Fight Song (25 page)

“Are you drunk?”

“Oh, sure, oh, yeah, my wife sought the solace she needed in the arms of another man and also two women she met in hotel bars because I failed to satisfy her sexually. But also she failed me in the realm of communication, right? I never knew that she wasn’t sexually satisfied or I would have done something about it. I am a sorcerer. I could have made her clit grow to the size of a pie tin. I could have pleased her in ways she’s never even pondered,
but again, I didn’t know there was a problem. The point is that the communication broke down. And now, me and you, our communication is faltering. I give you free tickets. I excuse your kidnapping. I wipe the slate clean. And you can’t even live up to your end of the agreement and come to the show?”

“So you’re wasted,” Coffen says.

“I’m so drunk that it should be called something else. I’m ‘floff-mongered.’ Float that new bit of slang around and see if it catches on.”

“Where are you anyway?”

“I’m in my shame-cave.”

“Your what?”

“This place I go when I need to be alone with my self-sympathy,” he says. “When my floff-mongering is front and center.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Tonight’s show was a disaster. I had to flee the scene as a fugitive. I could have used a friendly face in the audience, Bob. Shit went terribly wrong. It was a new illusion. I made everybody’s chair fly about fifteen feet in the air. I told them to hold on tight. I told them there was no real danger. As long as they stayed steadied, they’d only be floating there, say, thirty seconds or so before I let them back down. But then one woman puked. Then another did. And that made them all wobbly and woozy and soon one fell off and then another and pretty soon everyone was falling from the sky and landing on the carpet in screaming heaps. I kept saying to them, ‘You are safe, but you are vulnerable. That’s the balancing act. That’s what the flying-chair metaphor represents.’ But it was too late. They were already starting to fall.”

“Did anyone get hurt?”

“Lots of them got hurt,” Björn says.

“And you left?”

“Hell yeah, I left. It was a bloodbath. I split out the fire exit once they all started plummeting.”

“I’m glad we weren’t there, or Jane and I would have fallen, too.”

“Or maybe it would have gone as expected had you been there to cheer me on, man. Even magicians need friends.”

“Are you blaming me?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“How does that make any sense?”

Bob hears a noise on Björn’s end of the phone that sounds like a can opening, then a desperate sip being taken: “In my mind’s eye,” Björn says, “the floating-chair illusion made perfect sense. Everyone would sit, perched high and mighty, and I’d give an inspiring speech about the travails of monogamy, learning to balance all the chaos and unpredictability of life. But once the first lady fell, it was a total shit show.”

“What did you think was going to happen?”

“I thought maybe two or three people would fall, total. Gotta crack a couple eggs to make an omelet, as the kids say. Now I need to get out of this town ASAP.”

“Not too ASAP,” Coffen says. “You have to turn Schumann back.”

“Oh, do I have to turn back your mousy associate?” he yells. “Is that what Björn has to do?”

“Can we meet first thing tomorrow—me, you, and Schumann? Please? Let’s talk about our options.”

“I haven’t totally decided whether I even want to turn him back. He kidnapped me. Let’s not forget that piece of the puzzle.”

“Well, that’s what we should talk about. Let me plead his case to you.”

“Fine, plead his case. Now I need to focus on my shame-cave. I need to sulk. Need to … Wait, what’s my new slang again?”

“Floff-monger.”

“Yes, I need some serious floff-mongering.”

Björn hangs up and Bob ponders magic. At first, it had seemed so clear that Schumann was not the mouse, but the longer this is going on, Coffen actually wants it to be true—wants to believe in Björn’s powers. Why not? Bob writes code, breathes code. He lives like a character in the worst video game of all time: slowly fizzling out, level by level, until there’s nothing left except a pile of fluorescent orange that needs to be swept up. If there’s some magic out there that can help him avoid the dust pan, well, it sure sounds good right about now.

What’s wrong with a mouse man?

When last Coffen reviewed the hallowed tenets of babysitting, it was his understanding that the custody of said baby in the said sitter’s stead was a temporary arrangement. As in, thanks, Tilda, for taking wee mousy Schumann off Coffen’s hands for a few hours, but he’s now come to reclaim the great rodent booty that is Bob’s neighbor.

However, a certain Taco Shed employee doesn’t want to cough him up.

“His family gets home soon,” Coffen says to Tilda, standing in the doorway of her apartment early the following morning and hoping that this idea contains the cocktail of persuasion. “We’ve got to get him back to his life.”

It’s approximately 6:30
AM
on Monday morning. The mouse runs around Tilda’s cupped hands. “I think he’s happy. We were up all night together; we bonded in a very spiritual way. He has a look in his eyes that tells me he’d like to stay like this forever. Honestly, this might be the kind of change that he truly wanted.”

“Can I please have him back?”

“He might be the perfect man for me,” Tilda says.

“He’s not a man.”

“Sure he is, but he’s also so small he can’t hurt me, and that’s what I’ve always wanted.”

Schumann makes some chirpy, mousy noises and is clearly shaking his wee head to the contrary of her statements.

