Changing Michael

by Jeff Schilling

  I took a few quiet side steps back toward the front door.

  “He looks young, right? He looks like he’s still in high school, doesn’t he?”

  “I guess so.”

  “But listen to that voice,” his father said, getting excited. “Listen to it!”

  I listened to the voice coming from the stereo. It didn’t sound like a kid’s. It sounded like some old man who’d smoked about a million packs of cigarettes.

  “How does a kid sound like that?” his father demanded.

  I could see only the side of his face, but his eyes were wide and looked full of something that wanted to leap out.

  His father leaned forward and set the beer on the floor.

  Michael flinched as his father jumped up from the couch, still holding the cover.

  “I mean, look at ’em. They all look like kids! Probably were . . . back then.”

  Michael nodded, but he was looking at me, not at the album cover. I pointed to the beer on the floor.

  “How does a kid have that much inside? He sings like he’s a hundred. Wait! Listen to this part,” his father said, putting a hand on Michael’s shoulder, closing his eyes, and nodding to the beat. Suddenly, the singer broke in with a tremendous yell.

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” his father yelled back. “Now listen. You gotta hear the guitar coming up. It’s unbelievable.”

  We waited for the guitar.

  “There it is! Listen to how raw that is. It’s like he’s cutting his guts out!”

  He closed his eyes again, contorting his face as if the sounds were painful. Michael looked to me for help. I pointed toward the back of the apartment. I wanted to check on Chrissy.

  Michael didn’t understand.

  I pointed again, more emphatically this time, like he might suddenly understand if I used a little more force.

  It didn’t work.

  “Check this out,” his father said, suddenly coming out of his trance and pointing to a speaker. He listened to a few notes and closed his eyes again.

  I darted for the hall.

  There were two doors on the left and one on the right. Only one of them was closed, so I knocked.

  “Go away, Daddy. You’re not supposed to come in, remember?”

  “It’s Matthew . . .”

  Five seconds.

  “Who?”

  “Michael’s friend . . . Remember? Michael? Your . . . sort of brother?”

  Seven seconds.

  “I did a lot of laughing? Last time I was here?”

  Four seconds, then a giggle.

  “Can I come in?”

  I pressed my ear to the door, hoping to hear something over the music, and wasn’t ready when the door suddenly flew open. I stumbled forward, got tangled up in Chrissy, and took her down with me.

  I got up as quickly as I could, imagining Michael’s father in the doorway looking down at us. Chrissy just laughed.

  “All right now, we can’t start that again,” I said, looking around. “Wow. Cool posters.”

  There were poster-sized comic book pages on her bedroom walls. It looked like I’d stumbled into the wing of a tiny art gallery. Each poster was framed, and each had a signature or a message in one corner or another.

  “Daddy gets them at work. Mine’s over there,” she said, pointing.

  “You drew one?”

  She laughed. “No. Mine’s over there.”

  I didn’t get it, so I walked over for a closer look.

  This one had more frames, and they were smaller—just enough room to tell a quick, easy story. I skimmed the panels. Chrissy and her father in some kind of studio or workroom. Chrissy sitting near a desk, playing with stuffed animals. Chrissy notices a fish tank by a window and moves in for a closer look. While she’s admiring the sea horses, a monster (not too scary) kicks down the door to the studio and tries to abduct her father. Chrissy uses some kind of laser vision and turns the monster into an adorable stuffed animal.

  “Cool,” I said. “Who did it?”

  “Byron.”

  I almost asked who Byron was, but didn’t see the point. Instead, I took a quick look around.

  Chrissy had a big bed. The comforter was super-girly: whites and pinks and tons of frilly crap along every available edge. Her bed looked like a giant birthday cake. There were stuffed animals neatly arranged across the pillows and a matching bureau and table pushed against a wall.

  The table had a big oval mirror attached to the top. Like the bedspread, the furniture was girly, and like the bedspread, it seemed a little out of place in a teenager’s room.

  “Why are you hanging out in here?” I asked.

  She sat on the edge of her bed, not looking at me.

  “Daddy’s drinking,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “He’s sad.”

  “He is?”

  “About Michael.”

  “Why’s he sad about Michael?” I asked.

  She shrugged. Something occurred to me.

  “When did he start drinking again?”

  “Right after you two idiots showed up,” her father said. He was in the doorway now, beer in hand.

  I could see Michael just behind him, his pale, worried face trying to peer around his father’s large frame. I had a little trouble finding the right words. After all, Michael’s father had just called me an idiot.

  “Sorry,” was all I could come up with.

  Helpful Hint When Dealing with the Drunk: I’ve dealt with intoxicated friends on a number of occasions. When it comes to drunks, the best thing you can do is say as little as possible and keep things neutral. You never know what’s going to set them off.

  “Yeah, you should be,” he said, taking a swig. “Whose fucking idea was it to come find Dad anyway?”

  “Mine,” I said.

  He sipped his beer and looked around the room.

  “Did you do all these comics?” I asked. Though quick to anger, drunks can usually be re-directed fairly easily.

