will.”

  “I can’t walk around all week bleeding from my nose, Bob.”

  “Exactly why Scout’sHonor!® works so well. Nobody can afford to bleed all week long. Our lives are busy. Wonder what would happen if you don’t lie to her but come clean about everything?”

  “I don’t want to come clean. And because you don’t cheat on Jane, you’re no perfect husband yourself. Don’t you lie to her about other stuff?”

  “I more leave stuff out than lie.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like most of my real feelings.”

  “Isn’t that lying?” Schumann says. “You should take Scout’sHonor!® too. Let the pill decide what’s lying and what isn’t.”

  He’s spot-on. No disputing that. If one of Coffen’s goals going forward is to do right by his people, then he has to find out all the facts. Try to be honest about everything, even issues he’s previously avoided or downplayed or gone dumb about. Bob should go into his future with his eyes open as to when he’s being dishonest. A week of Scout’sHonor!® will help keep him on track.

  “Fine,” Coffen says. “I’ll do it.”

  “Right on. Good man. You take it for a week and after your time is up, maybe I’ll decide to take it once we see how it works on you. That makes perfect sense.”

  “Take it or I tattle.”

  “What if I bleed to death?” Schumann whines.

  “Stop being so selfish and you won’t bleed to death.”

  “It’s not that easy. You can’t stop cold turkey.”