Changing Michael

by Jeff Schilling

  Standing at the end of Michael’s driveway, I shook my head, trying to clear it. Time to focus on Gut, not the houses.

  As I worked my way up the driveway, I could hear music coming from a window. I stopped.

  Sounded like classical music.

  Oh well, I thought. I suppose it’s one way to piss Gut off. I pounded on the storm door and waited.

  Eventually, my old buddy wandered up.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  Still no sleeveless t-shirt. Maybe I could leave a three-pack on the stoop one night?

  “Michael around?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  He stepped away from the door and I let myself in. Another stroke of inspiration hit me as the screen door slammed back into place.

  “Hey, did Michael tell you?” I asked.

  “Tell me what?”

  “The coach wants him to play football next year.”

  Blank look from Gut.

  “I said, ‘The coach wants him to play football next—’”

  “I heard you the first time, and it didn’t make sense then, either. Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why would they want Michael on the team?”

  “Coach wants him to play quarterback or something,” I said. “Saw him throw in gym.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I had reached too high. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “There ain’t no way they want Michael to throw the ball. He’d get killed.”

  “I didn’t say ‘throw.’ I said ‘kick.’”

  “You said quarterback.”

  “I meant kicker.”

  “Oh, kicker,” he said.

  “Not bad, huh?”

  Gut shrugged. “Kicker’s just a soccer player with a helmet.”

  So much for that.

  “So can I see him or what?”

  “Yep. Back that way,” Gut said, pointing down the hall.

  The house smelled like a musty, old, chain-smoking dog. The carpets were thin, and like the bricks outside, everything inside had a washed-out look, as if all of it had been left in the sun way too long.

  The living room floor was covered in a shade that might have passed for chocolate brown at one point, but now deserved a more accurate title, like putrid brown.

  The carpet that graced the hallway was green—the pea variety of green. It made me wonder if the colors had been selected as a joke. Or perhaps while drunk, or maybe as an act of revenge.

  Gut worked his way back to the couch and plopped down in front of the TV. Sports highlights.

  “Racing news?” I asked.

  “After this,” he said, glancing up at me.

  I stared at the TV like I was trying to remember something.

  “What?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Thought I heard something about racing the other day.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t remember. It was something weird, though.”

  “Ain’t nothing weird going on,” he said.

  “No, it was something strange. I’m pretty sure.”

  “Must’ve been something else,” he mumbled.

  I risked a quick glance. He was scowling at the TV.

  Perfect.

  I headed down the hall. It was narrow and dim but peppered with photographs—family pictures, I guessed—scattered across the wall, as if every once in a while, someone stopped to look, got depressed, and decided to add another picture.

  Most of the pictures appeared to be school photos, and very few looked like Michael. The clothes in the photos had been atrocious even when they were in fashion. Hair was plastered to heads. Smiles were missing teeth. But I suppose missing teeth is somewhat natural. All kids lose teeth at some point, right?

  Some of the pictures featured old people, and several were done in the school picture/mug shot-style the family seemed to favor. Maybe Grandma and Grandpa had visited the school photographer on his day off. One of the old ladies looked nice, in a grandmotherly way, but most of the grandpas looked like mean old bastards who wouldn’t need much provocation to come down off the wall and give you a “whuppin.”

  Mom hires a photographer to come to our house when it’s time for another picture. Usually, we end up outside in the backyard next to the water fountain or flowering bush. Dad and I receive instructions from Mom about dress, and the photographer usually orders us into ridiculous positions before agreeing to release us.

  In Michael’s house, there were a few outdoor shots in addition to the portraits, but most involved “casual” attire, flimsy folding chairs, and at least one beer per participant.

  Michael’s door was closed. I raised my hand to knock but decided to barge in instead. I was disappointed when I did. Michael wasn’t doing anything weird. He was in a chair, leaning back and reading a book. I stood there for a minute, waiting for him to notice me.

  Michael’s room was small, tidy, and little-old-man like. His books were either in bookcases or stacked in neat piles on the floor. It wasn’t hard to imagine Flap stopping by to reorganize the shelves or play a quick game of Magic.

  The computer in the center of his desk seemed out of place. It looked new, and so far, it was the nicest object in the house. I was surprised it wasn’t on display in the living room.

  His bed was made (good boy, Michael!). It was narrow and way too small for him, but there weren’t any stuffed animals propped up against the pillows, and I didn’t see any action figures engaged in mortal combat.

  There was a small poster above the desk, but was it someone cool? Of course not. It was a picture of a wrinkled old man wearing a diaper and holding a giant walking stick.

  There were a few other posters near his bed—of star clusters, galaxies, and planets. And above the stereo (which, despite looking to be about fifty years old, was the source of the classical music) was another old man, but this one, at least, appeared to be wearing pants.

