Changing Michael (7 page)

“I put them together,” Michael said quietly, looking down at the tiles.

“What?”

“I put them together,” he said.

“Put what together?”

“Never mind,” he said.

“Don't you ‘never mind' me,” I said. “You put what together?”

“The thing about the driver pulling out. I put it together with the rumor we made up.”

“The rumor
I
made up.”

“Fine.”

I almost launched into a lecture about our roles but, just in time, I remembered who I was dealing with. This was Michael, not Wanda or someone with a higher skill set. An overly long “mean” look would be more than enough to put him in his place.

And besides, this whole thing was supposed to be about Michael. I could take the credit later, perhaps when I write my autobiography.

It was hard, but I finally managed to give him a pat on the head. Not a real one, of course. I'd just washed my hands.

“Well, you did do a lot of research,” I said.

Michael looked up from the tiles.

“And the timing was perfect,” I added.

Michael regained a bit of his earlier flush.

“We're both geniuses, or genii, or whatever the word is.”

Michael opened his mouth. I held up a hand.

“I don't really want to know, Michael.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Now,” I said, “it's time to think about Stage Two.”

The bell rang. We automatically started walking down the hall.

“Stage Two's going to be a little different than Stage One,” I said. “It's—which way are you going?” I asked.

Michael pointed.

“Me, too,” I said with a nod. We headed down the hall together. “Keep talking to him about racing,” I said. “We want him thinking about the rumor as much as possible. But don't just walk up and say, ‘So, heard anything about your gay driver?' Start talking about the next race or some other guy, or how great some car is. You know what I mean?”

Michael nodded.

“Don't worry. Whenever racing comes up, you'd better believe he's going to start thinking about his driver. But, Stage Two . . . Stage Two has to be different.”

“Why?”

“Balance,” I said. “We've got to expand our focus. We need to attack everything that makes Gut, Gut.”

“And then we push him over?” Michael asked.

“You're looking forward to that, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

We weren't far from Astronomy.

“I'm going to think about Stage Two during my study block,” I said, nodding toward the classroom.

“Isn't that Astronomy?” Michael asked.

“I don't like Astronomy anymore. I do other things in here.”

I had signed up for Astronomy thinking we'd get to go on lots of field trips to the planetarium and look at stars, but apparently, astronomers don't look at the sky anymore. They just do math problems and listen to physics lectures.

“Okay, well . . . should I . . .”

“Should you what?”

“Should I call or something?”

“Call who?”

“Call you . . . so we can talk about the next stage.”

“You look better with a little color,” I said, pointing to his cheeks. Michael was very red. “You should try a little rouge once in a while.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Just say, ‘See you later.'”

“Okay, see you later.”

“No calls, please, unless it's an emergency. I don't like the phone. I'll find you when I'm ready for Stage Two,” I said.

Turning to go, I almost plowed into Dennis. Dennis lives down the street from me. When we were kids, he used to come to my house once in a while, until his mom found out about the Dennis Game, which involved sticking Dennis in a tomato cage and sliding in as many tomato stakes as possible. Eventually, he'd cry, and my mom would come running.

These days, we say “Hey” when I'm unable to avoid him in the neighborhood and occasionally exchange forced small talk when I inadvertently find myself walking next to him in-between classes. By this point, he'd probably have forgotten all about it, except that, on the rare occasions our social paths do cross, I like to bring it up when he's chatting with a nice young lady.

“Dude, that was
Michael
,” Dennis whispered.

“Yep.”

“What the hell?”

Something came to me as we walked. Not Stage Two. More like Stage One and a Half.

“Michael's a badass,” I said.

“What?!”

“Didn't you hear?” I said. “He got jumped last night and beat the shit out of three guys.”

“No way.”

“Nathan was there,” I said.

I don't know Nathan very well, but he's the kind of guy who always seems to either witness or participate in any/all events of interest.

“He saw it?”

