Changing Michael (20 page)

But I didn't.

Instead, I held it in one hand. It bulged, then pulsed into an idea.

No
,
I thought immediately,
this is ridiculous. It's stupid. No way.

But now that I'd uncovered it, the idea seemed to have a life of its own. It began to grow, pushing outward in quick jerks. And by the time I found her exit, I had given in.

At the bottom of her ramp, I looked for a place to pull over.

I found a 7-Eleven, or something that used to be a 7-Eleven before someone pulled the logo down. They hadn't bothered to paint over the outlines, however, and I wondered if they really thought the general public would believe it was an independent convenience store that just happened to have the same attractive green and orange color scheme.

I had my phone out almost before the car stopped rolling.

I tried to remember the name of Michael's bookstore but quickly gave up. Baltimore was a pretty big city. There were other stores. And as long as they had what I needed, it didn't matter which one I chose.

It didn't take long. I pulled a scrap of paper out of the glove compartment and jotted down a few names and numbers I pulled up on my phone.

I found one on the second try.

Yes, they carried them. Yes, they were pretty close. I didn't ask if they had the guy I was looking for. It didn't really matter. As long as they carried them, I could make it work.

I wasn't about to drive back home and get mine.

I told them where I was and scribbled a few basic directions. I managed to find the place without too much trouble. Finding a parking spot was another matter. It was on a one-way street; there were parallel lines of parked cars on either side next to a string of parking meters. Several blocks of specialty stores were packed as tightly as the cars flanking them.

Somehow, I managed to squeeze into something that was probably a space. After that, I was in and out of the store in under ten minutes.

Not only did they have plenty, but they had the guy I was looking for.

Back in the car, I retraced my steps back to Sort of 7-Eleven. My hand went to the radio again and the Album came to life.

This time, just four through seven.

I floated quietly toward her apartment. Back down streets that were becoming familiar, past a few landmarks. At some point, I crossed the line but wasn't paying attention. Down her street and past her apartment. One U-turn later and I was rolling by her building, taking the first right and gently coming to a stop on the usual side street.

I sat in the car a while, looking at the glass vestibule, then down at the little bag on the passenger seat.

I opened the glove compartment and rummaged around until I found something I could use. Thankfully, it was a grocery store receipt, so there was plenty of space on the back.

I thought for a while, but it didn't take long. On the back of the receipt, I wrote:

Chrissy,

This is for you. He was my favorite when I was a
little
younger. Guess I still like him. Hope you do, too. Just don't tell anyone, okay (ha,ha)? Actually, tell anyone you want. I don't care anymore.

Matthew

I took the comic book out of the bag and tucked the note inside the front cover. I left the top of it sticking out—just enough so her name was out. Then I hopped out of the car.

Inside the vestibule, I reached for the buzzer but couldn't push it.

What the hell are you doing? Will you look at yourself, for Christ's sake?
Standing there with a comic book in one hand, suddenly feeling like the biggest idiot in the world.

Get back in the car before it's too late!

I brought the comic book a little closer to my face.

The Silver Surfer.

I opened the door just a crack to my smelly little bathroom. Just enough room for a few memories to slip out.

Sitting on the floor of my bedroom, staring at the panels and thinking the Silver Surfer was the coolest guy in the world. Wondering what it would feel like to surf through the universe. Wondering what his planet Zenn-La was like. Desperately wishing I could leave this world and visit.

I thought I could handle the memories, but they were too potent. And they felt so
ridiculous
, I dropped the book on the floor of the vestibule and turned to go. I was almost out when I heard the security door pop open behind me.

An older woman, black curls, enormous purse slung over one shoulder.

I turned and caught the edge of the door before it was too late. Holding on with one hand, I scooped up the comic book before she could step on it and jumped inside.

“Hey,” the woman barked, “what are you doing? Do you live here?”

Fortunately, she wasn't concerned enough to chase me up the stairs.

Finding Chrissy's floor, stifling the voice inside my head, the one demanding that I cease and desist.

At her door and breathing hard, I knelt and slipped the comic book underneath, sliding the top half into her apartment. I slapped a hand over the voice in my head and held on until I was at the bottom of the stairs pushing through the vestibule. Then I let it go.

But nothing came. It had nothing to say anymore.

Out the door and back into the car. I figured the voice was just catching its breath. I was sure it would kick up as soon as I started the car, yelling that it was my last chance, demanding I rush back up and get the comic book before it was too late.

But it didn't.

Actually, my head felt incredibly light the entire ride home. I peeked in the smelly little bathroom, but for the moment, it was empty. I had the Album on again. I was way over my limit, but I didn't care.

About five minutes after I got home, the phone rang.

I picked it up on the second ring.

This book is humbly dedicated to the following:

To Bruce, who restored my faith in many things.

To Harrison, without whom this book would not exist.

To Chris, who pulled it from the slush pile.

To my father, for reading me The Hobbit.

To my mother, for passing on a love of books.

To my sister, for her lifelong support.

To Brian W., who was and still is one of my best friends.

To Joe K., a loyal friend who came through when no one else would.

For all the members of the All Night Crew . . . “You can't leave yet! Dave's not even on!”

To Shane, for keeping me alive.

To Susan, who knows why.

To John W., one of the most important people in my life.

To Robert H., one of the greatest storytellers on the planet.

To Kate, who helped me realize many dreams.

And to Jeff K., whose continuing influence pervades and whom I miss more every year.

Jeff Schilling was born in San Diego, California, but grew up in Falls Church, Virginia. He remembers lying in bed, listening to his father read
The Hobbit
to him, and can still recall how it felt to hear that story for the first time. And though he always wished he was someone who knew exactly what he wanted to do from a very early age, he wasn't. But he did love music, reading, and football.

He was quiet and unremarkable during his middle and high school years. After graduation, he attended Virginia Tech and chose English as his major because he still liked to read and nothing else seemed terribly appealing. While attending Virginia Tech, he managed to take one Creative Writing course, but was secretly put out when his professor didn't find his work to be astonishing.

After college, he worked as a waiter, dialysis clerk, purchasing assistant, case manager, and in a number of cubes before deciding he'd better find something he liked. He still loved books and music, but decided to write since he didn't play an instrument, is terrified of doing anything in front of an audience, and isn't good at staying up late. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to quit his day job to pursue this endeavor, because no one was willing (or able) to support him. He did, however, manage to break free of the cubicle and has worked with children for the past ten years, writing when he can.

Jeff claims that, if he'd known it would take this much work and so many years to achieve his goal, he might have given up long ago. After many manuscripts, two halfway decent, self-published books, and hundreds of rejection letters, he was fortunate enough to come to the attention of Bruce Bortz, publisher of Bancroft Press, and his tremendously gifted editor, Harrison Demchick. The patience and perseverance the author cultivated during the edit and rewrite process for
Changing Michael
, the author believes, were probably good for him.

Jeff is currently living in Denver, Colorado with his wife, daughter, house rabbit, and two guinea pigs. His day job is teacher's assistant and teacher of creative writing. He hopes to write a few more books . . . if anyone's interested. He also hopes that this vague and unremarkable biography might inspire other closeted artists. If it could happen to him, it could happen to anybody.
Really.