  Michael finally came out of his book long enough to notice there was someone in his doorway. I stepped in and closed the door behind me. I approached the stereo, killed the classical, and fiddled with a button or two until I found a classic rock station. It didn’t take long.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Stage Two.”

  I sat down on his bed. There was a Bible on the nightstand beside me. I held it up and raised my eyebrows.

  Michael shrugged. His eyes went to the paperback in his lap. “I’m not a fundamentalist,” he said.

  “And that means?”

  “I don’t believe in the literal truth of the Bible.”

  “Keep going,” I said, rolling a hand as if trying to scoop the air closer to my chest.

  “I don’t believe that all the passages were divinely inspired.”

  We stared at each other.

  “So it is science-fiction,” I said.

  “No,” Michael said. “I think a lot of it came from God.”

  I rolled my hand again.

  “But I think some passages were changed.”

  “By who?”

  “Priests. Monks,” he said. “They were the only ones who could make copies of the Bible, back before the printing press. I’m sure they changed some of the passages or left some things out.”

  “Why?”

  “To suit the leaders of the Church. To match their agenda.”

  So Michael was a conspiracy guy.

  “Michael, were you abducted by aliens?” I asked, concerned.

  Michael tried to study his carpet.

  “Okay, relax! I’m sorry I said anything,” I said. “You really need to get used to someone giving you a hard time once in a while. It doesn’t always mean they hate you.”

  Michael brought his head back
up. “I just think there have to be pieces of the Bible that were left out or changed,” he said. “Pieces the church leaders thought weren’t meant for everyone.”

  “So why do you have a Bible in here?”

  “I didn’t say it was entirely corrupt.”

  I stared.

  “There’s some beautiful writing in the Bible,” said Michael, “And some beautiful ideas.”

  “Who’s the naked guy?” I asked, pointing to the picture above his desk.

  “Gandhi.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “He was a leader in India, back when they were ruled by the British.”

  “Believe it or not, Michael, I’ve actually heard the name. I’m wondering why he’s on your wall.”

  “He was a great man. He practiced nonviolent civil disobedience.”

  “Which means . . .?”

  “Not fighting. Just refusing to cooperate.”

  I shrugged, which Michael interpreted as a request for more information.

  “Nonviolent civil disobedience,” he began. “Let’s say you didn’t think it was fair that the government made you carry a driver’s license, and a police officer pulled you over for driving too fast. What would you do if he asked for your license?”

  “Punch him in the mouth.”

  “No. And that was exactly Gandhi’s point,” he said, beginning to flush.

  “Michael, I was—”

  “Gandhi taught nonviolent disobedience. So he would probably say that you should tell the cop that you don’t have one because you don’t think it’s a just law. And when the cop tries to arrest you . . .”

  “I don’t think they’d arrest you for—”

  “. . . you should just go with him. You should let him arrest you and not put up a struggle. And if everybody did that, without fighting, then they wouldn’t be able to hold everyone. The prisons would fill up, and they’d run out of room. Then they’d have to change the law.”

  I almost told him it wouldn’t work. I figured Michael was getting carried away and starting to exaggerate, but decided against it. If he wanted to believe in this sort of thing, fine. Besides, watching him get all worked up was kind of entertaining.

  “So it worked for No Pants there?” I asked, pointing at Gandhi.

  “He changed a whole country. He beat one of the strongest armies in the world by not fighting back.”

  Unfortunately, it was like playing with a little kid—I’d gotten him overexcited, and now I needed to bring him back or I was in for an extended lecture.

  “Amazing,” I said. “Let’s talk about Stage Two. You need to start listening to classic rock.”

  Michael frowned.

  “Loud enough so Gut can hear it in the living room.”

  “Why?”

  “Does Gut listen to classic rock?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think he’d like it if you did too?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What if he had to come down the hall and tell you to turn it down?”

  Michael wasn’t following.

  “Don’t you think he’d be a little conflicted?” I said. “Telling you to turn down music he likes?”

  “Maybe.”

  Something outside the window caught my attention—a woman picking her way up the driveway. She was small and thin and immediately reminded me of some kind of rodent. That’s another theory of mine, by the way. Physically, everyone in the world looks like one of six animals: fish, bird, rat, pig, bear, or horse. Try it sometime.

  “Who’s that?”

  “My mom,” he muttered.

  Wow.

  Michael and Mom definitely looked like they both belonged to the rat family. Something about the nose and mouth. They weren’t so startling on Michael, but on Mom they were disturbing.

  “Let’s go meet her,” I said, slipping out of his room and down the hall. Michael tried to say something, but I ignored him. On my way past Gut, I said, “They get to that story yet?”

