Changing Michael (14 page)

“I'm not leaving you here.”

“Why not?”

“What if your dad's not home?”

Michael stared.

“Did you call him?”

He nodded.

“And?” I demanded.

“No one picked up,” he said. “But Chrissy's probably home.”

“Yeah, but what if she isn't? What if nobody's home? You gonna hang out at the convenience store?”

He shrugged.

I closed my eyes and bounced my head against the steering wheel a few times. Michael saw his opportunity and slipped out the door.

“Oh no you don't, you little shit . . .” I muttered, scrambling out behind him.

I caught up with him at the second door—the one with the buttons.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Making sure you don't end up wandering the streets.”

“Worried about losing your experiment?”

“Shut up.”

He pushed the button for his father's apartment. Someone buzzed us in almost immediately. Michael barged through the second door and headed up the stairs, knocking into a big guy in a long, black coat.

“What the fuck?” the guy said, stopping.

“Sorry,” I said. “My brother has trouble with doors. He's . . . special.”

“Whatever,” the guy huffed, shoving past me.

I hurried up the stairs after my special brother. The hallways weren't deserted like last time. People were coming and going, walking the corridors and hanging out by the stairs.

We passed one lovely couple on the second floor landing. The girl was in a corner, her boyfriend a few inches from her. He had her penned in, arms straight out and pressed against the wall. They looked as if they were either going to make out or start throwing punches. I guessed it was love. The guy glared at us as we passed. I nodded and kept moving.

The third floor was empty, but it felt like only like a lull in traffic. Music still blared from every other door. Different genres competed for space in the cat-piss air. I followed Michael down the hall. He pushed through his father's unlocked apartment door. I stayed in the doorway.

The music was loud. His dad was just inside and to the left, sitting on the battered couch
.
He had an album cover on his lap and a beer in one hand.

“Hi,” Michael said, nowhere near loud enough to get his father's attention.

His father didn't look up.

“Michael?” I said. Reaching for him, I tapped his shoulder.

He shrugged me off. I tried to grab his shirt, but he stepped out of reach and into the living room. He stopped a few feet from his father, staring down at him. His father looked up, squinted for a moment, then went back to his album cover.

Okay, that wasn't
so bad. Maybe he's okay. Maybe he's just having a quick beer.

But in the pit of my stomach, I knew his father was well past number one. He should have been surprised to see Michael, but wasn't.

Michael's father looked up again and waved Michael closer.

As quietly as I could, I pulled the apartment door tight behind me. I couldn't tell if Michael's father had seen me yet and held on to the knob and the slim hope he hadn't.

I wondered where Chrissy was and felt a weird urge to make sure she was okay.

Michael stood over his father.

“Look at him,” his father said, pointing to someone on the album cover. “How old do you think he is?”

Michael bent a little closer.

I was reluctant to leave the safety of the door but found myself sliding to my left to see if I could get a peek.

The album was old but not ancient. There were five or six guys lined up and leaning against what looked to be an old warehouse. Their clothes would pass as “retro” today. A young and energetic hipster would kill for a set or two.

The guys on the front didn't look old, but they didn't look that young, either—at least a few years older than Michael and I. Two had blond hair that was almost white, and they looked enough alike that I assumed they were brothers. The other guys had long hair and beards that hadn't seen a comb or cutting in a while.

“What do you think?” his father asked, looking up.

Michael shrugged, keeping his eyes away from his father's.

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 used 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.