  “I worked on most of ’em.”

  “Did you do the one about Chrissy?”

  He smiled. “Nah, that was Byron Thomas. You heard of Byron Thomas?”

  I shook my head.

  “One of the best artists in the business right now. One of the best ever, actually. Nicest guy you’ll ever meet, too. Chrissy loved to hang around his desk.”

  He walked into the room. Michael stayed in the doorway. I sidled over to Michael while his father studied the poster.

  “I should have colored these a little differently,” he said, pointing.

  “Oh yeah?” I said. Then, under my breath to Michael: “Michael, you’re not staying here tonight.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  I hadn’t expected him to give in so easily.

  “See this? This here?” his father was saying. “Brilliant. No one else would have done it that way.”

  “We need to leave soon,” I whispered.

  “I know,” Michael said.

  “That’s what he’s known for,” his father continued, “but it’s not a gimmick. He’s always got a good reason for drawing a scene a certain way. Get over here, you two,” he said, motioning with his beer.

  We squeezed in beside him. Chrissy stood on her bed, looking over his shoulder. She seemed confused. I assumed she wasn’t used to having her father in her room when he was drinking.

  Michael’s father pointed to an early frame, one of Chrissy playing by a desk.

  “Chrissy always sat near Byron’s desk when I took her to work with me. Used to take her toys over there and play. You remember that, hon?”

  She nodded carefully.

  “She’d prop her stuffed animals up against Byron’s desk and lay a big piece of paper on the floor in front of her. She u
sed to pretend she was working.”

  He stared at the poster.

  Okay, that was a lovely little story. Very heartwarming. Maybe he’s in a better mood now. Maybe it’s time to yawn and stretch and look at our watches.

  “Then he screwed us and went to Marvel,” said Michael’s father. “I should throw it out the fucking window.”

  “No, Daddy!” Chrissy yelled.

  “I didn’t say I was going to. Smarten up, will you?”

  Chrissy sat down on the bed, scowling.

  “I am smart,” she said.

  Her father sighed and closed his eyes. Then he put a hand on her shoulder. She tried to shake it off.

  “I know you’re smart, honey,” he said. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t mad at you. You know that.”

  “You shouldn’t be in here,” she said. “You’re not allowed in here when you’re drinking.”

  “I know, honey. What if I leave right now? Will you still be mad?”

  Reluctantly, she shook her head.

  “Thank you, Beautiful,” he said, then kissed the top of her head. He moved toward us and pointed toward the front of the apartment.

  We ended up in the living room. The record had ended, and Michael’s father hovered over the stacks, looking for another. I nudged Michael.

  “What?”

  I nodded toward his father and opened my eyes as far as they would go.

  “Oh.”

  “There it is,” his father said, grinning. “That’s the one.” He brought another album up to the turntable.

  “Ah . . . Dad?” Michael tried.

  “You guys ever hear of John Paul Clue-So?” his father asked.

  Or at least that’s what it sounded like to me. It was some French-sounding name, so if anybody knows who he was talking about, feel free to let me know. Actually, don’t. I don’t really care.

  “No,” we said.

  “Jazz violinist?” he tried.

  We shook our heads.

  “Damn,” he said happily, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you’ve never heard of him.”

  He handed the album cover to Michael, changed records, and dropped the needle. Michael pretended to study the cover. The music wasn’t bad, but I had my mind on other things.

  “So in the early ‘70s, there was this movement in jazz toward—”

  “Dad, we have to go,” Michael said.

  I closed my eyes. Why is there never any tact?

  His father didn’t seem too happy about the interruption. “What do you mean?” he said. “It’s not even nine yet.”

  “I’ve got school tomorrow,” Michael said.

  “Yeah, me too,” I agreed, hoping his father didn’t suddenly remember it was Friday.

  “So?”

  “It’s kind of a long trip back,” I said.

  “It’s like forty minutes,” his father said.

  “I’ve still got some homework to finish,” I said.

  “So? Skip it.”

  I was temporarily out of excuses.

  “Come on,” his father said. “Just stay another hour. We’ll listen to a few tunes, then you can go.”

  “Michael’s got to meet someone,” I said, recovering.

  “Do you now?” his father said, raising his eyebrows.

  “Yeah, Michael doesn’t like to piss her off, do you Michael?”

  Michael shook his head emphatically.

  His father rolled his eyes. “Michael, let me give you a little advice about women,” he said.

  We pretended to listen to a five-minute lecture on the way a “man” is expected to act in a relationship. It isn’t worth repeating.

  “Yeah, well, anyway, Michael likes her, so we have to get going,” I said. “I guess she lets him touch her or something.”

  His father laughed. Michael frowned.

  “All right, then. I guess I understand,” his father said.

  He grabbed my hand and shook it. He turned to Michael, hand outstretched, but suddenly had an idea. “Hey, wait a minute. I’ve got something for you,” he said. He set his beer by the couch and hurried back to the records. Michael glared at me.