  “What story?”

  “The weird one I was telling you about,” I said. “The one I couldn’t remember.”

  “Ain’t no story,” he said, scowling at the TV. He sounded like a toddler: I’m not gonna take a nap!

  I let him sulk and found my way to the kitchen. Michael’s mom was unloading groceries.

  “Mrs. . . .?” I almost said “Mrs. Rat,” but stopped myself just in time.

  She looked at me as if I’d threatened to kick her. “Yes?”

  “I’m Michael’s friend Matthew,” I said, just as Michael rounded the corner.

  “Oh . . . hello,” she said.

  “Did you get waffles?” Gut asked from the couch.

  “Would you like some help putting those away?” I asked.

  She stopped for a second, as if trying to remember something. “No. Thank you.”

  “Michael wanted me to meet you,” I said, smiling.

  “Did you get waffles?” Gut asked again, louder this time.

  “Yes!” she called.

  “Likes his waffles, doesn’t he?” I said.

  “Yes,” Mom said.

  “Okay, well, you probably need to go,” Michael said, trying to shoo me out the door.

  “No, I’m fine,” I said. I wasn’t about to let Michael chase me away. When would I get another chance to experience the whole family together? “Are you just getting home from work?”

  “Yes,” she said, busy putting cans into cabinets.

  “Where do you work?”

  “At the hospital,” Michael said.

  “Are you a nurse?” I asked.

  “Medical records,” Michael said.

  “I didn’t know you were a ventriloquist, Michael.”

  Mom and son gave me the same baffled look.

  Okay, so his looks and sense of humor came from Mom.

  “We’re out of butter,” Gut said. He’d managed to pry himself off the couch.

  Mom glanced at him. “I wish you’d told me that this morning,” she said to the head of lettuce on the counter.

  “Forgot,” Gut said, beginning to pick his teeth.

  “Toothpick?” I offered.

  Gut shook his head.

  “Okay, well . . .” Michael began.

  “Did you tell her yet, Michael?” I said, interrupting.

  “Tell me what?” she asked, alarmed.

  Michael stared at me.

  “Fine, I’ll tell her. Your son is incredibly modest,” I said. “They want Michael to play football.”

  Gut snorted.

  “Who does?” She sounded worried.

  “The school. Michael’s not sure he wants to do it, but still—”

  “Them elves he’s always fightin’ might not like it,” said Gut. “Might attack the house or something.”

  “Did you play football in high school?” I asked Gut before Michael could respond.

  “Fullback,” Gut grunted. “I didn’t just run around kickin’ balls like a little—”

  Mom looked at Gut, then said, “Michael doesn’t really like team sports.”

  “Mom!” Michael said.

  “Well, you don’t,” she said, then went back to her groceries.

  “Michael’s one of them loner guys you hear about on TV,” Gut said.

  “Kind of like a race car driver,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Kind of like a driver.”

  “Nah,” said Gut. “They got a whole pit crew to work with.”

  “But when they’re racing, I mean. When they’re out there on the track all by themselves. Must get kind of lonely.”

  “What do you mean?” Gut asked, hairy eyebrows knitting together.

  “Good thing they have those pretty
girlfriends . . . or whatever.”

  “Whatever?” he repeated.

  “You know—girlfriends, families . . . significant others.”

  Gut grunted and looked away.

  “So, you ready to go?” I asked Michael.

  He nodded.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said to Michael’s mom.

  “You, too,” she said.

  Yeah, right.

  “You’ll let me know if you hear that story?” I asked as Gut shuffled back toward the couch.

  “Uh-huh,” he said, absently.

  Michael and I headed out. I shook my head on the way down the stairs.

  “What?” Michael asked.

  “Going to be a little harder than I thought,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “You’re not going to get much help from Mom.”

  Michael was quiet.

  “Michael, where’s your dad?” I said.

  He didn’t answer right away. I took a quick peek and figured I was in for a battle, but before I could begin the assault, he said, “Baltimore.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded.

  “Michael, that’s only, like, forty minutes away. Do you ever see him?”

  A headshake.

  “Why not?”

  I looked over when I didn’t get an answer.

  Michael’s eyes were on the ground and his jaw was set. He looked like he was preparing for a dental procedure.

  “So, when was the last time you saw him?” I said.

  “I’m not sure,” said Michael. “It’s been a while.”

  “Days? Weeks?”

  “Years. Since I was little.”

  “Why?”

  We hit the busy intersection. Michael finally shrugged. “He left us,” he said. “Why should I go see him?”

  “Aren’t you curious?”

  “He’s a drunk.”

  That was a pretty good reason. But wait a minute, I thought. How would he know?

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”