I gave Dennis a few more vague details, then headed for my seat. Even though I was still working on the home front, why not plant a few seeds for the upcoming school campaign?

I sat in Astronomy and considered Stage Two. People like Gut aren't very complex; their world is black and white and no in-between (and I'm not talking about the racial stuff). For example, I can already tell you that Gut likes classic rock. I can also tell you what he thinks of music that isn't classic rock. Gut loves his Chevy or Ford or whatever “American” car he drives.

Gut knows what men do and what women do and gets
very
uncomfortable when somebody moves across the line. Take employment, for instance. Men lift things. Women cut hair. Men fix things. Women care for children. Computers are baffling. Men who work with computers are suspect and, at the very least, probably effeminate.

It's fairly easy to knock someone like Gut off-balance, but it's also easy to make him angry. He's the statue and we have the crowbars. Tip him a little too soon, however, and he might topple backwards on you.

I took out my notebook. Michael needed to develop a sudden interest in classic rock—Boston, Eric Clapton, Steve Miller. Michael needed to infringe on Gut's territory a bit more.

But it was awfully hard to think with the teacher yammering away. I propped my book up in front of me and put my head on the desk. I'm guessing that most social workers aren't expected to perform their duties while fighting off the side effects of an Astronomy lecture. (There are quite a few, but the explosive diarrhea is the worst.)

Oh . . . and Michael needed a nickname. Spike . . . the Hammer . . . something completely inappropriate.

For some reason, “Ducky” popped into my head, and I knew I was falling asleep.

I wondered when my teacher would come out of her trance and realize half the class was asleep. Probably just before she retired. That's what they should give people who can't sleep—an Astronomy lecture. I let go and began to float, hoping I wouldn't end up in a puddle of drool upon my return.

Tuesday came and I decided I needed a day without any Michael work. I deserved one after the racing victory. I passed Michael once, on my way to lunch, and thankfully he wasn't pinned up against a locker. He flushed and smiled when he saw me and held up a hand. I gave him a serious nod, just to see what he would do. The hand dropped back to his side. He looked perplexed.

I decided to make an in-home visit after school on Wednesday. Michael and I needed a strategy session and Mom said she'd be working from home Wednesday. That was kind of weird—Mom rarely worked from home, and this was the third time in two weeks—but I'm smart enough not to ask questions when things go my way. I decided not to tell Michael about the strategy session. I didn't want him cleaning up or chasing family out of the living room.

On Wednesday afternoon, after hanging out a little after the last bell with Jack and a couple other kids—no sense in getting to Michael's house before he did—I headed our for Michael's.

I did some sightseeing on the way. I decided that some of the neighborhood houses weren't
that
bad. There only seemed to be four different styles of house, though: one-level, two-level, smaller one-level, and smaller two-level.

Most of the bricks were a shade I'd call “exhausted pink” and may have been “pre-owned” bricks the developer got on sale. Most looked like they might fall apart if you ran a hard finger over them.

I know I've mentioned a career in law enforcement as well as social work, but pursuing either would probably be a slap in the face to the architectural community. I clearly have a gift. However, both architects and social workers spend a lot of time in school, and I'm just not prepared to do that.

Even with the pre-owned brick façade, most of the houses weren't awful. But Michael's block—there just wasn't any way around it. They were bad. I wondered if they'd ever looked new. Did everyone in the neighborhood start junking-up their houses at the same time, or did it start with one guy who just didn't care? Maybe it was a couple families that didn't care. Then everybody else said, “Well, if they don't care, we don't either.”

Or maybe the guys that built them didn't care. Maybe they left things half-finished. Or maybe they left all their crap around when they were done. But how come not one person cared about the rusty swing set slowly falling in on itself, or the flock of empty snack bags cartwheeling across the front yard? Or how come one person didn't say, “You know what? I'm never going to use all these old engine parts. Think I'll take them to the dump or something.”

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.”