“He has a wife and kid,” Coffen says.

“He told me all about them way back when he first started being one of my intercom clients. And he told me a lot after we did it in the SUV. Honestly, I don’t think he’d miss too much sleep over never seeing them again.”

“He’s a good father.”

“But maybe he’d make a better mouse, at least for the foreseeable future, and trust me: I’ll take incredible care of him.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“He’s the perfect pet,” she says.

Coffen wants to say something supportive, something about how extraordinary she is and that she deserves a partner of the same species. Sure, she’s had a stable of bad relationships. Yes, life can be hard. No, she’s not perfect. But she can’t wrap her heart in muscles, like a fragile trinket in bubble wrap and stop trying to find somebody who might make her happy. Those are all the things Coffen hopes to convey, and it comes out like this: “You don’t need a mouse man, Tilda.”

“What’s wrong with a mouse man?”

“How will you two ever dance together?”

“That’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

“You deserve a full-blown human being.”

“Not sure I want one of those.”

Schumann now stands solely on his hind legs and is shaking his wee head.

“But look at how he’s shaking his head,” Coffen offers up.

“His head’s not moving.”

“I can see him shaking it.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Look at him.”

“That’s an optical illusion,” says Tilda.

“What is?”

“His head shaking.”

“I thought you said he wasn’t even moving his head!”

“Damn,” she says. “Entrapped again. You got me.” She hands Schumann over to Bob, placing him in his flattened palms. Schumann gives a creepy wee mousy smile and scampers up to perch on Coffen’s shoulder. He smells like something … jasmine? Coffen sniffs Schumann several times.

“I doused him in lavender body oil,” Tilda says. “Honestly, the natural smell was wretched.”

“Makes sense, I guess.”

“The magician turning him back?” she asks.

“Supposedly. We’re meeting this morning.”

“Can I come? I’ve never seen real magic before.”

“I’m not sure he’d appreciate me bringing you along.”

“Only one way to know for sure.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Call him and ask,” she says.

Coffen caves in and calls.

“Are you seriously asking me that?” Björn says. “My hangover’s no joke.”

“I am unfortunately asking you that, yes.”

“My god, Coffen, you are high-maintenance.”

“Can she come?”

“I haven’t even decided that I’m going to turn him back.”

“I’m sure he’s learned his lesson,” Coffen says.

“How are you sure of that?”

“Tell him we can meet at Taco Shed and I’ll throw in a round of breakfast Mexican lasagnas on the house,” says Tilda. “As many as he can eat.”

Coffen relays the offer, and the magician says, “I agree to the proposed terms. See you in twenty.”

In twenty, Coffen, Tilda, and Schumann stand face-to-face with Björn. Bob introduces her to the magician, who’s wearing sunglasses; his moustache is smashed and he stinks like booze.

“Looks like you had a long night of floff-mongering,” says Bob.

“It was pure madness.”

“Can I make you boys breakfast?” Tilda asks, and all parties seem extremely interested in that prospect. She unlocks the place, tells them no other employees will be there for an hour, when they begin to prep for the 8:00
AM
rush. Everyone lingers around the register while she prepares the breakfast Mexican lasagnas. Schumann still sits on Coffen’s shoulder.

“Why should I do him any favors?” Björn says, not taking off his sunglasses. “He kidnapped me.”

“You’d be doing me a favor,” Coffen says. “And his family. Please?”

“Chow time,” suggests Tilda, holding a whole tray of breakfast Mexican lasagnas that are actually completely identical in structure to regular non-breakfast Mexican lasagnas. Soon, they’re all gorging on grease.

Tilda speaks up first: “Maybe Björn is right. I mean, Schumann did kidnap him, which if memory serves correctly is a felony. This seems like it might be an appropriate punishment given the severity of the crime.”

Schumann shakes his wee head very much to the contrary again.

“I’m sure,” Coffen says to Tilda, “if he stays a mouse you’d be happy to watch over him as a kind of gentle guardian, is that right? Is that how you’d like to see this end—you get your pet and his son grows up without a father?”

“I’d be open to that suggestion,” she says.

“We’re talking about a husband and a father and he needs to be human once more,” Coffen says.

“I grew up without a father,” Tilda says, “and I’m fine.”

“Me, too,” the magician chimes in.

Bob sighs. “Me, too.”

Björn unwraps another Mexican lasagna, enjoys a bite, and says, “You know what? After last night’s awful show, I want to get out of this godforsaken town and forget all about it. I don’t want to have this guy on my conscience for the rest of my life. I don’t need that. Believe me, there’s enough on my conscience. You don’t think I retaliated dark-arts-style once the ink dried on our divorce papers? You bet I did. I’m not proud of it, but I got the last laugh. Was what I did to her childish and vindictive? No doubt. I am regretful. Yes, there is shame in my shame-cave. So I don’t need to add to it for no real reason.” Then he puts his finger right in Schumann’s wee face. “But snap out of this quarterback-hero crap. Act like a regular guy or god help me, I’ll turn you right back to a mouse. You got me?”