  “Well, it’s getting us out of here, isn’t it?” I said.

  We spent an uncomfortable minute watching his father flip through albums, talking to himself the whole time. Things like: “Oh, yeah, got to have that one. That one’s a classic.” Finally, he hurried over with an armload of records. “For you,” he said, shoving them into Michael’s arms.

  “I don’t have a record player.”

  “Get one from a yard sale or something. Actually, they’re starting to make ’em again. People are coming back to analog. It’s much warmer than digital and—”

  “I’ve got one you can have,” I offered, hoping to head off another lecture.

  “See? There you go,” his father said, satisfied.

  “Why are you giving them to me?” Michael asked.

  “And say hi to your girlfriend for me,” his father said with a smirk. “Man, I’m glad Chrissy won’t have a boyfriend. Couldn’t deal with that.”

  Somewhere in the apartment, a door slammed.

  “Ah, shit!” his father said, covering his eyes with a hand. “Thank God I’ve only got one kid,” he said, heading down the hall. “Two would’ve killed me.”

  I stood in the middle of the mess Michael’s father had made, too stunned to say anything right away. “Well, I guess we should go,” I said, listening to his father rap on Chrissy’s door.

  “Come on, Chrissy, open up. I didn’t say that right. Let me explain.”

  “Yeah, I guess we should probably get going,” I mumbled, looking at Michael’s feet. I tried to glance at his face but couldn’t deal with what I saw. I ended up back at his feet. I’m still not sure whether he dropped them intentionally or they just slipped, but I figured our time was up when the records hit the floor.

  I led the way out the door and down the hall to the stairs. I suddenly remembered the lovely couple from earlier and wondered if they were still on the landing.

  Thankfully, they’d moved on. Maybe they’d found a nicer floor. Or a roomier stairwell. I didn’t care. I just wanted to get outside. I tried to worry about the car but couldn’t work up the energy. My brain felt like a bridge well past its weight limit.

  I wove my way through some people near the front door, ignored a few comments, and found myself outside on the sidewalk. I turned to wait for Michael, but he was right on my heels. He brushed past me without a word. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes . . . well, I don’t really have the words to describe them.

  The car looked okay, but even if we’d found it with one tire, no doors, and a fire in the backseat, I still would have tried to drive home.

  Michael’s father and this city could go to hell.

  I pulled away from the curb and headed out.

  Driving away from that apartment building felt like finding the surface after a long, frightening swim under the ice.

  We didn’t speak on the ride home. Michael finally broke the silence when I dropped him off in front of his house.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “No problem,” I said. “I figure I’ll have my chauffeur’s license pretty soon and I can start charging.”

  “Not for the ride,” he said.

  I waited.

  “Thanks for showing me my mom’s not a liar.”

  “What?”

  “Thanks for showing me my father the drunk.”

  “Michael . . .”

  He slammed the door. I watched him work his way around the junkyard in the driveway and through the side door. The lights were on inside. I wondered if Flap was still there. I wondered if they were up, waiting for him.

  For their sake, I hoped not.

  After pulling
into the garage, I killed the engine, and sat for a minute, thinking.

  Thinking about the night and how every part of it had been a piece of crap. Wishing I had turned off the phone and crawled into bed at 7:00.

  Unlocking the door to the house, the last thing I needed was a chatty parent.

  I opened it as quietly as possible. There was a light on in the kitchen.

  Damn it.

  A crappy end to a shitty evening.

  “So, where’d you go?”

  “I took my new friend Michael up to Baltimore to see his biological father.”

  “Sounds like fun! Did you guys have a good time?”

  “His dad was drunk and acted like a tool.”

  “Oh, that’s great! Good for you.”

  I slipped out of my shoes and resigned myself to the brief walk to the kitchen. Maybe I’d just wave and swing upstairs. I stopped a few yards shy and listened.

  No sounds, no voice requesting my presence for a debriefing. I took the last few steps.

  No Mom.

  “Thank God,” I muttered.

  I couldn’t tell if she’d simply stepped out of the room or hadn’t been in it for a while. I wanted something to drink, but had to weigh the desire against an unexpected opportunity to make it to my room unmolested. Hanging around for even a minute seemed like pushing my luck, and tonight felt like a bad night for that. I looked for any signs of recent activity.

  In a little clearing between two piles, I noticed a mug and a plate. The plate held the tattered remains of some bread or pastry. There was only an inch or so of liquid in the mug. No steam.

  Could she actually be in bed?

  I decided to risk it.

  Bathroom, I decided, getting myself a glass of juice. She’s probably in the bathroom.

  I took a sip, listening, but downstairs really did feel empty.

  At least I’ve managed to catch one break tonight.

  I left the empty glass on the counter and, starting for the stairs, felt the need to stop as I passed the table.

  Toast, I decided, looking down at the plate. Coffee, I decided, peering at the mug. Possibly chai?

  Who the hell cares? Let’s go!

  But I didn’t. Instead, I found myself lingering at the edge of the table, on the cusp of remembering something.